‘Your stomach is looking a little…full today,’ Will observes, changing the subject.
‘What?’ I run my hands over my tummy self-consciously. ‘Oh, I ate a bagel yesterday – wheat makes me a bit bloated,’ I explain.
‘Wheat isn’t great for the body,’ he reminds me. I know that he’s just trying to help me keep healthy and in good shape, but sometimes it feels like criticism and it makes me feel self-conscious.
Will walks over to me and helps me up from the floor.
‘Don’t be grumpy,’ he says, pinching my cheek between two of his fingers as he flashes me a smile. I am weak for him; I wish I wasn’t, but I am. ‘Everything will be better next week, when we have our little holiday from the world.’
I feel myself defrost almost immediately and my forced smile blends seamlessly into a real one. I cannot wait for my holiday with Will. It’s going to be an entire week, just the two of us. We won’t need to sneak around or hide, no sex on uncomfortable desks, we can hold hands in public and go out for dinner together – all the little things that couples take for granted. It’s going to be pure bliss, and the mere mention of it appeases any doubts I may be having about our relationship. I just want things to be normal, and this holiday is going to be a glimpse of that. Depending on how it goes, I think this will be make or break for us, which just makes me all the more determined to make sure things are perfect.
I examine my stockings before I put them on and realise that the one I yanked from Caroline’s shoe is laddered. I toss them in the bin. It’ll have to be bare legs today. Thankfully I keep on top of waxing them, or I’d have been in big trouble.
‘So, how about that coffee?’ he reminds me as he starts tapping away on his laptop. ‘And, Candice, maybe put those in a bin somewhere else. And make sure no one sees you leave.’
‘Sure,’ I reply, grabbing them from the bin before heading for the door. He isn’t exactly in my good books after making me hide under his desk, but that combined with the fact he now expects me to reach into the bin…! If we were a normal couple I’d be able to tell him to get his own fucking coffee. I’ve no choice today, though. He is my boss, after all.
There are certain things that we, as women, just know not to do. No one ever told us that we shouldn’t do these things but we just know, deep down in our ovaries somewhere, that certain things are a bad idea.
One should not, for example, become romantically involved with any of the following types of men: married men, bosses, control freaks and egomaniacs. We know this. We know this like we know never to over-pluck above our eyebrows. We know this like we know never to brush our hair when it’s wet. It is instilled in us by every failed relationship we’ve ever seen play out, every cruel-to-be-kind piece of advice our best friend has offered us, every romcom storyline we’ve ever watched and every magazine article we’ve ever read on ‘types of men to avoid’.
Despite all of this knowledge, my fella ticks every box on the list. Well, I say ‘my fella’ but he’s not my fella at all, he’s his wife’s fella. He’s my boss.
I worked in the sales and marketing department at Starr Haul for a year before Will even noticed me, and our first conversation actually took place when he called me into his office to fire me. The truth was that not only did I hate working for the sales team (haulage, warehousing and distribution – yawn) but I wasn’t particularly good at it either, and I think those two factors only made each other worse. Combined with the fact that I was often late, employee of the month I was not, and if I were Will, I probably would’ve fired me too.
I could tell from the look on his face when he called me into his office that he was going to let me go, but with everyone always banging on about what a kind, generous family man he was, I thought I’d try and appeal to his better nature. I told him about losing my parents, about being alone in the world and barely having enough money to live on. Suddenly, Will started talking to me about his problems too. About how things weren’t working with his wife, telling me they were separated but pretending to still be together to save face. It was nice to have someone to talk to and our long chat comforting each other about the state of our lives eventually turned into a kiss, which quickly turned into sex on his desk – the first time of many.
After that first time, as I buttoned up my white shirt (as best I could considering he’d ripped a few buttons off) and watched Will thoughtfully rub his stubbly chin (probably pondering whether or not it would be wise to fire me so soon after fucking me), I swore to myself that it wouldn’t happen again. Separated from his wife or not, I didn’t want to get involved.
Unsurprisingly, Will decided not to fire me, taking me out of the sales department so that I could work under him (yes, I did just say that). As we started spending more and more time together, we started getting closer and closer and here we are. Nearly a year together and still sneaking around.
I push my key in the door to my flat and let out a sigh before letting myself in.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ I call out as I ditch my handbag on the sideboard. No, I’m not so lonely that I’ve resorted to cracking witty jokes to myself about my situation – Honey is my cat. So not so lonely that I’ve started talking to myself, but lonely enough to talk to my cat, it would seem.
‘Well, it’s about time,’ a voice calls back and, despite being a familiar one, it is unexpected and causes me to jump out of my skin.
‘Gosh,’ I exclaim. ‘Don’t do that to me, Aims.’
‘I told you I was going to be here. You must be missing me if you’re talking to that thing.’
My soon-to-be ex flatmate nods towards Honey, who hisses back at her.
‘You two still not getting on?’ I laugh.
‘Let’s just say it makes me feel less bad about hardly ever being here, and the fact that in just over a week I will be officially moved out helps too. Nice use of “gosh” by the way. I take it your old bloke doesn’t appreciate you blaspheming, as well as swearing.’
Amy wanders into the kitchen. It’s only now that I notice the smell of food drifting through the house.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being more ladylike,’ I call after her. ‘I can’t believe you’re getting married and moving out like a grown-up.’
Amy returns, spoon in hand, and points at me with it as she speaks.
‘And I can’t believe you’re wearing that disgusting dress,’ she says harshly. ‘Or what you’ve done with this place. Or that you have a cat. Or that you have nothing but vegetables, chicken and milk made from fucking almonds in your fucking fridge – thank God I brought shopping.’
My friend puts extra emphasis on the word ‘God’ and she reels off her list of things that she can’t believe about the new me. Well, the new new me.
As Amy stands there, still brandishing her spoon in an attacking position, she waits for me to justify all of the above. I don’t see her as much as I’d like to these days, and I guess I must be changing a lot.
Amy Kelly is my best friend, and she came into my life when things were the most difficult for me. By the time I was twenty-four I had lost both my parents. With no grandparents, siblings or even so much as a distant aunt I could turn to, when my dad passed away I became an orphan. Both my mum and dad were very ill in the years before they passed, so as soon as I finished sixth form, rather than going to university or travelling like the rest of my friends, I stayed at home to take care of them. I was happy to do it, and if I had the time again, I wouldn’t do things even a