Wanting the Man

The car ride to his house was a silent affair. She looked out of the window, and he kept his white-knuckled hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

The scenery flashed past as she sat rigid in the cream leather upholstery. It took most of her control not to drool over the Italian sports car that encased her.

The remainder of her self-control was spent trying not to touch it in case she accidentally broke it.

She had no idea what type of Ferrari she was traveling in, but she did know it was red and very expensive.

Part of her wondered if the reason he was so furious was because she wasn’t fussing over the car. It was the sort of car that made a statement about its owner.

She wasn’t sure what type of statement that he was trying to make, but she wagered a bet that it involved women with long legs, short skirts, and blonde hair.

Irrespective, this was a car that was born to be noticed, and she was doing her best to ignore it and its owner.

It wasn’t the type of car she had imagined him owning. Given the little she knew about him, she saw him driving a sensible sedan in a dark color.

In her mind, he would own something practical, economical, and understated. Not this, this seemed at odds with his personality.

But then again, she was starting to realize that she really didn’t know anything at all about Mr. Wood.

She’d idolized him for three years. The Mr. Wood they all thought they knew was quiet and reserved but fiercely ambitious and yet loyal to his staff and company.

He held a presence about him that captivated everyone who dealt with him. He exuded strength and power but not in a way that was arrogant or intimidating. He was always in control.

But right now he didn’t look like he was in control. He was out of his depth, and she didn’t understand why he had placed himself in this position.

OK, so he grumped and groaned, but he didn’t walk away from her. He could have easily just said ‘no’. He didn’t have to show up at all when Doctor Layton rang him.

He could have abandoned her, like her friends and family had. He owed her nothing and had, in fact, more reason than most to shun her.

So why had he agreed to this when he so clearly hated her? He might have owed his friend Tom Layton something. Maybe he lost a bet. Or he could just enjoy seeing others suffering.

He could want to make her life hell after all she did to him.

She thought back to what Doctor Layton had said to him. She didn’t know who Georgia was or why this duty would somehow fix whatever his problem was.

It was a mystery why Tom Layton thought that he needed to do ‘the right thing’. What was he, a Boy Scout? Was he going to earn a patch from looking after the emotionally distraught female?

She could see him proudly receiving the ‘Pity Patch’ and sewing it on his little uniform.

To be honest, she didn’t care what he was going through. He drove a Ferrari. He was the CEO and had buckets of money.

Whatever his problems were—they were minor compared with what she was dealing with. She wasn’t interested in hearing his trivial dilemma.

They turned into a street lined with quaint houses, all renovated to show their beautiful period features. The lawns were manicured with patterns mown into them.

The hedges were trimmed to geometric shapes, and the flower beds alive with color. The whole street looked like it was an advertisement for ‘Better Homes and Gardens’. There was nothing out of place.

It was her dream. These houses were carbon copies of her happily-ever-after house.

She was about to turn and gush about how beautiful it all was when she saw it. Amongst all the perfection was one eyesore. A modern cube house sprang up like a pimple.

It had flat sides, a flat roof, and was perforated with square holes with glass in them.

You couldn’t call them windows because they didn’t look like they belonged on the block of charcoal-colored concrete. They looked like an afterthought.

Even the garden was a stark blanket of rocks, strategic long grasses, and cacti-looking things that couldn’t be described as plants. There was nothing soft or welcoming about the building.

She couldn’t even think of it as a house, let alone a home. It was at odds with everything else on the street.

She couldn’t help the exhaled laugh that escaped through her nose as they drove in through the automatic opening garage doors.

She knew the moment that it sprang into view that this was their destination. There was nothing soft or welcoming about the man driving the car either. It stood to reason that this was his house.

Right now she felt ridiculous for imagining him in a sunny kitchen, drinking coffee at a country table with a seersucker tablecloth.

To be fair, she was feeling ridiculous for wasting three years of her life dreaming about this guy. He was nothing like she imagined him to be.

She was beginning to question why, on what possible basis, had she been so convinced that they would be ideal for each other. Not only were they complete opposites, but she actually had a heart.

When the car stopped, she looked at the door handle and wondered how much it would cost to replace it should she break it getting out of the car. Then she remembered—she didn’t care.

She pulled it with reckless haste and swiveled out of the bazillion-dollar car into the gazillion-dollar house. How the other half live, she rolled her eyes.

