The Boss

Stacey's eyes were unusual: wide-set and indigo. Her dark hair was shoulder-length, and shone with vitality, as if she had walked straight out of some shampoo ad. Today, she wore a red T-shirt, along with her navy-blue, fitted trouser suit. She was tall and slim, without being too slim – had “curves in all the right places”, as they used to say.

Not that Frank was so out of touch as to tell Stacey as much, and expect his observation to be taken as a compliment. Nowadays, young women all aspired to be thin, with no stomach, and hardly any breasts – or, else, those awful implants, which didn't look in the least bit natural.

Steady on, Frank. Shouldn't even be thinking about Stacey's figure, and certainly not her breasts. She's young enough to be your daughter – and also happens to be your boss. The latter fact was almost unbelievable to Frank, who had, for over twenty-one years, run his own business. Now, he wasn't much more than a glorified filing and data entry clerk.

“Listen, Mark – I'll ring you back tonight, okay?” Stacey was saying. “I'm snowed under here, and really don't have time for this right now.” She replaced the receiver, seeming uncharacteristically flustered. “Yes, Frank?” Her tone was polite, as always, but Frank detected a degree of irritation that was unusual for his, normally easygoing, line manager.

He handed her the document he had been holding, aware that his palms were on the sweaty side. Damn office heating.

“I came across this, in one of the files, and thought I should check it out with you. It seems that Mr. Baker...”

As Frank relayed the minor work-related query, Stacey visibly relaxed. Back into efficient business woman mode. She answered him clearly and concisely, with the standard, textbook response to this, obviously run-of-the-mill question, which newer staff members must have asked her countless times.

Frank was left to wonder about Mark, and the little girl, with long, blonde hair in bunches, whose photograph was blue-tacked to Stacey's PC.

“That's my daughter, Jessica,” said Stacey.

The sudden change of subject took Frank by surprise. His turn to feel flustered. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...She's very pretty.”

Stacey smiled. “I won't tell her you said so. She's vain enough, as it is. Jess is pretty, though. Doesn't look a bit like me, does she? The spit of her dad.”

Frank didn't want to think about Jessica's dad. “You don't look old enough to have a daughter of – she must be at least eight or nine, mustn't she?”

“Nearly ten. I don't suppose I am old enough to have a ten-year-old, really. I was fifteen, you see, when Jessica was born.”

Frank didn't know what to say.

“You don't approve, do you?” For a moment there, Stacey actually looked as if it bothered her, one way or the other, whether Frank approved of her or not. Vulnerability made her look even younger – and even sexier.

He imagined himself asking her: “Do you fancy a drink after work, Stace?”

Stace. That was what her younger colleagues called her. He longed to call her Stace, and run his fingers through her dark hair, with the copper highlights.

“I don't disapprove, Stace-y,” he replied, ironically feeling as awkward as a teenager.

Their eyes locked – just for a moment. Stacey looked away first. She shuffled some papers around on her desk. He was dismissed.

Later, when Frank was checking his emails, he found one from Stacey. It was entitled: “Sorry”. He clicked on the envelope icon.

Didn't mean to be stroppy earlier. How about a drink after work? It's hard to talk here. Stace.

Frank had to read the message about six times, before he was able to believe that he had received such an email – never mind considering how to answer it.

***

Stacey was picking at the label on her bottle of Budweiser. It still surprised Frank that the younger generation preferred to drink straight from bottles and cans, invariably declining a glass when offered, as Stacey had just done.

Frank wished that the background music could either be turned off or, failing that, up. At this level, all he could distinguish was that relentless bass line, characteristic of almost all pop music, recorded since the 1980s.

“I can only be half an hour, tops,” said Stacey. “I need to get back for Jessica.”

“Of course – no problem, love.” The “love” echoed in his brain, and he wished he could snatch the word back. Did it sound like a “love” he would have used for a wife? Or a daughter, perhaps? Either way, it was wrong – inappropriate.

“Do you have children, Frank?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Janice never wanted them,” he added, almost apologetically.

“Janice? Is she your wife?”

Frank was taken aback. Stacey seemed unsure as to whether or not he was currently married.

In which case, why was she...?

Why was she what? Flirting with him?

“Ex-wife,” said Frank, forcing himself to look Stacey in the eye, as he spoke. In the dim light of the quiet pub, she looked even more beautiful than she did at work. “How about you, Stacey? Who's Mark? Is he Jessica's dad?” Sounded awful, that – as though Frank believed that she was, in some way, answerable to him. “You don't have to answer that,” he added, hastily.

“No – no, it's fine. Mark, who I sometimes talk to on the phone, you mean?” This with a faint, half-smile.

“Yes.”

“He's my brother. Always in some sort of trouble, is our Mark. Jessica's dad is called Peter. I haven't seen or spoken to him for the past four years. He's entitled to access to Jessica, but no longer chooses to exercise the right.”

“Janice did have two sons, in the end, with her second husband, Steve. So maybe it was just me.”

“Apparently, Jessica has a half-sister now. She might be interested in that one day. I wouldn't mind, if she was. It's hard for her, being an only child.” Stacey glanced at her watch.

“Do you have to go?”

“I'm all right for another ten minutes or so.”

So am I, thought Frank.

And, beyond that...?




Paula Writes