Roxie
In the weeks that follow Adam’s arrival at the advertising department, it seems we are always in each other’s way. Even outside work, I am on my way to college in the evening, to attend my night-class, when he pulls up beside me in his silver Merc.
‘Where you headed?’ he asks, dressed casually in black jeans and a t-shirt. He looks even more attractive out of formal clothes.
‘College,’ I say, sheepishly, holding my portfolio folder to me. It is awkward and ungainly, and he can see I’m struggling with it, against the wind that is whipping up around me.
‘You study?’ he enquires, with a delighted look on his face.
I nod. ‘I do.’
‘Let me drive you – you look like you need a hand,’ he says, no tone of any ulterior motive, as he stops the car and gets out, to take the folder from me. ‘Get in, I’ll put these in the back,’ he gestures, as he pops the boot open and puts the bags and folders neatly in, careful not to crease or bend anything.
I smile at his care, and walk around to get into the passenger seat. ‘Thank you – that folder can be a nightmare, even if there’s only a pathetic breeze. I thought I was going to blow away!’ I laugh, and he chuckles along with me, amused. I like the way a smile lights up his face the way it does, making him look younger somehow, crinkling his grey eyes, making them twinkle with irreverence.
‘No problem, I was in the neighbourhood,’ he says.
‘Where were you headed?’ I ask.
‘Nowhere exciting, just picking up some keys,’ he explains. ‘Since I’m going to be around for a couple of months, I rented an apartment nearer to work. I gave my ex the house in the settlement, to get her off my case, so I have nowhere permanent. I was just picking up the keys to it – it’s nice, by the river,’ he adds, the word ‘ex’ making my stomach grip, unexpectedly.
‘One of those new builds?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Yeah, it’s stunning.’
‘They look beautiful,’ I agree. I had always wondered who could afford to live in those flats, and now I knew.
‘So, what do you study?’ he asks, brushing away talk of his ex-wife.
‘Art,’ I tell him, bashfully.
‘That’s amazing! Your artwork is exceptional – those storyboards are things of beauty,’ he smiles, though his words are sincere.
‘Thank you,’ I beam, pleased with his praise.
‘I used to work in the art industry, believe it or not,’ he muses, remembering old times.
‘Really? What did you do?’ I perk up, intrigued by this nugget of information.
‘I was a gallery curator, did it for years before I was let go, and I thought, for some reason, advertising was a natural next step,’ he laughs, as he weaves through the evening traffic.
‘That’s incredible,’ I say, in awe of him.
‘It was pretty cool – I saw some amazing things, met some amazing people, got to curate some incredible work – seems a million years ago now,’ he smiles, a touch more sadly, as he turns the corner onto the road towards the college.
We talk about his past endeavours, in the car park of the college, until it’s time for me to go into my class. Hearing him talk with such passion about art and culture, he seems almost a different man to the one I met in my father’s offices; he is at ease, he is calm, he is talkative and he is endlessly attractive. Sitting there, in the driver’s seat, in jeans and a t-shirt, showing a suggestion of the muscle beneath, I find myself fighting with the impulse to kiss him once more. As I thank him for the ride, my hand comes to rest on his thigh, and I feel him tense beneath my touch. I draw my hand away, wondering if I have done something wrong. His eyes are intense as they look my way.
‘I should go,’ I say.
‘I’ll get your things,’ he nods, as he opens the door and steps out into the cold evening. There is still some light poking through the onslaught of clouds, and he looks so enticing, standing there, as he hands my things to me. I place the items on the ground and lift my arms to embrace him, thanking him again. He envelops me tightly, his hard, taut body pressed close to mine, one hand holding my neck, the other on the curve of my back, his face turned in towards me. My arms are about his neck, fingers laced through his hair, my face turned into his, so my lips are pressed against the curve of his jawline, where I wanted to kiss him before.
He waits until I am inside the college building, before he gets into his car and speeds off. I am almost disappointed when he is not there, after my class finishes. Silly, really. He is no mind reader, and I didn’t ask him to pick me up.
The next day, I am sat in a meeting, waiting for the others, when he asks me how my class went. I pull my sketchpad from my bag, and show him the images from the night before. He flips through them, eyes intent, a smile breaking out on his lips as he tells me how beautiful they are. I grin, and the grin stays with me all through the day.
In the evening, I stay on to finish whatever needs finishing, as I so often do, and he comes to sit with me, going over things. I catch him looking at me, and he catches me looking at him. I blush as our legs touch beneath the table, and see him breathe deeply at the sharp exhale of my breath, when we touch. It is the same every time; always accidental, and yet it happens so often. The brush of his fingertips on the small of my back, as he moves me aside to get at something, the stroke of my foot against his leg, the press of his body against mine in the packed lift, on our way back up to the office. He doesn’t try anything, though I will him to.
One afternoon, I am in the archives room, searching for a piece of advertising material from years before, when I hear the door go and Adam steps in.
‘Roxie? I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he pipes up, startled to see me.
‘Sorry, I was just looking for something,’ I explain.
‘Can I help?’ he asks.
‘Maybe – I think it’s on that shelf there. It should be labelled Bon-Santé June 2006,’ I say, pointing up at a shelf I can’t quite reach, just above my head.
He walks over, smart casual in navy blue trousers and a white shirt, open at the collar, no tie. He stands in front of me, pointing upwards. ‘This shelf?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I breathe.
He leans in close, his body pressed up against mine, as he reaches up for the shelf in question, trying to pull the file out. I am flat against the shelves, and can’t help but reach out and press my palms against the taut muscle of his stomach as he reaches up, moving my hands to his sides. He looks down, still reaching, and I can feel his heart beating faster as I hold my hand against his chest.
He leaves the file, his hands holding my face, his hips pressed against mine, my arms about his waist. His breath quickens, his chest heaving, his face so close to mine that I think this might be it. My own breath is sharp and rapid, as I pull his body closer to mine, wanting to feel him against me. He leans in, as if he is going to kiss me, but the file, half pulled away from the shelf, falls between us, smacking Adam on the head, destroying the moment in one fell swoop.
He laughs, rubbing his head. ‘Saved by the file,’ he smiles, though I can sense he is disappointed, as he picks it up off the floor and hands it to me. ‘Keep up the good work, Roxie,’ he winks, before making his excuses and leaving the archive room.
I stay in there a while longer, cursing the folder in my hands, before re-emerging to get on with the day’s work. Adam doesn’t come to find me in the evening, and I worry that I have overstepped the mark, somehow.
I hope not, and yet he doesn’t come.