Pearced (6 page)

Back in the warmth of the cottage, I rush around as usual to get myself ready for work. After a quick shower, I dress in a black jersey sheath dress, its tight pencil shape skirt to my calf, long tight black boots and an old Portobello find my army parka. A huge khaki twill cocoon with double hood lined in fleece, big deep pockets everywhere, inside and out, drawstring waist adjustment and a fishtail dropped-hem.  Which of course I’d washed in Dettol several times before I wore it, I’m really not keen on 'vintage' second hand things unless I’m certain they are clean, a trait I got from my Grandma.

The cats and horses come first always, I don't eat breakfast as usual, down a cup of dark tea, grab my Burberry soft as butter leather handbag, and head out to my car. Drive to my space at the station, park my old bashed up and draughty black Landrover 90 defender in my allotted space and just make it onto the train in time. I put my 'cyber-man' Bose headphones on, click the end into my iPhone, and Stone Sour thrashes happily inside my head, it's good, I love loud music, it stops me over thinking things, which I tend to do. The loud music, overpowers the endless chattering, leaves me quiet up there, so I can think.

My phone interrupts the noise, breaking through the thrashing with 'Bring Me Sunshine'. Bloodygoddamit!

EC: “Hello Mother here, remember me?” She's almost as funny as me, I always thought I got funny from my Dad. Strange.

TC: “Hello Mum, everything
OK
?” I’m going to regret asking that aren’t I?

EC: “
its cold out, wrap-up” she's not wrong.

TC: “You too, love you, I promise to come see you when I’m not so busy” I put my phone away a little guilty for not seeing her this weekend, but that’s the effect Mum's have on you isn’t it?

Note to self, remember the old proverb: 'he declares himself guilty, who justifies himself before accusation'.

EC: “You never come and see me” feel better now?

TC: “I will soon, I promise” don’t I say that every week?

I open my book, I can't wait to find out what Dirk Pitt is up to trying to raise the Titanic, bound to be in some sort of pickle, and as the adventure unfolds I am transported.

Far too soon, my train pulls in, and I disembark the carriage into a busy concourse.  I catch the feint whiff of a familiar scent that stirred my insides, and see in the distance the man that is in my thoughts.  I don't want him there, I am happy as I am, but I can't shift the feeling, and he is very attractive. I will meet him face to face this afternoon, not just the reconnaissance mission Pete took me on when I told her about the interview.  She has contacts at the venue, naturally, and got VIP passes to the event, the launch of Milk&Honey, of course.  “Just turn up and have a look at who you'll be working with, what's the down side?” (He could
see
me!). She pleads, “And
open bar
.” As if that clinches it, which of course it does, well a girl's got to drink.  So she drags me to a pretentious wine bar in the City all clean white walls neon and champagne cocktails, smelling of a heady mixture of strong colognes and perfumes. I hated it.  ...and don't get me started on the DJ either, bloody hell.

But over by the bar is Daniel Pearce.  Pete
had
done her homework, he is very handsome. I have already downed a JD just to have the nerve to come into this bright clean homogenised environment, I hate these places.  I down a glass of cranberry without ice as quickly as I can, I don't like cold drinks or champagne, leave Pete chatting to a gorgeous Hispanic girl, apparently called Steffi, and head home. Pete says he's too skinny, but she likes girls so what does she know?   Lean and muscly about 6ft3, with a tight arse, young Elvis hair with shaved sides, a scull ring, wearing black skinny suit trousers and winkle picker boots.  A tight suit jacket with skinny lapels, a white shirt with a tiny curved shirt collar and very skinny black tie, half sleeve tattoos on each arm, I saw a picture of him I a trade magazine. And the palest grey/green eyes I had ever seen. He has an elegant walk, and all the women, and some of the men, can't help staring, he has such a beautiful uncommonly breath-taking face.   Right now, I watch him slide into the back seat of his car that was waiting for him, he briefly looks over and I fancy to myself it is me he is looking at. I feel immediately self-conscious and lower my head feeling stupid. He disappears off in the black shiny car, and the faintest scent of him lingers in the air for a moment or two.

