Ally

 She looked directly into my eyes. Normally I have trouble making eye contact, let alone maintaining it, but this time I felt trapped, transfixed by her gaze, unable to even glance away. I took advantage of the opportunity to memorise the colour of her eyes: pale blue-grey. They went well with her ash-blonde, wavy hair.

I will love you forever.

Her face took on a concerned expression.

Shit, had I just blurted that part out loud? That would be really, really inappropriate right now. I replayed the last few words of conversation in my head. Nope, she'd just asked for my opinion on something-or-other and I was taking wayyy too long to formulate a coherent reply.

"Sounds like a plan," I fudged, crossing  my fingers behind my back. After all, we were in a planning meeting.

Everyone around the table relaxed, and she moved on to the next point on the agenda. I returned to drinking in the pleasing lilt of her voice, the shape of her face, the curves of her body. Idly, I wondered what I had just agreed to. I hoped it involved being near her.

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At first, she had just been a friendly voice on the other end of a phone line, helping out with technical questions about networks and that. Then she had announced that London was too fucking expensive and she was coming up to live near the Scottish capital. Which was nice, because that's where I live.

A few weeks later, I got an call on the internal network from her. "I'm just getting settled in, up on the top floor. Want to come visit?"

So I nipped upstairs (ok, three floors up, of course I took the lift) to finally put a face to the voice. She smiled up at me. "Well, hi there! You must be Farty."

She was attractive, but not in a  plastered-in-makeup kind of way. Dirty-blonde hair cascaded down over her shoulders as her eyes twinkled back at me. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I grinned back.

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"Ugh!" She sat down hard in the empty chair beside me and rested her forehead on the darkened monitor in front of her. I could smell the liquid lunch on her breath and wondered if I should mention it. I thought better of it and instead asked what was wrong.

"Fucking dicks," she replied. "I can't get a minute's peace to think with that bunch," waving vaguely in the direction of her co-workers on the opposite side of the office and three floors up, "always interrupting me when I'm trying to work."

Straightening up in the chair, she slowly raised her eyes to the screen, then gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Hey, is anyone using this?"

"Be my guest," I beamed.
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One morning she turned up to work with a dark bruise around one eye.

"Oh no, what happened?" I asked solicitously, while gently brushing her hair aside to inspect the contusion [and maybe smell her hair].

"Stupid swimming pool was a metre shorter than I remembered. And before you ask, no, it definitely wasn't my boyfriend."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind," I assured her. In fact, that thought had been the very first to cross my mind. "Do you want me to beat him up for you?"

"No, that's ok," she laughed. I'd met her boyfriend and he was easily twice my size.

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I had been invited out for a meal with some co-workers, which, in the normal course of events, I would have avoided like the plague, but she told me she was definitely going so what choice did I have? In the event it was very nice indeed, with scintillating conversation, good Indian food and that tiny lady with the dirty laugh and four kids. The kids were with their dad: this meal was for co-workers only.

We were sat side by side, so I asked her what she recommended for the main course.

"Jalfrezi, deffo."

I asked her what she was drinking and she said it was something called a slippery nipple. There were blue flames licking evocatively around the rim.

"Hey! Get your camera out!" she exclaimed, then quickly dipped a digit into the glass before holding it aloft, flames now running up her finger.

I dutifully obliged (I took my camera everywhere in those days), then quickly checked the result. That's when I realised that
1. I had left the flash on so the flame was invisible and
2. It was her middle finger.

"Oh, har de har."

The following morning, I exacted my revenge. We were standing together in the large, open-plan operations centre. She was wearing a white, open-necked shirt and jeans. People were milling about, doing computery things when my gut decided to, er, complete its job of processing the previous night's jalfrezi. Silent, but deadly.

I have never seen a room that large empty that quickly.

She giggled. "So that's why they call you Farty!"

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My email pinged. Or whatever noise email made back then, I forget, it was a long time ago.

"Did I tell you the good news?"

"You're pregnant?"

"No." I could feel her giving me a funny look, which was impressive over email. "I've been accepted to go work in Montpellier. I've handed in my resignation and I'm leaving in three weeks."

"Fuck. Me. Sideways."

"I guess I should have given you a heads-up."

"I guess."

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The next time I saw her in person, she told me she'd had three exit interviews and every one had consisted of her interviewer begging her to stay.

I bit my lip, then remembered and dug in my pocket. "Since you're determined to leave, I guess you could use some travelling luggage." I pushed the hastily-wrapped gift across the desk and waited expectantly for her reaction as she unwrapped it.

"Oh, how delightful!" On the desktop in front of her sat a tiny packing trunk with hundreds of even tinier little legs. A red velvet tongue lolled from under the lid.

"It's bigger on the inside," I helpfully explained. She'd clearly never heard of Discworld. Oh, well, never mind.

