Chapter 36
The look on Daisy’s face has the same combination of pride, expectation and hope as a child when they’re about to show you a picture they’ve just coloured in. It can only mean one thing. She thinks she’s onto a winner.
‘This show pushes so many buttons in terms of what audiences want these days,’ she explains excitedly. ‘Number one. Pets. I mean, who doesn’t love an animal show?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree.
‘Number two. The environment. This concept speaks to anyone concerned about climate change, specifically recycling.’
‘Sounds promising . . .’
‘And three . . . it’s original. Completely and utterly original.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘It’s called, Love . . . and Stuff. ’
‘Intriguing title.’ I feel a frisson of hope that she could finally be onto something.
‘And it’s a taxidermy competition!’ she declares.
A piece of my sandwich gets lodged at the back of my mouth and I start to splutter. ‘Sorry . . . carry on,’ I say, tapping my chest. ‘Just a piece of cress.’
‘The idea is that each week you have three recently bereaved contestants,’ she continues, excitedly. ‘They’ve all lost a beloved pet, whether a budgie, a cat or a chinchilla. Each of them has to demonstrate excellence in the art, starting with the removal of skin from carcass, through to the moulding of a perfectly formed mannequin and ending with the final, mounted creation.’
I look down at my egg and cress sandwich, which has become oddly unappetising.
‘Contestants are judged not merely on their creative skills but also their ability to create a touching and unique tribute for their wall or mantelpiece.’
‘So the “recycling” element of it comes in because they’re recycling . . . what, their dog?’
‘Exactly! Well, repurposing , really. Look, the studio has provided some examples . . .’
She flips around her computer and I’m confronted with an image of what I think was once a cat. While it is unclear what the exact cause of this poor creature’s demise was, I could only guess that it involved a few billion volts and an excursion around an electrical pylon. It has moth-eaten fur, demonic button eyes and a tail that has been coiled into what I presume is supposed to be an artistic flourish. Unfortunately, it gives it the look of one of those creepy Victorian effigies – in this case, half feline, half pig – in which two animals were sewn together and passed off by unscrupulous explorers as a newly discovered species.
‘Be honest. What do you think?’
‘Anyone fancy a green tea?’ pipes up Calvin.
‘Great idea; must be my turn,’ I say, leaping up. ‘We’ll have a good chat about it later, Daisy.’
I smile at her encouragingly, but her face falls. She already knows this will not be a goer. That no matter how much encouragement I give her when we have one of our private feedback sessions, or how many times I tell her to keep at it, she will still be wide of the mark. Sometimes it’s only slightly. More often, it’s the width of the Suez Canal.
I head across the office with three empty mugs in my hand. I don’t make as many beverages as the others – largely because I have three times the workload – but like to show willing every so often, especially if it buys me a convenient bit of time. I turn the corner to the kitchen area at the exact moment when someone closes the fridge.
That someone turns out to be Zach. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt, open at the collar, rolled up to the elbows and tucked into sand-coloured trousers. He looks as if he’s wandered in from a photo shoot on the Italian Riviera and I am assaulted by yet another vivid flashback of the muscles that are hiding right underneath that cotton fabric.
‘What are you doing here? I’m sure this isn’t your fridge,’ I say, as lightly as possible.
‘We’re all out of milk on the fifth floor, so I’m afraid I borrowed some.’
I tut and shake my head. ‘You know they chop people’s hands off around here for stealing milk? It’s a cardinal sin.’
‘I can imagine. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Consider it between us,’ I say, as we simultaneously seem to realise the double implication of the sentence.
He clears his throat and moves closer towards me.
‘How you doing, Darling?’ he says quietly.
I turn away to flick the kettle on. ‘I’m fine. You?’
‘I’m okay.’ He shrugs. ‘A little . . . weirded out , if the truth be told.’
I nod, keeping my eyes on the teabags. ‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Part of me wishes I’d kept my mouth shut . . .’
‘But then I might have been pissed off with you the following morning . . .’
‘Yep . . .’
‘Still. Part of me wishes you’d kept your mouth shut too.’ I glance up, as he releases a laugh.
Then suddenly, I’m looking into his eyes again and can’t turn away. Not merely because of the goosepimples that have swept up my arms. But because I can see almost exactly what is reflected in mine. His hands on my thighs. His lips on my collarbone. The heat of our kisses, like one endless, heart-stopping swoon . . .
‘Need a hand with those teas?’ asks Calvin, appearing at the edge of the kitchen.
Zach and I look up at him simultaneously.
‘That would be great!’ I say, before he takes two of the mugs and I quickly follow him back to my desk, without a second glance.