by our receptionist.
There’s talk Blaire was a runway model in a past life; she certainly has the walk, the hair and the face. My theory is that she was kicked out of the army for being too rigid. She mans the reception desk like it’s a sentry post. That’s her job, but it’s the way she asks. JJ&T call her Who-goes-there?
‘Blaire, I’m just nipping out.’
There is no just nipping out. Her pen is poised: ‘To?’
I’d love to tell her the truth. She could write: At 10:30 Peta Wheeler left the office for a quickie at Maccas. She didn’t know how long she’d be but she hoped it’d be a while.
‘The Supreme Court Library.’
‘For?’
‘A judgment reported in Lloyd’s.’
‘You don’t have that?’ The arch of her eyebrow asks what kind of library it is I think I’m running.
I’m leaning against the door. ‘I got rid of them because we had an online subscription but I’ve just had to cancel it—cost-cutting.’
I hope BJ doesn’t think I’ve changed my mind.
‘And how long do you think you’ll be?’
The weight of an ‘and’.
‘I should be back around eleven.’
When I finally press the button for the ground floor I’m aching.
At McDonald’s I take a booth towards the back with a good view of the street. I watch BJ chain her bike to a parking sign. She looks like a pirate, dirty, lawless. She looks great.
‘I followed you up the hill.’ She sits next to me. ‘Fuck, that’s a sexy walk.’
She smells like cigarettes.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Horny, desperate and inappropriate look good on me.’
She sneaks a hand between my legs. I jump.
Her hand is sliding up my inside thigh. I close my eyes, breathe through it. Her thumb closes the distance.
‘You’re not wearing underpants. Jesus.’
‘Let’s go to the toilet,’ I say. ‘I have to touch you.’
I never thought I’d have sex on work time. With a woman. In a McDonald’s toilet. Nobody said having an affair has to be romantic.
Top Ten Best Things About BJ:
I like how she walks, like a cowboy, like a criminal, like she’s got somewhere to go even when she hasn’t.
Smoking is disgusting. It’s vile. But when BJ smokes, God, it’s sexy, makes me want to get into her mouth (I can’t believe I just wrote that).
I like her swearing
I like how she looks like a boy and smells like a girl.
I like how she plays hard like a boy.
But she’s soft like a girl.
Her hair, it’s as dark as her eyes and everything shines so blackly.
I like her bed. I like using every square inch, then sleeping, stuck together, until I’m late for my real life.
I like how smart she is. Practical.
I like her laugh, it’s bent and broken and crazy, it fills the room, seems to hang there, like helium balloons pressing into a ceiling.
Yeah, ten is not enough.
11. I like how she looks in her work gear, bike shorts, bike top, those clacky shoes, gloves, bike lock and radio hanging off her, she looks like she’s in the S.A.S. Yum.
12. Yum? Grow up Peta Wheeler!
13. I like that she likes me.
14.
Dinner suit, white shirt, bow tie, black shoes; it’s easy for men. Mark’s so good he can tie his bow tie himself. Doesn’t need a mirror. He’s in front of it to watch me dither.
‘Why don’t you want to go?’
‘I don’t want to get to know her.’
I’ve invested four years in hating Carole Smart.
Dresses spread across the bed, shoes lying at angles on the floor, belt, no belt, scarf, no scarf. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Sure, I don’t.
‘This one?’ Mark holds up a dress, full length, backless.
I’ve only worn it once, in the fitting room. I bought it for last year’s Law Society dinner and abandoned it for something safer.
Risk and I didn’t go together a year ago.
I take the dress from him. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll be a Carole Smart one day. Running the place. Doyou want people hating me?’
He has a last look about, sees his shaving kit on the tallboy, grabs it, stows it in the internal pocket of his
There’s talk Blaire was a runway model in a past life; she certainly has the walk, the hair and the face. My theory is that she was kicked out of the army for being too rigid. She mans the reception desk like it’s a sentry post. That’s her job, but it’s the way she asks. JJ&T call her Who-goes-there?
‘Blaire, I’m just nipping out.’
There is no just nipping out. Her pen is poised: ‘To?’
I’d love to tell her the truth. She could write: At 10:30 Peta Wheeler left the office for a quickie at Maccas. She didn’t know how long she’d be but she hoped it’d be a while.
‘The Supreme Court Library.’
‘For?’
‘A judgment reported in Lloyd’s.’
‘You don’t have that?’ The arch of her eyebrow asks what kind of library it is I think I’m running.
I’m leaning against the door. ‘I got rid of them because we had an online subscription but I’ve just had to cancel it—cost-cutting.’
I hope BJ doesn’t think I’ve changed my mind.
‘And how long do you think you’ll be?’
The weight of an ‘and’.
‘I should be back around eleven.’
When I finally press the button for the ground floor I’m aching.
At McDonald’s I take a booth towards the back with a good view of the street. I watch BJ chain her bike to a parking sign. She looks like a pirate, dirty, lawless. She looks great.
‘I followed you up the hill.’ She sits next to me. ‘Fuck, that’s a sexy walk.’
She smells like cigarettes.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Horny, desperate and inappropriate look good on me.’
She sneaks a hand between my legs. I jump.
Her hand is sliding up my inside thigh. I close my eyes, breathe through it. Her thumb closes the distance.
‘You’re not wearing underpants. Jesus.’
‘Let’s go to the toilet,’ I say. ‘I have to touch you.’
I never thought I’d have sex on work time. With a woman. In a McDonald’s toilet. Nobody said having an affair has to be romantic.
Top Ten Best Things About BJ:
I like how she walks, like a cowboy, like a criminal, like she’s got somewhere to go even when she hasn’t.
Smoking is disgusting. It’s vile. But when BJ smokes, God, it’s sexy, makes me want to get into her mouth (I can’t believe I just wrote that).
I like her swearing
I like how she looks like a boy and smells like a girl.
I like how she plays hard like a boy.
But she’s soft like a girl.
Her hair, it’s as dark as her eyes and everything shines so blackly.
I like her bed. I like using every square inch, then sleeping, stuck together, until I’m late for my real life.
I like how smart she is. Practical.
I like her laugh, it’s bent and broken and crazy, it fills the room, seems to hang there, like helium balloons pressing into a ceiling.
Yeah, ten is not enough.
11. I like how she looks in her work gear, bike shorts, bike top, those clacky shoes, gloves, bike lock and radio hanging off her, she looks like she’s in the S.A.S. Yum.
12. Yum? Grow up Peta Wheeler!
13. I like that she likes me.
14.
Dinner suit, white shirt, bow tie, black shoes; it’s easy for men. Mark’s so good he can tie his bow tie himself. Doesn’t need a mirror. He’s in front of it to watch me dither.
‘Why don’t you want to go?’
‘I don’t want to get to know her.’
I’ve invested four years in hating Carole Smart.
Dresses spread across the bed, shoes lying at angles on the floor, belt, no belt, scarf, no scarf. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Sure, I don’t.
‘This one?’ Mark holds up a dress, full length, backless.
I’ve only worn it once, in the fitting room. I bought it for last year’s Law Society dinner and abandoned it for something safer.
Risk and I didn’t go together a year ago.
I take the dress from him. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll be a Carole Smart one day. Running the place. Doyou want people hating me?’
He has a last look about, sees his shaving kit on the tallboy, grabs it, stows it in the internal pocket of his
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