The Stand In Read online

  The Stand In

  Donna Alam

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2020

  Cover Model: Mitchell Wick

  Cover Design: LJ Stock

  Image: Lanefotograf

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Epigraph

  When I let go of what I am,

  I become what I might be.

  When I let go of what I have.

  I receive what I need.

  ~ Tao Te Ching

  To the lovely ladies of the Lambs, in particular Michelle, Elizabeth, and Lisa.

  I’m not sure this one would be finished without you.

  In fact, I know it wouldn’t.

  And to Sara for being so bloody brave x

  The Stand Out

  A Standalone Romance Novel

  1

  Heather

  ‘I’ve been dumped. Cast aside like a lunchtime sandwich wrapper. I am alone, destined to become that clichéd spinster before dying, surrounded by my herd of adopted cats.’ Collapsing into the vacant chair between my friends, I drop my purse to the floor and reach for the glass on the table, bringing it to my lips.

  ‘That’s my drink,’ Daisy complains with a laugh as she takes the glass from my hand and exchanges it for a full one which I bring to my lips again. ‘And you’re destined to be drunk at this rate.’

  ‘Two indecorous gulps of wine does not a drunk make, no matter how quickly they went down, Dais.’

  ‘And you can’t be alone, or lonely, not nestled in the bosom of your friends.’ Vivi slides her glass to the right as though it’s at risk.

  ‘Do you think that’s why I’m single?’ Like a maiden caught undressing, I press my hands to my chest, my head swinging back and forth between my friends. ‘Because I don’t have boobs?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vivi’s expression is pure deadpan. ‘You’re like a thorn between two roses. I’m going to need something stronger than wine if we’re here for a pity party, especially when I’d prepared for a birthday party,’ she says, void of sympathy. ‘Wine always makes you melodramatic. Or is it birthdays?’

  ‘Birthdays make you melodramatic,’ Daisy answers, chuckling into her own glass.

  ‘How many of these have you two had?’

  ‘First bottle. Teacher’s honour,’ Daisy replies, holding up her fingers in a Girl Guide-style salute. ‘We wouldn’t have started the evening without the birthday girl. Happy Birthday, beautiful!’ Arms envelop me, lipsticked kisses pushed to each of my cheeks. ‘A quarter of a century yet you don’t look a day over twenty-three. Now, tell Vivi and me all about your crappy day.’

  ‘Present proceedings aside, this has to be the worst birthday ever. Even worse than the year I turned eight and woke up with chicken pox.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Daisy says, always the softer of my two best friends. ‘What happened, my lovely?’

  ‘Firstly, there were delays on the Circle Line, then I dropped my cupcakes on the escalator on the way out.’

  ‘I bet that made you a very unpopular commuter,’ Vivi asserts because, as we all know, when travelling on the London Underground, following the ascribed etiquette is paramount.

  ‘Extremely unpopular. Especially when the box tumbled onto the right-hand side.’

  ‘People have been shanked for less than that. And by shanked, I mean had someone stand behind them making huffy noises before gathering the courage to mutter a terse, “Excuse me”.’

  ‘Imagine.’ I sigh heavily. ‘And on my birthday. But it gets worse because by the time I got to my desk, I’d been dumped. Even worse still, he did it by text!’ My shoulders suddenly slump, and my bottom lip begins to wobble.

  ‘Oh, no. Emotional alert!’ Vivi hastily tops up my glass. If I can rely on Daisy for tea and sympathy, Vivi’s my girl for alcohol and murder plots. ‘Here, drown that stuff quick. Now, start again from the cupcakes.’

  ‘Cupcakes, yes!’ This from Daisy with her usual glass-half-full perspective. ‘At least someone ordered cupcakes for your birthday.’

