The Art of Upgrading a Book Boyfriend (The Uni Files)

The Art of
Upgrading a Book Boyfriend

A
Uni
File Short

by

Anna Bloom

For my Welsh
friend

Tristan the Arse

"Come on,
Zo
."

The whining would be slightly annoying,
if I didn’t have a very clear visual image of what he looked like on the other
end of the phone: like a golden god that really you shouldn't say no to.

Sadly I am going to have to. I can’t be
late for publication. Again.

"Tristan, sorry, I can't do
that."

"
Zoooeeey
,"
he whines some more, snickering a little. He knows he is laying it on thick.
"Come on, it's been ages since I asked you for a favour."

"Mm, ages," I reply with a
zing of tartness in my tone. "It's been absolutely ages since last week,
when I had to explain that your favourite Grandmother had died for the fourth
time, and that you were going to be late for another deadline."

I blow out a little gust of air as I
twirl the cord of my phone around my finger.

Tristan McCannon is the most outrageous
ladies
man you ever could meet.
Ladies
man does not even cover it; he is walking talking testosterone.

Well at least he was, until last year,
when he met some girl at his sisters University and became a transformed man.

Transformed, but still unable to get his
assignments in on time. In fact they are even later now, and sometimes, well
sometimes, they don't turn up at all. I've been told that he’s on his last
warning. Actually, I think his last warning may have been months ago, but for
some reason best known to myself, I always end up covering for his sorry arse.
It's a professional misdemeanour, but I do it all the same.

I haven’t met
her
; the one that
stole his heart and challenged his already slack time keeping, but I have heard
that she looks like a super model.

It kind of figures. Blue eyed, blonde
haired, sexy, ladies-man catches a supermodel of his own. While little old me
is nowhere near bagging a male supermodel for keeps, and instead spends my time
covering up for the only one that I know.

"Tristan, you really are a complete
arse."

He chuckles a little. "I know, but
listen this will be worth waiting for, and you never know, you may get
something out of it in the long run. And I don't mean a case of wine."

It's my turn to chuckle. Tristan may be
an arse, but he always makes sure to send me a case of wine after every one of
his deadline failures. This has been an on-going arrangement since we went out
for a corporate do one night and he found out I had a penchant for rosé.

The only reason he found out was because
I threw up all over his shiny designer shoes. He had to try and get me home in
a black cab, whilst I decided to perform a solo rendition of a college reunion
playlist.

Sighing dramatically I say, "Okay.
I can hold off until nine Monday morning, but if I get the sack, you are
completely accountable for my rent and phone bills until I find new
employment."

"Yes!" He gives a little whoop
which I am not expecting at all.

Usually he is as cool as a cucumber, so
that little "Yes," speaks volumes.

"What's going on, Tristan?"

"Nothing, what makes you say
that?"

Then it twigs, call it intuition, call
it anything you like. "Oh my god, you’re not writing this are you?"

"Not exactly, now, Zoe, don't freak
out. It’s going to be great, and I know she can do it."

Oh fuck
.
He is going to get his
supermodel strumpet to write something.

"Who is writing, Tristan?"

"My Sis," he blurts out before
hanging up the phone before I can say anything back.

Oh dear.

I don't know much about Delilah
McCannon, apart from what my best friend Annabelle has told me. Delilah, or
Lilah as she likes to be called, used to work at an investment bank in Canary
Wharf, until she went down in urban legend by walking out the door for a
cigarette break, and never went back.

My friend, Annabelle, worked with her
for a short time. Actually I think Annabelle got her job eventually, well
technically, she got more than her job. She also managed to snatch her ex
fiancé after Lilah dumped him for some singer guy.

It was all a bit messy at the time, and
the facts are lost under wads of rumour and hear-say.

The question is: how on earth am I going
to stall the publication of this month until Monday?

I am going to get the sack this time for
sure.

It had better be worth it.

The Job

I don't really know how I ended up
sitting at this desk. But, I have a very sneaky feeling I must have been a
rather naughty person in a previous life.

I moved to the big smoke wanting to make
a career for myself. I wanted to work with books. Anything to do with books. I
love them, I breathe them, and well, I live my life to them. Not that I tell
many people this fact.

Now I am in my mid-twenties, and it is
an area of major concern to my extensive family of aunts and cousins that I
don't have a boyfriend. I would never admit to anyone that I don't have time
for a real life boyfriend because I have far too many book boyfriends on the
go. Who would want a real one anyway? All of my book boyfriends are shit hot
with abs to die for, and even the bad boys come right in the end.

Nope, I have no desire for a real
boyfriend at all, it’s all far too messy and complicated for me.

Sadly, my dream of working with books
has taken slightly longer to achieve than I initially thought. Oh yes I work
for a publishing house, quite a good one actually. Unfortunately, they publish
dead boring magazines.

The target readership falls into two categories:
fat bald men with too much money to invest. Or, fat housewives with too much
money to spend.

The only good bit about my job is that I
get paid at the end of the month.

That’s about it.

Depressing.

