I'm not sure exactly when I fell in love with Jenny. I suppose it must have been quite early in our acquaintance.
We actually started with the company at more or less the same time. I was a graduate trainee, very proud of myself in my shiny new Burtons suit; she was simply one of the nameless plebs who used to push the post trolley around the building three times a day. She was just 19, killing time between leaving college and starting her own more junior traineeship with us. Tall and slim with her long chestnut hair worn in a ponytail, even then she was considerably more stylish than the usual breed of dull-eyed troglodytes who were taken on for that sort of work. Dressed under the standard brown overall in skin-tight Levis adorned with flecks of glitter, impractical wedge heeled shoes displaying toenails painted a different shade every day. Her passage through our office invariably attracted glances and the occasional ribald comment from my older, more self-assured male colleagues.
That huge wooden post cart of hers nearly cost me my manhood. Rushing around a corner towards a meeting one day I ran head on into the thing. I managed to twist sidewards to protect my knackers from being crushed, but as my hip slammed bruisingly into a metal handle the styrofoam cup I was holding spilt scalding coffee onto the crotch of my trousers. It was entirely my fault, but tears of embarrassment sprung to the poor kid's huge eyes - that was when, quite incongruously, I first noticed what a pretty cornflower blue they were. Apologising profusely, she dashed around the cart, squatted before me, and began rubbing vigorously at my damp groin with a cloth! Suddenly realising exactly what she was doing she rocked back on her heels in shock, her hand flying to her open mouth as her face turned as crimson as her toenails. Grabbing her trolley with one hand she yelped "Sorry" again and hurtled round the corner like a scalded cat. The lads would have laughed like drains at that story, but I was too embarrassed myself to tell it to anyone!
She disappeared from the mail run shortly after that. Then one day I had a problem with one of my invoices and I went along to Accounts to sort it out. That was when I found out she was Jenny McAlpine, a fellow Londoner despite the name, and the squiggle who had been signing off my figures lately. Greeting me with a bright smile she said, "I hope you're not permanently scarred!" It took me a second to realise what she meant and, while the penny dropped, she took the invoice from me and glanced at it. Then, looking back at me with a mischievous glint in her eye, she exclaimed, "Oh, so you're the Mr Douglas the girls are always talking about." Later, of course, I thought of all the snappy, witty answers I could have given her. At the time, thrown completely off-balance by the remark, and by the expectant amused silence of her colleagues around me, I just mumbled an explanation of my query and, feeling my face burning, turned and fled, pursued by shrieks of female laughter.
I saw Jenny quite often after that. When there was something to discuss about my accounts; or in the pub whenever someone in the department had a birthday or was leaving, Christmas time, that kind of thing. On those occasions there always seemed to come a point when Jenny and I found ourselves slightly apart from our colleagues, heads bowed together as we chatted about this and that, an amused smile on her face as if she knew some big joke nobody had let me in on. This isolation wasn't intentional on my part -- not consciously, anyway -- but I began to eagerly anticipate each new social evening. On days when I felt particularly fed up I would use the slightest excuse to arrange a work meeting with Jenny, just to see her sunny smile, and hear her throaty chuckle as I cracked jokes and we shared the latest gossip about this or that colleague.
We got to work together properly about 18 months after the trolley incident. I was picked to be part of a small team to work on a special project, and was told I was entitled to an assistant. I immediately suggested Jenny, with no idea if she would be interested. She accepted, and there we were -- eight of us, in our own little suite of offices on a two-year deal. Jenny was into power dressing by then -- colourful business suits with short skirts and shoes with four-inch stiletto heels, which combined to emphasise her long, shapely legs. We shared a room with two other blokes, and the four of us quickly developed an easy-going, jokey camaraderie. The work was interesting and challenging, and I prided myself on being one of those rare blokes who could have a good friendship with a woman without the issue of sex raising its ugly head. Not that that explained why Jenny's tinkling laugh so often echoed in my head on the journey home after work, or why she was the first thing I thought about every morning.