He had the small suitcase of her clothing already in his hand and was alternating his glare between her and the car door she had just slammed.

Oh yes, she was spot on about offending him by not mentioning the car. She just walked away from it and him, she wasn’t about to apologize for bruising red polished metal or male ego.

She didn’t get far into the house though. She stopped in the center of the open planned living/dining/kitchen area.

If the roadside of it was concrete with the odd patch of glass, then the other side of the house was the reverse. Plates of glass stood before her. The whole back of the house was a goldfish bowl.

There were no visible curtains or blinds to soften the sharp glass corners.

The view over the city was lovely, but she couldn’t get over the feeling that the city was looking in at her rather than the opposite.

She moved her mouth but no sound came out.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” there was a smile in his words. “It was well worth fighting City Planning to get this view.”

“You built this?” the horror she felt dripped from her words.

“Well, not personally. But yes. The house that was here was generic and didn’t maximize the site. Who wants to see this,” he swung his hand at the city, “Through small pokey windows and stuffy rooms?”

Following his hand, she turned to see the inside of the house. She wanted to describe it as an art gallery, but she couldn’t. Art Galleries had more stuff in them.

To call his living space ‘minimal’ was an exaggeration.

There was a metal and glass table with six chairs, which looked unused, a flat screen television mounted on the wall behind her, with one hard leather and chrome sofa facing it.

The floor was highly polished concrete, and the few solid walls were painted dark colors.

Then there was the spotless, gadget-less, food-less kitchen, complete with stainless steel splashback and cold black granite worktops.

Her mouth opened and closed again. Her mother had brought her up to be polite. He was her host, and despite the reluctance, he had still saved her from a straightjacket.

She really shouldn’t tell him that being in this house was akin to having a syringe rammed up your nose and your soul sucked out.

However, this was the ideal house to send someone contemplating suicide. Was she contemplating suicide? If she wasn’t before, she was now.

Her eyes flashed towards the kitchen, wondering which handleless drawer or cupboard held the knives.

She was about to laugh when she noticed that he was looking at her with something close to expectation on his face. Had he asked her a question?

“Um, sorry?” she blinked at his narrow-eyed glare.

“So is this everything you hoped for?”

“What?” she knew that sounded rude but, at this point, she was too confused to care.

“It doesn’t matter,” he turned away with a snarled huff, “Your room is through that door.”

“What is your problem?”

“My problem?”

“Well, you know, apart from the obvious issues you have.”

He turned away and dropped her suitcase next to the door he had just indicated.

“Look, you clearly have something on your mind.”

“There’s a bathroom in your room if you need to shower.”

She turned her head slightly and sniffed—an automatic reaction. Then she cringed. He was looking at her with his head slightly tilted to the side and both eyebrows bunched up near his hairline.

“Fine,” she stomped off towards the bedroom, snatching up the bag as she entered and muttering, “Stupid, egotistical, arrogant man.”

She stopped in the center of the room. It was the same as the living area and still nothing to cover the acre of glass that stood vertical to her.

How was she supposed to get dressed, sleep, and relax in this space? She instinctively pursed her lips, sucked in her cheeks, and made sucking noises with her best fish impression.

Tentatively, she opened the door of the bathroom. Wow, she could sit on the toilet and watch the world go by, and one whole wall of the shower was a window. Who was this guy?

Was he so conceited that he thought the world needed to see his every move? Or movement, she laughed.

Maybe he was a peeping tom. She pressed her face against the glass and looked. He was standing in the living room, looking out at the view.

She pulled back and stood tense and still. Did he see her? What a pervert. She backed out of the bathroom. There was no way she was giving him a show.

But she did need to change. Looking around, she found the only option she had. She crammed herself into the narrow cupboard with her clothing.

Empty clothing hangers fell on her head, and she almost tripped over the boxes that were stacked on the floor, but she managed to change her clothing in private.

She smoothed herself down before she left the room and wondered how she was going to survive a whole week without using the bathroom.

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” he was doing something in the kitchen. As he asked the question, he looked up at her. He stopped and stared at her. Then he burst into genuine laughter.

She stopped in the middle of the floor, confused by his amusement. She’d never seen him laugh. She doubted that anyone had heard more than a sarcastic chuckle from the man.

He wasn’t the belly laugh sort of guy. But here he was, bracing himself against the bench top as he lifted a hand, pointed in her direction, and doubled over in laughter again.

