Blackbirds

Janice Parker stared out of the car window as her husband manoeuvred the Prius through the tiny streets at the back of the offices. The day was bright in contrast to her mood. It was coming up to ten years in the same job, a job she could more or less do with her eyes closed. The trouble was that automation was making steady inroads into it. Opportunities were fewer and that meant more people chasing the same positions. Her most recent round of applications had come to nothing.

It was also fifteen years since her marriage to Dave. Solid, reliable, dependable Dave. Everything planned, nothing on impulse. All admirable qualities to be sure. Last Friday evening she had stared at the kitchen worktop knowing Friday meant fish. Tuna salad with boiled new potatoes and pickled beetroot. Once upon a time she'd tried to vary it with mackerel, salmon even, and different dressings. He'd not said anything because he did no meal prep so was not about to incur his wife's wrath on the subject, but his displeasure manifested itself in a sulk that could last the rest of the evening. Sunday was a roast, Saturday was pizza, blah, blah, blah.

Dave pulled up to the kerb and she sighed as she opened the door. However, in the distance across the market square she spied the rather dishy Gray Delacroix. Actually, strike that, pretty bloody gorgeous Grayson Alvarez Delacroix. Tall, slim, wavy brown hair, gorgeous blue-grey eyes, a quick smile ...

Behind her, Dave grunted. "Smart-arse." He didn't much care for the support office manager.

She suppressed a grin.

***

It being early February, the wind was chilly, but the lean sunshine put a spring in his step as he marched across the flags to the side entrance. Tapping his card against the security door, Gray waited for the soft click of the disengagement of the lock before pushing through to the corridor beside the lift. The lift was notoriously unreliable, but he braved it anyway.

Exiting on to the third floor he strode briskly along the corridor. The lift was halfway down one side of the building and he had to virtually circumnavigate the place to get to where his admin support team were located.

In her office on the first corner of his journey, Janice heard his distinctive rapid footfall and looked up to catch his brief smile and hand wave as he passed by. As PA to one of the section heads, she had run into him at various meetings, quickly establishing a rapport. He liked that she was sparky, careless of seniority and quick with a tart rejoinder. She liked that he was also quick and effortlessly urbane. She also enjoyed the fact that there was more than one colleague jealous of her casual familiarity with him. If he only knew how many hearts he caused to beat a little faster !

As he passed open doors on the way down the long corridor at the front of the building, he briefly glanced in to take the temperature of the various bits of the division that his team supported. Nothing seemed to have blown up yet so he would probably have time to settle in before demands were made on his attention. He had a report to write that couldn't wait.

He greeted his team as he breezed through the outer office. He had a door to his own office from the corridor but always made the effort to exchange pleasantries with the one man and five women that reported to him. They all mumbled greetings with varying degrees of attention, eyes fixed on their monitors.

There was a small white envelope on his desk. He glanced at it curiously as he hung up his jacket. Normally such things arrived in the In tray. As he took his seat, he picked it up and stared at the front with disbelief. It was marked with a capital G. The sender had converted the end of the top arc of the G into a little heart, as if sprouting a tiny flower.

"Jeez," he muttered, and swept it into the bin. For one thing, he loathed Valetine's Day for its saccharine commercialisation, and for another it reminded him that his relationship with Sylvia was going through yet another in a seemingly endless series of rocky patches.

He stared bleakly out of the window to where the late winter sun was gilding the stonework of the buildings around the marketplace.

"Can I interrupt you?"

He swivelled back to face the door. Cheryl Sanders stood poised on the threshold. Cheryl was about the same age as him, blonde hair in a bob, very blue eyes, and fashionable clothes. A dark skirt suit and a cream-coloured blouse. Nicely curvy too - when he allowed himself to notice.

"Already have," he smiled. "Come in and bother me."

"Goody!" she said and flopped into the chair across the desk.

He rested his elbows on the leather writing surface and adopted a doctorly mien.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Well," she said and tucked her hair behind her ear in a characteristic gesture that he found deeply endearing.

"It's this report- ooh!" She broke off to lean over to the bin. "Have you got a Valentine's card?"

"Lot of nonsense," he huffed. "Leave it."