It would be better if in the last five
years I had climbed the corporate ladder a little, but all I have managed is
one rung from receptionist to the Editor's Assistant's assistant.

Sorry. Editor in Chiefs, Assistant's,
assistant.

This doesn’t sound too bad, but last
night the Editor in Chief and her Assistant were at a film premiere. There is a
picture of them standing next to Brad Shit on the company web page. While they
were out schmoozing the A-List, I was at the office doing all their work.

So yeah, it is not that great either.

Theresa, is the mega bitch otherwise
known as the Editor in Chief, and Fiona is her Assistant.

Theresa is a heartless cow, who spends
her time trying to find as many faults as possible in every person that she
meets. She is such a dominating bitch. I’ve come to the conclusion that she is
over-compensating for being a sub in the bedroom, to her bald fat husband. And
yes I may have read far too many "Romance" novels to come to that
conclusion. It’s a visual image I try to keep at bay.

Fiona lives her life with the sole
purpose to be a bitch to me, and to flirt with as many famous people as she
can. Thankfully she is on holiday for a few days. I’m hazy on the details. All
I know is Theresa Mega Bitch came storming out of her office on Monday, and
announced that Fiona was on emergency leave. The office rumour mill is grinding
out a story that supposedly she and her football playing boyfriend are having
issues, and that she needs to 'have time to re-prioritise her life
commitments,' or some complete shit like that.

More like, he realised she is a complete
celebrity
Ho
-Bag, and has dumped her ass.

Good.

Not that I am bitter or anything.

I may be having some time off myself
soon, if Tristan lets me down, and I don't get the digital edition out on time.
Everything is digital these days. What I want to know is what happened to the
good old days of paper, ink and the smell of musty books with covers created to
be remembered.

If I worked next door, at the 'real'
publishers who print actual books, I reckon I could convince them to go old
school and give the people what they want. Pulped trees. Okay maybe people no
longer
know what they want but I am sure I could convince
them with the right book. I just need to find it.

Lunch

Thank goodness for that. It’s lunch time
and I can stop staring at my computer and sharpening pencils.

I’ve had two clear objectives for this
morning:

·
 
Find
an alternative
article for when Tristan lets me down.

·
 
Work
out a way to
break the server so I can’t be blamed for not going to press on time.

I have failed at both of these. It is an
enormous shit.

I reckon I will pop out for a quick bite
to eat and a blast of rejuvenating London fresh air, and then I will come up
with two suitable fixes by the end of the day.

It’s Friday for goodness sake. I don't
want to be worrying about this all weekend. I have far more exciting things to
do. Last night I started the most amazing book, about a cowboy who has tattoos
all over his body. Each tattoo tells the story of how he ended up in this one
girl’s bed; the girl.

I need to find out what happened for him
to get there. It's driving me mad not knowing.

Outside it is blustery and cold, and my
walk to clear the old grey matter quickly loses its appeal. As does the healthy
salad I was planning for lunch. I’ve been fighting a battle with the zip on my
skirt all morning and it had inspired me to have a lovely garden salad for
lunch. The wind has put me in a mood for something far stodgier and preferably
involving pepperoni. There is an amazing Deli just down the side of Fleet Street,
it’s always packed, but I reckon I have timed it right and should be hit the
half twelve lull, spot on.

I do. It’s perfect.

The place is full of steam and delicious
scents which makes me sure I definitely don’t want a salad. Sod the skirt zip.

Excellent.

Now what to have?

Then I see it. The chicken escallop.
Oooh
now that would be nice on white with some crispy
bacon.

"Hey, I'll have the escallop please
with bacon on white," I say at the exact same time as the person next to
me.

There is only one escallop left. This
could get nasty.

I turn to appraise the would-be chicken
thief.

Appraise is the right word. I look up
until my neck is at an uncomfortable angle and find a pair of dark eyes
evaluating me with steely chicken thieving determination. The eyes, which are
on the edge of black, are surrounded by lush dark lashes and positioned above a
straight nose and a wide mouth on the upturn of a smile. A lazy smile, which
teases at the corner of his lips.

"I think I said it first,"
says
Mr.
Brown Eyes.

"Uh, no I distinctly think I said
it first," I respond.

I turn expectantly to Andre, the owner
of the deli, behind the counter. I come here nearly every lunch, this should
swing the decision in my favour. Andre is well aware that this is my favourite
sandwich because I actually cried once when they had run out – what can I say?
I suffer from bad PMT.

Andre looks between us and I shift my
body so I can view my chicken adversary a little better without obviously
staring.

He is tall, although I have already
ascertained this with my crook neck. He is also trim and athletic with a
skinny-fit pink shirt tucked into charcoal trousers.

Pink on a man can go one of two ways.

Either you are gay and showing it. Or,
and I like this option far more. You are so outrageously comfortable in your
potent sexuality, you wear pink as a statement of your virility, and basically
advertise to all and sundry that you have a very large knob.

I'm going to go large knob. This guy
does not look gay in the slightest.

"You work on the third floor don't
you?" he asks taking my attention off the chicken as he reaches out to
shake my hand.