TC: “You're right as always” she is.

PF: “You're only now realising this?” Don't push it though.

TC: “No one likes a show-off” is that
really
true?

PF: “Later xx” she's a woman of many words, I appreciate that.

The City of London is so beautiful, the architecture, the vibe, a sunny day, cold as autumn should be and very bright its almost blinding as it reflects off the pale surfaces of the old marble.  I jump onto the tube and put my head back in my book and my ears back to work sending the invigorating sounds of Depeche Mode directly into the part of my brain that appreciates it, the bit in the middle.

I work in a very busy, creatively uninspiring design room.  I am my own energy, and I operate in my own little denim bubble, which people find either amusing because I’m completely focused, or frustrating because they can't pop the surface and get in.  But that's the whole point I don’t tell them, but in here my head stops hurting and quiet prevails. Helped by tea of course, yes, let’s get the kettle on again. I arrive at my desk at work, hang my parka over the back of my chair and sip my tea, drop of milk, very strong, bag-in, just like Grandad.   Nothing new that I’m interested in on e-mails, I begin to wonder how his
day had started.  Does he have a smart pencil-skirt wearing secretary who brushes her hair to within an inch of its life, had endless manicure appointments and always looks immaculate in make-up?

I have horses, I’m lucky if I don’t have hay in my bra!  I feel compelled to check, so I do, after remembering there's a security camera above my desk. Oh well.

Does he sit behind a heavy glass desk with an amazing view of the river behind him? Drink a posh coffee? Have endless strategy meetings?

A familiar rumble breaks the thought apart, as my phone goes off.

PF: “There was a
fracas
” she couldn't tell me earlier? Must mean last night at Henry’s do, in which case why am I not surprised? I should have gone, but I needed a night off.

TC: “Surprise me, he tried it on with someone else’s girl? And also, you know the word
fracas
?” Quelle surprise.

PF: “And got into a little shenanigans for his trouble” what is he like? A rhetorical question, I know exactly what he is like! And where did Pete learn how to spell shenanigans?

TC: “
Tell me
” do I really want to know, I almost always ends the same way?

PF: “He got the Merlot” he drunk it, stole it, smashed it?

TC: “He does like a good vintage” not quite what he had in mind I’m sure.

PF: “Smashed over him? Such a waste!” Bloody hell.

TC: “What vintage?” I have to know.

PF: “What has that got to do with it?” Some drink better than others.

TC: “The 2000 was a questionable year” true bloody story, the devil is in the details.

PF: “Babes, you’ve got more issues than Vogue” does she think she’s funnier than me, will she ever learn?

TC: “Sharp honey, we’ll make a comedian out of you yet” true story

PF: “Bet the bottle was no lighter though” she’s funny, but what she says is true. Mum hasn't called me, so either she doesn't know, of it's not that bad.

TC: “He’ll seen the sense in it I’m sure” true story, if it's undrinkable what do you do with it?

Bloody hell, he'll give it to Mum won't he? She'll drink
anything.

I shake my head at the news of my Brothers continued antics, it’s the way he is, in the same way I am who I am, there’s no changing either of us.  And despite what our Mother tells us, she wouldn’t change us either, it appeals to her tidy mind to have projects that need working on, things that need fixing.  And what better than her own children? Once my hair is cut and Henry is married to a ‘nice girl’ she’ll be bored to tears and likely up her tai-chi from two nights to four.  If she ever meets a bad man in a dark alley, she could disarm him, very slowly.  But still, not every one’s a ninja.

Back to reality, denim needs designing, it can’t do it by itself, but first, I just can’t commit to my job today without another tea, and something else.

I must know if he’s OK, and if I’m to see photos of him in the press I want the
real
story not just the sensationalised press release version. You know, the one that will improve single sales by 500%.