  ‘God, I wish,’ I grumble. ‘Company policy.’ I put down my glass to make stupid air quotes around the words. ‘Completely unofficial, of course, but whoever’s birthday it is has to bring cake into the office in the spirit of giving.’ I roll my eyes so hard, I almost get a glimpse of the inside of my head. ‘But it was with the spirit of vodka I spent the last evening of my twenty-fourth year baking and decorating cupcakes because there was no way I was paying to feed that lot’s sugar addiction.’ Well, for no more than the cost of a couple of boxes of Betty Crocker red velvet cake mix. ‘It’s just as well I didn’t, given the way they looked by the time I got there.’

  They were certainly more fuck off than bake off.

  ‘Here, drink more,’ Vivi commands, pushing my glass towards me. ‘Feel better?’ she asks after I take another swig.

  ‘It’s going to take more than a little wine to improve this day.’

  ‘Give it a minute. And a few more swallows,’ Vivi suggests. ‘You’ll eventually feel better, and then you can tell us what’s gotten into you.’

  ‘I can tell you what hasn’t gotten into me and now never will. Seth. Did you miss where I said he dumped me? On my birthday?’ The latter I cry a little huffily because, come on, people, get with the program. It’s my birthday, and I was dumped. If there is ever a day for melodrama, today is that day.

  ‘Seth? Was he the one with the unfortunate underbite?’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I reply defensively, frowning at Daisy because she is so missing the point.

  ‘You weren’t really dating, though, were you?’

  ‘We’d gone out a couple of times. Did you not hear me? I have been forsaken—on my birthday!’

  ‘Probably so he didn’t have to buy you a gift. What a cheap arse,’ murmurs Vivi, flicking her dark waves over her shoulder. ‘But you’re not bothered, not really. It’s hardly like he was the catch of the century. You haven’t dated in ages, and the first man you agree to see looks like him.’

  I open my mouth to defend myself when Daisy hastily tops up my glass, pushing it towards me again. ‘Tell us what the weasel said, sweets.’

  ‘He said it wasn’t going anywhere between us.’ Which revealed a depth of perception that had surprised me, quite honestly. ‘That he wasn’t feeling it.’ And by it, I think he meant me. That I’d yet to let him feel it—any of it. But we’d only gone out three times, for God’s sakes. Upon consideration, I might’ve brought it on myself after telling him I didn’t think I could let any man in my body who wasn’t already in my heart.

  But on my birthday?

  Bastard.

  ‘I don’t need to meet him to know you’re well rid of him.’ Vivi raises her glass as though to toast his departure. So I join her, almost draining my glass.

  ‘You did say last week that you didn’t think you’d make the month mark,’ Daisy offers, her china doll-like eyes wide. ‘I didn’t think you cared for him all that much.’

  ‘I’m not just upset he dumped me, I’m also upset because could he not have held on for a week? I have that wedding to go to next weekend, remember? And most of the office will be there.’ As a flock of anxious birds swoop through my stomach, I realise my glass is empty, but as I reach for the bottle myself
this time, Vee takes it out from my hand.

  ‘On second thought, your situation won’t be helped by a hangover.’

  ‘I thought I might drink so much I wake up still drunk.’

  ‘But you’ll eventually sober, and the wedding will still be next week. Unless you’re going to drink right through until next weekend, in which case you’ll probably not need to worry about the wedding because you’ll be dead.’

  Daisy takes the bottle from Vivi, placing it on the far side of the table. And well out of my reach. ‘This is Heather we’re talking about. I doubt she’s been drunk in her whole life.’

  ‘I have. I was eighteen, and I’d like not to think about it, if that’s okay.’ There are parts of that night I’d like never to think of again because there are some things tequila just can’t block out.

  ‘Alcohol is never the solution,’ Vivi intones portentously.

  ‘Unless you’re teaching chemistry.’ Daisy, as usual, is ever the teacher. I bet she was the teacher’s pet too, once upon a time.

  ‘I don’t suppose either of you fancy being my plus one next week, do you?’ I cross my fingers to accompany my plea, but Daisy is already shaking her head.