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"So I thought I should introduce you to my replacement," she said.

No-one could ever replace you, I replied inside my head. Out loud I said, "Hi, Dennis."

"Hi, Farty, long time no see." Dennis and I went way back. We shook hands warmly.

"Oh," she said. "Well, that was easy."

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As I was heading back from lunch, she was coming the other way, slightly unsteady in her unaccustomed high heels but flanked by a pair of her girlfriends, ready to lend a supporting hand. She wore a long, aquamarine dress that went with her eyes. Sort of.

"It's my last day!" she proclaimed. "I'll be spending the rest of the afternoon getting blitzed in the beer garden. Say you'll come!"

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

She quickly kissed me right where I eat, then tottered up the hill to the pub, girlfriends in tow.

______________________

The rest of the workday went by in a blur. Finally it was time to knock off and head for our secret rendezvous. Just me, her, and a couple of dozen friends and colleagues. But no sign of her boyfriend?

The sun beat down on the beer garden. There she was, holding a glass of white wine in one hand and a banana in the other. No, I don't know why, either. She chatted about how much she was looking forward to her new job, and how much she was going to miss us all, then headed inside to order the next round.

Her friend, Jan, turned to me. "Whatever will you do when she's gone?"

I plan to cry a lot.

Out loud, I said something brave about struggling on. Meanwhile, I toyed with the idea of emigrating to France just to be near her again.

All too soon, it was time for us to part. She staggered over and planted a big, sloppy kiss somewhere in the general vicinity of my mouth.

And then she was gone.

I headed home and unwrapped my copy of Sinéad O'Connor's album "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got", totally missing the irony. I moved the needle to "Nothing Compares 2 U" and started to cry, letting huge sobs wrack my body.

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Two weeks later.

We were still in the beer garden. The sun was still beating down. She was still wearing that nice dress. But now we were alone, just the two of us.

I self-consciously took off my new glasses, polished them, and laid them on the trestle table between us. Then I couldn't see very well, so I put them back on. Rinse and repeat.

She was talking earnestly about her new job and how it would expand her horizons and that, then out of nowhere she stopped talking, took hold of my hands on the table, leaned over and kissed me.

Not a clumsy peck like before but a proper kiss. Lips, tongues, the lot. She smelled warm and sweet and I wanted this moment to go on forever. So, idiot that I was, I paused to draw breath and told her, "I love you, Sally McCalli."

And promptly woke up. My heart was racing but I was alone in bed, in Dunbar for the weekend. I quickly got dressed and went for a walk down towards the shore.

The Tall Ships race was here that year and I could see one of them making its way to the harbour, crew battling to keep control of the sails in the buffeting wind. Then it started to rain, which helped hide the tears streaking down my face.

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Six months later.

"You'll never guess who I just saw in the beer garden," said Ian.

"Correct. Please enlighten me."

"She said she had to collect her fridge from her ex-boyfriend's place, so she dropped in to say hello."

"Oh, right." That, oddly enough, made everything clear.

I headed out the door and up the hill and...froze. I just could not. Take. One more step. I felt rooted to the spot with...fear? Uncertainty? What if she didn't want to see me? How would I ever be able to deal with that?

The beer garden was only a hundred yards away at the other end of the street, but it might as well be a hundred miles. Or a thousand.

For fuck's sake, legs, come on!

My legs, somewhat obstinately, remained exactly where they were. Traitors.

After what felt like an eternity but could only have been a couple of minutes, tops, I turned around and quite easily now (Oh, so now you can walk? Fuck you, legs!) headed back the way I'd come. Then I snuck into the toilets and cried. Again.

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Two years later.

The phone rang. I didn't recognize the number. "Hello, IT Support, have you tried switching -"

"Farty, it's me."

My heart stopped.

"Oh, er, hi. How's France?"

"Fine, I guess. I'm in England right now, at my folks' place. But I'm coming up for the Fringe in a couple of days and I was wondering if you'd like to meet up?"

"I guess I could be persuaded. The usual place?"

"Sure. Laters!"

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It was raining, so we met inside for a change. A few co-workers were hanging out at the bar, so she had a quick catch-up with them while I grabbed us a table by the window. I noticed that she was wearing sensible flat shoes today.

"You broke my heart, you know."

"I never meant for you to fall in love with me."

"Fair. That's on me then. So, what happened with the ex?"

"He was too clingy. That was half the reason why I left; that and seeking out a better job. I needed some space to myself for a bit but wouldn't you know it, the daft bugger followed me all the way to Montpellier. So I had to ditch him."

"Haha, what a loser!" There, but for the grace of God...

I don't recall what else we talked about, except as she was leaving I finally remembered to ask her, "What the fuck is in a slippery nipple?"

"Baileys and sambuca, poured in two separate layers. With a cherry."

"Cheers!"