The Stand In Page 7

  I close the webpage with a big fat nope. That’s a can of worms that is neither safe nor sane. I don’t want to know what thoughts my subconscious is trying to bring to the light, especially not where Archer is concerned.

  I know all I need to know about that man!

  I know he irks me more than anyone else ever has, and that’s saying something as I must have one of the most annoying brothers in the world! I also know he’s irresistible to womenkind, and that despite his whorey ways, women flock to him. But that’s the evolution of you, driving women into the arms of men whose biology sings our siren song.

  I click the maximise button, my laptop screen filling with the image of another handsome man, and the booking form request for next Saturday, which is only half complete. With a small spike of discomfort, I close the webpage, relegating it to internet history before dunking the remains of my Kit Kat into my tea until it’s good and soggy. The truth is, Archer might be a horrible person, or he might be the nicest man in the entire world, and while it’s also true thinking about kissing him makes me feel all kinds of shivery, none of that is important. Because all that matters, all I should be focussing on is if he’ll agree to my new plan for Saturday.

  If he knows what’s good for him, he will.

  6

  Heather

  ‘Twice in one day. The gods must be smiling down on me.’

  In order to bestow a withering look on Archer, I stop my contemplation of the salads on display in Pret a Manger, the yummy sandwich shop chain conveniently located close to all good London office buildings.

  ‘And by that reckoning, I must’ve been Imelda Marcos in a previous life.’

  ‘Because you like shoes?’ He attempts to master a budding smile, his gaze flicking down to my navy blue and cream Mary Janes that are more Miss Marple than Miss Sex Pot. Not that you’d think so by my body’s reaction.

  All of the tingles in all of the places.

  ‘No, because I’m being punished for prior misdeeds.’

  His smile deepens, though he dips his head as though to spare me the sight of it when I get the odd sense of wanting his smiles to only ever be for me—and I want it more than I want the roasted squash salad I reach for in a sudden tiny freak-out. Remember what Allison said. Think of it as a cautionary tale, I tell myself. And not because she’s the expert on what’s good for me but because there’s always a witch who issues portentous warnings in all good fairy tales. Not that my life is a fairy tale, but there will be an element of make-believe in it next Saturday.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.’ It sounds like a complaint as I grab a bottle of juice before joining the queue, hoping that the distance between us might give me a little clarity. All that thinking and googling in my office has me on edge. Should I ambush him now, or can I summon the nerve to put it to him over a drink after work?

  But I’d have to invite him first.

  And then he might get the wrong idea.

  Or laugh in my face.

  ‘Is that your version of do you come here often?’

  ‘You wish.’ Two more words from my own mouth, escaped with little thought.

  He grabs a baguette and joins me in the peak lunchtime queue. ‘You’re funny. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before. Which is your fault, by the way.’

  ‘My fault?’ I turn my head over my shoulder, returning his slightly smug expression with one of confusion.

  ‘You don’t allow people to see you.’ Not the aloof thing again. ‘You’re like . . . you’re like the orchids in reception. You’ve seen them, right? In the bowl next to the desk?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. I’m just not sure what your point is.’ At the counter now, I pay for my lunch before moving aside to wait for him. And as strange as it feels, my desire to know what he’s talking about outweighs my self-consciousness. What can he mean by it? I’ve always found orchids kind of strange looking—give me pretty daisies or tulips any day of the week. Orchids are high maintenance and, in my experience, not very sweet smelling. Annnd if he says either of these things to me, he’d better be prepared to wear my salad back to the office this afternoon.

  I move to the doorway when the only other orchid-centric fact comes back to me, a throwback to studying The Great Gatsby for an English lit exam. Wasn’t there some sort of symbolism in Gatsby’s love interest, Daisy Buchanan, being likened to an orchid? From memory, I think it had something to do with her cowardice. Again, that would be salad-wearing talk.

  ‘Thanks for waiting.’ Archer’s smile is a fleeting thing, his gaze sliding from mine to the street beyond as we make our way outside.

  Did I wait, or did I just zone out while pondering?

