Free Desk Jockey Jam by Ainslie Paton Page A

there were different types of aggression; hers was the type to cut a guy
in half for being honest finally.  “Chicks who play a contact sport don’t have
to run around in the shower to get wet.”
    “God, you’re so superior.”
    “Look, it doesn’t matter
what I think.”
    “You’re right.”
    “I just needed to understand
you’re bruised because you, well you’re okay about being bruised.  I don’t need
to know the details.”
    “You’re on a roll now.”
    “So, look me in the eye,
Bree.  Tell me you’re not being hurt by anyone, and I’ll leave you alone.”
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.”
    And she did.  She jerked
her chin up, fixed her honey brown eyes on him and they didn’t waver, not for
second.  It was so belligerent in its way, the waiter hesitated to approach. 
She said, “Thanks,” addressing the guy, without breaking eye contact with Ant and
the waiter put their cups down and scarpered.
    When she spoke her voice
was formal, cool.  “Thank you for your concern, Ant.  I appreciate it.  I do. 
It probably took a lot for you to do this.  But there’s been a
misunderstanding.  I’m bruised because I play sport and sometimes I get hurt. 
Not often, and not badly.  I’m good at what I do.  You don’t need to worry.”
    He took a sip.  He didn’t
believe her.  She was the girl most unlikely to play a sport where you’d get
knocked around and injured, it wasn’t just her lack of bulk, it was her
pedigree.  A woman like Bree went to plays and gallery openings.  She’d play
tennis or golf, maybe ran.  He figured a boxing class at the gym was the
closest she’d get to a contact sport.  Yet that’s not what she was telling
him.  And she’d done what he asked so he had nowhere to go with this.  “If
something changes and...”
    “It won’t.  I’m not in any
trouble.”
    He shook his head.  “I
want to believe you, but...”
    “Ant.  You’ve done your
bit, but we’re good to go back to ignoring each other.”
    “We are.”  The problem was
he didn’t want to be back there.  Not only because he didn’t trust her story,
but because the more he saw of her the more interesting she was.
    She left him in the cafe
and for the rest of the fortnight they ignored each other, but it was ignorance
with a difference.  Now instead of sliding eye contact, there were nods of
acknowledgement and the occasional smile.  There was even an accidental
conversation or two, once about how slow the lift was, and once about traffic. 
Unremarkable, except pretty much all of their previous accidental conversations
featured the study of each other’s footwear.  So this was progress.  Though it
felt more like treading water.  And if Bree sported any new bruises she kept
them well hidden.
    And every day they shared
a “Gosh, it’s hot outside,” or a “Have a good evening,” they were one day
closer to the announcement of the winner of the fake share portfolio
competition.  Ant might have graduated from looking at her stilettos to her
eyes but he wasn’t rolling over to let her pat his tummy.  The competition was
his.
    Doug decided a team dinner
was in order to celebrate, so Friday night they converged on Pinetti at the
ultra trendy Vine.  The place was packed with the cities best and brightest, the
rooftop pool sparkled, the drinks flowed, and the mating game was in full force
by the time Ant arrived.  He hated this place.  It was all about the gloss and
glamour.  It shit all over Son of a Beach Bar in terms of facilities, hell,
even in terms of basic cleanliness, but it was so deeply superficial it made
his head spin.  And this from a guy who specifically cultivated superficial in
his love life.  Maybe he was getting old. 
    The rest of the team,
except Doug who was somewhere behind him in the crowd, were seated when he
dragged his arse in.  If it weren’t for the meal being on Doug and the
announcement of the winner, he’d have made an excuse and gone for a