My Sort-of, Kind-of Hero (20 page)

“You’re very mysterious.” I frown and study his face for signs of what sort of game he might be playing by not telling me anything. “You’re really not going to tell me what you’re doing at Makka?”

He leans in and puts his lips by my ear. I can’t help but take a deep breath of his cologne, and it takes all my will power not to close my eyes. “The less I tell, the more you’ll wonder.”

He puts slight pressure on my arm before he walks down the south corridor towards the executives’ offices. Feeling surreal to the point of laughter, I look around the modern reception area to see if anyone else saw what just happened or if I somehow imagined it. Claire, our nasty receptionist, hasn’t even looked up from filing her nails. Typical, no one ever sees my best moments.

Still frowning, I walk down the hall into my department and curse when I stub my toe on Rachel’s desk, receiving a curious glance from Hank.

I quickly throw out “Hellos” as I sit down in my chair. When I put my bag on my desk I see my copy of Lasso poking out of the top, and with renewed determination I’m fully engrossed in the task of flipping through the magazine.

The index says wanted columns are on page thirty-four, and as I flip through I feel a surge of excitement.  I mean, some man at this exact moment could be searching this magazine, read my ad, and contact me.  I look at my phone and hold my breath for a few seconds, but it doesn’t ring. 

Okay, so the readership of Lasso is ninety-five percent females, and I’m sure the men that read it are probably gay, but still, you never know.  As I scan the page I find my ad on the bottom in the left hand corner:

WANTED:

Looking for the man of my dreams, but no pressure. Seeking hard working, laid-back male.  He must be an outgoing person who loves adventure, but prefers staying home at night.  Tall, dark and handsome, or at least has fair features and medium height.  A family man, but no children of his own.  Looking for a casual relationship leading to marriage.  If you are this man please write to Natalie at [email protected].

Oh my God, there it is.  And now that I read it, it feels so surreal.  Is that me?  Is that my email address for anyone to write to?  Suddenly, a crazy thought pops into my head– what if I get a lunatic who calls me once, likes the sound of my voice, and then won’t leave me alone?  What if he finds out where I live and begins to stalk me?  Actually, I’ve always secretly wanted my own stalker.

As I close my magazine and slump in my chair, my mind is half on my ad and half on my sexy stranger. I haven’t heard of any new openings at Makka, but something’s going on. I see Hank and Rachel exchanging glances with each other and then back at me.

“We thought this was going to upset you,” Rachel says, “but I didn’t think you would get this upset so early.”

“What?”

“I mean, don’t feel like this is all on your shoulders,” Hank continues as he puts his hand on my arm. “We’ll be here to support you every step of the way.”

Oh God, how did they find out?

It's embarrassing enough to have to put your bloody love life in the want ads– but to have your coworkers know, and worse,
talk
about it with you.

I should have known Hank would read Lasso.

I’ll have to move away, far away. It’s the only sensible solution.

Rachel sits up straight in her chair and looks at me. “They say they are bringing in outside people to see what the problem is.” I can see the hope shining in Rachel's eyes. “Do you think they might need people to come in on the weekends?”

Wait a minute, they’re bringing in outside help– like a love doctor?

Oh God. That’s it! That’s what the elevator man is here for. He’s my love doctor.

I’ve never had a love doctor before, but I assume he makes love to me until I fall desperately in love with him and then I’ll be cured. At least I hope that’s the way it works.

Hank sighs as he rearranges his vase of irises. “Frances and Michelle have already been sacked. Poor Frances was bawling his bloody eyes out when they escorted him out.”

This doesn't sound right, I must have missed something. No one would get sacked because I don’t have a boyfriend... right?

“What exactly did they say?” I hedge. “You know, to Frances, when they fired him.”

“Oh, just you know, marketing is crap. They want a new vision, and they get the same boring ideas over and over again,” Rachel shrugs as she switches on her computer and picks up the statistic reports from last month.

So, it has nothing to do with me– it's just some stupid marketing thing.

I should be relieved, but a love doctor would have been spectacular.

“Oh, and Natalie,” Hank whispers while looking around to see if anyone is listening, “they mentioned your name.”

“What?” My head shoots up. “What for?”

“I couldn’t really understand,” Hank replies, “they said something about ‘pastels’ and ‘even the accountant noticed’.”

