‘Shows what you know.’ I grab a couple of flutes from a passing tray. ‘It would probably work to our advantage.’ I wink at her, then glance at the happy couple currently being tortured by their photographer under a huge old yew. ‘I can’t imagine a day more redundant than this.’
‘You don’t like weddings?’
‘I don’t like the thought of tying yourself to one person for life. It’s the definition of masochism if you ask me.’
She takes a decorous sip of her champagne. ‘Perhaps you’d better keep those sentiments to yourself for the purposes of today.’
‘Oh, prickly peach. Don’t worry, those who didn’t see us in the pews will know we’re together after the little roadman headed inside and told the rest of themandem, or crew as it were, that the redheaded hottie digital manager is here with me.’
‘You’re saying that if this were a regency romance, I’d be ruined by the association?’
‘You’re only as bad as your reputation.’
She ponders it for a minute. ‘See, while I have no doubt people know you by name, I’m certain it won’t be the same for me.’
‘Heather, babe. You’ve got to be shitting me.’ Then, like Archimedes himself, I have a eureka moment. ‘You know what? I think I’ve just fitted a key puzzle piece.’
‘Now you’re talking in riddles, too.’
‘No. Come with me.’ I take her hand, leading her to the side of the church where we’ll be out of sight, where I can reveal my revelation. Heather isn’t the stuck-up bitch the people at work think she is. They’re under the impression that she has a very high opinion of herself, that she doesn’t talk or engage because she’s placed herself above them, when it’s become crystal clear that her nose in the air attitude stems from the exact opposite; a lack of self-belief.
‘You don’t ignore people on purpose, you just have difficulty being social.’ I lean back against the chapel wall, bending my knee and pressing the soul of my shoe against it, too. ‘You have social anxiety, I think.’
Despite my nonchalant posture, I’m enthusiastic about the discovery. Meanwhile, Heather is not. Not judging by the way she’s glaring at me.
‘I swear to God, Archer, if you tell anyone this, I’ll cut your balls off. I spent my life being labelled and told I’m weird, and I refuse to be defined by—’
‘I’m not defining you. I’m trying to understand.’
‘I have ADHD,’ she hisses, ‘and no, that doesn’t mean I should be running around the place like I’m off my head on amphetamines.’ A sudden breeze whips between us, it makes the strands of her hair twist and twirl furiously in the air. ‘Yes, I have difficulty socially.’ She bats angrily at the wayward red strands, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Sometimes the smallest interactions feel very, very fraught. Eye contact is hard, and I worry so much about what people are thinking that I miss social cues, which makes me even more anxious. It’s like a vicious circle with no bloody end! I’ve reached the stage where I’d really prefer not to speak to anyone I don’t know.’
‘How do you manage to do your job?’
‘Because my contact with companies is mostly over email. I pull the proposals together, but someone else presents it to the clients. I rarely have to get involved in face-to-face meetings that aren’t in-house.’
‘But you spoke to me that night at The Swan.’
‘No, you spoke tome. And I was more relaxed because I’d had a few drinks. It takes the edge off my fear, but it doesn’t make the problem go away. And pouring vodka on my cornflakes to get through the day seems like a very slippery kind of slope. If you’ll remember, I was pretty nasty to you the next day, though I probably also meant to be,’ she adds mulishly.
Despite her admission, something uncomfortable twists in my gut. Something that makes me want to brush away those wild strands and take her in my arms. I want to give her the kind of hug that’s fortifying and reassuring. The kind of hug that would probably earn me an elbow in the ribs at the very least. At worst, an end to the day, because I realise I want to be here. I want to spend the day with her and make her laugh and relax, and despite the pretext that has me here, I want her to feel like she wants me here. I’d turned up today determined to pay her back for her underhanded ways. Suddenly, that’s not so important anymore. That’s not to say I’m going to give up all my fun.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to be social; it’s that I just find it so difficult. I come off as rude because I’m often so overcome with fear that I’m blunt in the extreme. And I worry all the time that people will think I’m boring or disgusting or disgustingly boring.’
‘Nobody thinks that. Seriously.’
‘You can’t know.’
‘Okay, true I can’t know the thoughts of everyone, but nobody at E11even thinks anything like that.’ Doubt puckers her brow, her grey eyes flashing with defiance.
‘How could you possibly know?’
Despite her bold-toned delivery, there’s an underlying vulnerability I can see now.
How could I know? Because people think she’s a bitch, and I can’t tell her that—I just can’t. It’s hardly an antidote to her self-loathing, admitting that people take her standoffishness as bitchiness, as some sort of superiority complex. It would only hurt her more. She deserves better than what they think of her, better than what she thinks of herself.
I down the remains of my champagne and push away from the wall as I’m struck by a sudden thought.
‘You’re reading it wrong.’ I balance my empty flute on the top of a gravestone.Sorry, George Stoker, son of Roger, whose mortal remains lie under my glass.I can’t tell whether the look she’s giving me implies I think she’s stupid, or the other way around.Probably the other way around.
