lurkymcduck
Well-Known Member
NB: I've learned all I know about law from television and Google. Judge me accordingly.
Writing this as I go so there might be some editing in the future.
1.
Benjamin Peters was not a religious man, but on this fine, cold Monday morning in November, he couldn't help but think that it had been divine interference that had made the door to his office come off in his hand.
It was a known consequence of working in a building near-four hundred years old. The walls leant at odd angles and at certain times of a year a puddle of unknown source would gather in the farthest corner, thankfully away from the electrics. The beams had had wood worm at some point in the last centuries, but they had been declared sound by a series of builders. The windows refused to open, and the carved wood panelling on every wall that wasn't covered by rarely-used law books was the only part that saw regular care, and he often came in after a weekend to a room that stank of polish.
So it wasn't a surprise that he had got up to leave on Friday, pulled open his office door (perhaps a little harder than usual, because it had started to scrape the flooring), and with a groan and the soft snap of its hinges, it had tilted forward, nearly onto him, and crushed his laptop to bits.
Looking back, there was very little to be happy about, but now, with Windows updating in front of him and the sun shining through diamond-paned glass behind, the hole where his door used to be was also a window, and he was very soon to be thankful for it.
It was just a sound, at first. A little hint of a person whose footsteps sounded different than those of the others on the third floor. There was that small, hollow and echoing tap of heels on the hardwood flooring, the slight swish of fabric, and then:
The slurp of a straw.
Ben looked up from his computer just in time to see her step past. She was a white, brown-haired woman he didn't recognise, wearing a skirt suit, a binder in one hand and an iced drink in the other. The straw was in her mouth, delicately poised between pursed lips. She was only there for a moment, framed perfectly in his empty doorway, then she was gone.
Ben tapped his pen against his desk. His computer announced it was installing yet more software he wasn't sure he needed, and it urged him to be patient. He took out his mobile and his diary. He had a hard time paying attention to the words.
At fifty percent, there were those footsteps yet again. A quick two steps and she was gone, as was a pastry that spent its last moments drawn between her lips.
At sixty percent, there was the rustle of a foil wrapper, and she walked past with the finger of a KitKat held like a joint in one hand and a cordless phone pressed to her chest with her other.
'Hello,' Ben found himself saying, sitting very still and a bit stiffly in his chair.
She looked up, started, smiled, then held up a chocolate-stained finger.
One moment, she mouthed.
She disappeared once more from his doorway.
She returned a minute later, and the wrapper was gone. She stood in the doorway as though she was afraid to step inside. She was fairly short and in her mid-twenties, pink-cheeked and friendly-featured. Her hair was drawn up in a smart bun, a few flattering curls framing a square face and wide, sharp jawline. Her lips were glossed pink, her eyes faintly outlined and narrowed with her smile. Below her lovely face was a short neck and a body that would be considered fairly average in the rest of the country but plump in London - a size twelve, maybe, or a small fourteen. Her waist was fastened by the shining black button of her jacket, and a pencil skirt showed faint pucker lines around the thighs.
'Good morning, sir,' the woman said. She had a light, high voice and a Northern accent. Yorkshire, he guessed. Maybe edging toward Geordie. 'Can I get you anything?'
'Sorry?' Ben said. His eyes were still fixed on the strain lines of her skirt. Was it simply wrinkles from sitting? It looked a tad too tight, her round hips tugging at the seams.
'Coffee?' the woman said. 'Tea?'
'Oh,' Ben replied. He forced his eyes upward. She was still smiling at him. 'No,' he said. He shook his head and leant back in his chair. He stretched his arms behind his head then dropped them, wary of showing off the fact that, apparently unlike every other thirty-something man in the city, he didn't lift. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I'm Ben.'
'Mister Peters,' she said with a nod. 'I know. It's a pleasure to meet you.'
'Ben, please,' Ben said. He was frowning again, his eyes naturally finding a resting spot around her hips. What was he doing? Also…who was she? 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I think I missed a memo.'
'Oh,' she said, then with a little jump of surprise, exclaimed, 'Oh! Sorry, sir. I'm Tessa. The new junior clerk.'