Oh God, I thought she had forgot.

About two months ago, Nina from fabrics and I were in the loo when I heard two marketing associates chatting in the stalls– very tacky bathroom etiquette. One was telling the other that their team had a new visionary plan for Makka: pastels. Their slogan was dreadful: “You haven’t been to a party until you’ve been to a Pastel Party.”

After they’d left, Nina and I were still touching up our makeup when I snorted, “Yeah, they're so bloody visionary. Wasn’t their campaign for the satin line, ‘You haven’t been to a party until you’ve worn satin on your feet’? I mean, how many parties do they go to? Besides, I wouldn’t wear two hundred quid shoes to a party. Knowing my luck, someone would spill something on them.”

Just as Nina broke into laughter, our senior vice president, Amelica Felix, came out of the stall and looked at me. She didn’t say anything and neither did I– I was too petrified. I just picked up my bag and scrambled back to my desk as quickly as my twenty quid Primark shoes would carry me.

And Amelica remembered. I had hoped,
prayed,
she would forget, but she hadn’t. Out of all the things she could have overheard, she had to hear me slagging off their ideas– their
designs
. Why couldn’t she have overheard me all the times I complimented the styles? Or all the times I complained about not having a decent boyfriend?

I turn away from Rachel and Hank as they study the surrounding offices and whisper about who may get fired next.

~

I jump at any loud noises for the rest of the day. My nerves are on high alert, and I’m really not sure how much more of this I can take. Rachel and I are convinced the sexy guy from the elevator was brought in to fire people because as Rachel puts it: “The spineless gits who own the place would actually have to
do
something, which we all know is unheard of.”

To pass the time I describe to Rachel, word for word, exactly what happened in the elevator. I mean, for the sake of our colleagues, and our sanity, we all need to know what is going on. Though, I might have slightly embellished mystery man and my little escapade to the point where I was pinned against the wall as he gently trailed kisses along my neck.

Afterwards Rachel and I needed to take a break to calm down, even Hank seemed a little flushed.

Carl came by our office at lunch to ask me for my signature on a material purchase, and I practically assaulted him for any information he had.

“Crickey Natalie, I’m not really sure what the plan is.” Carl peels my hands from the front of his shirt. “I do know that they are thinking about bringing in a marketing team from the outside, but besides that...” Now he is giving me a really bizarre look while glancing between my nervous twitches and the empty coffee cup on my desk.

Honestly, I haven’t had that many cups. Four at the most... maybe five... and three espressos. But I have to be on high alert- none of us know who may be going next!

I convince Hank to scour the Design Department all day, trying to get any news. He actually willingly went, which I thought was very charitable of him, until I found out he was trying to get involved in the design process for the new oriental line. He came back with a sunken face when Anthony kicked him out of the department for trying on the shoes.

I also have Rachel go to the loo every half hour to see if she can score any new gossip.

I’m bloody stressed! Every five minutes someone is being escorted out in tears. The executives are meeting with everyone over the next three days to tell them how they fit into the company’s “new vision”.

I tell Hank and Rachel about the Amelica washroom incident, and they spend the better part of the morning reassuring me it probably means nothing that my name was mentioned. But, I can’t completely rely on their opinions because I may have told them a slightly diluted version of what happened.

Actually, I told them it was Nina that made the damning comment while I simply nodded in agreement.

Luckily, the day is nearly over. I saw the executives leave about an hour ago as I hid under my desk. I didn’t want them to pop their heads into our office on their way out the building to tell me I’m fired.

After the day I’ve had I can’t wait to get back to the house and have a nice glass of sherry, but just as I grab my coat to leave the office I hear a little ping come from the computer. I quickly look around to see if anyone is near me, but the office is deserted. I look at my computer as though it is the plague and slowly inch away. Rationally, I know the executives wouldn’t fire me over the internet, they would definitely tell me to my face, but I still can’t stop myself from shaking. The ping rings around the office again, and I jump at the sharp noise. With another quick glance around, I press my email browser and a message pops up onto my screen.

To Natalie,

My name is Tracey Klien, from Lasso’s Love Connection. There seems to be a problem with your email, we've had a response to your ad but it keeps coming back to us.

I have a response! Sodding technology, I always knew it would ruin my life.

A
man named Alan Andrews is interested in meeting you.

I got one.