Desk Jockey Jam (9 page)

“And what would that be?” 
She waved a waiter over and they ordered while the argument hung around on the
sidelines waiting for the all clear whistle.  If it wasn’t for Toni, he’d have
said more butch, but there was nothing un-girly about Toni, so that wasn’t it.

“The aggressive type.” 
She was so tiny, but she’d gone for him across the table yesterday like she
didn’t know he was the tree and she was the twig. 

“There are different types
of aggression.”

“Sure.” 

He barely got the word out
and she was all over him.  “But you don’t think I’ve got it in me to be
aggressive on the sports field?”

All that bewildered
quality about her was rubbing off; the serrated edge was back in her voice. 
Yeah, there were different types of aggression; hers was the type to cut a guy
in half for being honest finally.  “Chicks who play a contact sport don’t have
to run around in the shower to get wet.”

“God, you’re so superior.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter
what I think.”

“You’re right.”

“I just needed to understand
you’re bruised because you, well you’re okay about being bruised.  I don’t need
to know the details.”

“You’re on a roll now.”

“So, look me in the eye,
Bree.  Tell me you’re not being hurt by anyone, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And she did.  She jerked
her chin up, fixed her honey brown eyes on him and they didn’t waver, not for
second.  It was so belligerent in its way, the waiter hesitated to approach. 
She said, “Thanks,” addressing the guy, without breaking eye contact with Ant and
the waiter put their cups down and scarpered.

When she spoke her voice
was formal, cool.  “Thank you for your concern, Ant.  I appreciate it.  I do. 
It probably took a lot for you to do this.  But there’s been a
misunderstanding.  I’m bruised because I play sport and sometimes I get hurt. 
Not often, and not badly.  I’m good at what I do.  You don’t need to worry.”

He took a sip.  He didn’t
believe her.  She was the girl most unlikely to play a sport where you’d get
knocked around and injured, it wasn’t just her lack of bulk, it was her
pedigree.  A woman like Bree went to plays and gallery openings.  She’d play
tennis or golf, maybe ran.  He figured a boxing class at the gym was the
closest she’d get to a contact sport.  Yet that’s not what she was telling
him.  And she’d done what he asked so he had nowhere to go with this.  “If
something changes and...”

“It won’t.  I’m not in any
trouble.”

He shook his head.  “I
want to believe you, but...”

“Ant.  You’ve done your
bit, but we’re good to go back to ignoring each other.”

“We are.”  The problem was
he didn’t want to be back there.  Not only because he didn’t trust her story,
but because the more he saw of her the more interesting she was.

She left him in the cafe
and for the rest of the fortnight they ignored each other, but it was ignorance
with a difference.  Now instead of sliding eye contact, there were nods of
acknowledgement and the occasional smile.  There was even an accidental
conversation or two, once about how slow the lift was, and once about traffic. 
Unremarkable, except pretty much all of their previous accidental conversations
featured the study of each other’s footwear.  So this was progress.  Though it
felt more like treading water.  And if Bree sported any new bruises she kept
them well hidden.

And every day they shared
a “Gosh, it’s hot outside,” or a “Have a good evening,” they were one day
closer to the announcement of the winner of the fake share portfolio
competition.  Ant might have graduated from looking at her stilettos to her
eyes but he wasn’t rolling over to let her pat his tummy.  The competition was
his.

Doug decided a team dinner
was in order to celebrate, so Friday night they converged on Pinetti at the
ultra trendy Vine.  The place was packed with the cities best and brightest, the
rooftop pool sparkled, the drinks flowed, and the mating game was in full force
by the time Ant arrived.  He hated this place.  It was all about the gloss and
glamour.  It shit all over Son of a Beach Bar in terms of facilities, hell,
even in terms of basic cleanliness, but it was so deeply superficial it made
his head spin.  And this from a guy who specifically cultivated superficial in
his love life.  Maybe he was getting old. 