I really have no idea why it never occurred to me to ask her out. Subconscious fear of rejection I suppose -- after all, I was good enough looking, but Jenny was a real knock-out, truly special; and not wanting to put a cloud over a friendship I really valued. Besides, there was some long-term boyfriend somewhere in the background, although she never really talked about him. Not that I wasn't seeing girls at the time. I regularly went out on the pull with my mates, I just seemed to have a genius for picking the wrong women: the relationships rarely lasted past the first date. In fact for a while it seemed as if my romantic disasters were the main source of entertainment in the office. My male workmates would guffaw as I told my tales of woe, while Jenny shook her head at me in mock despair and chuckled to herself.
Away from the strictures of head office we'd got into the habit of team visits to the pub after work every Friday. Nothing heavy, just a couple of drinks and a chat to ease us into the weekend. Jenny and I generally found ourselves sitting together on a velvet-covered bench seat and one evening, as we rocked with laughter at a particularly tasteless joke, our heads cracked together painfully. Jen laughed it off but I saw stars. Immediately concerned, she took my face between her hands and fixed her baby blues on mine, asking in a worried tone if I was okay. Embarrassed at suddenly being the centre of attention I launched into a couple of bars of the old Elvis number 'Hard Headed Woman'. Giggling with relief, Jenny sank back in her seat.
After a couple of minutes I became aware of Jenny's hand lightly resting on my thigh. I thought she probably didn't even realise it herself, but as she laughed at another joke her fingers curled into my leg, and as she sat forward to pick up her drink her hand stroked along my upper leg. Instantly I developed the stiffest hard-on of my life. Alarmed that Jenny might notice my trousers doing their impression of a circus big top I quickly excused myself and headed for the gents. Once there I slumped against the wall and loosened my tie. It wasn't a hot night but I was sweating like a man with malaria! Stumbling to the urinal I forced my still stiff member to point down towards the bowl.
Seconds later our boss Jim, a short jovial Scot close to retirement, was standing at the next urinal. Staring at the wall, as you do, he asked with forced casualness, "So, how's it going between you and Jennifer?" Something in his tone made me wary: Jen and I had been getting on great, she surely couldn't have said anything negative? I replied guardedly that the work was well on target. With a smirk he said, "Actually, I was thinking of outside office hours." Picking up on my evident bewilderment, as he rinsed his hands he said in apparent surprise, "Paul, you don't mean to tell me you're not giving her one? We all took it for granted -- Christ man, she's gagging for you!" Shaking his head and chuckling he waddled out of the toilet.
I was perplexed. If a beautiful, sweet kid like Jenny was making a play for me I thought I would have been savvy enough to notice. When I returned to the bar she was standing buttoning her coat, looking out for me. "Paul, I just wanted to make sure you really were okay before I go." With a straight face I asked which of the two of her had said that. Giggling, she feigned to slap me but instead took my face between her hands again. "Fool! Oh Paulie, I seem to have a special talent for hurting you, don't I. C'mere, let me kiss it better." She pulled my head gently towards hers and placed a tender kiss on my temple. Her jasmine perfume filled my nostrils. Behind her, Jim gave me a filthy leer and raised his whisky tumbler to me in mock salute. Releasing me, Jen put an arm round my waist, gave me an affectionate squeeze and left. Oh shit, I thought, there's that stiffy again! I spent an unsettled weekend trying to get my head round the situation. Jen and I had always been jokily affectionate, but she couldn't seriously be interested in a twerp like me -- could she? Sod it, long-term boyfriend or no, on Monday I was going to ask her out. I could do it in a humorous way and if she wasn't up for it, fine, we'd still be mates, but at least I'd know where I stood.
My timing could not have been more impeccable. I arrived at work to find Jen had already been called away to head office. She returned at lunchtime, flushed and excited. It seemed the new Glasgow office was looking for a bright young prospect to fast-track, and Jim's and my glowing reports of Jenny's work, plus the business studies diploma she'd studied for in her own time, had convinced someone that she was the one. She had relations in the area, it meant an immediate salary hike, a lot of new responsibility, and a mapped-out path up the career ladder. It was a brilliant opportunity and everyone else was thrilled for her. Personally, I felt as if someone had just taken a chainsaw to my guts.
