Wanting the Man

Whether it was the cold, a bad dream or just a sense of foreboding, Andrea woke up with the half light of dawn. She stretched.

Her body ached, her eyes were glued shut and she needed at least four gallons of water and a toothbrush before she would feel remotely like a human being.

That was some dream she had last night.

She reached out to find her covers and pillow but found nothing but empty air. Her hand dropped to the carpet. Where was she? Why wasn’t she in her bed?

Her chest tightened and her heart stung with a brutal feeling of doom.

No, it wasn’t real. It was a dream, a horrible mean dream, nothing more.

So, she was on the floor, that didn’t mean anything. It was a co-incidence. It could have been that she was just so exhausted she didn’t make it to bed.

She might have tripped over those shopping bags in the doorway and bumped her head. That was possible. That might have been what happened.

What shopping bags in the doorway? She rubbed the sleep out of her swollen eyes and used her fingers to prize them open enough to see details.

Twisting to see the thin cheap plastic bags that were lying on their sides with their contents spilling out, she frowned. Her hands swept down her sides and over her thighs. The fabric was polyester.

She was wearing some sort of polyester smock.

Damn, she dropped her head back to the floor. Then she banged out a repetitive beat with her brow against the not-so-soft carpet.

Damn, the fact she was bashing her head against the floor probably disproved the concussion theory.

No, it was a dream. Even her internal voice lacked conviction. It had to be a dream.

She looked up at the ceiling, the first rays of the day staining it an orangey-red. The skin over her rib cage was stretched so tight that it hurt to breath. What if it wasn’t a dream?

Could she face them again today? Could she go through all that again?

How was she going to face him? She was going to have to see him every day. She couldn’t run and hide from him.

He was now her manager and she would be confronted with her shame every working day while she stayed employed there.

Why couldn’t she just get over this infatuation she had for Mr Joshua Wood. It was clear to everyone that he was tall, toned and terrific.

His deep voice and sparkling blue eyes, that seemed even bluer in contrast to his dark if-it-was-an-inch-longer-it-would-have-curls hair, were well known to all.

His integrity and dedication even had the Board of Directors admiration. Everyone loved Mr Wood. But for her it was different. The way she wanted him was different.

The other girls whispered about letting him ravish them for a night. They wanted him steamy and hot. Their daydreams were all about champagne, satin sheets, bare skin, and lust.

They just wanted the man. She wanted more than that. She saw them curled up together sharing their dreams and hopes. Andrea dreamt of long kisses, picket fences, puppies and two-point-five children.

She wanted all of him not just what was hidden by his tailored trousers. This made the fact that she had acted in such an inappropriate manner all the harder to believe.

Even drunk she doubt that she would disrespect him so thoroughly.

So ingrained was her desire for him that she would have thought that all the alcohol in the world wouldn’t have had her doing that on his desk. And yet, she couldn’t deny that was her.

She threw away everything because of one moment of insanity.

Was she admitting defeat? Sighing loudly, she had to conclude that the evidence was against her. It seemed that yesterday was indeed not a figment of her imagination.

Therefore it stood to reason that she should too admit that Joshua Woods was never going to drop to one knee and announce to his undying love for her.

Life sucked. It was as simple as that. She lay their watching the ceiling fade to white. She shut out everything, all thoughts and all feelings, and just listened to the constant tick of the clock.

The clock! Damn, she had to get off the floor. What time did he say she should be there by? She scrabbled to her feet and headed for the bathroom. That’s right, he started his work day at 7.30am.

Was that even legal? There had to be a law somewhere in the world that prohibited early morning starts. Why did he do that?

She knew that he never left the office before 8pm and often that was to go to some dinner meeting. He really needed to get a life.

She sighed as the pastel painted house reappeared with its bright kitchen curtains and him at the breakfast table with the paper and a coffee. She shook her head trying to dislodge the fantasy.

It was never going to happen, she reminded herself. All she could hope for was that one day he might not loath her.