The rest of the team,
except Doug who was somewhere behind him in the crowd, were seated when he
dragged his arse in.  If it weren’t for the meal being on Doug and the
announcement of the winner, he’d have made an excuse and gone for a surf.  Better
to battle grommets than the in-crowd.

Instead he surfed a crowd
of big-noters and Friday night heroes, wingmen and Barbie dolls to reach their
table.  Before he even got there he faced a choice.  Two empty seats: one on
the left of Bree, one at the other end of the table.  She made the decision for
him by looking up and smiling.  Had she been drinking?  Because that smile was
different.  It had teeth and cheekbone; it had bright eyes and a magnetic
quality.  There was nowhere else to sit except beside her.  He skirted the
table, put his hands on the back of the chair to her left and a sudden wave of
insecurity hit him with such force he almost swam against the tidal pull around
to the other available seat.  She can’t have been smiling at him like that.

She looked up and did it
again.  “I won’t bite.”

He sat down with all the
grace of a bloke whose knees were ruined by years of jogging on cement.  “Don’t
hold back on my account.”

“Holding back isn’t my
thing.”

He grunted.  “I’ve
noticed.”

“You were going to sit
over there,” she gestured to the seat, Doug was folding into.

“Thought about it.”

She laughed, lifted her
glass, not a wine glass, not a cocktail or a spirit.  He saw the bubbles of
mineral water.  “What stopped you?”

He should’ve said a smile,
something surprisingly real in the seaweed of fake, but he was still processing
the laugh.  She’d laughed at him, not with bitterness, but the way you did when
something amused you.  “Thought it’d annoy you more if I sat here.”

“You must think my
tolerance is pretty damn low?”

“My power to annoy is shit
hot.”

She laughed and there it
was again, a tear in the fabric of his known universe.  “I can see that,” she
said.

“This is our longest
conversation about,” he hesitated remembering the conversation in the cafe,
“sport, mechanical failures or the state of the sun.  Why are you humouring me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He considered her.  He’d
never been quite so close to her before.  With the slightest movement of his
knee or elbow he’d be touching her.  He gestured to the bottle of Evian on the
table.  “You’re not drunk.  You’re probably not high,” he looked over his
shoulder.  “Am I wearing a sign on my back that says ‘kick me’ and you’re being
perverse?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

She shrugged.  “Do I need
a reason to be civil to you?”

“Hell yeah!”

She reached for the Evian
bottle and poured it into the glass in front of his place setting.  “I guess I
like it better when we’re not at war.  It’s less exhausting.”

He considered that.  He
considered her.  Her suit today was a fitted dress and a lightweight jacket. 
Her caramel coloured hair was in a swirl at the back of her head, but the heat
had made soft curls of the short pieces that framed her face and neck.  She had
freckles.  He wasn’t blind especially where it came to a good looking woman,
but he’d never noticed how big her eyes were, how plump her lips.  She only wore
the faintest trace of makeup and it was either Bree, or the wine being poured,
that smelled crisp like his shirts did fresh from the dry-cleaner.

“Do I have lipstick on my
teeth?”

Caught out staring.  “Ah,
no.”

“So what are you looking
at me like that for?”

“Like what?”  Like he was
appreciating modern art, but was surprised that he liked it.

“Like I have two heads.”

He was keen for a beer.  He
should’ve ditched this and gone for a surf.  Bree was having a go at him, but
he’d lost the thread, didn’t get the joke.  He was desperate for this
conversation take a new tack.  He used an old faithful Neanderthal fallback,
“Huh?” while signalling their waiter to suggest he’d lost interest in anything
but liquid sustenance. 

Her laugh was a soft huff,
but she took the hint, turning to Rowan on her right and joining in a
conversation about the exorbitant cost of parking in the city.  He studied the
menu and tried not to get caught out watching her in his peripheral vision. 
How the fuck had she managed to tongue-tie him with nothing more than a couple
of friendly smiles and a laugh that made him think of bellbirds calling?