She looked behind her. Nothing, there was nothing but her in the room. Her shoulders dropped, and her eyes narrowed. She folded her arms over her chest as her teeth clenched together.

“Have you seen yourself?” his words were punctuated with chortles of amusement.

“No,” she took a step away from him as her hand went to smooth her hair down. As she reached the crown of her head, something blunt and cold spiked her. She grimaced and withdrew her hand. What was in her hair and why was he still laughing?

With both hands this time, she wrestled the object out, painfully pulling a large clump of hair out of her ponytail as she did. Only when it came down to eye level did she realize it was a coat hanger.

He was practically rolling on the floor now.

“That’s not funny,” she huffed as she pointed the hanger at him, “Don’t laugh at me!”

“And the shirt,” he coughed out.

She looked down and found the shirt she was wearing was not only inside-out but back-the-front.

“Shut up,” she folded her arms over her chest again, “This is your fault.”

“My fault? How could it be my fault?”

“You and your stupid house,” she sulked, “If you want a peep show maybe you should hang out on the strip.”

“What are you talking about?” he had stopped laughing and now looked confused.

“’You need a shower’?” she imitated his voice, “Well Mr. Pervert, I’m not going to put a show on for you. I mean I might have, before, but just because I got drunk and, if your friend is right, was drugged out of my brain, doesn’t mean I’m like that.”

“What?”

“I’m not an exhibitionist! I don’t care what sort of women you normally have in here. I’m not the sort who showers in full view of half the city, nor am I going to strip off for your amusement. I got dressed in the cupboard.”

He blinked at her. Then he walked over to a panel next to the window and pushed a light switch. The whole expanse of glass turned opaque.

“Oh,” she looked at the white wall that now stood next to him.

“I should have told you,” he frowned, “All the windows do this.”

“Oh,” she repeated as she blushed. “Well, yes, you should have told me.”

“Sorry,” he looked away, “You’re the first guest I’ve had here. I guess I took it for granted that you would find the switch.”

“Well, I didn’t,” she was backing away now.

“Go have a shower. I’m cooking bacon and eggs for breakfast.”

She didn’t answer; her face was burning with embarrassment. Instead, she turned and stomped back into the bedroom. Next to the window was the switch.

She flicked it and, as the window disappeared, she groaned and hid her face. How was she supposed to know they did that? She blinked back the tears. Why was her life one disaster after another?

What did she do to deserve this? If it was Karma, then she must have done something atrocious to warrant this backlash. It wasn’t fair.

She turned on the shower and used it to wash away her tears and cover her soft sobs. She had lost everything.

Her friends had vanished, her own mother wouldn’t answer her calls, her prized job had gone to someone else, and now she was starting to think she was losing her mind.

What was the point of all of this? With every step she took, she managed to make her life worse. So why bother? Why should she bother pushing onwards and into the next catastrophe?

She slid down the glass wall until she was sitting on the tiled floor with the water raining down on her. She curled into a ball and cried.

Only when the water started to cool did she uncurl herself and turn it off. It was then she heard the knocking. Someone was banging on the bedroom door.

“Andrea! I’m going to break the door down if you don’t answer me!” filtered the faint words through the steam in the bathroom.

She pulled herself up quickly and grabbed a towel as the bedroom door exploded. She heard the wood splinter as something heavy thudded against the other side.

Then the groan and creak of the lock failing followed by the metallic ping as it finally gave way.

As she peeked out the bathroom door, she saw a man falling through what was left of the door and running at speed into her room, only to collide with her suitcase on the bed.

The door itself slammed into the wall with enough force to lodge the door handle into the plasterboard.

She grasped the towel around her as her hair dripped on the floor. The doorframe was destroyed, the door was in pieces, and the man on the bed had her underwear on his face.

If she needed further evidence that Karma was out to get her, she didn’t need to look far.

“You’re OK?” Mr. Wood had disentangled himself from her bra and was delicately sweeping her knickers from where they seemed stuck to his shirt front.

She just stood there, unable to know what to say.

“You should have answered,” he looked away from her. “I thought... well, I thought... You were a long time in the shower.”

She didn’t move.

“I had to make sure you didn’t... well, make sure you were alright... it’s my responsibility to make sure you are alright.”

He was looking anywhere but at her. Curious as to why, she looked down at herself. In her haste, she had wrapped the towel tightly around her upper half but not so thoroughly around the lower section.

