Two Sides to Every Story Pt. 01

Now, if I really was the mercenary bitch painted by Darling Mikela, I would have been on the next bus to Keighley. But Steve was a nice guy and I felt I owed him some assistance. I was also well impressed by the package he'd offered me and had no inclination to work three years elsewhere. So I started at nine o'clock and, after suitably warming my seat, went to find out why Dave hadn't been answering her phone.

Big shock. There was a spotty-faced kid sitting at Dave's work station.

'Ah yes, Davina,' Steve said when questioned. 'She got herself headhunted about three months ago. Her society mobile's still in my desk drawer.'

Steve didn't have a new number but was aware of Dave's new email address. 'It's generic,' he said, writing it down for me. 'If you know the initials and surname of anyone else who works there, now you've got the code.'

Back to my station and into the email.

"Dave," I wrote, "I'm home. Why didn't you tell me you'd changed jobs?"

With the benefit of hindsight, that wasn't very fair. We had agreed that overseas calls and texts were both clingy and expensive, only to be used in dire emergencies.

Two minutes later I got her reply.

"I'm sorry Kat, but like you said, I'm a grown woman with needs. I've found someone else."

CHAPTER FOUR

I did manage to instigate email dialogue with Dave but she flatly refused to meet or give me her phone number. I tolerated this for about a fortnight then, admittedly in drink, turned up out of the blue on her doorstep.

Big Shock Number Two. She didn't live there anymore. The Irish guy who answered the door was hard to understand (as I already admitted, I'd had a few, so that was probably more my fault than his). At last accepting that she'd been gone a while, I went back to my latest digs and cried. And then I emailed under the influence.

"You are drunk," Dave replied sternly. "Mail me when you're sober."

Time passed, as it tends to do, and my project progressed well. Performance bonuses were ("for the first time in living memory," according to some older colleagues) awarded and we had a team night out to celebrate. Perhaps midway through our pub crawl, when we were all well on the way to merry, Steve drew me aside. I suppose I was expecting some sort of proposition. And, by then having been celibate for nearly six months, I was quite prepared to play along.

Stuff girlfriends, I thought. Men are far easier to deal with. And God wouldn't have given them all cocks if He didn't want me to suck and fuck one now and again.

The proposition wasn't what I expected. Steve had had the Keighley head-hunters after him, and not for the first time.

'They are about to enter Key Stage Two,' he said. 'That's planned to last twelve months. They've offered me the earth to climb on board. I told them I wouldn't, but you could do it in your sleep.'

'Why?' I asked suspiciously.

'I've put in twenty years at the society,' he replied. 'I'll lose that safety net if I walk. They can only guarantee me three years in Keighley, for stages two, three and four. After that, it's going to be a lottery. And, for me, walking would mean taking a demotion. Three years and I'll be just another number in the headcount, and a highly-paid one at that. When they downsize back to normal I'd be first in the firing line. You, however, could do Key Stage Two, swan off for a year and be back for Key Stage Four.'

'You're very kind to think of me,' I said, 'do you want rid so badly?'

'Of course I don't. I'll take you back in a flash if it doesn't work out.'

I was six months into my latest contract. Committing for a further twelve was a big hurdle, but I hadn't set anything in concrete. The bigger hurdle by far was Dave-shaped. Steve gave me the number to ring the head-hunters on, but I emailed her first from my mobile, outlining the situation and asking for her opinion.

"Go for the money," she replied almost instantly. "And no, I won't think you're stalking me!"

*****

My first morning at the Widget Company was spent doing "Induction". This meant I got to listen to John from HR talk me right through the history of the business before he gave me a guided tour. Starting in HR, I saw Payroll, Credit Control, Bought Ledger, Accountants, Buying and Customer Services . . . and possibly other departments I've since managed to forget about. With the single exception of Accountants, these departments all seemed incredibly busy. Rather than introducing me to everyone, John picked on one senior person in each team and got them to give "ten minute departmental life stories". Then he took me to see the factory.

There are actually three factories, mostly but not exclusively populated by men. And me in my working day best! I got countless wolf whistles without being able to trace the source of any. My guess is that those factory hands are very well-practiced at covert whistling. It was nice to be the centre of attention though, even if I was obliged to wear a yellow hard hat.

And so to IT. John had probably had enough of me by then. He handed me over to my new line manager, Craig, and beat a hasty retreat.