She ignored him, fishing it out and opening it.

He spluttered, "That's private!"

She paused and gave him the side-eye, eyebrows raised, continuing to remove the little card.

"Hand drawn!" she remarked. "That'll thin the field down a bit."

His interest piqued; he held out his hand.

"Not so cynical now, are we?" she grinned, her blue eyes sparkling.

"Hand it over, Sanders."

She looked at him from under her lashes. The words 'make me', along with the image of an enjoyably physical tussle rose unbidden into her mind. However, Gray exuded a subtle melancholy aloofness that said, 'don't ask, don't try.'

Cheryl ignored his demand and inspected the card. The drawing was of two blackbirds perched on a twig, male and female, the latter a chocolate brown, and the former jet black with little highlights that suggested the sheen of his feathers. His bright eye and yellow beak were beautifully rendered. The two birds angled towards one another in a way that implied their union but was devoid of sentiment.

Inside there were half a dozen lines of doggerel written in an unfamiliar hand. It wasn't signed or even dedicated. She put her head on one side. The sender had gone to some considerable trouble to craft it, yet had left no clue as to their identity, which was, of course, part and parcel of the tease of the thing.

She tossed it across the desk to him and he inspected it, frowning. Then to her surprise he placed it on display on his desk.

"It's a nice drawing," he said in response to her raised eyebrows. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

***

Afterwards, as she her way back to her own office on the next floor up, her mind whirled with questions.

The rumour mill said he was unhappy in his marriage. This was entirely based on the hearsay of one of the staff who had been seated in an adjacent booth to a group of women out on the lash one evening. When the distinctive name 'Gray' was mentioned, said colleague had sat up and listened intently for the juicy details. Of which there were quite a few. It seemed that Gray had an almost incomprehensibly ethical standard. Bizarrely, his wife seemed almost resentful that he wasn't playing away. Not that she could tell anyway.

However, it seemed that someone was, however indirectly, making a play for Mr Delacroix!

***

The card niggled at him. Of his staff, two were ten to fifteen years older than him and stolid in their habits. Of the remainder, Amy was ridiculously excited to be engaged, Kirsten was fresh out of school and frightened of her own shadow, which left Hannah. And Michael, he thought uneasily. Both quite similar, quiet, and studious, not inclined to share their thoughts. He had little idea about their lives outside work.

The latter two were also about the same age as Gray. He could log in to the HR system and find out for sure of course; but recoiled from the idea. That was the trouble with these sorts of things. They generated a sort of paranoia.

Hannah was reserved to the point of invisibility. There were days when they didn't speak at all. He did his damndest to draw her out at their scheduled fortnightly reviews, but it was an uphill struggle. Michael was similarly opaque, answering most questions with a laconic 'yes' or 'no'.

He tested the idea that it might be Michael and realised that he had no idea how to handle it if that turned out to be the case. It would make their interactions even more awkward. Gray prided himself on being non-judgemental and open minded, but the very idea of a man being infatuated with him left him at sixes and sevens. So much for being non-judgemental and open minded. His thoughts turned to the other people in the division, but none of them seemed likely candidates to be his admirer.

Every so often his gaze would rest on the little drawing of the blackbirds and his lips quirked. It was a very subtle valentine, speaking less of passion and desire and more of contentment and order. It called to a deep-seated desire within himself, on the rare occasions he allowed himself to think it.

***

At lunchtime Sylvia arrived early, almost unannounced. She'd taken to doing this lately, as though trying trap him in wrongdoing. As a strategy it had not yielded any results, which simply served to make her more cross. She let herself into the room without knocking.

Exasperated, he said, "Can you not do that? I have meetings in here."

"I rang ahead to check," she said shortly.

Then her gaze fell upon the card and Gray groaned inwardly.

"What the fek is that?"

His eyes flicked to the open doorway to the outer office where the chatter had abruptly fallen silent.

"What does it look like?"

She waved it at him, and her Irish accent thickened. "Who sent it to you?"

"It's anonymous. Isn't that the convention?"

He stared at her, waiting for the drama to play out and her lips thinned in helpless fury. He was stoical in the face of her moods, unmoved by any tactic save to protect the children.

