Friday Fable: Hay fever

The entire office was buzzing with the news of the recent engagements. Although seemingly unrelated, Daniel proposed to Dani and Andy had asked Cat, and there was much flashing of manicures and sparklers followed by guffaws and back slaps. The women and some of the queens all compared the rings they had seen to what their eventual band would look like if ever they were to be asked, if Mr Right ever got around to asking or if they finally were to meet Mr Right. The men quietly sweated into their undershirts because it is common knowledge that, once wedding fever takes hold, there is little else that their significant others would be willing to talk or think about while dropping some very heavy hints along the lines of thinking about the future and needing some advance warning to have their nails manicured (because who wants to have unsightly cuticles for the close-up of the ring, and Cat really should have known better than to let everyone see her hangnail).


It was on days like this that working remotely really appealed to Fionnuala (Fynn for short; she'd tried Finn for a while but soon tired of explaining that she was indeed a representative of the fairer sex). The only way she heard about anything that went down in HQ was by following the various chat groups in the company's internal messenger service. Working remotely meant that she could lurk and virtually eavesdrop without really having to contribute. Every so often she'd drop a comment just to see the astonished replies that betrayed how her co-workers had almost forgotten she was there. Today they'd uploaded pictures of the happy couples and their respective jewels, and she'd offered her congratulations. In one of the side chats, Brenda and Carine were debating rose gold over white gold (white gold was classier but rose gold was cooler), and in another Kristen and Rabakah (a posh pronunciation of Rebecca, Fynn joked to herself) were trading dating app secrets such as how to get more likes, when and how often to answer DMs (direct messages, duh) and which filters to avoid on Insta.

Short Story Sunday: The Lighthouse

Sarah tried to ignore the wind and focus on her sketch. She'd clamped the pages down to prevent them fluttering, but she was having a hard time keeping the book still. The light was just right and she wanted to capture the moment before the clouds saturated the view with grey. The water was calm, save for the wake of small yachts or adrenaline junkies skimming the waves with their kites. Behind her, local dialects and raucous laughter spilled out of the waterside pub and skittered across the street. She hooked her left ankle around the railing, willing the wind to give her respite.

"You might want to move."
She assumed the voice was directed at someone else, and continued shading.
"Excuse me? You might want to move."

Saturday Story: Next Customer Please

With a kind of resolution that was unusual for her on a Saturday night, Louisa decided to visit the local hardware store the next day to replace her desk lamp’s bulb. She refused to spend another week squinting at her paperwork: the crime of the decade was on trial and she couldn’t afford another mishap.

Short Story Sunday: Stoking the Fire

"But, how do you know? How can you tell?" Rita waved her hands as she spoke.

Delia smiled. "A person's face says a lot about them."

"Then I had better start buying more expensive moisturiser."

Short Story Sunday: Latchberry Farm

 

The breeze carried the scent of the forest into Sasha’s bedroom. The curtains billowed against the sash window, seeming to resist the fragrance of greenery after the rain. Sasha’s reverie was interrupted by the weight of Fred, the Golden Retriever, landing on her bed. 

Short Story Sunday: Faye

Faye held her clipboard to her chest and watched the revellers undulate on the dance floor. In her ear, Franco was muttering about another screw up in the kitchen. She smiled and delivered her usual advice: “Make it happen.”

Franco retorted, as always, “Faye, I cannot work like this.”

It was a routine they had rehearsed over the years. She was the calm one and Franco the diva. It was a system that worked and was what had made F&F Functions achieve success.

“Tell the chef to replace the crème fraîche with cream cheese, Frankie.”

“But that is the most cliché combination.”

“It’s canapés at a fragrance launch, darling, not the Embassy Ball. Besides, the way these dancers are going, I don’t think they’ll care what they eat as long as it tastes good.” The silence on his end confirmed her gut feeling. “You know I’m right, Frankie.”

“Yes, and for once I wish I was the one saying those words.” His microphone caught the first of his orders across the kitchen and she imagined his arms flailing.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

Faye strained her eyes at the man beside her. “Oh, god, yes, Mr Mitchell, sir.” She took a deep breath. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Call me Brian. These types of things are much of a muchness as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced at the Tag Heuer on his wrist. “I’d prefer to be home, with a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta.” He stared at the dance floor.

The music concealed her snort. This man had less than nine percent of fat on his body.

Faye’s earpiece crackled with Franco’s voice and she jumped.

“Cream cheese as requested. I hope you are happy.”

She gestured an apology at Brian and turned her back on him. “I am eternally grateful, Frankie. What’s the ETA on the canapés? I think we need to start counteracting the cocktails.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Frankie? Canapé ETA?”

“I know you, Faye. He’s there. And he’s hot, right?”

“Two minutes, you say? Good. Thanks, Frankie. I’m out.”

If she were alone, she knew she’d have told Franco something very different.

“Here they are.” Brian gestured at the waiters carting trays of bite-sized food around the dance floor. “Right on time.”

Faye hoped the disco lights would hide her colour.

“You look flushed.” One hand landed on her elbow and the other rested on the small of her back. “Let’s get you some fresh air. You’ve been working too hard.”

They wove between the tables that had been set for the banquet and stepped into the foyer. The absence of noise was a relief and Faye’s ears popped.

Brian summoned a waiter. “Ice water, please. And hurry.”

“Thank you, Mr Mitchell. I’m fine, I promise.”

The waiter materialised with a glass.

“Drink up, Faye.”

She knew it wasn’t a request. She felt like a five-year-old who’d scraped her knee on the playground and was now being made to drink sugar water for shock.

“Much better. You look your old self.” Her face must have given away her sentiments. “You know I don’t mean ‘old’ in that way.”

Franco’s quickstep filled the foyer. “Is everything all right, Faye, darling?”

She nodded.

“Mr Mitchell, you are needed backstage. You’re due in four minutes.”

It seemed Brian had no intention of letting her go. “Thank you, Franco. Might Miss Duncan escort me?”

“I’m afraid Faye is needed in the control room. Allow me.”

Faye cleared her throat. The icy water tickled her lungs and she feared she might cough. “Thank you again, Mr Mitchell, for rescuing me.” Her professionalism was back. “The control room, Frankie? Excuse me, please.”

The mirror in the lift confirmed what she’d feared. She was pink and her lips had swollen from the combination of the cold drink and desire. Teasing her fringe and smoothing her hair, she lamented the unflattering light and resolved to steer clear of Brian Mitchell. The lift doors opened and a waiter met her.

“Faye Duncan? Call for you.” He handed her a Smartphone.

“Hello?” She kept walking to the control room.

“It’s Brian. I wanted to thank you for your exemplary work this evening. I’m due on stage in about 45 seconds and I wanted to check whether you’d meet me for a drink at eleven. I’ll be in the foyer.”

“I don’t think so. You’re technically still my boss.” She opened the door and waved at the AV crew.

“Only until ten-thirty. After that, I used to be your boss.”

Through the control room windows, she saw the emcee invite the audience to take their seats in the arena.

“Say yes, Faye.”

The emcee cracked a joke and the audience tittered.

“One drink is all I ask.”

The AV team kerfuffled around her, trying to locate the file with the intro material about the fragrance launch.

“Make mine a gin and tonic.” She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk.

Brian smiled. He’d have to remember to give the emcee a bonus; he was outdoing himself with a boring launch and a tipsy audience. He glanced at the Tag Heuer again. Eleven o'clock couldn't come soon enough. He'd been dreaming of the moment when he’d finally get to sink his teeth into the tendons of Faye’s neck and taste her blood.