A woman at reception asked if I was there for the employee wellbeing and productivity optimisation session.

“Absolutely not. I’m here to print stuff.”

She nodded past a couple of fancy people hunched over solid-wood desks. The printer was next to a stationery cupboard full of thick Moleskine notebooks and bourgeois Bic Cristal Softs. We have a stapler with no staples and a rusty staple remover on the seventeenth.

That’s when I saw the stranger. Wearing a lime green cardigan with her sleeves rolled up. Looked expensive. She was leaning over a notebook, scribbling away at something. I wondered what she was working on. Whether it was something I could help with. There was no cactus on her desk. Perhaps she took it home. Bet she has a nice place.

“Are you alright?”

The receptionist appeared at my side. She pointed at the printer. “Just press the big button.”

“Yes. Thanks. It’s different from the old one. This is a Kyocera, isn’t it? Nice.”

“It’s the one from downstairs,” she said. “Someone kicked up quite the fuss about it moving.” She held eye contact a little too long before wandering off. Petty. I pressed the big button, plugged in my USB stick, and selected the report.

The printer was whirring away when I picked out another sound above it. The stranger was humming. I couldn’t place the tune, but it sounded familiar. Normally that would irritate me. I’ve left companies for less. But this had rhythm. Not quite a melody, but definitely intentional. More like a code.

I should’ve gone over. Established whether she actually worked here or just travelled between floors collecting people’s belongings. I’d rehearsed a few things to say if I saw her again. Funny things. But they all depended on her being at my desk and holding a cactus.

“Everything alright?” The receptionist again.

“Yes. Just waiting for it to finish.”

She looked at the printer tray.

“Isn’t that it?”

It was. I gathered it all up and tapped the edges. The stranger was still writing. I said “Cheers,” in her general direction. Loud voice. But she didn’t look up. Lost in her work. Am sure she would have acknowledged me otherwise.

Back down the grubby stairs, I plonked the paper on the boss’s big corner desk. He was on a call but stared at me and raised his index finger. Presumably his way of expressing gratitude. He covered the mouthpiece to say:

“Did you get lost?”

Prick. Should’ve raised a finger back at him.

Might print my quarterly target spreadsheet tomorrow. It would make it easier to read. Never printed anything before the stranger turned up at my desk. Now look at me go.

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PLEASE DO NOT EAT OTHER PEOPLE’S BISCUITS

No smiley face. No contraction. Must be serious.

A story of stolen biscuits, hunger, and HR

Karen’s chocolate digestives were gone.
“I labelled them,” she said.
“I saw,” Jolon replied.
“Why are you still eating them?”
“I’m peckish.”
“They aren’t yours.”
Jolon held out a half-eaten biscuit. A peace offering.
“I’m telling HR.” Karen stared, waiting for a flinch.
Jolon didn’t.
Keeping eye contact, he munched her biscuit. Slowly.
She left.

There’s easily a three-hour film in that.

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When I logged in, I saw a motivational GIF had been pasted into the middle of my quarterly target spreadsheet. The boss clocked me cursing at it from across the room, then started walking over. I pretended not to notice. He asked me how things were going.

I said, “Steady,” which is an acceptable office replacement for “hungover”. He didn’t react. I think he’d already stopped listening. There was a laugh behind. Not sure if it was directed my way.

“Can you print out that report when you have a minute?”

They’ve moved the printer upstairs now. To the gaudy nineteenth floor. Exactly where I said they shouldn’t put it. Whatever. I’ll leave some hiking shoes at my desk. Prick. Pricks.

“Sure.”

Decided it could wait till after lunch. Went to Boots for a meal deal. Thought I saw the stranger up ahead. Dark hair. Same sort of walk. She disappeared into Pret before I got close enough to be sure. Who wants to spend six quid on half a sandwich with a biography on the label? It probably wasn’t her. She doesn’t seem the type.

Boots still had no prawn sandwiches out. Grabbed a veggie BLT, salt & vinegar Hula Hoops, lemon water. Splashed out on a Peperami for pudding. Picked what looked like the fastest queue. Wrong. Each idiot took longer than the last. Everyone was smiling and joking with the cashier.

