THE WOLF WHISTLE
One wolf whistle in that situation is one too many.
I mean, I’m the office stunner. The posh one. The aloof one. I’m Unapproachable. I am far above and beyond common wolf whistles.
Coming to an abrupt halt, I turned to face the miscreant and treated him to my most icy glare.
I was looking down on a squirt of a creature – dark suit, flat hair, scrubbed grinning face.
From my six-feet-four, in six-inch heels, I towered over the happy little grinner who evidently thought he’d scored some sort of triumph to stop me in my tracks and pay attention to him.
He was mistaken. It was the first nail in his coffin.
I glared. Waited for an apology.
I didn’t receive one. ‘Well, smart bird like you,’ he chanced instead. ‘What do you expect? Swanning through here like Lady Docker?’
I refuse to respond to such comments: I am Lady Docker here. I have perfected this lip-curl – not too much, but clear enough – and I turned it on.
Ant-like happy-chappy didn’t even notice. ‘Well? What do you say? You and me, eh? How about it?’
‘How about what?’ I was aware of the whole office paused in its machine-like bustle; every staff member’s life on hold: this would be their talking point for days between the water dispenser and the copier.
‘You know. Me and you… Tonight?’
Inside, I hovered between affronted and entertained. I stiffened up and eye-narrowed. ‘And what did you have in mind, Little One?’
‘Ah, since you’re asking,’ he raised his voice, so others could hear his jovial banter more clearly. ‘What I thought was a couple of drinks, meal and a bottle at Jebero’s, then back to my place, hmm?’ That appallingly cocky little toad-faced twat.
‘Oh? And then what? Scrabble?’
‘Well, you know…’
‘No, I don’t know.’ I gave him my finest Estée Lauder All Day Frosted Strawberry Lipstick smile.
‘We could be making out from nine till five; me and you.’ Big grin all round. Faces neutral to aghast among the office populace.
‘Making out?’ There’s nothing like pretending to be dim when you have a smirky little idiot like this, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The office was virtually silent by then; a telex chattering somewhere… an answer machine bleating.
‘Yeah, you do. You know…’ His edge was blunting a mite then. ‘You know…?’
‘Ohhh, you mean you want to…?’ My best ice-maiden stare bored down into his blankly sparkling little eyes.
‘Yeah… fuck you. How’s about it, eh?’
I leaned down to whisper in his ear, ‘And fuck you, too, my little turd.’ I could almost hear it echoing through the empty vault therein.
As I stood back to my full height, he looked suitably taken aback, and I took my turn to raise my voice for the benefit of the host of listeners. ‘I can only assume which planet you obtained your Green Card from, but you can collect it from the front desk of the Employment Office on your way out, and take it back to Your Anus. Hmm?’
The look of shock was gorgeous. There was my reputation – reinforced and soaring. I’ve no idea who he was – some new creep in Finances who fancied himself.
I managed to keep a straight face all the way through the main office. No-one in there had much idea who I was – they assumed I was some senior management officer promoted too soon through a bed somewhere? Boss’s daughter sinecured into a top job? They had no real knowledge – only that I sailed through here twice a day, all glammed-up six-feet-four-in-six-inch-heels of me. The epitome of glamour.
That should be entertaining, when Happy-Chappy goes to the Employment Office and explains why he’d been fired. The staff on the front desk will look baffled, until one’ll pretend to catch on, ‘Oh, Isobel Lorraine? You crossed her, huh?’ They’ll tut a few times; shake their heads; look at each other and smile, and say something like, ‘Don’t take it too seriously this time; she doesn’t usually mean it for a first offence. Just behave in future, hmm?’
There. Reaching the far-end door, I felt like brushing my hands together in a symbolic “job done” gesture.
It’s only in the Employment Office, where my pop’s the manager, that they actually know me. Because I work in the back office there.
I’m actually George MacGregor, the transgender guy. My word, would Happy Chappy have been surprised if he’d got me into bed.