The wrong date, p.1
The Wrong Date, page 1
The Wrong Date
Sienna Waters
Sienna Waters
© 2020 All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or or transmitted in any form or by any
means, without prior permission by the author except in the case of
brief quotations for the purposes of review and non-commercial
cases as per law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events exist solely
in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people,
alive or dead, is pure coincidence. All characters are eighteen years
of age or older.
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To N.–
Forever my perfect date
xxx
Chapter One
Annie bumped the mailroom door open with her butt, her hands
busy juggling two paper grocery bags.
“And then what did he say?” Fred asked, taking one of the bags
from her.
“That the software needed to be done by Tuesday or else,” said
Annie with an eye roll.
“And what did you say?” Fred leaned up against the row of
mailboxes, a bag in one arm, her other hand planted firmly on her
hip.
“I told him to go screw himself?” It definitely came out as a
question and Annie felt a shiver of delicious something even
speaking the words out loud. Words she'd never actually say.
It was Fred's turn to roll her eyes. “As if.”
“Fine, fine. I didn't. But I wanted to.” She rummaged in her
pockets for her keys.
“In your other hand,” said Fred helpfully. “And you should.”
“Should what?” She fiddled, trying to turn the mailbox key the
right way.
“Should tell him to go screw himself. He has unrealistic
expectations. Set him right. Let him know how this stuff actually
works, tell him the truth.”
Annie snorted and finally freed the mailbox key. “As if,” she
echoed.
Fred sighed. “Annie, you could buy and sell the guy, quite
literally. You really don't need to put up with his bullshit.”
“He's the project manager.”
“For a coding project that you're freelancing on when you don't
even need the money. Which is just bizarre.” Fred shook her head,
a lock of bright pink hair falling to the wrong side of her part. She
hooked the hair back again. “Seriously weird.”
“I enjoy the challenge,” Annie said stoutly, unlocking the
mailbox.
What else was she supposed to do? Having cash was all very
well. Having grown up broker than broke and eating Ramen
noodles five nights a week Annie was the last to underestimate the
power of having money. On the other hand, days still had twenty-
four hours, hours that she needed to fill. Besides, she enjoyed
coding. No, strike that, she loved it.
“You can get your challenge elsewhere,” Fred grumbled,
grabbing the other shopping bag as Annie emptied the mailbox.
“Somewhere that's not full of assholes.”
“I only have to see the asshole once a week at a project meeting
and I want to work on this project. You know, if you keep on then
I'm just going to stop talking to you about this stuff. And you were
the one that told me that I was supposed to complain about my co-
workers.”
With a handful of mail, she slammed the box door and took a
grocery bag back from Fred's arms.
“You don't have to be chivalrous with me, Fred. I'm no damsel in
distress. I'm more than capable of carrying my own grocery bags to
the elevator.”
“Since when did you get so sassy?” asked Fred, holding the
mailroom door open.
“Since forever. You just never noticed it before,” Annie said,
walking past her and sticking her tongue out.
The elevator was bigger than Annie's bedroom growing up,
something that never ceased to amaze her. She leaned against the
mirrored wall, watching Fred check a message on her phone. Fred
with her half-shaved pink hair, her ripped jeans and her sleeveless
shirts. She cared, that was the only reason she pushed and prodded
when Annie didn't have the confidence that she thought she should
have. Annie knew that. She smiled a bit.
“What?” asked Fred, sliding her phone into her pocket.
“Nothing. Just thinking how lucky I was to meet you.”
“Lucky, my ass,” snorted Fred. “I'd been trying to run into you
on campus for weeks. And when I finally finagled my way into
meeting you, you weren't even interested in women.”
Annie laughed. “Well, you got a friend out of the deal.”
“True enough.”
“And a talented co-developer and fellow tech geek,” added
Annie as the elevator came to a stop. “And I wouldn't say
completely uninterested in women. That's not fair.”
“A drunken make-out session at a lesbian bar the night before
graduation doesn't count.”
“Ha, it's more than can be said for you. Have you even kissed a
guy?”
“God forbid,” said Fred, shuddering at the thought. “And get
your ass out of the elevator, I'm so hungry I might start chowing
down on you if you don't.”
The chop-chop-chop of the knife rang through the apartment.
Annie smiled. Fred was a mean touch with a knife and never let her
chop a thing. Which was sweet and also convenient. Cooking
wasn't exactly her forte.
