Page 4 of Deviant

But my eyes land on Rosie again. On the way she’s clinging to her new husband, on the way they look genuinely happy. Sure, it could all be the alcohol, or simply the honeymoon phase and in a few months they may decide they hate everything about each other, but some silly, old romantic in me wants to root for them anyway. Wants them to defy the odds.

Jesus, I’m getting old.

And then my mother’s voice suddenly echoes in my head, that old taunt about how men don’t want women with careers, with ambition—women like me.

No, men want women who are simple, who smile, who know how to behave.

Rosie is the walking definition of that. She’s beautiful, even under all that makeup, and she’s obviously willing to dull herself down, to make herself small, to fit that neat little box of ‘polite, respectable, obedient’ even. In a way, I almost envy her, that she can be content to bend, that she can be so comfortable folding those parts of herself away and pretend that they don’t exist.

I’ve never been that.

I’ve never wanted to be that.

To be a trophy wife, to hang off someone’s arm, and wait patiently in the confines of a house while they’re out, truly living and I’m stuck in the kitchen bringing up their brood of crotch goblins.

No, I wanted to be there, I wanted to live, to see the world, and to change it too. I wanted to know that on my deathbed, I’d made my mark, that everyone would remember my name. That every newspaper would have my death published as news, that people would mourn me, that I’d have awards in my honour, prizesnamed after me. That’s the legacy I wanted. Not just children, not a cookie cutter life.

No man I ever met, no man I was ever in a relationship with, wanted that future. Wanted my sharp edges and intelligence. They wanted the smiles, and submission, superficial parts of me and yet they were all things I wouldn’t give.

It’s why I don’t date, why I don’t waste my time. If I want to fuck then fine, I know all I have to do is head down to a bar, find someone who ticks the boxes on the attraction scale and then head off to a hotel for the night because in no rational world would I ever let some stranger into the sanctuary that is my apartment.

I don’t want more, I don’t look for more.

On a certain level, I’m content with that, happy with that. I have my work, and my books, and my space. Why would I rock the boat? Why should I be so greedy as to want more?

My stomach grumbles, bringing me back to the present and I’m half tempted to order some food, but it’s late, I doubt the kitchen is even open. A nice little spread was put on for when we arrived, but those canapes feel so long ago now. God, what I wouldn’t give for a kebab.

“Liliana.” James, my editor’s voice rings out at the exact same moment I get the bartender’s attention.

With my best fake smile, I turn to greet him, biting my tongue before I correct him for the millionth time that my name is ‘Ana,’ not ‘Liliana.’ We’ve never really gotten on. Oh, he likes me well enough, when I’m bringing in the accolades. When I’m bathing his paper in the glory, but our outlook on life is so at odds.

We have different politics, different views—at least that’s the polite way of defining it because he classes any unmarried woman in their late thirties as a raging, feminist lesbian, and one as outspoken as I am must be doubly so. If he had his way, there wouldn’t be any women at the paper at all, except the youngones, in tight little skirts to make his coffee while he pats their pert behinds and murmurs on about ‘the good old days.’

As he meets my gaze, I can’t tell if he actually wants to talk to me or is simply forced to by circumstance. His mouth is turned down, his face showing that same disgust he always has when he looks at me, but he still drops his gaze, lets his eyes linger a little too long over the curves of my body and it makes my stomach turn.

“Did you want something?” I ask, clutching my bag just that bit tighter, as though I might need to whack him firmly around the head with it—although that would almost certainly get me fired, wouldn’t it?

“You did a good job on the Zani Trial,” he says. His voice empty, flat.

I nod in return. That was over a month ago. Yeah, it was headline news, but I’ve had numerous big hitters since then. Is that really all he can think to talk about?

I cast my eyes about, landing once more on Rosie. “This is a nice evening.” I state, more than aware that my attempt at small-talk is, apparently, just as shit as his is.

He grunts back, adding that, “It’s nice to see people do still settle down these days…” and it’s all I can do to bite back the retort. I order a drink quickly, focusing instead on the barman and all but pretending James isn’t really there.

And then, my sub-editor appears, wrapping his arm around me in a far too-familiar manner.

“Ana, may I borrow you for a moment?”

“Sure,” I smile, letting Saul lead me away and once we’re out of earshot, I thank him politely before shrugging off his touch.

“Don’t mention it.” he says with a knowing look.

For a second I believe he really was just rescuing me, but he murmurs again about needing a word.

“What are you working on right now?” he asks.

I frown, with the glass poised at my lips. “Why?”

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