  ‘I’m covering for you at work, remember.’

  ‘I can’t believe you offered to work both Saturday and Sunday, Dais. Especially when you spend all week teaching the little monsters as it is.’ She faux shivers to emphasise her horror at the thought of running children’s parties. While it might be her idea of hell, I can’t think of a better side hustle. Dressing as a fairy or a swashbuckling pirate or even a mermaid is so much more fun than my weekday job at E11even, a full-service digital marketing agency. Office work is for suckers.

  ‘I like kids,’ Daisy responds with a light shrug. ‘And honestly, I could do with the money. Why does no one ever tell you a renovation budget that comes in on price is the stuff of myth?’ Daisy and her fiancé are currently undertaking the mammoth task of restoring a Victorian period mid terrace in Putney. Recent budget considerations suggest their project might be complete by the turn of the century.

  ‘What about you, Vivi, old friend, old pal?’ I press my hands together and flutter my lashes manically.

  ‘No can do, sweets. I’ll be in Paris on a work thing.’

  On second thought, I think I’d prefer to spend my weeks as Vee does. As a senior executive in the travel industry, she seems to spend a lot of her time working from café tables on Instagram-worthy streets or from the shade of palm trees on pristine white beaches.

  ‘I know you don’t want to go alone but—’

  ‘No, I can’t go alone.’

  ‘Of course, you can.’

  ‘No, really, I can’t.’

  ‘Screw societal expectations!’ she exclaims, her hand suddenly connecting with the tabletop.

  ‘Right on, sister.’ My words are as weak as the two fingers I hold up in a peace sign because . . . ‘But can we screw them after next weekend?’

  ‘I’m serious, you should go alone. Show people how the modern single woman rolls.’

  ‘Rolls alone,’ I reply. ‘Yep, thanks, Vee. I’m sure that would super impress the people I work with.’

  ‘Why do you need to impress them? You can make them jealous instead. Get a little rowdy, have a little fun. Flirt with a few hotties. Make them sick with jealousy that you can have a good time without a man.’

  ‘They’d probably cart me off to the funny farm,’ I mutter, not that she appears to have heard.

  ‘I’m so sick of the girl-can-only-be-complete-with-addition-of-boy narrative. Aren’t you?’ Her head swings back and forth between Daisy and me, her expression fearsome. While I’d ordinarily be the first to agree I get along just fine without a man (mostly), this time, I’m unwilling to commit . . . to being uncommitted. Anyone who has gone to a wedding alone would absolutely be with me on this.

  ‘We make our own money, pay our own bills. Why should we feel like freaks and outliers because we choose not to depend on a man? It’s like the queen sings; I depend on me.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like something Her Maj would say, never mind sing.’ My brows knit together in a frown.

  ‘Queen B, obviously.’

  ‘Which is all well and good except for the fact that I might have sort of already mentioned I’m seeing someone romantically. Mentioned it at work, I mean.’

  ‘Well, you were seeing someone,’ Daisy offers in placating tones. ‘And now you’re not. And no man is better than a bad man. In most circumstances anyway.’

  ‘Bad men have their uses,’ Vee muses. ‘Short-term uses, at any rate.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know any bad men who might fancy accompanying me to a wedding next Saturday, do you? Because I’ve sort of lied myself into a corner.’ Welcome to the life of Heather Whittington: my life in Loserville

  ‘Lied yourself into what?’

  ‘It’s a metaphorical corner where I might’ve, sort of said I was seeing someone. Before I was actually . . . seeing someone.’ I grimace. And shrug. Then cringe a bit.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Confusion puckers Daisy’s brow.

  ‘Stop frowning, Dais. You don’t want to be looking at Botox before you’re thirty, do you?’ With that edict issued, Vee turns her attention to me. ‘Now, why in the name of buggery did you create an imaginary boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s not imaginary. He’s fake. There’s a difference.’

