As usual, my grateful thanks to evanslily for her guidance and editing skills.
There is no sex at all in this story. You have been warned.
It's an odd place, the City of London. Odd shaped buildings in odd narrow winding streets, odd shaped modern offices squeezed in between old buildings that had been refurbished. Then one warm September morning I discovered the big advantage of being in this rabbit warren of commerce; I could see into the windows of the offices across the narrow tarmac ribbon of Costermonger's Lane. It had been several hundred years since the last Costermonger left (not that I had any idea what they did). Sanderson and Robbins were
marketing associates
and I had no idea what they did either. But the gold lettering emblazoned across the window proudly proclaimed their profession and telephone number.
As I blew on the surface of my coffee trying to reduce the scalding liquid to a drinkable temperature, I glanced across to Sanderson and Robbins to see HER. A Goddess. Long straight blonde hair that cascaded down her back to her slim waist. The elegant dress showed her shapely figure to perfection, the full bust with enough cleavage to entice and yet appear demure, the sleek hips that were a testament to regular visits to a gym, and legs that seemed to go on forever. Her face, when my eyes finally reached it, was sheer beauty.
I have no idea how long the vision held me spellbound, but when the telephone brought me back to reality, my coffee had cooled sufficiently to permit a long drink before I picked up the receiver.
From that day I watched her. I saw her arrive in the morning. Her every appearance near the window entranced me. At lunch time, I followed her to the sandwich bar, where she favoured tuna or prawn sandwiches with fruit and a bottle of still water. Each evening, I watched her walk towards the Tube station at Holborn. I was becoming a stalker — and yet I seemed powerless to escape the siren quality of her beauty.
Each day saw me drawn inexorably further under the spell of this seductress. It became harder and harder to work. My secretary began to make pointed remarks about the time I spent admiring the view from my window — I might have been tempted to make some sharp retort, but she was so like my mother I dared not. Thank God she didn't know what I was really looking at.
As I left for my daily lunch in the sandwich bar, Dani, the receptionist, a pleasant young woman with a fondness for shapeless dresses, would comment on my eagerness to fetch my meal. She always had an enigmatic smile on her face. OK so it was a pretty face but the expression was unsettling. Did she know of my infatuation?
How could I talk to my dream woman without looking like some creepy pervert stalker? What if she had a boyfriend? Worse still, what if she didn't have a boyfriend? Why would a woman so beautiful not have a boyfriend? What if she was a harridan? Perhaps no man was good enough for her. The endless list of questions tore at my confidence. How could I dare approach her?
By December I was completely beguiled and had to do something. I had to speak to her. Through my window I watched as she and the other staff at Sanderson and Robbins decorated their offices with fake Christmas trees, shiny foil decorations and balloons. Finishing my coffee on Friday morning, I was trying to do some of the work for which I was paid. I looked at my inbox: thirty-seven emails.
The first twelve took until lunchtime. Well not all of them obviously, five were spam – God knows why the company paid for a spam filter. Four were the usual company news, in this case two staff announcements, an engagement and a birth, and two notifications of new contracts obtained. So I actually had to work on three and they provided a welcome distraction from the Goddess.
She went to the sandwich bar and I was surprised to see her order a ham Ciabatta. Perhaps this change in routine was an omen. I wondered if I should talk to her but before I could make a decision she was gone. So I took my cheese and tomato toastie back to my desk where I could wash it down with a mug of coffee.
Leaving greasy finger prints on the computer keyboard, I returned to my email inbox. I didn't want any Cialis, I had no debt problems and I didn't want a degree in psychology, despite the cheap price. The company had won another good contract and Corporate Relations wanted to know if anyone on the staff wished to enter the Three Peaks Race. People actually wanted to run up a mountain for fun? Not for the first time, I thought I would get more work done if I wasn't trying to read all these pointless emails.
