The I.T. Girl by Fiona Pearse Page A

jammed. The sides were painted over so it couldn’t slide
down the pulley rope. I got a screw driver and slid it through the layers of paint.
The window began to rattle as the sides loosened. But the top was still stuck. I
shoved the screwdriver in against the frame, feeling a ball of anger rising. Why
would someone paint a window like this? I wedged the screw driver in further against
the stubborn seal. ‘Come on ,’ I growled.
A chunk of wood broke away and flew into the room leaving the window to rattle free.
    ‘Fuck,’ I shouted after it. ‘Ah, fuck,’ I said again touching
the torn timber in the white frame. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the frustration getting
to me. A party had started downstairs. The soft beat came up through the floor.
I hope that’s not going to go on all night, I thought. My handbag beeped faintly
from the couch. I clicked open the message envelope that read Columbus . ‘ Yes, I’m free ’ it said. ‘ Shall
I come over? ’
    ‘No’ I typed. ‘I’ll come to yours.’
    I put on my coat before quickly touching up my makeup and packed
spare underwear and my toothbrush, knowing that despite our rules, I would probably
stay overnight.
    His house was in an older part of town than mine, also with a
tradition of market trade which these days attracted mostly tourists. It was squeezed
into a row of tall houses, each behind a gate and a short path, off one of the few
quiet roads. The kitchen and living room were upstairs in an open plan area. Like
my apartment, large bay windows brought the luxury of light. The bedroom and bathroom
were on the ground floor, down a narrow corridor, tucked behind the staircase, where
it was naturally dark, after the porch-light faded. A grandfather clock stood in
the short hallway and chimed every 15 minutes. He said it reminded him of his childhood
– his father had a hobby collecting mechanical things. He was trying to buy a barograph
which would indicate barometric pressure with a delicate inked nib moving on a cylinder
of graph paper. But they were hard to find.
    We spontaneously met with a kiss on the lips when he opened the
door. I followed him upstairs and he went back to the kitchen without saying anything
while I settled on the couch and unzipped my boots. I heard the popping sound of
a cork being released from a bottle and then the exchange of air and wine as liquid
was poured.
    He settled next to me, with an arm over the couch. ‘Here,’ he
said, slipping the stemmed glass into my hand.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said, looking at him. I wanted his mouth.
    ‘How was your day?’
    ‘I pulled a muscle.’ I raised my legs into his lap.
    He examined the calf I offered, gingerly.
    ‘I tried the running club again. It doesn’t really hurt now,’
I said. I looked around the living room at the faces looking back at me. A mask from north India over the T.V. and a replica of a deep-sea diving
mask from World War One on a metal bookshelf. He had tried to convince me
it was an original when I first saw it. I had an urge to turn it upside-down and
put flowers in it. A fertility God defended the open top of the winding stairs.
‘If it’s for fertility, why isn’t it in your bedroom,’ I had asked when it first
startled me. ‘I don’t want it to actually work,’ had been his wide-eyed reply, as
if the answer should have been obvious.
    His hand lost interest in my calf and traced my thigh muscle
instead, displacing the folds of my skirt and the thin hem below it.
    We looked at each other and kissed. His tongue tasted of wine.
    ‘We’re going to waste another bottle,’ he said, pulling me down
so my head lay back on cushions.
    ‘I know,’ I whispered with a slow smile.

 
    ‘Monday Morning, Orla .’ Boris stated the obvious, striding to the other side of the floor. The team followed
him, with blank faces, meandering around cubes like ducklings, towards our meeting
room.
    ‘I’m coming,’ I called after them. I sipped coffee so burnt and
bitter it reminded