Liaisons

I jolted awake; Adele’s Rolling in the Deep emanating from somewhere under my pillow. Rolling onto my back, my covers tangled themselves around my naked body. I sat up, my head spinning as I reached behind me to rake under my pillow for my ringing phone. Pulling it out, my blurry vision took a minute to focus on the screen.



Not a chance in hell! Lying back down, I tried to recapture what little sleep I’d had. After ten minutes at the vain attempt, I rolled over and got out of bed. Stretching my arms upwards, I yawned and headed straight for the smell of coffee wafting out of my automatic coffee maker. The emerald velvet curtains were pulled over the cityscape, negating the necessity for a dressing gown. The black stone floor tiles were freezing cold, causing me to up my pace. Pulling an overlarge mug off the cup tree, I poured myself a generous helping and drank it black, needing the caffeine. The searing heat burnt my tongue, jolting me awake as the black tar hit my stomach with a heated thud.



Finishing my second cup all too quickly, I wandered back through to my bedroom, flicking on the tiffany floor lamp before I made my way over the armoire. Running my fingers over the smooth, ornate carvings as I pulled it open, I rummaged inside, hauling out my sweat pants. If I knew Charli, no level of hangover would stop her from breaking down the door and pulling me out of bed so she could have her weekly fix of animal related poses. But my hangover took precedence, so out comes the duvet day attire.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. This was followed quickly by an impatient hammering on the door. I rolled my eyes as I opened to door, Charli pushing past me with the irritated greeting of “you’re not ready yet?”

“Hi, I’m great. No its fine that you’re here at the crack of dawn breaking down the door. Would you like some coffee?”

She rounded on me, a furious lion, standing on its hind legs in my hallway. But, rather than emitting the roar I expected, she froze.

“My god, Hannah! Did you drink any water before you went to bed?”
“Eh…well, I don’t really remember,” I admitted sheepishly.
“You really are a lightweight, Han” she mocked not unkindly.
“Hey! I’m not a lightweight; I’m a cheap date. Besides, you’re the one who dragged me out last night. I was exhausted! I crashed the moment I came home.”
“It took me forever to get that table. Act grateful” she scolded.
“Will you settle for me faking it?” I replied, rolling my eyes at her.
“Begrudgingly.” Charli turned away and headed for the kitchen. I didn’t need to follow her to know that she was making her famous (in certain circles) hangover cure.

Ten minutes (and a no doubt disaster zone kitchen) later, Charli wandered through to the living room. She has the anticipated blood red drink in her hand, complete with umbrella.

“You owe me extra yoga classes for this,” she threatened, handing over the glass. I downed it in a couple of gulps, trying desperately to ignore the burning sensation down my throat.



Having successfully poured the concoction down my throat, I thanked Charli, who hastily took her leave, wanting to fit in some time on the treadmill to make up for her lost yoga lesson. So, fully committing to my duvet day, I retrieved my trusty laptop and favourite blanket (a thick patchwork throw that my grams had knitted for me years ago) and hunkered down on my worn sapphire blue sofa. Switching on a random episode of Friends for background noise, I flipped open my laptop and brought it to life.

Several beeps and whirs later I was surfing the web, attempting to ignore the little envelope flashing in the corner of my screen. No work emails, no work emails, no work emails. I chanted it in my head over and over again. I was having a duvet day, end of. Though, a pair of suede boots, some jeans and a severe dent in my MasterCard later, my mantra was gone and my mouse was deviating into the envelope shaped danger zone.

Maybe just one, I told myself. It’s a massive project. I can’t afford to ignore it all weekend. My excuse circled around my head, my mouse hovering over the pulsating envelope. Admitting defeat, I clicked open my emails.

Oh god! There is was. ‘You have one new email from Daniel Pearson’. It came flooding back to me, like a brick to the head. Why? Why? WHY? How could I be stupid enough to email him back? I was so forward. Burying my face in my hands, I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the embarrassment that was heating my face. This could only end badly.

Knowing there was nothing else for it, I clicked open the email.

TO: Miss Hannah Rosemore (han-rose@av-gar.com)
SENDER: Mr Daniel Pearson (d.pearson@bookaid.com)
DATE: 5th May 2012 (07:12)
SUBJECT: Cloaks, Daggers & Urban Legends

Dear Miss Rosemore,

I apologise greatly for my organisation’s cloak-and-dagger routine. The joy of being the C.E.O. of such a lucrative organisation is that everyone around you is paid to be suspicious, rather successfully it seems. However, now that we are business partners, I guarantee you will find no more barriers obstructing your path. As such, I am eager arrange a get-together with you as soon as you see fit. However, I have heard that the weekend is supposed to be a time of rest (something I believe to be little more of urban legend) and with the late night I see you have had, I shall leave you be until you see fit.

Kind regards,

Daniel Pearson
C.E.O.

BookAid Ltd – Non-profit organisation

I giggled. Urban legend? He was obviously a hard worker. But I could see the obvious message between his typed lines. I shall leave you be until you see fit. He was giving me a way out. A way to gloss over our encounter and keep things strictly business.

What do I do? I knew this was a major business deal. My career was on the line for it. That should have been the end of it. And deep down I knew this. But my mind kept flashing back. His piercing eyes, his encompassing body heat, his fingertips caressing my lips…his kiss.

Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers were skating over the keyboard.

TO: Mr Daniel Pearson (d.pearson@bookaid.com)
SENDER: Miss Hannah Rosemore (han-rose@av-gar.com)
DATE: 5th May 2012 (12:32)
SUBJECT: Hot Chocolates & Hotter Climates

Dear Mr Pearson,
I am sorry to hear that the term weekend is such an urban legend to you. I’m surprised even a high flying C.E.O like yourself doesn’t get the odd weekend to fly off to some exotic location. Or even to enjoy a hot chocolate and warm comforter for a few hours as I’ve heard is very popular. Though as a workaholic, who is apparently unable to avoid her inbox for more than a few hours, I can easily empathise with your present situation. However, traditional relaxation periods aside, I would greatly like to arrange that get-together for as soon as you are free. No doubt there is plenty of business related topics that we can discuss in order to keep your weekend from becoming too atypical.

Many thanks,

Hannah Rosemore
Head Editor

Avant-garde Publishing Co.

With my stomach a jumble of nerves and optimism, I snapped the laptop closed.