The people in the other line sped through. Should’ve moved, but I stood my ground. When my turn came, the girl scanned, beeped, and blinked at me. No words. Just a hand gesture to tap my card. She definitely hates me now. Or maybe disapproved of my meal deal combo.

Will try Pret tomorrow.

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No idea how long I’ve known Simon now. Before the Lisbon project fuck up, definitely. And well before he went grey. Looks good on him, the smug twat. Must be twenty years, easy. Certainly long enough that neither of us have to explain when we’re joking. He calls me a cunt. We laugh. I call him a cunt. Because he is a cunt.

He’s better looking than me, objectively. Taller, if you count half an inch. Better jaw. Teeth like a toothpaste advert. He earns more too. I don’t know exactly how much more because I’m not the kind of person who asks. Something ridiculous, presumably.

We used to work together at the same place. He wasn’t my boss. Sometimes he ran point on projects I was involved with, but that wasn’t the same thing. We were equals. More or less. I had to leave the job because they paid me late all the fucking time. Sometimes it didn’t go in till nearly four in the afternoon.

None of that shite matters on a squash court, though. I nearly always beat him there. He used to be better. Or says he was. Apparently there was a period when we were evenly matched, when he used to win on the regular. But I don’t remember it like that. I remember him sweating. Leaning against the back wall between games and saying he needed a minute.

Simon plays aggressively. Smashes everything as hard as he can and hopes physics sorts out the rest. I prefer placement. Control. Make him run. Let him think he’s still in the rally, then put the ball exactly where he isn’t. He hates that. Calls it boring. It’s not boring when you win.

Loser always buys the first round afterwards. He takes it well, mostly. There aren’t many people you can beat and insult for twenty-odd years and still meet every Wednesday. Twenty years. Christ. That’s a lot of first rounds. We’ve had a lot of second and third ones, too. With a lot of laughing in between. So hard we can’t breathe properly.

“Where have you gone? You alright, nobhead?”

He circled a finger beside his head, crossed his eyes, and let his mouth hang open. Patronising shit. But that’s Simon. He gets away with things. Can walk into a room and immediately own it. I once watched him order two pints in a council estate pub and get a laugh out of the transaction.

“Still not got it back, then?” he asked.

“What, Simon?”

“The cactus, numbnuts.”

There was more to it than that. Someone doesn’t just appear at your desk, use your mug, spill yoghurt on your best mouse mat and leave carrying your belongings. It’s not the done thing.

“I was violated. Brutally.”

That got him giggling. “And you still don’t know who she is?”

He’s right. It’s preposterous. I’ve been sitting at that desk for nearly four years. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.

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I went over with intent. Everyone must have been watching, knowing Jolon Fairweather wouldn’t put up with bollocks like this. But as I approached, she slid a USB stick across the desk. Without looking up.

“Will you print this for the meeting?”

I had a few questions for her. Who are you? Why are you sitting here? What meeting? Why am I printing things for you? Who do you think you are? But she had a voice that made it sound like a reasonable request, so I took the drive. Decided it would be easier to establish what was going on after I’d printed the pissing thing.

They hadn’t moved the printer yet, which saved me a trip to the gaudy nineteenth floor. Still, I gave her my time. And that’s not nothing. I considered fucking with the settings, but chose not to ruin her meeting. One of the pages had a smear on it, so I reprinted it. Checked the others again. All good. When I got back, she was on the phone. I placed the document in front of her. She covered the mouthpiece, looked me straight in the eye.

“Thanks.”

That was it?

There was a spare desk by reception. I stationed myself there while I got on top of this. The chair dipped to the left. Uncomfortable. It gave me pins and needles. No good for my squash game. But it gave me a clear view of my desk. My stuff. Her. I could work out who she was and why no one else seemed concerned. Had I been fired again? Unlikely. This place wouldn’t function without me.

Her call was in a language I didn’t recognise. Sounded serious, though. She waved her free arm as if negotiating a hostage release. I watched her knock a strawberry yoghurt onto my Montblanc mouse mat and mutter a profanity. She grabbed some tissues and dabbed at it. Made it worse. I considered going over. She would appreciate my help. Instead, I watched her fold the wet tissues into smaller and smaller squares till they could absorb no more.