Out of habit she turned computer on, cereal bowl in one hand, and clicked on her Facebook page.

The screen came to life and she was forced back in her chair almost flooding the keyboard with milk sloshed from her bowl.

Her wall was covered with abuse, her inbox and notifications had red numbers underneath that couldn’t possibly be accurate and, even more disturbing, she had 189,432 friend requests.

She scanned the rude and quite threatening messages in front of her. Someone had doctored the images to include other props and participants.

Another posting had a morbidly obese woman mimicking her actions while covering a similar desk. Then there were the captions.

The pictures were all relisted multiples times with various speech bubbles, block lettering and some even had moving animations.

Direct messages punctuated the space between the replicated images. So many people had been motivated enough to write open letters to her.

She read some hoping to find words of encouragement or sympathy. Yes, there were plenty of offers of spiritual and psychological help, but most weren’t so generous.

Every second or third message contained an offer to help recreate the event. And finally there were the people who just wanted to rant.

Long tirades of hurtful words strung together without any constructive purpose.

Who were these people? They didn’t know her. Why did they feel the need to judge her when they had never met her and didn’t know the circumstances behind the pictures?

Who were they to call her those sorts of names? Their lives weren’t changed or altered by her stupidity so why did they feel the need to have their voices heard? Why were people so cruel?

Didn’t they know how much their words hurt?

She blinked back the tears and dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as her fists tightened. Asking questions that couldn’t be answered wasn’t going to improve the situation.

She stopped scrolling. This was just hateful and malicious and she didn’t need to read any of it.

Deleting the first ten messages was like fighting an inferno with an atomiser. There was only one thing she could really do to combat this abuse.

She took a deep breath and admired the banner she had created on her account, her cute cat profile picture, and the lovingly complied albums of photos. Then she logged off and shut her computer down.

She knew her twitter account would be a similar story. Tonight she would sit down and work out how to deregister and delete her accounts, all her social networking accounts.

Dumping her uneaten breakfast in the sink she looked at the bags at the door. She ignored all her expensive clothing that still lay in a heap on her bedroom floor.

Her wardrobe wasn’t vast but it was carefully chosen. Each piece was perfect for her and made her feel confident and sexy.

She wondered if she would ever wear any of it ever again as she picked out a navy viscose dress that might have been fashionable in the nineties, then again, probably not.

Digging around in the recesses of her cupboards uncovered the one pair of flat shoes she owned, she brushed them off and added them to her outfit.

Perfect, she admired her reflection, she could be mistaken for Aunty Doreen.

She walked out confident that no one would recognise her let alone call her slutty. She kept her head down, her sunglasses pushed high on her nose and her hat wedged tight holding her hair hostage.

It seemed to work.

Not worrying so much about being recognised left her time to think about other things. She was going to have to talk to Mr Wood. She owed him an apology.

Even though she didn’t want to remind him about the event she still needed to express her regret and let him know that she wasn’t normally like that. There was something else she needed to know.

She had to ask. Andrea would have done anything to avoid the humiliation of the question but it had to be done.

She rehearsed in her head as she walked towards the building. She picked the best words, trying to keep it non-confrontational, discreet and tactful.

It wasn’t going to be easy but she thought she had the right phrasing ready when she walked across the empty office space towards his office.

She dropped her things on her desk without looking through the glass that separated their workspaces. The clock showed that it wasn’t yet 8am. She could hear him moving paper on his desk.

She took a deep breath and snuck a look. He was sitting at his desk. His attention alternated between his screen and the neat selection of A4 in front of him. He hadn’t notice her yet.

She let the held breath out and gave herself a final pep talk. Before she could talk herself out of it she walked confidently in through the open door of his office.

“Excuse me Mr Wood,” she meant to sound confident but the voice that came out was anything but.

“Miss O’Neil,” he frowned. “I’ve got a meeting with the Board this afternoon and I have reports to prepare. Can this wait?”