  ‘If you can’t see him, he’s not real, H. So how long have you and Mr Invisible been dating?’ Is she amused? Bemused? It’s kind of hard to tell, but she can’t know what it feels like to be me. She picks up men so effortlessly and discards them at the same rapid rate.

  ‘Let’s set aside the why for now,’ Daisy suggests, ‘Tell us how long you’ve been dating . . . no one. What I mean to say is did you commit to a serious . . . fake boyfriend or just a passing fling?’ Daisy’s blue eyes dip to where I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘So short term, then?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of. Depends on your definition?’ I widen the space between finger and thumb.

  ‘A couple of weeks?’

  ‘A bit longer.’ God, this is so uncomfortable. My granny used to say liars should have good memories, but she didn’t mention anything about bowels of steel. ‘A while.’

  ‘A while,’ Vivi repeats. ‘How long exactly is a while?’

  ‘Let’s just say I led him to believe it was serious.’

  ‘Why?’ they seem to ask—cry?—in unison.

  ‘It was a moment of madness.’ I shrug uncomfortably, my shoulders up around my ears as my hands wrap tightly around the arms of the chair.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Vivi begins to cackle. ‘Only you, H.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Heather, it’s hilarious! What’s better than a duff boyfriend? An imaginary one!’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Daisy’s response is a touch more compassionate.

  ‘I know it sounds completely pathetic, but it all happened in a moment of madness. And not the crazy, certifiable kind but the kind of madness that’s responsible for fights in pubs, road rage incidents, or much more my style, very strongly worded emails.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about it,’ she says, lightly touching my arm.

  ‘It was probably in response to being told I can’t do my job properly because I’m not in a relationship.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Vivi’s mirth is cut off in an instant, her spine suddenly ramrod straight.

  ‘Haydn. You remember Haydn, my condescending, slightly misogynistic, borderline sociopath of a boss?’

  ‘We’re not likely to forget, considering the amount you complain about him.’ With a telling glance, Vee reaches for her glass.

  ‘You’d complain too if you worked for him.’

  ‘No, I’d knee him in the nuts, right after I found myself a new job. But what has he got to do with this?’

  ‘Well, a few months ago, he was trying to mansplain my job to me. Again. O
nly on this occasion, he said my not being in a relationship was skewing my perspective.’

  ‘That doesn’t even make any sense. You run the social media for dating agencies, don’t you?’

  ‘Amongst others, but those are my two biggest accounts.’

  ‘And who better to understand the plight of the single person than a single person?’

  ‘You’d think. But according to him, my Instagram posts were unappealing to those looking for love. Too laddish and not romantic enough. He said that in order to understand the remits of my job, I’d benefit from the experience of having been admitted to the inner sanctum of the temple of the long-term relationship.’ Or something like that. He also made it sound like a club I’d never gain admittance to. And he did it in a meeting in front of the whole team. It wasn’t even my fault, but I wasn’t going to throw my assistant under the bus.

  ‘I’ve heard of being married to your work, but that’s ridiculous. What a tit. Actually, I take it back. Tits are at least useful, and they probably have more sense, despite being lumps of fatty tissue.’

  ‘Fatty tissue sounds like the contents of his head,’ I complain, the skin of my forehead puckering again. At this rate, I’ll need Botox before the year is up.

  ‘I hope you told him to go forth and multiply.’ Her gaze glides to our friend. ‘I hope she told him to fuck off,’ she qualifies for Daisy as though she doesn’t understand the language.

  ‘No, but I did tell him that not only was he wrong, but he was also out of line.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘And that if he continued to say such ridiculous, discriminatory things, I’d report him to HR.’

  ‘I should bloody well think so,’ Vee agrees imperially.

  ‘And then I told him that I did have a boyfriend, thank you very much, and that we’d been dating for several months, so not only were his opinions intolerant, but his hypothesis was also way off.’