Craig spared me the history lesson but did say a lot about the systems, both new and old. That is, the dozen old ones and the solitary, bells and whistles new replacement. Then, probably noticing my eyes glazing over, he took me on a tour of the department, introducing me to everyone as we went. The Programmers came first (they were divided into two teams; Legacy and Replacement). Then Operators (also divided into two, albeit with less clear boundaries). And finally we spoke to the Technicians.

I had recognized a lot of faces along the way. Perhaps as much as twenty per cent of the people I met had migrated from the building society. Smiles and brief chats were the order of the day. As it happened, the face I wanted to see most was virtually the last we dropped in on.

'Davina,' said Craig, 'this is Katrina.'

She looked as lovely as ever, even if she wasn't smiling at all.

'Hello Dave,' I said, tentatively holding out my hand.

'Kat,' she replied, shaking it and letting go as quick as humanly possible.

'Another familiar face,' said Craig.

'Yeah,' I agreed. Then looking at the techie: 'I'll try not to break too many bits of kit this time.'

That brought the faintest of twitches to her lips. 'I'll believe that when I see it,' she murmured.

It was getting on lunchtime when we arrived at my latest new work station.

'Three entries for your diary,' Craig announced as I booted up. 'A 1-2-1 with me at one thirty in there.' He pointed to a partitioned-off meeting room. 'A team brief at two thirty, same place. And most important of all, it's the Christmas party on the ninth of December. The list came round yesterday and I put you down as going.'

And so my new challenge commenced. With one exception it was, I have to admit, an excellent atmosphere to work in. Talk about can-do! Everyone seemed to get on with their colleagues and the amount of knowledge-sharing was simply awesome.

In case you haven't already guessed, the exception was Dave. Because of our different roles our paths seldom crossed and, believe you me, she went out of her way to ensure that happened as seldom as possible. Determined not to be a stalker, I kept schtum and got stuck into Phase Two.

If only, I lamented on an evening, alone in my bed. If only I'd opened my heart . . .

That was, of course, total poppycock. I hadn't realized the depth of my feelings until long after I had left the only woman I'd ever wanted to be with. And trying to tell myself a declaration of love would have changed things was a non-starter. I was addicted to travelling. However Dave had responded to my declaration, I'd have still left.

Love, I thought. It's like that big yellow taxi. I didn't known what I'd got until it was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

I hadn't really been keen on the idea of the Christmas party but, as the day approached, I couldn't help catching the spirit. The Widget Company parties were, it seemed, legendary. There was an unwritten law that insisted everyone attended and let their hair down in a big way. And, I was told on many occasions, "What happens at the party, stays at the party". That sounded promising, so I decided I'd make the effort.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I assured myself.

I probably haven't mentioned it before, but I'm not much of a clothes person. At work I'm a black skirt and white shirt sort of a girl. Off duty, travelling or not, I favour Levi's and T-s or sweats. I can scrub up okay, though. And I can look good in anything from a bin bag upwards. So, damning the expense, I bought myself a slinky little number that showed off lots of leg and tit. It was silver and, in keeping with the festive season, had trillions of sequins which made it glitter at the faintest hint of light.

In all modesty, I looked exceptionally fuckable when I went out to play.

The company had hired a flashy hotel in Ilkley for the night and, being caring and responsible, laid on four coaches to get everybody safely there and back. One of the coaches picked up in Bingley, outside the old, crumbling Bradford and Bingley building. The other three picked up in Keighley, outside of Wetherspoons. Keighley was most convenient for me, so I agreed to meet a few colleagues in the pub nice and early, to make sure we didn't miss the bus.

Oh, okay then . . . we met nice and early because it was Christmas and boozing was obligatory. And who cared if it was going to be a long night?

There are two confessions for you at this stage of the story. Firstly, although my old boss at the building society didn't proposition me when we were out celebrating, I did proposition him. In fact I propositioned him then and two or three times subsequently, before I left to start my new job. By Christmas party-time I was not, therefore, particularly celibate. And secondly, my new boss had been buzzing around me ever since we were introduced. I liked him as a person and had decided that that night he was going to get lucky. So, hopefully, was I.

And not just once!

Craig didn't know what lay in store for him but still met me with enthusiasm in Spoons. I could see from their expressions that our teammates thought he was going OTT on my behalf, but returned his welcome warmly. And I didn't object when, three drinks later, he sat beside me on the coach.