The new clerk? He vaguely remembered something about that. The senior partners (or the Ancient Ones, as his colleague Maria called them) wanting to continue the lineage of the old-fashioned assistants to match the premises, and also because they still couldn't figure out how to work their mobiles nor the search bar on Google. The poor woman would be rushing all over the City with forgotten wigs stuffed in rucksacks and gowns flapping about in dry cleaning bags.
'Just started today,' Tessa said.
He found himself smiling. He also found himself suddenly quite sweaty-palmed with nerves. When was the last time he had felt like this? Even the last dates he had had (Tindr, OkCupid, that brief foray into a dating site he'd never admit to using to his friends) had him numbed with boredom rather than dry-mouthed with strange anticipation. And a clerk? What was wrong with him? Was he so starved of meaningful contact that even strain-lines excited him? Bloody London. He should've stayed in Swansea.
'Settling in well?' he asked her. His computer chimed. It was restarting. He wouldn't have an excuse not to work soon. He was certain he had evidence to examine, but he couldn't remember which client it was for.
'Yes, thank you,' she said. 'There'll be growing pains, I'm sure. But I'm very glad to be here.'
Growing pains?
'Let me know if I can help at all,' Ben told her. God, he sounded smarmy. Did he sound smarmy? Even his deaf, dim cat would be able to tell he was coming onto her.
'That's my line, sir,' she said.
'Ben,' he said. He dropped his weedy arms and pulled his jacket back into position, hoping it disguised the fact that he really wasn't the kind of man who knew his way around a set of weights.
'Sir,' she said, her smile widening, a bit cheeky. She patted her pocket. There was a little crackle of foil, and the tip of a brand new KitKat slipped above the lining. 'Thank you, sir,' she said.
The doorway emptied. Her footsteps faded. His chair wheel stuck itself in a rut in the floorboards.
Please wait, his computer asked him.
He stared at the blank space in front of him. At the shadow of pastry crumbs discreetly littering the floor.
He adjusted his trousers.
'Fuck,' he whispered.
Writing this as I go so there might be some editing in the future.
A Small Technicality
by lurkymcduck
by lurkymcduck
1.
Benjamin Peters was not a religious man, but on this fine, cold Monday morning in November, he couldn't help but think that it had been divine interference that had made the door to his office come off in his hand.
It was a known consequence of working in a building near-four hundred years old. The walls leant at odd angles and at certain times of a year a puddle of unknown source would gather in the farthest corner, thankfully away from the electrics. The beams had had wood worm at some point in the last centuries, but they had been declared sound by a series of builders. The windows refused to open, and the carved wood panelling on every wall that wasn't covered by rarely-used law books was the only part that saw regular care, and he often came in after a weekend to a room that stank of polish.
So it wasn't a surprise that he had got up to leave on Friday, pulled open his office door (perhaps a little harder than usual, because it had started to scrape the flooring), and with a groan and the soft snap of its hinges, it had tilted forward, nearly onto him, and crushed his laptop to bits.
Looking back, there was very little to be happy about, but now, with Windows updating in front of him and the sun shining through diamond-paned glass behind, the hole where his door used to be was also a window, and he was very soon to be thankful for it.
It was just a sound, at first. A little hint of a person whose footsteps sounded different than those of the others on the third floor. There was that small, hollow and echoing tap of heels on the hardwood flooring, the slight swish of fabric, and then:
The slurp of a straw.
Ben looked up from his computer just in time to see her step past. She was a white, brown-haired woman he didn't recognise, wearing a skirt suit, a binder in one hand and an iced drink in the other. The straw was in her mouth, delicately poised between pursed lips. She was only there for a moment, framed perfectly in his empty doorway, then she was gone.
Ben tapped his pen against his desk. His computer announced it was installing yet more software he wasn't sure he needed, and it urged him to be patient. He took out his mobile and his diary. He had a hard time paying attention to the words.
At fifty percent, there were those footsteps yet again. A quick two steps and she was gone, as was a pastry that spent its last moments drawn between her lips.