  ‘Want to go somewhere and eat this?’ He holds up his baguette; posh cheese and pickle, for the record. It makes me wonder if he’s a vegetarian, which is another ridiculous thought because what would it matter if he is? A marriage, or friendship, made in heaven we are not. ‘Are you up for it?’

  ‘What?’ I ask a little sharply when he waves his baguette in front of me. Not a euphemism, by the way. ‘Oh, I was just going to head back to my desk.’ Like always.

  He cocks one very eloquent eyebrow. ‘On a beautiful day like this?’

  ‘But it’s freezing.’ I rub my hand up and down my upper arm to back up my reply. It isn’t really that cold, though it is a brisk, chilly day. March has yet to bless London with anything near spring weather, and I’m still wearing my winter coat, though thankfully it’s no longer woolly hat and gloves weather. I even still have the mittens Daisy knit for me stashed in my deep coat pockets.

  ‘C’mon,’ he cajoles. ‘Get a little fresh air in your lungs.’ He inhales deeply, his broad chest expanding under a navy pea coat just as an ancient Transit van splutters past, emitting a billow of exhaust fumes.

  ‘Fresh air, was it?’ I ask as Archer begins to cough. ‘Around here?’

  ‘I know somewhere. Trust me?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ My nose scrunches, and I wonder why he’s looking at me like he is, as well as what that look can mean. He looks weirdly content. ‘And definitely not until you explain this orchid thing.’

  ‘It’s all good, I promise. I’ll tell you as we walk.’

  So we do, Archer on the outer side of the pavement like my dad always does for my mum. Someone raised him well, despite his tomcat ways. As we pass the glass front of E11even, I’m pleased not to see anyone heading out the door or in our direction, though I will admit to a little spike of pleasure at seeing our reflections in the glass; a spike of pleasure, the roots of which must be tied to last night’s dream.

  We walk in silence for a minute or two, cars trundling along Aldersgate Street as couriers and office staff spill from the neoclassical buildings. The dome of St Paul’s is behind us, and the sky above a hazy kind of blue. A row of red cycles for hire, or Boris Bikes as they’re known, line the kerb. A banker-looking type hails a black cab, a red double-decker bus stops at a zebra crossing to let pedestrians by, the rhythms of the city unchanging day by day. Yet here I am, taking a stroll with the office heartthrob. I wonder what my subconscious makes of that.

  ‘So, this orchid.’ Archer’s voice breaks my reverie, his gaze sliding sideways to mine. ‘It is a compliment, I promise.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear you liken me to a weird-looking plant with a positive slant.’ My answer sounds a little saucy, and I appear to have a little pep in my step right now, though it might be anxiety.

  ‘Weird? I thought they were supposed to be considered beautiful?’

  I ignore the strange little leap my heart does, my answer in no way reflecting that muscle’s mischief. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And personally, I think orchids are weird.’

  ‘Well, I think they’re beautiful.’ And by that, he thinks I’m beautiful, too? ‘They’re sophisticated. Graceful. There’s something exotic about them. Don’t you think?’

  I think ginger is anything but exotic. And as for
sophisticated and graceful, he can’t be thinking of me. I begin to question if he did compare me to an orchid back in Pret, but he did, didn’t he?

  ‘Would you prefer rare?’

  ‘It’s closer but mutant might be nearer the mark.’

  ‘You can’t accept exotic, but mutant is okay?’ His feet scuff the pavement as he comes to a sudden halt, and the look he gives me makes me stare down at my sensible Mary Janes.

  ‘It’s true.’ Though arguing, I try not to sound quarrelsome. ‘The redheaded gene is a mutation that both parents need to carry. I’m also pretty sure ginger isn’t synonymous with any kind of exoticism. Besides, the term is marginalising. Demeaning even.’

  Mutant? Dear God, please strike me mute for a little while before I convince the pretty man I have a face only a Trekkie could love.

  But still, I’m not sure that I have the kind of looks that could be described as exotic, but if I had, I’m pretty sure I still wouldn’t appreciate being described that way. Just as I don’t particularly like hearing how un-exotic I am.

