There was a stranger sitting at my desk this morning. Her coat hanging from my chair, her half-drunk coffee beside my keyboard. She’d pushed my monitor back, too. Opened my bottom drawer and moved the cactus towards the edge to make room for her laptop.
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.
Always impressed with how well done these are.