At 13:17, she left for lunch. I took the opportunity to head over. The area felt different. Warmer. There was a trace of something floral in the air. Clean and expensive. I wiped the mouse mat down properly. Gave the whole thing a quick spray and moved the keyboard back to its usual place. Her handbag was on the floor, half-zipped. I wasn’t looking inside, though I could see a small tube near the opening. Lip balm, probably. Maybe hand cream. Couldn’t see an ID or anything with a name on it.

I picked up a folder I didn’t need and retreated. When she returned, I thought about going over and saying something light.

“Didn’t realise this was a timeshare!”

She’d laugh. Apologise for taking over. Tell me her name. I’d wave away the misunderstanding because I’m not territorial. We’d go for a coffee. Maybe more. But I’d waited too long. Should’ve done that first thing.

She was at my desk all day. When she went to the pantry for afternoonsies, she returned with my blue mug. Chipped on the handle from when I threw it at the whiteboard during the ridiculous Q2 review. Did she know it was mine? Our eyes met a couple of times. She smiled at first. Then she put an expensive-looking jumper over her delicate silk blouse.

At clocking-off time, she packed the laptop into her bag and collected everything around the monitor. Including my cactus. I half stood, thought about calling after her.

“That’s my fucking cactus!”

But I didn’t say a damn word.

It was dark by the time I left to meet Simon at the courts. I was on fire. Beat him three games to one. And I only lost that one because the shitty chair had given me a dead leg. He blamed the lights first. Then his shoulder. Then the grip on his racket. Pathetic. A real man knows when he’s only got himself to blame.

He bought the first round afterwards. We sat beside the pool table in The King, beneath the painting of dogs playing poker. A few others joined us later, and I told them about the stranger who had taken over my desk.

Someone said the cactus had pulled. Simon took a sip of his pint. Could see his brain whirring. He was taking a run-up at something.

“Sounds like a prickly situation.”

Fuck off, Simon.

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First, I wrote:

“Happy to help if you need it!”

Went to make a coffee while I thought about whether that sounded too eager. Came back and deleted it.

Typed:

“Let me know either way.”

Sat with that for a bit. Too passive-aggressive?

Tried again:

“No worries if not :)”

Deleted the smiley. Re-added the smiley. Then closed Slack. It still felt like I’d said too much.

Opened up the report again. No one had looked at it yet. Noticed I’d used grandiose twice in a paragraph about the proposed new printer location. Thought about leaving it. Told myself no one would notice. And, if I changed it, they’d see I’d edited the doc after submitting it.

Went for another coffee. If I’d noticed it, they surely would. Opened the report again. And again. Removed the whole paragraph. Shame, I’d made a good point.

Never did send that Slack message.

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Didn’t have a plan for my stolen day, so I went out for a walk. Turned right at the bakery because left is towards work. There’s a new WatchHouse full of man-buns and sandals. Wanky nonsense. A man was arguing with a lamp post outside it, so I crossed the road. Straight into a man with a clipboard. His face gooned at me.

“Not today,” I said. And pointed to my earphones. Forgot I wasn’t wearing any. Still, it shut him up. And wiped that fucking smile off his face.

It was overcast because Britain, but not cold. I quite enjoyed my saunter, watching the world go by. Ended up at the park. Would be a good place for a date if there weren’t geese everywhere. One of them hissed at me. My heel was still a bit stiff, so I chose a bench near the pond and watched a child drop little toy soldiers into it. He saluted each one as it floated away, as if he was sending them to war. His mum was on her phone.

I sat there for a long while. To forget about it all. I felt peace. Checked Slack a few times. Took a different route back home. Made it feel like I did more with the day. Bumped into Simon outside The King and popped in for a couple. Didn’t stay long. He’s a bit much sometimes. Went home to scroll through movies on Netflix. Picked one eventually, but fell asleep before the end.

Woke up a few hours later with a sore head. Ordered a takeaway and finished the movie. It wrapped up nicely. The assassin became a bookseller and married Meg Ryan. Think I clicked the wrong thumbnail. But it worked.