She threw her hand down there to hide herself and managed to lose hold of the top of the towel at the same time. The towel slipped from her as she fumbled.

A small squeak slipped from her as she struggled to cover herself again. Andrea spun to the wall, which she had just noticed was glass, as she hadn’t thought to flip the switch in the bedroom.

She wrapped an arm around her breasts and managed to keep the towel at her waist, but only barely.

“Please leave,” she whispered in a broken voice.

“Oh,” he seemed surprised, “Yes, of course. The door’s a bit broken.”

“Just go,” she whimpered again.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he left, shutting the door as much as possible behind him.

She closed her eyes and, with her back to the glass, flipped the lever that turned it white. Maybe she should have gone to the psychiatric asylum.

She might have been safer there, protected from her own ability to do stupid things. Was it too late to ring Doctor Layton and see if there was a vacancy?

Through the pieces of wood that now stood where the door once was, she could hear him muttering expletives to himself. At least she wasn’t the only one.

She grabbed some clothes and threw them on before anything else happened. She needed to be dressed before the next tragedy greeted her.

He was banging around the kitchen when she gathered together the strength to make it out of the room.

She carefully checked her clothing and hair before she left the room and then edged what was left of the door open enough to squeeze through into the living room.

She didn’t say anything as she sat at one of the bar stools where the plates were set up. She kept her eyes on the food as she took breakfast from the plates he had set up.

She did hear him open his mouth, but when she didn’t look up to him, he must have changed his mind. They ate in silence and when she did take her eyes off her plate, he was watching her eat.

“Do you have any plans for today?” he continued. When she shook her head, he asked, “Is there anything you want to do? Do you want me to drive to the mall?”

She grimaced. He was the typical guy. Of course, every woman is cured from any ailment with a good dose of shopping. And if that didn’t work, the next step was to throw chocolate at her.

“No shopping, no chocolate, I just want to curl up with a good book,” she looked around the bare walls, “If you own any books?”

“Chocolate? A book? Yes, of course I have books,” he walked across the room and came back with an e-reader. “It has an extensive library on it. But no chick-lit, so just buy what you want to read.”

“No, this is fine,” She took it and started to scroll through the books. It didn’t take long to find what she wanted, and she sat on the sofa and ignored the man who was now standing in the middle of the floor.

In the background, she could hear him, but she instead lost herself in the book. As usual, the written words blanketed her and protected her from any harm.

It was her preferred place to be and was where she turned to when the real world turned against her.

Something nudged her. She jumped, shaken out of the world she had retreated into. Her head spun around as she tried to remember where she was.

Sunlight poured in through large windows and a large figure loomed over her.

Her fist shot out. It grazed skin before it met free air. She pulled it back for another shot when a hand captured her wrists.

“Whoa, hold up,” the deep voice smoothed, “It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What?” she looked around and recognized Mr. Wood. “Why?”

“You fell asleep. Sorry to wake you but it’s one o’clock and I need to go into the office.”

“What?”

“You know the office, where we work,” he said with slow annunciation, “That place with all the desks.”

“What?” this time she was confused by his patronizing tone.

“Wake up Andrea,” he said. “I’ve got work to do. Come on, Sleeping Beauty, time to rise and shine.”

“Did you honestly just say that?” she growled.

“Come on, time to get going,” he was still standing over her. “Now don’t go back to sleep.”

“Can’t you just go without me?”

“And Sleeping Beauty morphs into the grumpy bear,” he muttered so she only just heard him. “You have to come with me,” he said at normal volume. “I’m not able to leave you alone, remember.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Come on, Andrea, time’s a wasting. We’ll be there all night if we don’t get moving.”

“You are so annoying,” she groaned and swung her feet to the floor. But he was halfway to the door, and if he heard her, he didn’t reply. She pushed herself up and followed with a yawn.

The car trip was silent again. He parked in his own personal park in the underground car park that she didn’t even know was there. Then the elevators took them up.

He didn’t say anything to her about why he needed to go to work on a Saturday or what she was supposed to do while he worked, and she didn’t ask.

When they got to their floor he vanished into his office and left her standing next to her desk.

Great, just great, she thought as she dropped into her chair.

Maybe this was her final humiliation, she was going to die of boredom and be discovered on Monday with a ridiculous expression set in rigor mortis on her face.