'Have you been to many of these bashes?' I wondered.

'I've been to them all since 1999,' he said proudly.

'You're highly experienced then,' said I, patting him on the knee. 'I'll stick with you. You can show me the ropes.'

Craig passed the rest of our coach trip in chatting me up and trying not to look too blatantly at my tits. I passed it by sending out signals and trying to expose more and more of my flesh. It was fun. Unlike Darling Mikela, I have no problems in fucking men. I don't often indulge, granted, but it's a pastime I'm able to enjoy. And fucking the boss . . .

I was wet already and the real, physical enjoyment was still hours away.

The hotel was geared up for the big occasion (I got the impression the staff dealt with the likes of us very regularly). We were politely ushered from our coach into a bar area then, as we bought our "first" drinks, a very professional voice announced dinner would be served in ten minutes.

'They like to get this bit over with,' Craig explained. 'Once the meal's done they'll take us to the ballroom and leave us to our own devices.'

'Sounds like a plan,' I said, grinning mischievously.

The meal was three courses and came with wine. I couldn't help noticing that some of my friends from IT had gone for the veggie option. Like most everyone else, I'd chosen turkey. And I'd made the right decision; the food was excellent and, aided by the wine, Craig's company became more and more agreeable.

Then the fucking FD put his oar in.

This was a few years ago, remember? The current FD (known affectionately as "Ebenezer") is a good bloke, even if he does look like the guy in the Go Compare adverts. His predecessor was, in contrast, a proper pain in the ass. He only had two topics of conversation: work and cricket. Now I quite like cricket, especially the T20 games, but I can't do with people who focus on the stats and nothing but the stats. T20? Not this guy. If he had his way every competition would be a timeless test, so he could enthuse over Boycott's match average as he entered the thirteenth day.

I helped myself to the last of a bottle of red while the FD grilled Craig about the "financial aspects and interfaces" of the new system. Boring or what! I'm meant to be an IT whizz, but I lost the gist after less than sixty seconds. I also almost lost the will to live. After ten minutes which seemed like a prison sentence, I excused myself and went off to powder my nose. When I returned to the table it was being cleared and the two men were nowhere to be seen.

'They've gone out for a smoke,' one of the veggies said helpfully, 'or to talk in private. Maybe a bit of both.'

My glass had vanished and was probably empty anyway. Having no intention of joining a freezing gaggle of smokers, I followed the general dining room exodus and found myself in the ballroom. It was impressive, I must admit. A very large dancing area was surrounded on three sides by tables and chairs and the Xmas faves had started already. And, most promisingly, the fourth side of the room was occupied by a well-stocked bar. Without any hesitation at all, I set off towards the bright lights and smiling barmen.

CHAPTER SIX

Perhaps I'm one of the lucky few. I have never suffered from sexual harassment in the workplace. Sexual attraction . . . yes, lots of times. Harassment . . . no, nay, never. While I waited thirstily at the bar I was, therefore, surprised to feel my bum being pinched. Thinking it was some kind of accident, I didn't react. Then it happened again and I realized I needed to do something about it.

Without blowing my own trumpet, I have a cool head on my shoulders. No way was I simply going to explode. I had a dozen pithy put-down lines in mind as I turned to confront my assailant. I was going to keep my dignity, but this clown was about to get a mouthful he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

Then I saw who it was and gaped.

'Sorry,' said Dave, 'I couldn't resist.'

My mouth shut with a snap.

'Your butt's too glittery,' she went on, 'and I wanted to attract your attention.'

'You did that all right,' I managed. Then, suspiciously: Have you been drinking?'

'No more than anyone else. And yes, thanks. I'll have a Bacardi and Coke, if you're buying.'

The absolute change of demeanour stunned me. I turned back to the bar and ordered our drinks, getting Dave a double and myself a large gin and bitter lemon.

'Let's talk,' she said as I passed a glass to her. 'It's been far too long.'

*****

We found a small table in the most remote corner of the ballroom and sat, with me in the cop's position, back to two walls, and Dave comfortably close.

'I didn't know if you were coming tonight,' I began. 'I never saw you in Wetherspoons.'

'You were in the wrong Spoons,' she replied, 'I set off from The Myrtle Grove, in Bingley.'