Still nothing on Slack. Tomorrow, I will go to work again. And on Thursday. And Friday. Probably Monday, too. I’m going to try a bit harder. Who cares what they put on a fry-up? I don’t have to eat one with them. I can still be part of the team. Engage. Communicate more.

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Do belong on a fry-up:

• Bacon

• Eggs (fried or scrambled only)

• Sausage

• Tomatoes

• Mushrooms

• Black pudding

• Toast (preferably fried or eggied)

• Chips

Do NOT belong on a fry-up:

• Beans

• Rocket

• Peas

• Spam

• Avocado

• Salmon

• Spinach

• Turkey bacon

• Pickled onions

• Syrup

• Kippers

• Streaky bacon

• Any sauce that isn’t mustard

Someone said tofu. Ridiculous. No one mentioned hash browns. Might have allowed them, though I prefer chips. Baked beans are a perpetual sore point. Such a widespread issue. At least put them in a fucking ramekin.

Didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

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Had a Boots meal deal for lunch. They didn’t have any prawn sandwiches out. I asked if there were any in the back, but they refused to check. I was polite enough about it all. Don’t think the checkout girl likes me anymore.

Should go to bed. It will do me good to get an early night. And no booze! Well, apart from a couple of reds with dinner. I tried one of those fancy soups in a cardboard carton. Tomato. It was pretty good. But they added basil, so it tasted like pasta sauce.

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Stayed in the queue anyway. Tried to pick another film by judging the posters on the wall. One was probably about a haunted swimming pool, and another starred a superhero whose main power was smirking. There was an intriguing drama about an old woman who loses her bicycle, but it was French. With subtitles. No one goes to the cinema to read.

When I got to the front of the line, I told the girl I didn’t want to see anything. There was a flash of eye contact. Pretty. Considered saying something else. But she looked past me and called.

“Next!”

OK then. I’ll move. Was about to head home when I saw the new bowling alley next door. It looked awful. Bright. Neon. Full of birthday parties, work outings, and couples on dates. Everyone seemed to have brought a child or a drink. Or both. Raucous laughter ricocheted off the walls as pins clattered. Calm down, everyone.

Went to the counter and asked for a lane. The greasy teenager glanced up from his phone and asked my shoe size. I told him eleven. I’m a nine, but wear a ten. And these looked small. They were warm inside. Icky. A bit roomy, too.

Lane three was my stage for the evening. Experimented till I found a ball with the right weight and balance. But even that kept drifting to the left gutter. The lane had a pull. Must have. I looked around to see how others were getting on. A bloke in lane five took a run-up and absolutely lashed it. That’s not how you bowl. It’s about poise. Precision.

I watched his ball bounce down the lane, ready to offer a consoling glance. Strike. The jammy bastard. He turned round, arms outstretched like bowling Jesus.

“Boom,” he shouted.

Classless. But his mates cheered. I gave him a slow, solemn nod, as if I’d just witnessed an act of profound spiritual enlightenment. But it was pure luck. No way he could do that on my dodgy lane.

Things improved once I learned how to counter the pull. Reworked my starting position, changed the angle of release. Got a few strikes. All earned. Bowled three games in total. Thought about another, but there was no need to prove anything. Winked at Mr Boom on my way out. Told the manager lane three was pulling to the left. I mastered it, but it would ruin someone else’s evening.

Had a mooch about the arcade afterwards. Spent a while at the claw machine. It was full of unbranded teddies with loose stitching and haunted eyes. A group of kids were feeding coins into it. Failing, one after the other.

When they gave up, I stepped in with cold precision. Slotted in a single coin and grabbed the joystick like Maverick in Top Gun. Steadily manoeuvred the claw. Got on my knees. Checked it at eye level. A few more adjustments needed.

Cleared my throat before I pressed the launch button. The kids should see this. They watched on as the claw dropped, twitched, and caught a frog in a football shirt that said CHAMP10N.

I retrieved my prize from the chute, turned around to face the arcade, and raised it slowly into the air. Silent. Classy. Regal. Exactly how a champion should behave.

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There must’ve been a power cut. Could smell defrosted M&S fish fingers. I hoped that’s what it was, anyway. Decided to get up. No electricity to make coffee, so I slapped myself in the face.