She snatched it up and ripped it into pieces.

He rose from his chair and went to get his jacket from the coatrack, not acknowledging the shredded card. Opening the door, he looked at her expectantly.

"Shall we go?"

Her face twisted and she made a small incoherent noise, before storming past him into the corridor.

***

"Who is this person you want me to meet?" he asked as they presented themselves to front of house at the restaurant. Her earlier temper had evaporated and now she seemed oddly evasive. His skin prickled with unease. Sylvia was hopeless at subterfuge.

A waiter came through to conduct them to their booth. As he rounded the corner to see who was sitting waiting for them, he stopped dead.

His father-in-law Fergal rose to greet them. He extended his hand. Gray stared at it and then up into the unsmiling face.

"Won't you sit down?"

Sylvia glanced nervously between the two men. The silence stretched and then her father sat down.

"Sit," he ordered.

"Or what? You'll break my legs?"

Heads turned at nearby tables and Fergal frowned. "There's no need for that kind of talk."

"We have nothing to say to each other," Gray said tersely and turned to go.

Sylvia grabbed his arm and looked up at him in mute entreaty.

He frowned at her. "This is the bed you've made for yourself, Sylvia. I hope you're comfortable in it."

"How long are you going to keep up this act, boy?"

Gray looked into the air. "The twins are twelve, so I don't know, six years more maybe?"

Sylvia's horrified intake of breath made him turn to look at her. He chuckled humourlessly.

"You've had fifteen years of my life, Sylvia. Did you really think you were entitled to all of it?"

Fergal's astonished silence was particularly gratifying.

Gray gently detached his wife's hand from his sleeve. "I would say we're done but then there never was anything to begin with. Enjoy your food."

The hard man stared after him. He was used to dealing with defiance, but his son-in-law's iron contempt was beyond his comprehension.

At the rare family gatherings in Ireland that Gray could be persuaded to attend, he would sit quietly with his family and rebuff all attempts at engagement. It didn't take his children long to get the picture. For two out of the three it didn't seem to matter. Grown-up stuff, and grown-ups were weird. The eldest, Paul liked to tussle with his cousins. Livvy similarly was more of a social butterfly and happily giggled with the girls, trying out flirting with the older boys.

However, Livvy's twin, Grace was Fergal's favourite, sensitive and true to her name. She hovered uncertainly between loyalty to her father and wanting to play with their extended family. To Fergal's certain knowledge, Gray had never said a word against the Irish side of the family. According to his grandchildren that was because he never talked about them at all.

Fergal had applied some - to his way of thinking - subtle pressure to Gray's parents only to be brought up short when his granddaughter outright accused him of being mean. Now it seemed that Gray was going to walk away when his obligations were fulfilled. The boy had been careful to isolate the family's fortunes from any contagion, refusing all gifts, paying for everything from the money he alone earned. If Sylvia had had an iota of sense, she would have taken some small part-time job and contributed to the finances, but she was as wilful as her mother, listening to no one.

Syvia stared into her drink, completely wrong footed by her husband's stated intention.

Her father snorted, "The boy got that right at least."

She looked at him mournfully. "What?"

"You made this bed for yourself."

***

The following morning, Gray stomped off to work still seething at Sylvia's fait accompli and thankful that he still had enough spine to be unyielding. Being shot-gunned into a marriage had a way of doing that.

He unbent to give the twins a hug and a kiss as they readied themselves for school. Grace looked at him apprehensively. She always noticed when the temperature in the house dropped, and he worried at the damage they were undoubtedly inflicting on the children. However, his parents were close by and doted on them. Sylvia had learned to get along with her mother-in-law even as she looked down on their modest lifestyle. Free childcare allowed her the liberty to mix with the local well-to-do. Unfortunately her husband's obdurate refusal to network was maddeningly frustrating. She was always having to make up excuses for why he couldn't attend this or that get together.

The walk to work did wonders for his mood. It seemed the fine weather was set for a few days. Snowdrops nodded in the verges alongside the green stalks of bulbs yet to flower.

To his amazement, the card was back on his desk. Not the same one of course but to all intents and purposes identical to its predecessor. He scratched his head. "Curiouser and curiouser," he mused. He went in search of counsel.