TC: “Henry, how’s your head?” Hope you’re awake, it’s daylight after all.

HC: “Busted! You heard?” Naturally, I’m your sister, and you invited all my friends.

TC: “Yes, you took to the bottle” stupid boy.

HC: “Undrinkable year, bloody manager” cheapskate.

TC: “Glad you’re OK” hope Mum doesn’t know.

HC: “I’m fine, I didn't drink it!” see what I mean?

TC: “Be good” unlikely, but I'm his Sister, I have to try.

HC: “Fuck sake, don’t tell Mum” a slippery slope, as if!

After pouring over details and wash panels, laundered lengths and thread colours, sketching pockets and emailing suppliers, I realise I have completely forgotten to eat lunch.

Again.

Later in chapter two, Monday
:
21ndoctober2013, the middle part.

The phone rings, it’s Pete

My fingers fly over my keypad to answer,

TC: “Hi babes” her timing is always spookily impeccable.

PF: “...bet you skipped lunch again?” how does she do that? A spy camera somewhere I casually look around me just in case I’m right, and wave at the little ruby red plastic dome on the ceiling.

TC: “Who are you my
Mother
now?” Traitor, I sigh heavily shaking my head, at the thought there could be two!

PF: “Friends Tharie, we should be able to say what needs saying without repercussions” she's not wrong though, is she?

TC: “It wasn’t my intention to miss food, I was carried away in my own little world of indigo...” ahhh, denim, better than gravy. Mum's right, I
am
random.

PF: “...and daydreaming about Daniel?” Spooky isn't she?

TC: “I can’t lie, he may have popped into my head once or twice, I like him” understatement of the year.

PF: “Nice arse too” what is it with her and arses?

I fail miserably to keep my best friend in the loop about my lingering feelings for Daniel, I am such a bad friend, certain nuances of the evening as played in
my
head, would keep her amused for days.  So intoxicated was I by being in proximity to him, bloody hell I say to myself, I’m screwed.

PF:  “Next time wear something other than jeans!” She scolds, is she kidding?

And before I can answer...

PF: “And no cartoon knickers either Tharie, for pity sake, you're not a teenager any-more” thankfully.

TC: “I love Spiderman Pete,” I say, in a playful tone, “and jeans are crucial to my windswept and interesting Gothic look, what would you suggest, dresses?” Anything but that, no, I don't mean anything.

I pull a face with my tongue out, strange how gesticulating on the phone where the recipient can’t see you seems to be common.

PF: “A little colour wouldn’t hurt.” that old chestnut again “and lipstick.” Yuk, just like my Mum!

TC: “I wear black and denim, it's just how it must be” thinking I’d scored a point, the people who sit around me smile at their screens at my conversation, shaking their heads.  Has my Mum spoken to them too? I'll grill them individually later.

PF: “And Daniel?” she probes further spinning me back to the call, “what do you plan on doing about that handsome, wealthy, sexy, available piece of arse?” See? Arses again.

TC: “Pete, how would you know if he's available, or sexy, he's not your
type?” I laugh at my gay friend.

PF: “Honey, I’d tear up my whole rule book for a piece of that gorgeous male, makes me shiver just thinking about it.” Shameful. “Besides, I’ve done my homework, you know I know everybody.” she really does.

TC: “Shameful, shameful.” I scold, “Leave the boys to those of us who know what to do with them!” I tell her amusingly, “Not that I’d want to...” back pedal, back pedal – too late!

PF: “Ha! You like him” I squirm as I realise she right, and she usually is, “fallen for the model physique, chiselled features and come to bed eyes?” She is laughing on the other end of the line, but I have to admit there appears to be a strange attraction to this man, yes, he is very nice indeed, and hot.... brain!? Stop it, and I snap the band around my wrist. Focus. It works, for now.

TC: “I wasn’t close enough to notice his eyes” I lie.