The Art of
Upgrading a Book Boyfriend
A Uni File Short
by
Anna Bloom
For my Welsh
friend
Tristan the Arse
"Come on, Zo ."
The whining would be slightly annoying,
if I didn’t have a very clear visual image of what he looked like on the other
end of the phone: like a golden god that really you shouldn't say no to.
Sadly I am going to have to. I can’t be
late for publication. Again.
"Tristan, sorry, I can't do
that."
" Zoooeeey ,"
he whines some more, snickering a little. He knows he is laying it on thick.
"Come on, it's been ages since I asked you for a favour."
"Mm, ages," I reply with a
zing of tartness in my tone. "It's been absolutely ages since last week,
when I had to explain that your favourite Grandmother had died for the fourth
time, and that you were going to be late for another deadline."
I blow out a little gust of air as I
twirl the cord of my phone around my finger.
Tristan McCannon is the most outrageous ladies man you ever could meet. Ladies man does not even cover it; he is walking talking testosterone.
Well at least he was, until last year,
when he met some girl at his sisters University and became a transformed man.
Transformed, but still unable to get his
assignments in on time. In fact they are even later now, and sometimes, well
sometimes, they don't turn up at all. I've been told that he’s on his last
warning. Actually, I think his last warning may have been months ago, but for
some reason best known to myself, I always end up covering for his sorry arse.
It's a professional misdemeanour, but I do it all the same.
I haven’t met her ; the one that
stole his heart and challenged his already slack time keeping, but I have heard
that she looks like a super model.
It kind of figures. Blue eyed, blonde
haired, sexy, ladies-man catches a supermodel of his own. While little old me
is nowhere near bagging a male supermodel for keeps, and instead spends my time
covering up for the only one that I know.
"Tristan, you really are a complete
arse."
He chuckles a little. "I know, but
listen this will be worth waiting for, and you never know, you may get
something out of it in the long run. And I don't mean a case of wine."
It's my turn to chuckle. Tristan may be
an arse, but he always makes sure to send me a case of wine after every one of
his deadline failures. This has been an on-going arrangement since we went out
for a corporate do one night and he found out I had a penchant for rosé.
The only reason he found out was because
I threw up all over his shiny designer shoes. He had to try and get me home in
a black cab, whilst I decided to perform a solo rendition of a college reunion
playlist.
Sighing dramatically I say, "Okay.
I can hold off until nine Monday morning, but if I get the sack, you are
completely accountable for my rent and phone bills until I find new
employment."
"Yes!" He gives a little whoop
which I am not expecting at all.
Usually he is as cool as a cucumber, so
that little "Yes," speaks volumes.
"What's going on, Tristan?"
"Nothing, what makes you say
that?"
Then it twigs, call it intuition, call
it anything you like. "Oh my god, you’re not writing this are you?"
"Not exactly, now, Zoe, don't freak
out. It’s going to be great, and I know she can do it."
Oh fuck . He is going to get his
supermodel strumpet to write something.
"Who is writing, Tristan?"
"My Sis," he blurts out before
hanging up the phone before I can say anything back.
Oh dear.
I don't know much about Delilah
McCannon, apart from what my best friend Annabelle has told me. Delilah, or
Lilah as she likes to be called, used to work at an investment bank in Canary
Wharf, until she went down in urban legend by walking out the door for a
cigarette break, and never went back.
My friend, Annabelle, worked with her
for a short time. Actually I think Annabelle got her job eventually, well
technically, she got more than her job. She also managed to snatch her
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