Crazygirl Falls in Love by Alexandra Wnuk

Angrypants
clears her throat loudly from the head of the table where she’s
seated herself. I swiftly sit down, shaking myself as I do. Get a grip, you can do this . Sarah is speaking and I silently thank God I’m not running
the show today. If I was the most senior lawyer here it would be me
in charge of the agenda.
    He Who Shall Not Be Named hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I can
see him from the corner of my eye, but I refuse to return his gaze.
My attention, and that of everyone else in the room besides my
ex’s, is locked firmly on Sarah, who has always had such a
commanding stage presence,
    “Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with us today. For those of
you who don’t know me, I’m Sarah Daye and I will be the signing
partner for the transaction. We have printed copies of the agenda
for your convenience and as you can see it is tight. I’m conscious
that you all have day jobs to go back to, so we will keep this to
under an hour. This is Sam Grabowski and to my left is Penelope
Jones, your senior associates and go-to guys. Before we discuss the
nitty gritty of the deal, let’s go over the overarching objectives.
You intend on selling your offices in Central Grand, is that
correct?”
    The old dude, who I read from the agenda is
the Development Manager, responds, but I’m not listening. I’m using
every ounce of energy I can sap from this morning’s breakfast (four
slices of Marmite toast and six coffees) to avoid his glance. I can feel
his beady little eyes on me. Under the table, my knuckles are going
white from squeezing the edge of my seat.
    Half an hour in and I’m thinking things might work out after
all. Sarah is captaining the ship and I’m keeping as low a profile
as possible. I’m also slightly arching my neck to the left, because
to my right is the Development Manager had begun to reek of gin and
Marlboroughs. I guess he’s started to sweat through his shirt,
seeing as the room is rather warm. He’s a curious looking fellow,
this smelly old man. With only a few grey hairs left around his
temples and a sharp, small, pointed beard, he looks like a chubster
Lenin.
    Just as I begin to relax, He Who Shall Not
Be Named pulls a bag out from under the table and I see it’s his
laptop case. The laptop. The blood drains from my face. How does he still have that thing? How did it not
break?
    His laptop starts making loud pinging noises as it loads, all
of its lights flashing flamboyantly. Sarah stops mid-sentence and
stares at my ex disapprovingly. No one is allowed to interrupt her
when she is on a roll, not even a client. Her glare could burn a
hole right through that poor little Apple logo.
    “Sorry, my laptop has been playing up for a few months, it’ll
settle down in a moment,” he apologises.
    “Quite alright,” Angrypants replies, with as much conviction
as a washed up actress endorsing the youth restoring powers of
home-brand moisturiser.
    I watch He Who Shall Not Be Named start
typing on that keyboard and my body starts giving off small, involuntary
shudders. I should never have done it.
    OId Man Smelly addresses myself and Stalker,
    “When do you anticipate signing?”
    Stalker replies that it’s not an election year, government
approval is a shoe-in and Lloyds and the potential buyers are in
reasonably strong financial positions. Barring unforeseen
circumstances few delays are anticipated, ergo (he’s taken a leaf
out of Sarah’s ergo-and-other-wanker-buzzword dictionary), the deal
will be complete in twelve weeks. He sounds confident and
knowledgeable. If only they knew about the head slamming
incident.
    The Lloyds men nod their heads in approval and Sarah looks
pleased. But just as she is about to close, He Who Shall Not Be
Named turns to me,
    “Miss Jones, have you had much experience in transactional
work?”
    You know I do you moron, we lived together
for two years .
    “Yes, I’ve been in Real Estate law for five years, seven if
you include my years as a clerk in