'So you've moved to Bingley, have you?'

'Are you trying to say you haven't tracked me down yet?'

'I haven't even tried. I'm not a stalker.' I had a sip of my drink before going on. 'I did ask that Irish guy who lives in your old place. I couldn't understand him, though. Maybe I was too drunk.'

'You went looking for me?'

'Yes.' I nodded. 'I was in temporary shock after finding out you'd left work. And . . .'

'And got together with Phil,' she said when I left the sentence hanging.

'Phil as in Philippa?'

Dave nodded. 'I'm sorry, but it got to six months and I thought you weren't coming back.'

'You could have called me,' I said, 'I'd soon have reassured you.'

'It's too late now. What's happened, happened. No use crying over spilt milk.' She smiled at me and looked as if she'd never cried in her life. 'Tell me about your adventures. I'm dying to know what you've been up to this time.'

Call me a coward, but I gave her the abbreviated version, making sure she knew I'd been faithful for much of the time and safe the rest. Vietnam and Cambodia got skimped over big-time, and I didn't mention New Zealand at all (guess what? Those Kiwi girls are hotter than just hot!).

'And now you're back,' she said when I'd done. 'Fate has thrown us together again. There has to be a reason for that, hasn't there?'

'I nearly died when I visited your desk,' I said into the encouraging silence. 'This spotty-faced lad sits there now. Hey, where are you going?'

'To get more drinks. Wait right there.'

Humming along to Last Christmas, I tried not to worry. No, I tried to believe I wasn't dreaming and Dave really was friendly and talking to me again.

Please Santa, I thought, closing my eyes as if in prayer, there's only one prezzie I want this year. Give it to me tonight, save yourself the bother of climbing down my chimney.

He must have been listening because, when I reopened my eyes, Dave was back again, putting fresh drinks on the table and sitting even closer to me than before.

'I should have called you,' she said. 'I should have let you reassure me. But I had head-hunters on at me every five minutes, and I was planning to move house. And this little voice kept telling me we'd had our time together. Oh, if only I hadn't listened!'

'What's happened, happened,' I said, reusing her sentiment, 'but the future's something else. The future's another kettle of fish.'

'I should have realized that when you emailed me.' Dave laughed shortly. 'That was my big shock . . . hearing from you again. I felt like a traitor. That's why I wouldn't see you or speak to you. And that's why I've been so stand-offish at the Widget Company. That and one other reason.'

'And that is?' I prompted.

'I knew that if I saw you, I'd have to do this . . .'

Taking me completely by surprise, Dave pounced on me, mashing her mouth against mine. Ever the opportunist, I grabbed her and kissed back equally fiercely. You may wonder if I paused to think about our reputations . . . did I fuck! All I thought about was feeling her glasses against my face, smelling the scent of her, tasting her sweetness, hearing her heavy breathing . . .

She really did put effort into that kiss and I wasn't far behind when it came to ramping it up. It was wonderful being with her, snogging like teenagers, duelling with her tongue. And we didn't settle for one embrace. Oh no; although other drinks were occasionally bought and consumed, the rest of the party passed us by. We spent almost every minute kissing, cuddling and caressing each other under the table.

Then, seamlessly, we were towards the back of the coach . . . kissing, cuddling and less covertly caressing. I was dimly aware of other mixed-sex couples around us, up to much the same thing. And I could not help being aware of some tuneless oaf singing from somewhere up the front. Whoever it was thought he was "The Music Man". And, incredibly, whenever he got to "and I can play", a gang of other oafs chorused "what can you play?" It turned out he could play all sorts: the piano; piccolo; Match of the Day; Dam Busters . . . you name it.

Blanking out background interference, I eased my hand inside Dave's skirt (yes, she'd ditched the usual trousers and looked more like Velma than ever). And good gracious me! Wasn't she wet! It wasn't just her knickers that were drenched; I could feel dampness all the way down to her knees. Not that her knees ranked high on my list of targets.

Dave, meanwhile, was burrowing into my glittery silver dress, probably encountering similar levels of wetness. My heart was pounding as I slipped a finger into her, rotating my hand so my thumb could locate her clit. And I'm pleased to report there was no sign of any shaving at all since my last venture into the same territory. Excitement flooded through me; excitement and something much more tangible. If my knees hadn't been soaked before, they were right then.