At sixty percent, there was the rustle of a foil wrapper, and she walked past with the finger of a KitKat held like a joint in one hand and a cordless phone pressed to her chest with her other.
'Hello,' Ben found himself saying, sitting very still and a bit stiffly in his chair.
She looked up, started, smiled, then held up a chocolate-stained finger.
One moment, she mouthed.
She disappeared once more from his doorway.
She returned a minute later, and the wrapper was gone. She stood in the doorway as though she was afraid to step inside. She was fairly short and in her mid-twenties, pink-cheeked and friendly-featured. Her hair was drawn up in a smart bun, a few flattering curls framing a square face and wide, sharp jawline. Her lips were glossed pink, her eyes faintly outlined and narrowed with her smile. Below her lovely face was a short neck and a body that would be considered fairly average in the rest of the country but plump in London - a size twelve, maybe, or a small fourteen. Her waist was fastened by the shining black button of her jacket, and a pencil skirt showed faint pucker lines around the thighs.
'Good morning, sir,' the woman said. She had a light, high voice and a Northern accent. Yorkshire, he guessed. Maybe edging toward Geordie. 'Can I get you anything?'
'Sorry?' Ben said. His eyes were still fixed on the strain lines of her skirt. Was it simply wrinkles from sitting? It looked a tad too tight, her round hips tugging at the seams.
'Coffee?' the woman said. 'Tea?'
'Oh,' Ben replied. He forced his eyes upward. She was still smiling at him. 'No,' he said. He shook his head and leant back in his chair. He stretched his arms behind his head then dropped them, wary of showing off the fact that, apparently unlike every other thirty-something man in the city, he didn't lift. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I'm Ben.'
'Mister Peters,' she said with a nod. 'I know. It's a pleasure to meet you.'
'Ben, please,' Ben said. He was frowning again, his eyes naturally finding a resting spot around her hips. What was he doing? Also…who was she? 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I think I missed a memo.'
'Oh,' she said, then with a little jump of surprise, exclaimed, 'Oh! Sorry, sir. I'm Tessa. The new junior clerk.'
The new clerk? He vaguely remembered something about that. The senior partners (or the Ancient Ones, as his colleague Maria called them) wanting to continue the lineage of the old-fashioned assistants to match the premises, and also because they still couldn't figure out how to work their mobiles nor the search bar on Google. The poor woman would be rushing all over the City with forgotten wigs stuffed in rucksacks and gowns flapping about in dry cleaning bags.
'Just started today,' Tessa said.
He found himself smiling. He also found himself suddenly quite sweaty-palmed with nerves. When was the last time he had felt like this? Even the last dates he had had (Tindr, OkCupid, that brief foray into a dating site he'd never admit to using to his friends) had him numbed with boredom rather than dry-mouthed with strange anticipation. And a clerk? What was wrong with him? Was he so starved of meaningful contact that even strain-lines excited him? Bloody London. He should've stayed in Swansea.
'Settling in well?' he asked her. His computer chimed. It was restarting. He wouldn't have an excuse not to work soon. He was certain he had evidence to examine, but he couldn't remember which client it was for.
'Yes, thank you,' she said. 'There'll be growing pains, I'm sure. But I'm very glad to be here.'
Growing pains?
'Let me know if I can help at all,' Ben told her. God, he sounded smarmy. Did he sound smarmy? Even his deaf, dim cat would be able to tell he was coming onto her.
'That's my line, sir,' she said.
'Ben,' he said. He dropped his weedy arms and pulled his jacket back into position, hoping it disguised the fact that he really wasn't the kind of man who knew his way around a set of weights.
'Sir,' she said, her smile widening, a bit cheeky. She patted her pocket. There was a little crackle of foil, and the tip of a brand new KitKat slipped above the lining. 'Thank you, sir,' she said.
The doorway emptied. Her footsteps faded. His chair wheel stuck itself in a rut in the floorboards.
Please wait, his computer asked him.
He stared at the blank space in front of him. At the shadow of pastry crumbs discreetly littering the floor.
He adjusted his trousers.
'Fuck,' he whispered.
