What's a girl to do

Its 7am and the faint hum of my phone buzzing under the pillow pulls me from my blissful sleep. I press snooze and do just that. Ten minutes later and the phone beeps again.

“Okay, okay! I'm up! I'm up!”

I bark at my phone like an adolescent teenager. Swinging my legs out of the bed I sit there letting the cold morning apartment air bite my bare legs.

“I should probably shave those soon,” I think to myself.

“Pfft, who for??" I add, scolding myself as I slump off to the bathroom.

It wasn't the thought of trudging to the station or the warm over-packed underground that was getting to me. Honestly, I was beginning to enjoy the human contact of being pressed up against strangers - kind of like angry hugs. Clearly I'd been single too long. Yes, I'm 27 and I'm bored with my life. Even I'm not that self-absorbed to realize how stupid that sounds. I know in comparison to the single mother living on benefits in a Hackney tower block, I am Princess bloody Caroline! And to be fair I would see her  point,

I had only ever touched a pram to move it out of my way and I was convinced Primark was the portal to hell. Also things did tend to land on my lap. Jobs, opportunities, holidays and to quote my brother "If a bucket of shit fell from heaven it would turn to gold and land in front of me" I never quite understood that phrase, so I would just laugh in response while secretly rolling my eyes at my sister. But right now it was 7:15 and I was depressed! Quite rightly.

My life had become this endless repetitive story line, up early - go to work - look busy - fuck up a little - come home - have dinner and go to bed. If reincarnation is a real thing I'm terrified of coming back as myself. This was just not good enough. Of course, I would never let anyone at home know this. The minute I arrived back to my sleepy village on the west coast of Ireland, I was Katie fecking Price! Regaling every one of my escapades in Chelsea and Soho, or which celebrity I saw in Harrods the week before. Or talk about some major upcoming London event, which I had NO intention of attending. But as long as I kept up the pretense of a London socialite and felt they were sufficiently jealous, I was safe.

Unfortunately the weight of other people's expectations was beginning to take its toll. I worked as an EA (Executive Assistant) in a top architectural firm based in St James's. Every morning I'd walk by the Ritz and say hello to Vin, the doorman. He's a sweet old man who has a soft spot for my Irish accent and on the rare occasions when I wasn't running late, I would grab us a coffee and stop for a chat. But there would be no coffee this morning so I threw him a bone instead - "Top o'da morning m'dear!" He was elated. Why did I have that bottle of wine last night? I can feel it sloshing around inside me as I trot downhill.

Blaze Stone's Audi was just pulling in, as I crept up the steps to the side entrance. I could see by his erratic hand gestures that he was on the phone to his ex-wife. So I had some time but not much - he'd soon realize he was no longer married to the bitch, and hang up. Thank God he divorced that woman. The details were a little sketchy, but apparently he came home early one day and caught Mrs. Stone giving their dog walker more than a tip!

Best day of my life, no more putting up with her Chanel No.5 and veiled insults.

"Oh you Irish and that sense of humor," she'd fake giggle. "However do you get anything done, no wonder the country is in such disarray!”

But by the end of their relationship, she didn't even bother trying so hard and referred to me as "Mrs. Potato-head.”

I always hoped it was more to do with the whole famine thing and not that I looked anything like Ben from Eastenders.

"JO!"

Will whisper-yelled as soft as possible but it was still enough to send me flying into the fridge.

"Back door again, really??"

Will was one of my best friends and only ally in the office. He kept me sane or drunk, never both.

"Christ Will! You scared the shite out of me!"

He thought that being gay permitted him to wear the loudest outfits known to man, and today he didn't disappoint.

"Jesus... is that a skirt?" I pointed at his legs. Which by the way were more hairless than mine?

"No it’s a kilt, my little Irish fairy!” he corrected with an actual curtsy. I just stared awaiting a real explanation

“Its Support your Heritage day! I told you about this last week! Did anyone read my email??” he yelled toward the office as he flitted off in a sulk.

 “Sure I’m the fairy!” I thought to myself limping over to my desk.

"Morning Jo!" smirked Mr. Clarke's P.A. Amanda Dawson. The "P" stood for ‘Perfect.’ I sometimes wondered if she was real and not one of those Barbie robots from Japan – it really wouldn't surprise me if under her designer skirt were plastic private parts. Fuck - she'd probably STILL get more action than me! Amanda was a 22 year old Chelsea Daddy's girl and a walking poster child for why men should pull out.

“Late again Jo? Don't worry - I won’t say anything to Mr. Stone but as a suggestion I think you should invest in a real alarm clock. I'm sure you could pick one up at John Lewis, they'll have a sale on soon." She patted my arm and tilted her head like a dignitary visiting a refugee camp. This made my lip curl over my teeth.

"Thanks Amanda, but if I want your opinion I'll kick your kennel!"

With that she snapped her perfect jaw line back towards her desk, and in strolled Blaze. I hated my job but I loved my boss, without sounding too Savage Garden,

I truly, madly, deeply loved my boss!

Everyone loved him, even though he wasn't aware of the power he held over women and men, if Will was anything to go by. I always thought swooning was a just some word Jackie Collins invented until my first interview here. I literally fell over when he greeted me, my knees collapsing under me for the first time, despite the weight they carried.

He smiled sweetly to reveal perfect teeth and blamed the old carpet to save me further embarrassment. His dark caramel eyes glistened as he held out a hand like a white knight. He seemed more carefree back then, and that was only two years ago. Nowadays he was less trusting of people, because whatever window he had left open inside himself was now shut down tight.

