‘Cool,’ I murmur as I sit down at my desk and pick up my paper.
Right, catheter-induced urinary tract infections. I suppose it’s not as bad as the time I had to edit a paper on fibre content variations between different stool types. But still, I might just make a cup of tea before I get started. I’m about to ask Sandra if she’d like one, but when I look round, she’s already staring at me with an odd expression on her face. She taps her pen against her desk, faster and faster. Tiny beads of sweat have formed on her upper lip.
‘Are you all right, Sandra?’ I venture.
‘Of course!’ she replies without skipping a beat.
‘Okay…’
Sandra shuffles in her chair and blushes a little.
‘Do you want a cuppa?’ I ask.
‘I’m all right, thanks. Just had one,’ she says, her cheeks growing redder and redder.
‘Okay then…’ I shoot her a wary look before heading to the kitchen.
As I fill the kettle, I can’t help wondering what’s up with her. Sandra can be so strange. Maybe she’s just found out she’s been shortlisted for the Medical Copywriter of the Year Awards and doesn’t want to break it to me because she thinks I might get jealous. I remember how awkward she got last year when she won and I didn’t make the shortlist. But even if that were the case, it doesn’t quite explain why she’d be blushing and staring at me in such a weird, intense way. Suddenly, I feel a dawning sense of dread. Oh God, what if Sandra’s got in touch with her inner lesbian and developed a crush on me or something?
‘Sophia!’ Sandra bursts through the kitchen door, her cheeks aflame.
‘Yes?’ I reply quietly, edging away a little until my back is flat against the fridge.
Sandra sidles up to me. ‘Sorry, I just have to tell you something. I’m going to have to admit it now or else I won’t be able to concentrate on anything all day, and the fungal vaccine paper is due this afternoon and I really don’t want to mess it up. It’s really important that I tell you. I just have to get it off my chest!’
‘What is it?’ I ask in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Please don’t tell me you’re in love with me, please don’t, I silently pray.
‘I hope you’re not going to be annoyed with me,’ she frets.
‘What is it?!’
‘Well, last night, after you left work, I stayed late to go over my report on bunions one last time and…’ She trails off and looks downs at the floor. I have literally no idea where she’s going with this.
‘And?’
‘Well, I got stuck on a semi-colon. I just wasn’t sure whether it was right or not so I thought I’d consult that punctuation manual. You know, the one Ted emailed us a few months ago? Semi-colons: Instructions on correct usage.’
‘Uhhh, yeah…’ I vaguely remember something about it.
Ted sends round these copywriting manuals from time to time, just in case Sandra and I want to do a bit of extra ‘background reading’. But I don’t think, in this lifetime, I’ll ever be bored enough to go through them; I’d rather watch paint dry. In fact, I’m sure they’d make watching paint dry look like a fireworks display.
‘Well normally…’ Sandra chuckles nervously. ‘Normally, I keep all the manuals in a folder on my desktop labelled “Punctuation SOS”.’
For a second I’m quiet, and then I realise that Sandra thinks she’s been really witty. I let out a polite little laugh. Sandra takes a deep wheezing breath to calm herself down.
‘Well, the manual wasn’t in my folder, I couldn’t believe it. I always put them in there,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘I searched everywhere. I did a comprehensive search of all my files, but I still couldn’t find it, then I went through my emails from Ted. I checked my backpack, because sometimes I take the manuals to read on the tube but it wasn’t there either! Ted had gone home so it wasn’t like I could ask him to resend it, so I thought I’d just have a quick look on your computer to see if you had a copy.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I went over to your desk and your computer was still on. You seemed to be in a bit of a hurry to get home last night so I guess you forgot to turn it off, but when I moved your mouse, the screen lit up and the first thing I saw was this site… Dream Dates,’ Sandra says.
Now it’s my turn to blush. Bloody hell. I went on Dream Dates during my lunch break to find the deactivation button, but with my deadline looming for the catheter paper, I must have forgotten to log off. Oh no! What if Sandra had seen the penis criteria?
‘Sandra, you didn’t read anything, did you? It was just a joke. My friend set it up as a joke!’
‘I’m sorry, I did read something,’ Sandra admits.
That’s it. I’ve scarred her for life. I’ve traumatised Sandra, who I’m pretty sure is still a virgin, with my crude penis specifications. No wonder she’s been blushing so much.
‘What did you read?’
‘I wasn’t snooping. I don’t want you to think I was snooping or anything… It was just there.’
Not a dick pic. Dear Lord, not another dick pic! Last time I checked my phone, it did say I had twenty unread messages, some of which were no doubt genitalia.
‘What was “just there”?’ I ask tentatively, bracing myself.
‘This message, from this guy. It popped up on the screen, the words were just there. I couldn’t help reading them,’ Sandra tells me.
‘Just words?’ I ask.
‘Yes… Just words.’
‘Oh great!’ I enthuse, relieved.
Sandra looks momentarily confused. ‘Anyway, it was a message from a guy. He said he’d like to meet you and that he was going to be at The Anchor and Hope from 7 p.m. if you fancied stopping by.’
‘Okay…’ I murmur.
‘Well, it was such a coincidence because I was going to The Anchor and Hope anyway and so I—’
‘Hang on, you were going to a pub?’ I interrupt her.
Sandra is a loud and proud teetotaller and in the three years I’ve known her, she’s never once set foot in a pub. I’d actually got the impression she was a bit afraid of them.
‘Yeah. They’ve stopped keeping Starbucks open until eleven p.m. so now my knitting group has to meet at a pub instead. We’ve got no other choice really,’ she tells me, despondently. ‘I’ve written to Starbucks to complain but I’m still waiting to hear back from them. It’s really annoying.’
‘So, what happened?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. I sent a message via their customer complaints form on the website the other day. They say they’ll reply within forty-eight hours but it’s been three days now,’ Sandra huffs.
‘Not about the complaint, about going to the pub!’
‘Oh, that!’ Sandra laughs. ‘Well, I thought, seeing as I was going to the pub, I may as well check this guy out for you, just in case he was really dishy in person. He looked quite attractive on the little thumbnail by the message and so I thought… I really hope you’re not going to be annoyed at me, I didn’t mean to be nosy but…’ She tugs nervously at the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘What, Sandra?’
‘Well I clicked on his profile and he was really, really hot,’ she says, her face lighting up. ‘He looked like that actor. You know the one