  I suddenly realise he’s not standing next to me but has moved ahead to where he’s looking through a wrought-iron fence. A square lies beyond, a garden of sorts, edged by buildings.

  ‘Then it sounds like I’d better apologise to the orchid on our way back into the office. I didn’t actually say you were exotic,’ he amends, those indigo eyes on me now. ‘But you are striking. What I’m trying to say, without much success, is you’re not a daisy or a rose, no common or garden variety that willingly invites admiration or touch. It’s like you’re beyond that. Or maybe too fragile. Either way.’ He turns his attention back to the fence, revealing part of it as a gate as he lifts the latch, pushing it open. ‘You’ve cultivated something unapproachable that keeps us all at bay.’

  Do I want to know who us is?

  ‘I suppose that must why I’m here with you, is it?’ The pretty man pays me compliments, the kind of which I’ve never heard, and I pay him back with snark. It’s like I can’t help myself. ‘Because I’m unapproachable.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve decided I’m the exception. Or maybe you’re not really unapproachable but scared of what people think.’

  Jesus. Does Archer Powell possess some kind of sixth sense? I have the sudden and debilitating sensation of being turned inside out—like the things I keep private are somehow now pinned to my skin. I don’t quite know how to feel. Sort of naked. Exposed. A little vulnerable, too.

  And the worst is yet to come because it would seem now is the perfect opportunity for my big reveal.

  Gird your loins, Bessie.

  ‘Are you coming inside?’

  ‘I was just trying to work out if you’d just insulted or complimented me.’ I trudge to the gate anyway, moving past him.

  ‘Let’s settle on appraised.’

  My head does one of those silly double takes noting how he holds his eyes comically wide.

  ‘You’re such a creeper,’ I mutter, knowing full well it’ll soon become obvious that creeper is officially my role.

  ‘I had thought to liken you to glass.’ He closes the gate behind me, the latch clinking shut.

  ‘Because I’m so transparent?’

  ‘Because you’re sharp.’

  ‘Also not a compliment.’ I throw this over my shoulder when unexpectedly, his lips are at my ear.

  ‘Sharp as in potentially a little dangerous.’ His tone low, as though he has a secret to impart. ‘And glass is so beautiful when it shatters.’

  I shiver in response to how his words feel like both a promise and a threat. Worse, I’ve no idea what to do with those words—how to process or respond. Like a coward, I step away, parking this interaction to one side for inspection sometime when he’s not around.

  ‘What is this place?’ I project my voice a little too much to hide how my legs are suddenly like jelly, my insides currently like an Etch-A-Sketch shaken to infinity. Also, why are my nipples suddenly impersonating directional tools and pointing the way? Thank goodness for my coat.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’ve never seen this place before. I usually come into work from the other end.’ I wave a vague hand in the direction we just came. ‘The coffee shop is about the farthest I’ve ever been up this street, discounting the time I got on the wrong bus.’

  Hands in his coat pockets, Archer dips his head, rolling a small stone under the sole of his shoe. ‘This is Postman’s Park.’

  ‘Because the postmen of London are all buried here?’ My question is spontaneous and probably connected to the sudden awareness of the ancient-looking tombstones leaning against a stone wall. I look up, and up, then around, noting the odd little space is surrounded on three sides by Victorian-looking housing. Luxury flats, my guess. ‘Are we even allowed to be in here?’

  ‘Is it the spirit of dead postal workers or the more current residents that worry you most?’

  ‘Dead deliverymen aren’t going to call the police,’ I murmur, venturing a little farther inside.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t know about this place.’ He sounds amused. And a little pleased. ‘Did you ever see the movie The Closer?’

  ‘Should I have?’ I swing around to face him

  ‘It’s just this place was featured in it.’

  ‘Then I’m pleased I didn’t. It would’ve spoiled the intrigue.’ I trot over to a narrow-roofed pergola, hooking my arm around one of the wooden posts and swinging around it in an action more school kid than stripper until I’m facing him again.

