Seamed stockings

October 6, 2010

The Boss has taken to wearing seamed stockings. Every day.

They are usually black, but sometimes she wears flesh coloured ones that make the seam stand out like a railway track in the snow. (I like trains).

I try not to stare, but it is difficult not to look. Everyone else is looking, anyway. The post boy has delivered more parcels this week than he has in a month. He trots up, bringing up one or two letters at a time, and lingers at her office door like a puppy.

To take my mind off the stockings (the Peacock wife refused to wear them on the grounds of being a feminist, so I must admit to being a little obsessed), I worked on the pasta sauce for one campaign.

I quite enjoyed it in the end, even though the sauce itself smelt of cat food. I told the client that branding a pasta sauce “secret sensations” was plain wrong.

There was nothing sensational or secret about the sauce. It tasted of anchovies, and anchovies are pretty run of the mill nowadays. Anchovy paste (takes me back to my school days), anchovies on toast, anchovies stirred in pasta (that Nigella Domestic Goddess made that once on national television, purring over the saucepan in her slinky nightgown in her fairy lit kitchen). No need for a sauce sensational or otherwise with the Goddess around if you ask me.

Anyway, the client was pretty receptive (in an arched eyebrow sort of way). Pleased with myself, I told the Boss. She smirked, as if she knew the punch line of a joke and was teasing it out of me, in the same way know-it-all Caspian Harrison did at school.

Now the Boss was doing it, teasing and smirking but, unlike Caspian Harrison, crossing her legs while she did it. Cross. Uncross. Cross. Uncross. Train line tracks in the snow. I began to  lose my train of thought. Trains. Tracks. Cross. Uncross.

Wasn’t the woman doing all that leg crossing in that film with Michael Douglas the bunny boiler? I couldn’t remember. She was blond, though, I remembered. Like the Boss. Watching her cris-crossing legs was making me dizzy, but I couldn’t help but stare. From the corner of my eye I saw the post boy hover by the office door. If I had taken my eyes off the Boss’s legs, I might have seen a rush of colour flood his cheeks.

‘Interesting, Alan, interesting. Finally, I feel you might be getting somewhere.’ The Boss tossed her Cheryl Cole hair and let a black stiletto dangle off her foot. Red nail polish shone beneath the sheer stocking fabric. I felt a rush of blood (and not in my head). I placed my file strategically, if you get my drift, and decided to make a bolt for it.

The  Boss stood up just as I got to the door and somehow (she does have very long legs, mind), got there before me. She put one carefully manicured hand on the brass knob. Through the glass, I could see the post boy clutching what looked to be a pile of marketing mail shots, gape.  ‘I think you and I could get on famously, Alan’ the Boss whispered. Her breath smelt of strawberries and mint and I noticed a smudge of red lipstick on her upper teeth. She opened the door just enough to let me flee, the file in its strategic position and blood pounding in my ears.

I sat at my desk that afternoon, sharpening pencils and cleaning the crumbs out of my keyboard with a paperclip wrapped in tissue. It was hard to concentrate, knowing the Boss wanted to sleep with me. The seamed stockings had got to me. Perhaps I could market a new range of stockings called Secret Sensations.  I was in no doubt that the stockings were for me and for me alone. And the whispering!

It had been some time since a woman had breathed strawberry and mint (toothpaste, possibly?) so close to me that I could feel her whispery breath on my cheek. Some women like older men (or so I am told) and the Boss was obviously one of them. I gave the post boy a sympathetic look when he came by that afternoon. For once, he didn’t hang around but scurried away like a mouse. I felt rather chipper.

At five, I noticed the boss leave her office. I looked up just in time to see her get into the lift. Rather disappointed that she hadn’t walked past my desk one last time that day (it was the only reason I was still at work, after all), I went over to the window. Like a school boy with a crush on a teacher, I wanted one last glimpse. The boss stood on the steps, giggling with a chubby looking girl, someone I vaguely recognised. I struggled to remember, then realised it was Emma, the girl from HR.

She was wearing seamed stockings too.

The Boss looked up and gave me a wave. Then she and Emma walked away, arms linked like school girls.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so chipper.


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