Tried on the double denim again. Wasn’t convinced it was the look I needed. Maybe some chinos and a polo neck? Didn’t look like it was going to rain. Decided to go with white linen trousers and a blue cotton tee. No, the chinos and polo neck.

Was already running late for work, but stopped for a coffee on the way. Boss was at reception. I tried to sneak past, but he noticed. No one likes being watched.

“Afternoon, Jolon. Where’s that report?”

Prick.

“The power went out,” I said. True. But not relevant.

He didn’t say anything. Just waved me away.

Prick.

Stopped by the pantry for a quick coffee. Someone had left a packet of chocolate digestives unattended. I ate them. Got to my desk around 11:30. Inbox was a mess. Deleted most of it without reading.

Went for lunch at 12:15. A ham and cheese toastie from Costa. Hurt to chew. Shouldn’t have slapped myself so hard. Didn’t bother going back to work. Are fish fingers OK to refreeze? Decided to go to the shops. Get some coffee. Food.

Caught the bus to Tesco. Would usually walk, but I couldn’t be arsed. It was mostly uneventful, apart from a child eating Wotsits off the floor. She pressed her lips against it like one of those sucker pads that never work.

Should I have tried to find her parents?

Got off a stop early. To get some steps in. When I arrived, the doors slid open like they’d been expecting something better. It was loud inside. And beige. The walls, the lighting, the people. But the basket was blue.

I trudged the aisles. Watched the rotisserie chickens spin for longer than I meant to. Someone’s trolley clipped the back of my heel. They muttered something. Could’ve been an apology. Could’ve been a curse.

A man was trying to scan a single mushroom at the checkout. No bag. He was holding it like an offering. We made eye contact. He smiled. I looked away like it hadn’t happened.

The power was back on when I got home. Thought I’d best have those fish fingers for dinner. They didn’t taste off. I’m sure they were fine. Jaw’s still stiff. And my heel. Will have to take the bus again tomorrow. And start that damn report.

Probably should’ve looked for Wotsit-girl’s parents.

Found an old episode of Border Force on YouTube. A guy smuggling meth got five years in 2016. He’ll be out now. Wonder what he’s up to.

Night night. x.

He is a prick, though.

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Thought about doing something profound to celebrate. Writing a poem. Buying a motorbike. Going to Thailand to find myself. But I’m British, so I had breakfast at Wetherspoons. It was nice enough. Eggs weren’t great. Cold. Rubbery. And they ruined it with fucking beans. Shite, really. But it soaked up the hangover.

Went into town after and bought a new pair of jeans. Levi’s. Saw a denim shirt with red tassels that looked cool, so I got that too. Didn’t try them on. Don’t like how I look in shop mirrors. Probably the overhead lighting. It casts a lot of shadow.

Stopped for a quick pint in my local on the way back. The King. Stayed for seven more than intended. I thought it was two for one, but it wasn’t. Just got home. Feeling wobbly.

Tried on the new clothes. Double denim, you sexy bastard. Definitely thirty now.

Bollocks, it’s half two. How did that happen? It’s not my birthday any more. Better go to bed. And set an alarm.

Jolon. xxx.

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I’d made myself look perfect for her. Polished my shoes till they sparkled. Put on a new blue M&S suit and my trusty Turnbull & Asser shirt. Freshly cleaned and pressed. Chose the lion cufflinks. Solid white gold.

Got there early so I could watch her arrive. Picked a table with a view of the door. I pretended to read the menu, but couldn’t concentrate. Butterflies swarmed every time the door opened. At 19:46, she arrived. For a moment, I heard only the pulse in my ears.

She strode through the door like it was built just for this moment. The waiter was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected someone like her to walk in. He pulled out a chair, and she lowered herself with perfect calm. Her throne.

A tap on the wine glass. Once, twice. Three times. She frowned and reached for the one opposite. That one must’ve passed the test. She swapped them over and ordered a bottle of Malbec.

The waiter arrived with the wine. Leaned in too close as he spoke. She listened with her whole face. Attentive, kind. Nodded before dismissing him with a smile so soft it must have carried him through the rest of his shift. A tiny crease appeared at the corner of her mouth as she drank. A private thought. Of me?