  ‘It’s prettier in the summer, when the flower beds bloom and the sun heats the wood of the bench you’re sitting on, sort of trapping you here.’

  It would make sense that he’s a sunworshipper. The olive tint to his skin, the kind that suggests he’d tan at the first hint of sunshine. And of course, his freckles. I close my eyes for a moment and see him sitting on one of those garden benches, his long legs spread out in front of him with his face tipped to the sun. I’ve always envied people who enjoy the sun. Those who bask on beaches or lounge in gardens, their skin turning golden and sun kissed. Meanwhile, I get all squinty eyed even while wearing sunglasses, my skin turning the unattractive shade of overboiled lobster before eventually turning white again. The only kiss the sun ever offers me is the kiss of death and the very real risk of melanoma.

  ‘It makes it difficult to go back to the office.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ My eyes blink open, the view a little greyer than my imaginings but no less seductive.

  My response earns me a dazzling smile, one that does funny things to my insides. Holy fucksticks, the man is gorgeous. It really is little wonder the women in the office swoon at the sight of him. Tall and broad, he has the kind of body you just know would look good at the beach, definitely shirtless and probably playing volleyball or sipping cocktails, or even lounging on some yacht in San Tropez.

  Why the hell am I thinking about beaches when we’re standing in a tiny cold park on a London March afternoon? Maybe because he looks so good here, too. His dark hair practically shines in the light, his cheeks flushed from the cold. A half smile plays across his full mouth as though every one of my thoughts were written on my forehead and he’s just read them. Concerned there might be some truth in this, I swing a quarter turn until I’m facing the shade provided by the pergola roof. My arm falls away as I step under it, drawn by rows of tiles set into the wall above a long bench, faded and aged by time.

  ‘John Clinton,’ I murmur, reading from the first tile my gaze falls on. ‘Aged ten, drowned near London Bridge trying to save a companion younger than himself. July sixteenth, 1894.’ My heart dips, my spirits along with it. ‘That is so sad.’

  Alice Ayers. Daughter of a bricklayer’s labourer who by intrepid conduct saved three children from a burning house in Union Street borough at the cost of her own young life, April twenty-fourth, 1885.

  Tile after tile details the loss of one life in the saving of another.

  Rescued
a stranger drowning at Putney.

  Died of terrible injuries attempting to extinguish flames.

  A clergyman.

  An orphan.

  A gentleman.

  A railway worker.

  A stranger.

  A brother.

  A sister.

  A friend.

  ‘This is so, so sad.’ My voice is barely a whisper as I fight the onset of tears when I sense rather than see Archer standing beside me.

  ‘Their deaths are sad, sure. But this is more than a bunch of memorials.’ I turn my head to look at him, though his own gaze remains on the wall in front. ‘They’re reminders of how extraordinary ordinary people can be. A commemoration of bravery that would have been forgotten by now. Lives that would’ve been forgotten.’

  It occurs to me that he’s right. As the aphorism goes, we all die twice. Once when we pass out of this word, and a second time when there’s no one left to remember us. The names of these souls will live on, remembered for giving their lives so others could live. Remembered for their courage. And not only is Archer right but he’s also suddenly very human.

  ‘How does the saying go?’ As he turns to face me, his blue eyes darken in the shade. ‘Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for his friend.’ He stares at me for a beat before his expression changes. ‘What?’

  ‘This is all just surprising.’ Embarrassed, I half turn, throwing out an arm to the greenery behind us. ‘It’s like a secret garden, something hidden in plain view.’

  ‘Something hidden in plain view, or something you’ve just refused to see right in front of you?’

  When I look back, he’s wearing a rather sardonic looking grin. So he’s not talking about the garden. And okay, I had him pegged as shallow, saw him as trivial, yet he has depths, depths that might not just be puddle volume. That should be good to know, right? So why are my cheeks flushed with guilt?

  Because I’m about to do something horrible.

  ‘It also happens to be a really nice place to eat your lunch,’ he says, taking pity on me. ‘Come on.’