Page 6 of In Knots

I crinkle up my nose, not believing that for a minute. We had nothing in common. Maybe he liked me enough to want to rut me, but to actually enjoy each other’s company for the rest of our days. Although maybe I’m giving these men too much credit. Maybe they’re not bothered by the company at all. Maybe it’s only about the rutting.

“Well, like I said, you’re gaining a reputation.” Margo spins around in a huff and heads for the dressing table.

I don’t bother drying my hair, wanting to escape the changing room, and Margo’s irritated scowls as quickly as possible. The brother thing has been a prickly thorn in our friendship ever since he asked me out, one I try to avoid but inevitably stroll straight into every time.

Jonathan waits for me in the lobby of the club and observes my wet hair. He used to be a police officer before he retired and came to work for my father’s personal security. For as long as I can remember my father has always had a string of people working for him. Men in dark suits that follow him wherever he goes. Making his life run smoothly and safely. Since I presented as an omega, I have a minder too, Jonathan. As a beta and only a little younger than my parents, he is the one responsible for carting me from place to place.

“Are you sure you don’t want to blow dry your hair, kiddo?”

He knows my mother, knows she won’t approve of this bedraggled look.

“She won’t be there this morning,” I explain. “She’s out at some lunch benefit.”

Jonathan nods, understanding, and we walk out into the heat and to the car.

“Top down?” he asks, settling into the driver’s seat.

“Top down,” I agree, settling into the seat next to him. He presses the switch on the dashboard and with a whirr the soft top of the car folds backward, allowing the baking sun to beam down onto our heads. It won’t be long until my hair dries anyway.

“Good workout?” he asks.

I shrug my shoulders and he flips on the radio.

If he’s noticed the change of tyre on the car, he hasn’t mentioned it. He probably thinks it’s best ignored. The less he knows the better.

The ride into town is speedy. It’s a weekday and everyone is either at work or school; everyone else choosing to spend yet another hot day under the shade of trees in gardens or parks. Hardly anyone is out on the roads.

“How long will you be at the foundation today?” Jonathan asks me.

“The whole afternoon, I guess.” I don’t have anything else to do. Not with Chloe away and my mother busy.

“I’ll park up then. Come and get you about five pm.”

I nod, jumping out as he parks outside the grand building my father purchased for the foundation, a Georgian building with towering pillars flanking the main doors.

The office is almost empty, most of the older omega ladies who volunteer here are probably at the lunch with my mother. The office manager, Linda, is here though, eyeing me with a scowl as I emerge from the lift. She’s made it clear from the first day that she finds my presence here at the foundation a nuisance rather than a help, one she’s only tolerating because my mother is her boss.

“Hi Linda,” I say, ignoring the scowl. “What can I do to help today? You must have your hands full. The place is empty.”

She harumphs as if I’ve just made the most outrageous demand, then leads me to the board room where envelopes and brochures have been laid out across the mahogany table.

“Stuffing envelopes and stamping,” she says gesturing to the pile. “One brochure and one letter in each envelope. Don’t mess it up.”

I nod. It’s hardly taxing. In fact, it’s mind-numbing. Plus, I’ve not actually mucked up any of the tasks she’s given me. Obviously, she thinks I will eventually.

I place my handbag on the floor, plug earbuds into my ears, take a seat and get to work. Soon I lose myself in the monotonous work of my fingers and the soft tones of a new singer-songwriter Chloe introduced me to.

Brochure after brochure I slip into an envelope after envelope, pressing closed the flap and running it through the stamping machine. To begin with, I count them; one, two, three, but around the three hundred mark, when my fingers are beginning to cramp, I lose count.

At least there’s air conditioning blasting in here, although I’m soon so chilly with my still damp hair I have to fish a cardigan from my bag and shrug it over my shoulders. Yet, it’s oppressive too. The windows sit high up by the ceiling, small slants of light filtering through, catching and illuminating the dust that swirls in the air. My shoulders begin to ache and that thud in my head returns. I roll my shoulders, lean my head back, hearing my vertebrae snap, and wriggle my stiff fingers.

I don’t want to be here.

I think of the road again. The endless sky, the uninterrupted countryside.

I stuff the last few envelopes, then arrange them in neat piles.

“I’m all done,” I tell Linda as I step out into the open plan office. She peers up from her computer at me, clearly surprised. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“No, I hadn’t–”

“Great, I’ll see you at the end of the week,” I say, hurrying away, hooking out the spare car key from my bag as I do.

I spot the car parked on the other side of the street and dive inside. It’s lunchtime. I have a good few hours before I have to be back for Jonathan.

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