“Um,” she stuttered, “No, I’m sorry, it can’t.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” this wasn’t going like she had planned, “It’s just that it’s the morning and it’s been a full day now and I need to know.”

He closed his eyes and took a breath as his jaw flinched, “Miss O’Neil, can you get to the point?”

Everything she had prepared vanished from her head. She stood there gapping like a goldfish as she searched for any words to make this sound right.

“Miss O’Neil? I don’t have all day.”

“Did we, you know, do it,” she blurted. “It’s just, if we did I’m not on anything and I really can’t afford to get pregnant at the moment and I don’t know if it’s too late but I should go to the doctor if something happened.”

“You are seriously asking me that?” his eyebrows arched high.

“I just thought,” she stopped aware his hands were now balled into fists on the desktop, “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have to.”

“I know what you are trying to do and it won’t work,” his jaw strained as his whole body seemed to blow out emphasising his wide chest, “That man was not me. I thought I made that very clear yesterday. I will not have you or anyone else insinuating I had any part in that charade.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she shook her head surprised by his anger.

He laughed a cold short snort. “Then I suggest you ask your accomplice that question.”

“My accomplice?”

“Yes, the man you conspired with to destroy me and everything I’ve worked for,” his cold voice cut through her. Then he dragged his fierce glare from her and, with what seemed like conscious effort, turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, “If that’s all Miss O’Neil.”

She stood in the threshold of office blinking and fidgeting. This wasn’t going like she planned.

All her muscles were quivering and seemed disconnected from her brain that was screaming at them to get the hell out of that room. She couldn’t move.

“You can,” he looked up at her and sucked in a deep breath instead of finishing what he was going to say. Then closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He shook his head with slow deliberate movement as he muttered to himself.

Then he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a small rectangle of crisp while cardboard and held it out in her direction.

“Take this. Your male ‘friend’ is obviously a coward who has little regard for you, given he stayed in the shadows while encouraging you to take centre stage.

“It would be best to assume, if things progressed after the taping ended, that he would not have been considerate enough to think to use protection nor honourable should you conceive.”

Humiliation washed over her but her hand still reached for the card he was offering.

“Tom’s a good doctor. I’ll ring him and let him know you are coming,” he hesitated and grimaced, “But Miss O’Neil, just because I am suggesting a doctor does not imply anything. I will not be dragged further into this situation than I am. If you mention my name or speak of this to anyone I will have to consider my legal position. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t,” she squeaked as she backed out of the office.

“I’ll need the turnover projections done this afternoon, so go now and I’ll make sure that Dr Layton will see you,” his eyebrows bunched and he added, “And Miss O’Neil, what are you wearing?”

Andrea paused at the door and looked down at the fabric swimming around her, “A dress, it’s a dress.”

His eyebrows shot up and he almost smiled, “I see.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can and I’ll get the reports to you before I leave tonight. Thank you,” she was edging out the door as she winced looking down at the business card, “for this and... and everything.” She turned away before she could see or hear his reply, grabbed her bag and ran for the elevators.

Just when she thought that she couldn’t be any more humiliated, her system for measuring these things is blown out of the water. Andrea sat in the back of the taxi and tried very hard not to think.

The reality of the situation was crashing down on her. She had honest thought that the shame of the world judging her for what she did was mortifying enough. But now, well, that was barely one facet.

Mr Wood seemed to think she fabricated the event on purpose to discredit him.

The man who she performed to, who was hidden but who she and the rest of the world thought was Mr Wood, could have been anyone, anyone indeed. She had no idea who this man was.

It was more than probable that he took advantage of her in her drunk and aroused state. If he did and if she was pregnant then she would have no clue as to the identity of the father.

If it wasn’t Mr Wood, it could be any guy.

She looked at the taxi driver. He had acne-scarred skin, greasy hair and smelt like four week old garbage. No, not him, then again maybe not any guy.

She asked at the hospital reception for Dr Layton and was shown straight to a private room. It didn’t take long before a blonde guy in a doctor’s coat let himself into the small white room.

