Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Liaden
W hat a very unwelcome sight for the end of the working day.
“Hallo, Mitchell,” I chirp brightly, just to spite him, as I walk back into my office and find him sitting in my seat and looking quite openly at my screen.
He starts slightly, scowling at being thwarted, but makes no attempt to hide or excuse the fact that he was trying to snoop through my computer.
It seems he thinks he has every right to, as Deputy Dean of my department.
I have nothing to hide, but I’m still glad that data protection training has me locking my computer when I leave my desk as a reflex action.
And my password is so esoteric and bizarre that he’d never guess it in a million years.
He looks me up and down and bristles a little as he takes in my outfit.
I’ve changed out of my work clothes and into a loose fitting top and some leggings for my second appointment with Dean this evening.
I paid extra shipping to get these leggings in time, as I saw them on social media and they seem to have been cut in such a way as to make the wearer’s butt look delightfully round and peachy, so I definitely want Dean to see me in them.
Mitchell disapproves of my aesthetic and sartorial choices at the best of times, and thoroughly loathes that my hair is pink and not a natural colour.
This outfit must be giving him eye twitches.
“Why are you dressed like that ?” he asks baldly.
By contrast, he’s dressed like he’s hoping Oxford or Cambridge University is paying attention.
Tweed all the way, today a rather pleasant mix of browns that suit his thinning strawberry blond hair.
You can tell Mitchell used to be attractive in a Charles Dance and Jeremy Irons-ish sort of way before middle age hit him and his rabid career ambitions hardened him and scratched into his face.
I may even have thrown him one if he was a couple of decades younger and his ego was a few pounds lighter.
But unfortunately, I just can’t take him seriously when he behaves like Stannis Baratheon.
“I have an appointment after work.”
“What appointment?”
“That’s none of your concern,” I say pleasantly. It winds him up that he can’t rile me.
He grunts. “More important than putting the hours in at your desk, I see.” He sneers. “You can’t be going to any professional appointment dressed like a…like that .”
“Again, none of your business.”
His nostrils flare, and he visibly brings himself back under control, relaxing his face, sighing, and shaking his head disapprovingly like a bad father.
“Liaden,” he says, Lee-ARH-den , still not able to pronounce it quite correctly after a whole year, “you’re still in the early stages of your career, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.
Here’s my advice, which I suggest you take to heart.
You will get on much better here, and progress much further, if you actually put the hours in and prioritise your job here over your…
social activities. Being a Professor in an institution this prestigious is not a nine to five job.
It requires more dedication, more sacrifice.
Working late, ensuring everything you do is done in a timely manner.
We can’t all flit off to mysterious… appointments .
” His lip curls almost imperceptibly as he once again looks me up and down.
Ah . The implication that I’m a sex worker. How original .
I grin at him. “Aww! Look at you, being all patronising, that’s so adorable ,” I say to him in as saccharine a tone as I can manage, like he’s an infant I’m potty training.
Let’s applaud his latest turd. He goes purple, and I smile wider.
“Thank you for your concern, but I am fully up to date with everything on my schedule at present.”
“Now, look -” He raises his voice, and that’s where I draw the line. I don’t tolerate that from anyone .
“ Harvard , Mitchell. MIT. Oxford . La Sorbonne. I’ve worked in some of the finest institutions in the world, and I have always handled my workload capably.
I’ve never had any complaints of any description from my previous managers.
In fact, I’ve been considered an asset by each and every one of them.
So your condescending comments are not only unwarranted, but embarrassingly wide of the mark.
” I smirk, but make sure I temper it with a look warning him not to mess with me.
“I may be in earlier years of my career than you, but I’ve worked in a greater variety of higher education establishments than you have, and developed an unimpeachable reputation in them all on my own merits, in less time than it took you to get here. ”
“And not a single flat-on-your-back shortcut taken, I’m sure.” Hello . He wouldn’t dare say that to me in earshot of anyone else, but the door is open and he could feasibly be overheard. He’s losing both his temper and his professional veneer. My retorts must really be rattling him.
Though I’m enraged by his slut shaming, I laugh at him.
