I have recently been working for my parents because, 1) I am a writer so therefore I have oodles of free time, and 2) I am a writer so therefore I am constantly poor.
So when their receptionist walked out one Tuesday afternoon and the opportunity for me to actually get out of bed came up, I jumped at the chance to be occupied with an occupation until I go back to London because, 1) I need money. Have you seen shoes stores lately? And 2) a boy who works for RG looks like Orlando Bloom.
Somehow I have managed to turn an office job into a flirt-a-thon. Add some cocktails and a shorter skirt into the scenario and it would be like going to a bar…
…I should really talk to RG about upping staff morale…
Anyway…
This Orlando character (he is twenty-one. I am sure of this. His employment agreement validates it) has been aggressively flirting back with me. I am under no allusions as to why he is, because 1) secretary chic works, and 2) the fantasy of nailing the boss’s daughter is rife in every eligible male.
Sall – making dreams come true.
My mother, AM, in her infinite stupidity…sorry, wisdom…informed Orlando that I liken him to a participant in “The Lord Of The Rings”.
“You don’t know how flirting works,” I whinged to her. “I have to play this cool.”
“You have never played anything cool in your entire life.”
A quick mental run through of my past relationships, teens and all, and I conceded that she is probably right.
The next day I arrived at work to face Orlando knowing that he knows I think he looks like Orlando Bloom. At least he knows I am talking about him, I reasoned, and there are worst people to be compared to than Orlando Bloom. I once compared an ex-boyfriend to Matthew McConaughey and that went down quicker than “Fools Gold”.
I strutted into the office, with my pencil skirt ironed (oh, yes, I put in effort) and my shirt tucked in (no stains). My feet were in agony in my black pumps, but I put that down to the previous five days at a music festival where I wore gum boots. If truth be told, me feet probably still stunk.
Every time I went to Orlando’s desk to pass along a message – email is just so impersonal, right? – strutting became harder and harder. I was close to having to crawl.
“I’m a girl who could do anything – and have done everything – in heels,” I complained to myself as I went from desk to desk, photocopier to desk and candy bowl to cigarette station. “Maybe I am just not cut out for a nine to five job?”
Like that wasn’t already obvious.
The flirting was going well. Orlando was responding accordingly and contacting me whenever he didn’t need to (otherwise known as All The Time).
“I am just going out for a cigarette,” he called through to me.
“Do it naked and I would be interested,” I wanted to reply. But didn’t, because AM has instructed me to at least act professional at all times. And I will. But hey, if the staff want a raise…
Two hours into the day, I went to the bathroom (honestly? A cigarette break) and looked down at my feet.
My shoes were on the wrong feet.
Somehow, with the distraction of actually using an iron (And an ironing board!), I managed to put the right on the left and the left on the right.
There is nothing that screams “Catch!” like a girl in a pencil skirt who may actually need to be caught due to the inability to carry out single tasks that should have been mastered as a three year old.
But, you see, I win Them (boys, guys, men, taxation department) over with my personality. Seriously. (Aside: Yes, I am single). When I was twelve years old, with glasses, braces and bad skin, I remember thinking, “OK, I’m going to have to make Them laugh.”
And so I told Orlando about my shoe disaster. And he laughed. And winked at me.
Sall – 1. Pretentious Girls Everywhere – 0.
By Saturday, Orlando was adding me as a Facebook friend (2008’s equivalent of hand holding, I believe). He then moved his work out to the desk beside me. So we could, “keep each other company.”
“Oh I’ll keep you company,” again, I wanted to respond but didn’t. I fear that AM’s voice telling me to, “Be professional at all times” is going to haunt me in the not too distant future.
By midday, Orlando was showing me his tattoo.
“Take a look,” he said as he leant down towards me. I saw a glimpse beyond his collar. “Look down my shirt.”
Of course I did. Thank God I have self control (I do!), because what I really wanted to do was put my arms around, rip off his shirt and…
“At least try to act professional,” AM echoed in my mind.
“That is a brilliant tattoo [Orlando],” I said in my (sexy) office phone voice. He winked at me.
In two weeks, I am going to a bar with him (Irrelevant detail: For a fellow staff members birthday). One could say that in two weeks I will no longer be working for my parents. But I always act professionally. No matter what happens.
Post By Salium
