'I always knew,' she said laconically. 'Well, deep down, at least. Maybe not on the surface.'
'So what brought it to the surface?'
'Ah, it's a long story.'
'My shift finished ten minutes ago. I have all evening.'
'Oh, so do I. OK then. You sure you want the full story?'
'I always want the full story.'
'OK. Two more vodkatinis and then I'll begin.'
Rachael took a year out after graduating and decided to earn a bit of Interail cash by temping at the tax office. It was the most boring job imaginable – tons of photocopying on an ancient machine that didn't even have a collate facility, so she had to put the hundreds of twenty-page booklets together by hand, day in day out, week in week out. On the plus side, this was highly conducive to daydreaming, so while the copier flashed and hummed she was on the battlements of a Castilian castle, or eating moules marinière on the Breton seafront. Usually in these daydreams she had wandered off without the gaggle of girlfriends she was planning the trip with. She would find herself lost and alone in the streets of a medieval walled city, or on an isolated beach, or a terraced vineyard that stretched for miles beneath a mellow sun. And this was where He would turn up. He might be a Carlos or a Jean-Pierre or a Giovanni, but he would always have a Southern European goldenness about him; he would taste of sunshine and olive oil. Dark curls, broad shoulders, strong features, passion, seduction . . . and, most importantly, a cute accent. She longed to be called 'Cherie' or 'Bella' or 'Guapa'. 'Luv' was just not doing it for her.
At lunchtime she would bolt from the office as quickly as possible and eat her sandwich on a bench overlooking a war memorial. Anything so as not to have to associate with the dreary drone-boys of the Inland Revenue, in their cheap suits and stinking aftershave, with their dull chatter about Beckham and Oasis in their horrible accents. Why did English boys have to be so unappealing? She was born in the wrong country, she mused, biting into her tomato and basil focaccia. The two boyfriends she had had at university had been nice enough, but without the rudiments of finesse. One of them had bought her flowers, once, but the most romantic gesture she could usually expect was a portion of chips in curry sauce after the clubs kicked out. The men around here would have to raise their game, she decided grimly, or she was going to marry an Italian man and leave them to their football and beer. (She conveniently airbrushed the Italian passion for soccer out of her fantasy.)
Then it would be two o'clock, and time for more copying and collating, over and over, hour in hour out, until doomsday. Except for that one day, a Thursday, when everything changed.
Paul Everett was the Senior Executive Officer, the final destination for the buck in this neck of the tax woods. Rachael had no opinion of him really, except that he was too boring to even look at, but luckily seemed to like her. He had given her the job, at least, so he must do. His fond indulgence seemed to have left him today, however, for he was looking distinctly rumpled.
'Rachael, did you make up these booklets?'
She squinted at them: Distraint Procedures 32a(1987).
'Er, yeah, I think so.'
'There's a problem with them.'
'No, there isn't.'
For the first time, Rachael noticed the power of his eyes, which seemed to turn her to stone with the intensity of their glare.
'Come with me,' he said finally, once his astonishment at being defied by a temporary Admin Assistant had abated. She shrugged and followed him past the rows of dusty desks and plastic trays to his office door. Why did offices have to be so drab? She thought continental European offices would be different; full of greenery with light tiling and a smell of freshly ground coffee.
Everett's office was a little better, she supposed, but still everything was that muted grey-brown except for the hospital-green walls. These places were designed to strip the colour from your soul, she thought. What she didn't realise was that she had thought it out loud.
'I beg your pardon?' Paul Everett was discomposed, frowning at her.
'Oh!' Her hand slapped her mouth. 'I didn't . . . sorry.'
'Perhaps you'd be happier working somewhere more . . . vibrant.'
'No, honestly!' she gabbled. The civil service might not pay very well, but it was easy work that made no mental or physical demands on her. If she left she'd have to get bar work or waitressing – all that running around. So stressful.
'I know you don't intend to make a career in taxation,' he said drily, 'but there is no need to sneer at those of us who do. Now, about these booklets.'
He put one into her hand. 'Page five,' he said, one eyebrow witheringly raised.
Rachael riffled through, then dropped the booklet with an appalled cry of 'Oh my God!' on finding the terrible evidence of her mistake.
'Pick it up!' Everett had gone from ignorable nonentity to person of interest in one stentorian phrase. The tips of Rachael's every fibre stood to attention; the command entered her via her ears and seemed to stir strange untended areas within. Including her groin.
She dropped to a crouch, seeing that the open booklet lay across the toe of Everett's lace-up brogue. He stabbed his foot towards her unexpectedly; she fell off-balance, grasping the shoe in both hands, bent over it with her lips inches above. Oh God. She had the wildest urge to kiss it! As if burnt, she leapt back and picked up the booklet, shooting to her feet again, wanting to look at anything but Everett's face. The face she had thought of as Bland British. Pale, slightly freckled, a little sun-damaged but with eyes whose sea-blueness she had not previously picked up on. Sandy hair that had once been ginger, receding now. And hands. Nice hands. Wedding ring! Stop!
'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I'll do them all again.'
Paul Everett did a strange thing. He put two fingers beneath her chin and lifted it. He kept them there long enough for her feet to start rocking and the rest of the office to blur away.