***

Janice was scowling at the monitor when he came in the room.

"Hey," he said, "What's the problem?"

"It's the bloody computer. I put an effing picture in, and the formatting goes haywire. All the text jumps around and the thing's ruined."

She looked both cross and possibly close to tears.

"Can I take a look?" he asked and after a moment she nodded.

He rounded the desk and knelt beside her. She scooted sideways a little to give him room, but he pulled the chair back in close.

"You need to see this," he said absently, already inspecting the screen.

She leaned in and was terribly aware of his nearness, the clean smell of him, the light waft off his cologne. 'Concentrate!' she thought irritably and watched what he was doing.

"You need to do two things with graphics, choose text options and anchoring," he murmured.

She moved fractionally closer, and their arms touched. He faltered momentarily and then bore on, showing her what he was doing.

"There!" he said and turned his head smiling to face her.

Now they were only inches apart and he stared into her warm brown eyes. The smile gradually left his face. Her lips parted as her breathing grew heavy, taking great lungfuls of him, the blood pounding in her ears.

'Kiss him, you fool!' her hind brain shrieked. Something of that must have crossed the gap because abruptly he shuffled away and stood, brushing the knees of his trousers with his hands. Remembering why he'd come to see her he turned back.

"Can you spare me ten minutes sometime today?"

"Sure. Coffee in the canteen?"

He nodded and exited her office to head back down to his own corner of the building.

Unfortunately, Dave chose that moment to saunter in. He stopped, seeing her expression, and turned to see Gray disappearing down the corridor.

"What did he want?" he scowled.

"I don't know," she blurted, "but he helped me with my paper."

His brows drew down at her outburst. "Did he now?" he said, his voice thick with jealousy.

"Oh, stop it," she sighed. "There's nothing going on."

Although the very possibility was delicious. But then Dave wasn't just suspicious about the two of them, he envied Gray's casual intelligence and easy manner. Janice wondered if Gray might in his turn envy Dave's skill with his hands, his generous loyalty to his friends.

"Let's get some lunch," she said, closing the subject and pushing her conflicts back in their box.

Her husband's face gentled and he fetched her coat from the stand. She smiled at his little show of chivalry, and they linked arms.

***

"I don't get it," he confessed to Janice over coffee in the canteen that afternoon. "I've been over and over the people on our floor and the ones above and below. It has to be someone that wouldn't be out of place on our floor or even coming out of my office."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. It's a bit of fun is all."

He grimaced. "That wasn't the way Sylvia saw it."

"No?"

"She copped the almightiest strop and then dragged me out to lunch, and to top it all, sprang her father on me. I couldn't understand why we were still going out after the card incident except she said there was someone that it was important to meet."

Janice frowned. "Your father-in-law's pretty important, surely?"

Her eyes widened at the expression that came over his face. Hard was not a word readily associated with the amiable man across the table.

"You don't get on, then?"

"No," he said shortly, and it was clear that the subject was closed.

***

The following day it was time for the regular round of reviews. A tiny round table by the window allowed for two chairs to be placed in a non-confrontational way. He always ensured that his staff sat so they could look out of the window.

Hannah sat and waited for him to start proceedings. Her gaze fell on the card, and she wished that she had the nerve to do something like that. But she knew that she was too ("much of a mouse" said her mother's voice) shy to ever contemplate such a thing. Let alone with her gorgeous and unattainable boss, the subject of numerous idle fantasies.

He sat down and followed her eyes to the card. "Pretty isn't? Someone's got a good eye."

"Mn," she agreed noncommittally.

He smiled gently and the conversation turned to work.

***

At the end of the scheduled half hour as she stood up, she looked at the card and was gripped by the imp of the perverse.

"I wish I had drawn it," then, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks flaming red.

"You?" he said incredulously.

She shrank in on herself, shaking her head violently. "No! Never!"

He softened immediately, cross at his own reaction, putting out a hand to console her. Of course, it stopped before it could contravene any number of rules about unwanted physical contact, despite how badly she wanted him to touch her. Tears filled her eyes and she turned away.