At just 29 he was so accomplished. He landed The London Businessman Award two years running. He was the whole package - fit, tall and had that deep broody angry sexy... Okay I've lost my train of thought, but you get the idea. He was HOT and girls like me don't get the hot guys, we only get to stare at them on the underground while they mentally undress the Amanda's of this cruel world. So the fact I got to spend most of my day with Blaze was the only perk I needed.

This morning he seemed less focused and tired, confirming I was right about the ex-wife then.

"Morning all!” His greeting was formal yet polite.

He sauntered past Annie the receptionist, who must be at least 100 years old at this stage and looks like she's haunting the place rather than part of the staff. Mr. Stone was then passed some papers from Kate Vile - our client liaison, who never failed to live up to her name.

"Good Morning Mr. Stone!"

Amanda's perky breasts greeted him eagerly. I could feel a growl rolling inside me and like a wild animal I wanted to pee all around him just to claim my territory.

"Morning Ms. Dawson," he replied without looking up from the papers.

"Jo? My office  please, and bring your diary."

Mmmmm, I love how he says my name. How can a man make one syllable sound so delicious? I swear he walks in slow motion.

"Eh, Jo?" he repeats, now staring at me.

Shit!

“Oh! Yes Blaze! Ah, eh, Mr. Stone - sorry, I'm coming!"

Will raises an eyebrow to match his smirk.

“I bet you are you dirty tart!” he whispers as I follow Blaze into his office like a lovesick puppy.

I close the door and inhale the room - it smells of him.

"I trust you’re well and had a nice weekend?" he asks whilst rounding his large desk and slipping the tailored jacket down his broad shoulders.

I’m not sure if this is a statement or a genuine question but I decided on a short response and spared him the escapades of me and Will getting thrown out of a Camden club for disorderly conduct

"Yes Sir, thank you".

His office was huge with floor to ceiling windows and a beautiful view of St James's Park. Scattered around the mahogany shelves were antique heads and ornaments - no doubt collected by his younger self during his family trips to Asia. If I was lucky enough, I got a tinkers trinket from some Kilkee stall as a child.

And with that memory I can mentally taste the bottle of Old Spice Dad had spilled in the car. It had impregnated the upholstery and always released a sickening aroma on damp days. Mum and Dad bickering over routes and the rhythm of window wipers was the soundtrack to my childhood excursions. A far cry from Blaze and his private jet no doubt!

The Family Stone were old money. His great grandfather had opened a hotel in the 1800's which became two and before long had expanded into a chain all over the world. So Blaze never wanted for anything - his trust fund must have been close to fifty million easily! But he was an old soul and chose to earn his way in the world, which of course made him even more irresistible.

The heavy silver frames housed photographs of his parents outside a large manor house. His sister and her husband onboard a yacht and one of him asleep with his nephew, which I adored. I used to stare at it and imagine them as my husband and son, yes I was THAT twisted

"Please move my one o'clock with Jim Murphy to this evening, and book a table at the Garson club for three people."

I immediately hunch over my diary and begin to scribble.

"Today I'll be working on the Victoria project so I will need the status report from Kate ASAP.  Remind her it was due last Friday and don't take any of her nonsense!”

He rolls up his sleeves to reveal tanned arms and the tip of a mysterious tattoo, I was starving to see. I couldn't help but smirk at the last command. Kate Vile was more polished than the Queen’s fingernail - which got up Amanda's tiny nose more than anyone. With her private school accent and slim physique she was by all accounts, a perfect match for Blaze.

Fortunately he had seen his fair share of gold digging debutants and she was no different. He knew she would inevitably tire from his rejections and move on where her assets would be appreciated. But he needed her snotty attitude and delusions of grandeur to win over some of our, well, similar clients.

"Oh, and I'd like you to accompany me, to the LAB this year."

The London Architects Ball was the highlight of the property world - invites may as well have been hidden in Wonka bars.  I stop writing, stunned, wondering if I had heard him right.

"Jerry O'Brien will be in attendance with his PA, so you two will be working closely once the contract is signed. It would be good know the face behind the name. Also the fellow Irish accent may win him over!"

His expression seemed to lift with that last line. He quickly glanced over to my side of the desk with the faint hint of a smile. His black hair swung over his dark eyes. Time seemed to stop as he tamed it back, automatically flexing a bicep.

Once I realized I had been staring at his hair a second too long, I flipped through my diary - distracting us both from the rising blood cells racing towards my face.

"That'll be all for now," he concluded.

It might have been my imagination - but that smirk still lingered at the corner of his mouth, and it briefly reminded me of the old Blaze. The playful charming boy who ran this company, before the heart broken man took his place.

“Oh and Jo? Please use the front entrance from now on?”

THE LAB!!!! My mind screamed when closing his door. This would be the first time I ever saw Blaze outside the office and I will be on his arm at the LAB!

Well not exactly on his arm, but hell that's why God invented Photoshop. Secretly I know I'm already reading way too much into this invitation. After all, it’s just a meet and greet, but no one else needs to know that.

I immediately text Will to meet me in the kitchen but he was already in there - tending to a rouge thread from his kilt.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

I was practically hopping on the spot.

"What's up Mrs. Doyle?" he asks grinning, finding himself hilarious.

"Stone just asked me to the LAB!”

 Will’s jaw dropping was enough to send me over the edge and I was hit with an immediate dose of reality.

“Oh Jesus, what the hell am I gonna wear?” 

..... to be continued