This is a Love Story Read Free Page B

drunk, but I wasn’t, you know. I’m sure it was my shoes . . .’ she trails off with an element of shame to her voice.
    I switch on my computer and it whirrs into life like an aircraft. I’m sure they aren’t supposed to sound like that.
    ‘Oh God, did you hurt yourself?’ I reply with little interest. The story isn’t as exciting as I first thought it might be and I’ve got so much to do today.
    ‘Not really. The heel snapped off one of my shoes, though, which made walking home a bit difficult,’ she adds, twiddling a long, luscious curl with her index finger and glancing over at our office goldfish, Dill, who is looking with longing through the glass at the outside world.
    Rhoda, our advertising features writer, bought Dill six months ago and treats him like a child. There are toys. Yes, actual toys for fish, floating around in the tank. She buys them at the weekend and brings them in on a Monday. I’m surprised she hasn’t put up an alphabet wall-chart yet.
    I smile widely and look at Lydia. I continue the small talk to stay polite but I am struggling not to laugh at the mental image of her tumbling from the dizzy precipice that is high fashion.
    ‘So what was the damage?’ I ask, feigning interest but distracted by the tremendous workload that lies ahead.
    ‘Well, they were Kurt Geiger, love. So, like, £120,’ she replies with a giant sigh.
    I feel her pain.
    Caffeine. I need caffeine. I rise slowly and head towards the drinks machine; a small queue has formed and within it the usual inane chatter has commenced. One thread goes along the lines of how we’re due a really hot summer this year as the last three have been terrible, another analyses how many holidays are acceptable in a year before you’re considered just plain greedy, and the final one – the most dire – is about speed cameras and how unfair it is that Mark Watson received a ticket for driving at 100 miles per hour rather than the 96 he claimed to have actually been travelling at. At last my turn comes and I get a large tea with one sugar.
    I return to my desk and get to work, but I’m soon interrupted by a frenzied kerfuffle, which has broken out like a virus in the area behind me.
    It is a large, open-plan space and my desk is one of eight in the middle of the room, which are separated by little partitions. To the left of my desk are three small offices with their own doors and windows. The rest of the space is taken up with the usual suspects: more desks, noisy fax machines, recycling bins and a huge coffee machine. Our boss’s office is on a floor above ours, and has its own little stairs leading up to it like a tree house.
    I keep looking at my screen, trying hard to concentrate. I doubt it is anything that would interest me. Normally I have a great ability to tune everything out, but there is talking, and lots of it.
    Concentrate. Concentrate.
    Suddenly a sharp elbow belonging to Lydia is jabbed into my shoulder and I realise she’s standing next to my desk, grinning at me. Strange, contorted expressions that are meant to be subtle, as if to say ‘Look behind you,’ without yelling it out loud, which is what she clearly wants to do.
    Oh, for God’s sake, I think, as I reluctantly spin my chair 180 degrees and see a figure in the middle of the din. He is surrounded, ambushed by fussing colleagues. All I can make out is a shade of green. Lush green.
    My heart skips a beat, then two. Three may be pushing it.
    A couple of people move out of the way, and as I slowly scan from the middle of the T-shirt upwards, my eyes meet a familiar face.
    Holy shit. It’s squirrel man.
    And if it’s possible, in this stark, dentist’s-chair-like lighting that we are bathed in, he looks even more gorgeous than he did earlier this morning. He does look decidedly miserable, though.
    But why is he here? Who the hell is he? Is he being interviewed? Maybe he’s here to fix something . . .
    No, he looks too soft for all that, and everyone seems to