As the dinner progressed
and the alcohol flowed, he noticed she’d drunk nothing but the mineral water. 

“Not drinking, Bree?”

“Huh?” 

She bloody well mimicked
him.  Ant looked at the remains of his chargrilled lamb chops and shook his
head.  “Yeah, okay.  I deserved that.  Can we start again?”

“Where do you want to
start?”

He looked up and met her
eyes, full of mischief.  If he said the beginning, he’d only cop some other
sarcasm from her.  “Where would you like to start?”  This was ridiculous; his
wit had totally deserted him, because a woman he’d once detested was teasing
him.

She took a last bite of
her fish.  He followed the movement of her fork to her mouth, of her lips to
the metal, of her jaw and slender throat as she chewed and swallowed.  There
was a kind of tension in waiting for her to respond that warmed a spot in his
chest.  She put her cutlery down, properly, the knife and folk aligned to show
she’d finished eating.

“You surf?”

“Ah, yeah.”  Everyone on
the team knew that about him.  “Have done since I was a kid.”

“You said you might have
to give up your morning surf.  Have you?”

He didn’t remember telling
her that.  Shit, what else had he told her and paid no attention to.  “I’ve cut
back.  But with all the sitting behind a desk crap I get stir crazy if I don’t
get out there.”  He leaned a little her way, “I’d have skipped tonight to hit
the water, but I didn’t think that would go down too well.”

“I had to skip training
tonight.  I know what you mean.”

“What...?”

Doug tapping a knife
against his wine glass stopped his question, blocked his easy way to find out
what sport she played.  He’d speculated endlessly at night, watching the
ceiling fan above his bed.  It wasn’t the usual suspects:  netball or cricket. 
It wasn’t the right season for touch footy or soccer.  He’d figured it was
hockey.  Arabella had done a term of indoor hockey at school and hated it
because it was fast and rough.

Doug was going on about
the competition.  How it was an annual tradition in the firm, how it was
designed to be both fun and a test of skills.  Doug was boring the stuffing out
of him.  Ant wanted him to spit it out so he could get back to talking with
Bree.

“This year it was very
close.  But two of you were neck and neck until six weeks ago,” said Doug.

“Out with it.  You’re
costing us money parking,” said Rowan and the group laughed, because a few
drinks shouted by someone else could make anything more amusing. 

Ant sat up a little taller
and paid attention.  He’d only had the one beer.  That was his rule.  Drinking
and work were sworn enemies.  Drinking and the weekend—mad passionate affair.  This
was the real reason he’d dumped on a surf and braved the Friday night frenzy.  He
had no intention of missing this.  He’d been refining his investment strategy,
had made big money on a few risky moves, gambling on a take-over announcement
that had gone from market rumour to fact only two days ago.  He had to have
this in the bag.  He could almost taste the victory, like more beer, and the
relief, like a free meal, at having proven he belonged here once again. 

Doug said, “And the winner
is...”

Ant got ready to be loud
about it.  Some chest beating was in order.

“It’s Bree.  She nailed
it.”

Fuck
ing
hell
!  He looked at Bree, laughing as Rowan backslapped her.  Doug was
going on about how comprehensively she’d womped them all.  Ant came second to
her, but second wasn’t winning.  He curled his hands around the bottom of his
chair.  He needed to do something to stop from stomping off in a fit of
temper.  She’d beaten him again.

“Ripped off, Ant,” said
Mal, sitting on his other side.

He turned to him.  “What
do you mean?”

Mal laughed.  “Oh come on,
Mr Play to Win, gotta sting losing to a chick.”

The silence that hit the
table was awkward, but not as awkward as Ant was about to make it.  He’d heard
the subtle put down in Mal’s comment and it gave his anger direction.  “You
know what, Mal.  That’s fucking offensive.”