She adjusted her cutlery. The candle beside her flickered. It made her face dance. Her earrings glinted when she turned. Small silver hoops. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her eyes swept the room. Never hurried. Quietly assessing the world. Her phone pinged and caught us both off guard. She stood and turned to face the door. Should I stand with her? Call her name? Embrace her from behind?

She adjusted the strap of her dress. Half an inch more skin revealed. Then he arrived. The numpty. She skipped to meet him. Waving, laughing. They touched. Stared at each other.

I should’ve left then. That would’ve been the end of it.

The first course was burrata. Heritage tomatoes, basil oil, toasted sourdough. She cut into the cheese carefully, letting the cream spill across the plate. He reached over before she took a bite and dragged a piece of bread through the middle. Animal.

Every few seconds, she looked up at him and smiled as if he were capable of saying something worth hearing. He kept reaching across for the best tomatoes, tearing pieces from her side of the bread. His fingers brushed hers. She didn’t move her hand. I adjusted my cufflinks so the lions faced the accidental lovers.

For mains, he ordered the côte de boeuf for two. Didn’t even ask her. When it arrived, he took the knife and made a show of carving. Sawed back and forth till the meat buckled. He gave her the first piece. Pink in the middle, darker at the edge. She dipped it into the jus and closed her eyes as she ate.

He watched her mouth. I watched him. They talked constantly. Her hands moved as she spoke. His head dropped when he laughed. Such a sloppy-headed bastard. When the second bottle of Malbec arrived, he poured her another. Spilled some on the tablecloth. No care. No precision.

They had the dark chocolate delice with salted caramel for dessert. Not what I would have ordered. Too sweet. He held the spoon towards her. She laughed and leaned across the table. Open-mouthed. A smear of chocolate caught the corner of her lip. He reached out and wiped it away with his thumb. Performative. Disgusting.

The bill came in a small black folder. He took it before she could see it. Held out his card like it was nothing. Like the whole thing was nothing. She deserves better.

He stood first and pulled out her chair. She rose, and he slipped an arm around her waist. She kissed him. Utter twat. As they headed to the door, she leaned into him. They embraced on the porch, then left. Turning right, towards the river.

It had started to rain, but they walked slowly. They didn’t look back. Lights from bars and restaurants gradually thinned behind us. Soon there were only whispers and giggles and the drizzle soaking my shoulders.

We reached the old car park beneath the railway bridge. Uneven cobbles hemmed in by old broken iron railings. A private lot, and he shouldn’t be parked here. At the far end, the lights of a gunmetal Volvo V90 flashed as we approached. He opened the passenger door for her.

I called out her name. I had to.

“Jadyn.”

She stopped. He pulled her behind him.

“Leave us alone.”

Us! Fucking cunt. He kept talking. Frightening her. Meaningless words were thrown together. Uninvited. Unhinged. Stalking. She tried to say my name, talk to me. But he spoke over her.

As I approached, he put a hand against my chest and grabbed my left wrist with the other. I pulled free. He punched me on the nose. I couldn’t believe it, but should’ve seen it coming. Hit the cobbles hard. My left cuff was hanging open. One of the lions gone.

“Where is it?”

He stared at me. “What?”

“My fucking cufflink.”

I ran at him. Fast. Hands raised. But he was quicker. Got me on the bloody nose again. Back to the cobbles I fell. Jadyn was in tears. Telling both of us to stop. There was a loose length of railing on the ground next to me. I picked it up and got to my feet. He told me to put it down. Told me not to be stupid.

The first swing hit his shoulder. “That’s enough!” he shouted. The second hit his stupid fucking face. Jadyn screamed as he dropped. I reached out for her.

“It’s alright.”

She recoiled. Looked at me as though we’d never met. She screamed ugly things. Started throwing punches. I wanted her to feel better. Tried to hold her. But she wouldn’t listen to me. She broke free and tried to run. I swung the railing a third time. After that, it was quiet.

I didn’t look at her. Or him. I couldn’t. Light from the Volvo’s passenger door spilled across puddles gathering between the cobbles. Something glinted by the rear tyre.

My cufflink. Lion facing me.

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