Never-Man

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It is with some shock I realize, a few hours later, that the extremely annoying, high-pitched giggles are emanating from my own throat. The table, its floral centre-piece, the whole room, in fact, looks slightly off-balance. Tilting to the right.

"Honey, you okay?"

I look up at Derek White who looks very amused.

"Yes, I'm quite fine, thank you very much," I reply, indignation creeping into my voice.

"If you keep twisting yourself, you're going to fall off your chair," he laughs. I straighten and squirm in my seat. "That's better."

"Derek, I think I should go home." Too much alcohol in you, Aria. You don't want to be on your toes with all this in your system. "Could you help me get a cab, please?" I rise unsteadily to my feet, swaying slightly in my brown suede Prada heeled boots.

How did I get here? So we walked out of the office to Derek's Beemie, and he insisted on drinks, which I figured would be helpful given my shitty Sunday. We went to this place his friend owns and we had a bit of champagne. Or a lot. And the vodka shots were whose idea? Right. Mine.

Argh. Sometimes I don't like me. Absolutely irresponsible once a quart of alcohol finds it way into my mouth. I sit down. Some of the tipsiness has gone and I look warily at Derek. He seems fine, signalling the waiter for the check.

"Aria, you are fine, right?"

"Yeah! Absolutely. A-okay!", I say brusquely.

"'Cause you're looking at me funny."

He pays the check and I don't protest. I'll pay him back tomorrow first thing. He helps me to my feet, and though I don't care much for the proximity, I am somewhat grateful. Wouldn't trust myself to walk out without accident, not in these boots, not over this plump carpeting.

He smells annoying - some really expensive cologne with too much musk. I hate men who smell of musk, anyway. Which sane person would find a deer's belly juices sexually inviting? Ew.

But from up close, he doesn't look so bad. His mouth is set into a smile, like he's always happy. Or always sizing up your boobs. But maybe he really is a nice guy. He's probably just trying to be friendly, even when he put his hand on my back. I'm sure he'd have taken it off had I told him. Maybe he just makes mistakes with perfume.

"Um, thanks. For everything," I say hastily, realizing how ungracious I was being. Until I pay him back tomorrow, it'll be like he paid for my drinks, and I should be thankful for that. Oh, and better to keep your future boss thinking highly of you. Look at how he got me out of staying the night in office! He'd be a good friend to keep.

"Oh, hush!", his eyes sparkle at me, "I enjoyed your company immensely. That story about the time you went skiing and that pack of wolves - hilarious! You're one of the funniest people I've met!"

Funny? ME? No one has ever told me I am funny. NO ONE. This guy. He sees a side of me I never knew existed. I feel two inches taller and several times prettier.

Maybe we could really be friends after all. We'd go out for drinks and dancing, he'd ask me relationship questions about Jeremy the Xerox guy, I'd be his friend and philosopher, we'd even - someday - run the firm together. Perhaps, change the name to Moreau and White. Or White and Moreau, because he is the owner's son and it'd be polite to put his name there first. Hmm. White and Moreau. W&M. Very cosmopolitan, very businesslike. Very European. We'd probably get a lot of European clients with a name as sound and trustworthy as -