Indecent...Desires. Jane O'Reilly
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almost as if my body is no longer under my control and I am just a passenger along for the ride.
I wait for it to subside, but I don’t wait too long. A courtesy flush and I slip out of the cubicle and then wash my hands, trying to wash away the remnants of my dirty behaviour. The soap is creamy and smells of roses and it makes my hands feel dry, but at least they’re clean. My face is a bigger problem, though. The flush in my cheeks is fading and thanks to a generous application of hairspray my hair is still intact, but there’s nothing make-up can do for shame, and I’ve got a thick layer of it all over me. I rip my gaze away from the mirror and head back to my desk. There’s no point standing there looking at my guilty face. I can’t stare it away.
My desk is exactly as I left it, only it isn’t. Because there is a man standing in front of it, his back to me. I take in hair the colour of milk chocolate and the shoulders and lean waist of a man in his early twenties. He’s wearing a close-fitting knit jumper, with a messenger bag slung across his body so that it rests against his bum.
‘Yes?’ I say. ‘Can I help you with something?’ I use my work voice, the one my ex-husband used to call my bossy voice, the one he’d parrot back at me when I got too loud, or too opinionated. I try not to use it, I do, but sometimes it just slips out, and I guess now is one of those times.
‘That depends,’ he says, as he turns around. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, insolently casual, and some sort of identity pass slung around his neck. His jumper is baby-blue, but his eyes are dark and his mouth makes me stumble.
It’s you. I don’t know how I keep those words in. Any minute now they’re going to burst out of me and he’s going to ask what I mean, and I’m going to have to think of an answer, preferably one that doesn’t include any references to the fact that I’ve been secretly watching him masturbate on an almost daily basis for the past month. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to overhaul your computer system,’ he says calmly. ‘I’m Lucas. Lucas Brady.’
‘Of course you are,’ I say faintly, as I move behind my desk and take my seat. I set my hands to my keyboard, pretending that I’m in control of them.
‘It usually works better if you turn it on first,’ he says. And then he smiles at me, and I swear something inside me explodes. When it hits my face in the form of a red hot blush, I realise what it is. But I am Meredith the Unflappable, so I stiffly turn on my computer and offer him coffee and biscotti as I wait for it to boot up.
He accepts politely, even though I was hoping he wouldn’t. ‘You knew I was coming, right?’ he asks, as I slide the white cup and saucer in his direction, together with the sachets of brown sugar and the cream.
No. Not you. ‘Absolutely,’ I say. I even manage to sound sincere.
‘Good,’ he says. And then there’s a pause while he doctors his coffee – two sugars, I notice – and then he says ‘Have we met?’
‘No,’ I say instantly. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember if we had.’
‘Hmm,’ he says, and that’s when I notice the sparkle in his eyes. They’re dark, very dark, but there’s a fire in them, a wickedness that makes me wonder, just for a second, if he somehow knows that I’m the person who has been sending him naughty notes.
But I can’t very well ask him. Fortunately, my computer has booted up, so I log into the system and check through the diary for today, and there he is, Lucas Brady. He’s scheduled to be here every day for the next two weeks.
Two weeks. Every day for two weeks. I don’t know if I can cope with that.
‘Would you like to get started?’ I ask him. I’m getting to my feet as I say the words, because I want him out of here. I can’t breathe. I need a moment, possibly a lot more than a moment, to catch my breath and wonder what bizarre twist of fate has brought him into my office.
I find myself staring at his mouth, and then at his body, which is concealed by that baby-blue sweater, and then lower, at his crotch. I suspect that I might actually stare at it for quite a long time, because when I finally realise what I’m doing and plant my gaze back on his face he’s looking at me with an odd expression. ‘How old are you?’ I blurt out.
‘Twenty-four,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say. I hammer something random into the keyboard. ‘I just needed that for our records.’
‘Sure,’ he says. There’s a tone of disbelief in his voice that I don’t like at all.
I straighten up and glare at him, or more correctly, I glare up at him. He’s a lot taller than I’d realised. A lot taller. Not ridiculously taller, but definitely taller than my ex-husband. I’m wearing heels and he still has a couple of inches on me. It sends a faint frisson of excitement down my spine, a sensual shiver that I do my best to ignore. This is no good. No good at all. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ I say sharply, and there’s no disguising the bossy tone.
Lucas stiffens. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Ms?’
He said Ms. No one ever says Ms. They all glance at my hand and then give me Miss with a faint pitying sneer. Or they simply opt for Mrs. Another shiver works its way through me.
‘French,’ I say. I straighten my shoulders; dare him to make something of it.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, adjusts the strap of his bag. ‘I’ll get started then,’ he says. ‘And I’ll try not to get under your feet, Ms French.’ He doesn’t move, though, just stands there, watching me.
I sit myself down at my desk and raise an eyebrow, giving him my best haven’t you got things you should be doing look. He waits for a moment, a long moment, and then he picks up his coffee and heads off in the direction of the offices and only at this point does it occur to me that perhaps I should have shown him around. And perhaps I should have got him to sign in. But something about the way he said my name, like it was a dirty word, made me lose my train of thought.
Though perhaps if I had been at my desk when he arrived and not masturbating in the toilets, I would have had more control of things. But given that it’s his fault I was masturbating in the toilets in the first place, perhaps my irritation is justified.
I do not know how I am going to survive two weeks with him hanging around the office. This was not part of the plan. Still, Martin Banks will be in soon, and that is part of the plan. Martin Banks is in his late thirties, appropriately older than me, with an appropriate level of income (I checked) and, as far as I can tell, no inappropriate sensibilities. I also know that he is single and has appropriate ideas about marriage and children. Oh, I know what they say about workplace relationships, but where else am I supposed to meet a man I can vet properly? I don’t want to end up in another disastrous relationship.
Today Martin Banks is going to ask me out to dinner, I’m sure of it. We will go to the Italian on Bridge Street, I will accept dessert but not drink more than two glasses of wine, and he will kiss me firmly but politely at my doorstep. I’ve got it all planned.
Thinking this through, I open my bottom desk drawer, pull out my makeup bag and proceed to fix up my face. A touch more blusher, some powder, a neatening of my lipstick. There. I do not need to worry about twenty four year old exhibitionists. Even if they are in the office at the end of the hall.
I welcome the other staff as they come in, then the first couple of clients. Today is going to be a good day, I can feel it. I refuse to feel the hot ache that persists between my thighs. I refuse to think about Lucas Brady. Only I can’t stop thinking about Lucas Brady. He has been in the office at the end of the hall with the door firmly closed for what seems like an impossibly long time. Perhaps he would like more coffee. Perhaps more biscuits are in order. Perhaps he needs someone to keep him on track.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pour the coffee and arrange some biscuits nicely on a plate and walk towards that office door. I knock briskly and then I push the door open. ‘I brought you some