It Started With A Tweet(5)

I hate letting people down, but there’s no way I can go. And it’s not only because of the work. I mean, look at me. As if it wasn’t enough that my outfit’s a complete shambles, I’m also rocking the panda look on my face with my pale skin and black eyes, and the closest my hair got to shampoo this morning was a can of Batiste. I’m so ridiculously tired that I’m pretty much struggling to remember what my own name is when I sign off emails, so how am I going to dazzle a stranger with witty and sophisticated conversation?

I glance down at the photo of Dominic, his floppy blond hair, and those sparkling green eyes. He does look cute. Imagine the babies we’d have, or, better yet, imagine the Instagram photos we could post: his blond hair polarised in a Valencia filter with his green eyes the colour of emeralds .?.?.

Plus, I even got Erica to track him down on LinkedIn to snoop at his CV, and he’s a trader in the City, which means his credentials look good on paper. Not that that’s a deal breaker, but it might mean that he’ll at least pay for dinner.

‘Is this the same guy you cancelled on last week?’

I hang my head in shame and she frowns at me. I don’t dare tell her I cancelled with him two weeks before that too. I was surprised he rebooked after the second cancellation – I doubt I’d be so lucky third time around.

‘If anyone can afford to sneak off a little early, it’s you,’ says Sara, rooting around in her in tray for something. ‘You’re the most organised person I know, with all your lists. Come on, one night’s not going to hurt, Daisy.’

‘But Marcus has just asked me to do some work for him and I’ve still got prep to do for tomorrow’s meetings. But on the other hand, if I don’t meet Dominic tonight, then I’m probably never going to meet him.’

‘And what if he’s the one?’ says Sara, raising her eyebrows.

Sara’s on an eternal hunt for the one, whereas I’d be content with a one right now. Being stuck in our office almost 24/7 for the last few weeks has meant that it’s been slim pickings for both of us when it comes to finding a deep and meaningful relationship.

‘You’re right. I’ve really got to meet someone soon or else Marvellous Marcus and his quick reminders are going to start looking pretty attractive. Do you reckon he would give a recap before we had sex?’ I say in a whisper as I lean over to her desk. I try and do my best Scottish accent: ‘Now, I’m going to fondle you, you go down on me, and I’ll do some finger work before we both orgasm, OK?’

Sara’s eyes almost pop out of her head, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some sort of at-work boundary of what’s appropriate to talk about, when I realise that she’s looking over my shoulder.

I turn and see Marvellous Marcus standing there.

Sara pretends to be typing. I know she’s pretending as she’s doing about 600 wpm and not even The Flash could type that quickly.

‘Marcus,’ I say, wondering how I’m going to dig myself out of this hole.

‘Um,’ he looks between Sara and me and his cheeks flush red, ‘I’ll just get the pen I left and I’ll leave you two to whatever you were planning.’

He practically runs off and I try and process what he said.

‘Oh God, he didn’t hear the whole thing, did he? Which, I guess, is good in a way,’ I say, ‘as at least he didn’t know it was about him. But that means he thought I was propositioning you.’

‘No, do you think?’ says Sara, trying to hide her laughter. ‘Surely, your fake accent must have given him a clue.’

‘I don’t know, I think it was pretty terrible. Do you think I sounded Scottish?’ I say trying to recreate it.

‘Actually,’ she says, wincing, ‘it was probably a bit more Irish.’

‘Hmm, great, now Marcus thinks we’re having an affair. Just the reputation I need in the office.’

‘You could do a lot worse than me.’

‘That’s true,’ I say to Sara, who looks as if she’d be more at home on a catwalk rather than a desk. ‘If I was into women, you’d be top of my list.’

She smooths down her hair and smiles at the compliment.

‘So this date of yours, you’re going, then?’

‘I guess so, as now I need to get a boyfriend to prove to Marcus I’m not a lesbian,’ I say laughing.

I tap out a quick reply to Dominic to confirm the change of time, as I curse myself for stupidly agreeing to a date this week in the first place. I’m an account manager at a marketing agency, and the majority of my clients are City-based firms who all, very helpfully, seem to send their financial reports to their investors at the same time – which means that for the next month I’m busy chasing up designers, liaising with the Indian office, where we outsource most of the work to, and pinging drafts of glossy brochures or samples of digital campaigns across to our clients for feedback. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. It gives me a huge buzz to co-ordinate everything and deliver a successful project to a happy client. I just wish that they didn’t all want to have their reports ready to go at the same time. And if that isn’t enough at the moment, I’m also managing our company’s Twitter feed while our social media exec is on holiday. Not that tweeting and getting paid for it is much of a chore.

I groan as I wonder if I’ve got time to squeeze any more work in before I leave. Maybe if I do my make-up on the train, I could do half an hour more. I scan the list and work out what’s an absolute priority. I can always work late tomorrow night instead.