“So Miss O’Neil, Miss Andrea O’Neil, Woodie called in a serious favour for this so, I’m curiously, are you his cure? Has he finally found the one woman who’s going to save him?”

“Save him? Save him from what?”

He stopped and took a step away from her, “You don’t know? Oh hell, you don’t know.” Then he swore and looked away, “Look Miss O’Neil, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. I was mistaken. It’s nothing more than a running joke between me and Josh. Now, what can I do for you?”

She looked at the doctor. Dr Layton could have step straight off a hospital drama, McSteamy grafted onto McDreamy.

If this guy was real he’d be a kind-hearted vampire or some multi-millionaire trying to make a difference to the world.

“There was a party,” she couldn’t believe what her mouth was saying, “I don’t remember what happened but... I don’t know! What if? What if something bad happened? I don’t remember anything.” The tears flowed from her eyes as she reached for a tissue and blew her nose with a loud wet noise.

Dr Layton took a deep breath, attached a sympathetic smile to his face and switched back to being the professional he was trained to be.

His gentle manner and careful attention reassured Andrea and she relaxed into his skilled hands.

He explained that he needed to examine her and told her of the necessary tests and, with his honest disposition she did something she swore she would never do again, she trusted him.

She did everything he asked of her and opened up completely to him. All the things that had weight heavily on her she share with him.

And as she walked out of the hospital, although the results weren’t back yet, she felt better.

She was almost feeling herself by the time she got back to the office. But that didn’t last. The hiss of harsh whispered conversations followed her to her desk.

She tried not to listen but the words cut their way into her consciousness.

“The nerve of her...”

“I can’t believe they didn’t fire the bitch...”

“Maybe he likes them cheap...”

“Please, there is cheap and then there is desperate...”

“Has she no self-respect ...”

“Look what she’s wearing...”

“She’s selling something in that dress...”

“Can’t she just quit already...”

She walked fast so only snippets reached her but that was enough. She collapsed into her chair and tried to stare at the computer screen while she concentrated on not crying.

“Well, lovely lady, how goes your day?” charcoal set of trousers sat causally on the corner of her desk, “Missing me yet?”

“Yes, hardly a minute of the day goes by without me wondering what you’re doing,” she shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“I know! I seriously don’t know how you girls get anything done around here. I’m so distracting.”

“You’re starting to sound Gay Henry.”

“Gay? Please, I’m so far from Gay that you’d need interstellar travel to get us together for coffee. Talking about coffee,” he dropped a mug on her desk, “It looks like you need one.”

“Thanks,” her shoulders relaxed as she breathed in the heavenly aroma.

“You know that they are all jealous,” He nodded towards the floor.

“Jealous?” she turned to him with her face screwed into a you-are-kidding-me expression.

“You took a risk and it paid off. You are one step closer to Mr Unattainable. You know that they are all kicking themselves that they didn’t think of doing it first.”

“That’s ridiculous. He hates me Henry.”

“Yes, but he talks to you. You have his attention. Did he even notice you prior to your little desktop dance? ”

She opened her mouth but closed it with a snap when she realised he was right. Mr Wood had never said more than a flippant ‘Good Morning’ in her general direction prior to yesterday.

“No,” she shook her head at his smug smile, “No one would wish for this.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Henry laughed.

“Henry,” the abrupt sneer of his name had them both turn to find Mr Wood at his door glaring at them, “When you are quite finished flirting with my staff, I’m waiting for you.”

“Keep your pants on,” Henry laughed as he tossed Andrea a cheeking grin, “There’s no need to show us your assets again Josh.”

“In my office, now,” Mr Wood’s voice shook with rage and he slammed the door and drew the curtains tightly once Henry was inside.

Andrea opened the spreadsheets she needed and started to work. He might think her morals loose and her personality flawed but she was going to give him no cause to question her work ethic.

She disappeared into the world of numbers and calculations.