Instead, she wandered through the apartment, still marveling at
the fact that all this was hers. High ceilings, tall windows, plenty of
light and air, and a stunning view over the city. She'd fallen in love
with the place from the moment she set foot in it and had snapped
it up immediately.
Somehow though, it never quite felt like home. She always took
her shoes off when she came in, thought twice before she touched
things, lived in fear of breaking something.
She changed quickly in pajama pants and then returned to the
kitchen, picking up the mail on the way.
“Need any help?”
“Stay the hell out of my kitchen,” growled Fred.
“Um, it's my kitchen.”
“Not for as long as I'm cooking in it, it isn't,” said Fred,
depositing a handful of cut onions into a pan. She turned the heat
up to let the oil sizzle.
Annie flicked through the mail, nothing interesting. Except... She
pulled out a thick cream envelope. What on earth could it be? It felt
thick and important. More like a personal letter than some kind of
circular or bill.
“You really shouldn't be spending your Friday nights with me,
you know,” Fred said, distracting her. “It's a bit sad really. The two
of us, holed up here.”
“It's not sad,” said Annie, the letter momentarily forgotten. “It's
fine.”
“Yeah, right, fine. Not sad at all that two attractive women don't
have significant others in a city full of people.”
“Eugh, let it go. You'll find Ms. Right at the right time,” said
Annie, looking back down at the envelope in her hand.
“Any potential Mr. Rights working on the project?” asked Fred.
Annie laughed. “Nope. All dorks.”
“Like you.”
“Well, yeah, I guess. But, well, I'm not sure I want to date a
dork. Or someone just like me. Opposites attract, don't they?”
Fred started chopping up peppers. “Allegedly,” she allowed.
“Although I'm thinking that having a little in common would
probably help things. And we're neither of us going to meet anyone
if we never go out. What say you next weekend we go hit the
bars?”
“Sure thing,” said Annie, sliding her fingernail under the flap of
the envelope and only half-listening.
“At least you have a faint chance of meeting someone at work,”
Fred was saying now. “Nine times out of ten you're the only
woman on a project. Unfortunately, that means I am too. There
really need to be more women in the industry. I wonder if you
should do something about that, I mean with all that cash you have
and all, maybe...”
Fred's voice faded into the distance as Annie drew the thick card
from the envelope. One glimpse of the crest at the top and she
knew exactly where the letter had originated. One glimpse and her
stomach sank and all those old feelin gs rushed back.
She was fourteen years old and walking through the doors of
Briarwood Academy for the very first time. It smelled of wood
polish and beeswax and money. Old money. Her second-hand skirt
was too long, her socks itched, and her sweater was already coming
unraveled at the cuff.
A chance of a lifetime, her mother had called it. And she'd
agreed. She'd wanted to go. She'd longed all summer for the first
day of school, for the opportunity to walk through those tall,
wooden doors, she'd dreamed of what her first day would be like.
And now it was here. And one thing was very, very clear. She
didn't belong at Briarwood Academy.
“Annie? Anne?” Fred's fingers clutched at her arm. “Anne?”
Annie shook herself. “I'm fine. It's nothing.”
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Nah, nothing like that.”
Her mouth felt dry and her palms felt damp. The card was lying
on the kitchen counter where it had fallen from her fingers. As
stupid as it was, she couldn't bring herself to pick it up, couldn't
bring herself to look at the damn thing again.
Of course it had come now. If she'd given things any thought at
all, she'd have been expecting it. Time moved at a finite rate, after
all.
“So, gonna spill what's in that letter, or not?” asked Fred,
inquisitive eyes narrowing as she started stirring the pan again,
releasing a wave of scent that made Annie's stomach rumble.
“It's nothing,” Annie said automatically.
“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “It's an invitation.”
“To what?” pushed Fred.
Annie hesitated for a second, but there was no way Fred was
going to let this go. She might as well just give up now. “A
reunion.”
Fred just stared, one eyebrow raised and Annie sighed.
“Fine. My ten year high school reunion. Happy now?”
Fred's face softened. “Fuck,” she said kindly. Then she reached
down to switch off the stove. “Let me get you a drink.”
Chapter Two
Robin pulled a handful of tissues from a tastefully disguised box.
The sobbing woman took them but didn't raise her head. A clock
ticked on the mantle, the only sound other than the sniffles from
Mrs. Richardson, but Robin said nothing. She knew better than to
interrupt.
What most people didn't realize, she thought, is that sometimes a
woman just wanted someone to listen. Not to solve, not to comfort,
just to listen. Which was why she said nothing as Mrs. Richardson
continued her cathartic sobbing.