I simply can’t help it. “And there it is, the last bastion of the truly threatened ageing white misogynist: I must have gotten to the top by fucking my way there . Couldn’t possibly be because I’m actually measurably more intelligent than you, or better at the job.
” I shake my head, like he really is the most absurd and dimwitted creature I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
“Unfortunately for you, it’s five thirty.
Office hours are over. I have a six o’clock appointment, you are not my supervisor, and your offensive and actionable opinions don’t matter to me or influence my position here one bit.
Ca ne fait rien. Maakt niet uit. Spelar ingen roll, Non importa .
And finally…” Having said it in English, French, Dutch, Swedish, and Italian, I round it off by signing ‘ it doesn’t matter’ in ASL.
He looks at me like he hates me, and well he might.
I’m not intimidated in the slightest, and maintain eye contact to let him know this as I pick up my keys and phone from my desk and head out.
“Do log off my PC and switch the lights off when you’re done snooping on my machine, won’t you, Mitchell,” I say loudly as I leave, and he splutters with embarrassment at the prospect of any surrounding colleagues in their neighbouring offices hearing me.
He’s devious, that one. Always trying to bully me when nobody’s listening, and it’d be his word against mine if I tried to report it.
Still, I’m not worried or threatened by him.
He’s the one threatened by me . And I’ll need to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t take things too far, but really, what a sad, sad little man.
At 5:57pm I dash into the door of Wishbone Tattoos, greeted by a smiling Emily and a woman I haven’t met before. Although they don’t look particularly alike, I quickly deduce that she’s Tim’s twin sister, Sadie, because their bright blue summer sky eyes are identical.
And then I remember. This sexy, tattooed hippie is dating Peter Lang ?
! That’s like Stevie Nicks dating John Major.
Wow. Perhaps he’s really well hung, or has a tongue like a giraffe and gives the most amazing head in the history of oral sex.
I can’t imagine it, and don’t wish to, but it has to be something like that.
It’s the only reasonable explanation. Go Peter .
After a friendly exchange, which reminds me that I need to cultivate more female friendships in my life, I head to where I’ve wanted to be all week. The door to Dean’s studio is ajar, and I nudge it, but it takes a few seconds to swing fully open because it seems to have a slow close mechanism.
And there he is.
He has his back to me for a second, but he whips around when he hears me behind him. His face splits into a friendly, welcoming grin, like he’s really pleased to see me, and the honesty in it makes my stomach flutter pleasantly.
My own answering smile is irrepressible, and I quickly drop my jacket and bag and start signing, keen to show him what I’ve learned in a week.
SO, my online ASL course is going well, and I think I can carry on a basic conversation now.
I’ve worked hard every night to learn as much as I can, setting aside at least an hour each evening, and I’ve been looking forward to his reaction.
He blinks, and then his smile grows even bigger. There’s new heat in his eyes as he holds out his fists for a fistbump, and even that scant contact, knuckle to knuckle for a brief second, is enough to turn me on.
Man alive , I need to jump this man’s bones.
OK, he begins, let’s start with…how was your day?
I can do this one. I had a nice day, thank you. How was yours?
Better for seeing you, he says, and I swear he’s going a little pink again.
I love it when he blushes. I’ve never made any man blush before, and it’s moreish.
By the way, I have seen The Office. Sorry I didn’t reply.
I’m pretty sure that was the sign for ‘reply’, anyway; it would make sense, because he didn’t answer my last message.
That’s OK , I sign. Somehow, each time I see him, he gets even better looking. Today, in his black jeans and grey long sleeved t-shirt, which hangs and clings in a way that hints very strongly at the lickable body underneath, he’s just delicious.
“Heading out now, Deano,” Sadie says at the door. She smiles at me again. “You two have fun. Eli said - ”
We don’t get the chance to hear what Eli said, because a ridiculously handsome guy with long, curly hair, a beard, and an Alice in Chains t-shirt makes Sadie jump by picking her up from behind and moving her to one side so he can enter the studio.
He grins at me, taking my hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Tosser,” Sadie grumbles.