Chapter 1: The Party

<Dear Claire

Please accept my sincerest apologies for the disastrous blind date we had at the works do last Friday. It was not the sort of party I normally attend or enjoy and my shyness made it an embarrassment for both of us. I'm very, very sorry but I guess even if the noise level had been lower, I would have found it difficult to hold a conversation with you. Next time Michael and Rachel try to persuade me to attend a works function or set me up with another girl, I will firmly refuse and will not subject you or them to the boredom of my company again. Please accept my sincerest apologies

Jerry>

The email appeared on my computer when I opened it on Monday morning and my mind returned to the party. Rachel Booth and I work in the same department of a largely mail order retail company but she is a few steps higher up in the firm's hierarchy and in charge of stock control. Although I've been at the firm for the same length of time, I'm still at the foot of the ladder and responsible for analysing the sales figures. She's outgoing and rather bossy in a good-natured way whereas I am content to hide away in my own cubicle and rarely have a conversation with anyone. In a way, Rachel is a friend in that she keeps a motherly eye out for me and sometimes is able to prevent the teasing that I am subjected to from others in the office. It was she who bullied me into going. "You need to show your face to the bosses if you are to have any hope of getting promotion and it is about time you had a steady boyfriend. Michael says he knows one that should be suitable for you and we've arranged for him to take you so you'll have a partner and someone to look after you. You won't have to be a wallflower." It took hours of her arguments before I finally relented and agreed to go.

Reading the email again, I knew the fault wasn't entirely his. We were both so shy that even though I knew Jerry at work, neither of us could talk to each other on anything other than work problems and the appallingly loud, deafening, mind numbing, disco music made my head thump terribly and I retired into my shell. It made me feel more miserable and alone in that crowded room than I would otherwise have been. Somehow we found a place in the corner and just sat there giving each other quick glances and looking away. Even when Rachel with a cheery, "This is a slow one so you don't have to know how to dance, just hold each other and smooch around," forced us on to the dance floor, Jerry held me very loosely, like I was fragile or had some disease, and our bodies hardly touched. We were both glad to get out of there and he ordered a taxi to bring us home and even then we sat slightly apart and stared fixedly out of the window. He did mutter thanks when the taxi dropped me off but there was no goodnight kiss and I didn't invite him in. Once inside my flat, I flopped on the bed and cried myself to sleep, imagining what could have been or what might have happened, if only we could have gelled with each other.

I read the email for the fourth time and wondered if there was a hidden meaning behind his 'very very sorry' apology. Was he taking the blame on himself and actually hoping I would forgive him so we could meet again? Probably that was a hidden secret wish of mine too but it would have to be with someone who could lead the way and breakthrough my invisible wall and loosen my tongue.

The dreams I had that and the following night were of what might have happened if Jerry had been dominant and insisted he came into my flat for a nightcap. For a long while I lay awake, my fingers caressing my mound and clit and my imagination far outstripping any real life situation even had we been less inhibited.

While the computer processed the data I fed into it, I yet again read the email. Had he used the 'Dear Claire, ' as a term of endearment or was it just an old fashioned convention now rarely used in office communications? Should I reply? I decided not to and prayed that my computer would not break down again as it would only add to our embarrassment to have to meet face to face. Jerry was the firm's IT whizzkid and with my computer probably the oldest one on the premises, it crashed out at least once a week. "It doesn't have enough memory to cope with the extra information you're putting in and the work you expect it to do," he told me the last time he had to fix it, "You should ask your boss to requisition a new one." I didn't, of course. The thought of asking Mr. Sotherby to spend money to provide me with a computer to do something which I could do on this old one if only it would keep working, filled me with dread. I knew he would question the need for it and, although he demanded the previous day's analysis be on his desk by 10 a.m. sharp each morning, he considered my role in producing them a relatively minor one.

My luck held until Thursday and then I had one of those days when nothing went right. We'd had a power cut the previous afternoon so with no computers working in the building, I didn't receive the sales figures until 9:30 the following morning. Mr. Sotherby was, for him, fairly understanding but demanded that I get the analysis to him by lunchtime. This meant I would have to work the whole morning. Normally I go in at 7 a.m. and once I have the analysis report on his desk, I go home until mid-afternoon, when the sales figures start coming in from our overseas branches. I get those typed in and leave work about 7 p.m. Strange hours but it had the side effect that I was subjected to the snide remarks from the cattier girls, for a relatively short time.