It was an old problem, one that Robin encountered a solid fifty
percent of the time in situations like these. Mrs. Richardson was
crying because Mr. Richardson had been to Cabo with his twenty
year old personal assistant. Not that this was the first time. Which
meant that in essence, Mrs. Richardson wasn't crying just because
of Cabo, it was more because she accepted that this was her life
now.
Mrs. Richardson would not leave Mr. Richardson. And to be
honest, looking around the ornate living room complete with fine
art on the walls, Robin had to admit that she probably wouldn't
either. Not in Mrs. Richardson's situation anyway.
Carefully, she laid a hand on Mrs. Richardson's arm. Strange
really that she never thought of the woman by her first name.
Particularly after how intimate they'd been at the beginning.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked softly.
She didn't want to interrupt but her time here was running out.
“Maybe some water?” she added.
Mrs. Richardson nodded and Robin went off in search of
something to drink. Of course, she could probably find a bell and
ring it and have someone bring her a glass of water, but she didn't
think that the staff should be involved here.
As she passed the door she saw the discreet stack of bills under
the plant-pot on the side table. Always in the same place.
There were three qualities involved in being a good escort,
Robin had learned.
Discretion was the obvious first one. She never discussed her
clients in any way, shape, or form with anyone.
Empathy was the second. The ability to connect with another
person was absolutely vital.
The third was love. Not the heart-pounding, world-spinning kind
of love. But something, some spark. She never turned down a client
because she found them physically unattractive, quite the opposite,
she'd done it only when she could find no spark, no mutual interest
there.
“Here we go,” she said, finding the mini refrigerator by the bar
and grabbing a bottle of water.
She pulled another tissue from the box as she handed the water
to Mrs. Richardson.
“Oh my dear,” said the woman. “What would I do without you?”
Robin smiled a little and put her hand gently on the woman's
shoulder. Mrs. Richardson had been one of her very first clients.
Ten years ago now. Robin had been a surprise from Mr.
Richardson to his wife in order to rekindle the spark in their
marriage. A rekindling that obviously hadn't worked. Yet, Mrs.
Richardson still had a standing appointment. One that had become
more of a therapy session than anything else.
“You'd be just fine without me,” Robin said now. “You're a
confident, brave woman that can handle anything.”
“I know that,” sniffed Mrs. Richardson. She should well know it,
she was the Vice President of one of the largest pharmaceutical
companies in the country. “But with you, I don't have to be. I can
let things slide.”
“Sometimes we all have to.”
Mrs. Richardson gave her a watery smile, then noticed the time.
“I've kept you too long, Robin. You should have said.”
“It's not a problem.” For once, it really wasn't, her evening
appointment had canceled.
“Of course it is, you're a businesswoman, Robin. You don't give
away your time for free. Now get out of here. Scoot.” She sniffed
again and straightened up. “I'm absolutely fine, as you can see. All
the better for having sobbed like a baby in front of you. Ready to
face the world again.”
“Are you sure?” asked Robin. Because she would stay. She'd
stay with most of her clients if they needed her.
“Completely sure. Off you go, dear. I'll see you at the same time
next week?”
Robin nodded and picked up her jacket. “I'll look forward to it,”
she said with a smile. She bent and gently brushed Mrs.
Richardson's cheek with her lips. The most intimate touch they'd
had during the appointment. The most intimate touch they'd had for
more than five years now. Something that would surprise quite a
lot of people.
Sex work was very often not about sex at all. Something that had
come as a shock and then a pleasant revelation to Robin when she'd
been younger. At least, her kind of sex work wasn't. She found
herself playing the role of confidant or companion more often than
not.
Not that she was unwilling to indulge in the more physical side
of her work.
She was walking towards the door when Mrs. Richardson called
out her traditional closing for the appointment: “By the door, dear.”
Robin scooped up the cash without looking and folded it away
into her pocket before leaving.
Late afternoon sunshine flooded the pavement. Spring was
definitely on its way. Robin grinned and decided to walk home, all
the better to enjoy the growing warmth.
She'd always lived in the city, and as far as she was concerned
she never wanted to leave. It was her home. She knew every dusty
corner of it. She knew what the weather was like, what day it was,
just by sniffing the air outside her door.
And she liked the anonymity of it. The fact that she could walk
down the street and no one knew who she was or what she did.
Not that she had a problem with what she did.
