Stuck On You Read online

  Sure enough, there’s a Twirl chocolate bar there for me, and there’s a bright yellow Post-it Note stuck to it that says:

  I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT NEED THIS.

  He’s absolutely right – I do need this. I’m starving, and there are few things on this earth I love more than chocolate.

  When I say ‘he’s right’ I’m not talking about the Post-it. I’m not so lonely and overworked that I’ve reached a level of delusion where I think the Post-it is a man. I’m talking about the person who wrote the note. I’m talking about Adam.

  Adam is the person I share my desk with. I’ve hot-desked before, in other jobs, and I’ve always found it so strange. When you have your own desk, you have your own space, everything is always where you left it, but when you hot-desk you never know what you’re going to find when you open a drawer – someone else’s work, their half-eaten lunch, their anti-diarrhoea medication (which no one ever owned up to, unsurprisingly).

  It’s a little different here though, because here I only share my desk with Adam.

  I remember when I first started working for Damian. My very first day on the job was working here in the office. I’d met Damian at my interview and he seemed great. So cool, so charming, so undeniably handsome. And, of course, I was such a huge fan of his work, so I was completely in awe, pinching myself every few seconds because I couldn’t believe my luck. I remember sitting in Damian’s office across the desk from him on my first day, chatting about his work and his plans for the future, and it all seemed great until I went and sat at my desk, opened the drawer and found a Post-it Note stuck to a stapler.

  THE BOSS IS A NIGHTMARE. GOOD LUCK.

  I just closed the drawer, putting the note to the back of my mind, going about my business, getting set up for my first day on the job. Then I noticed the framed photo on the desk, of a tall man with dirty-blond hair, big muscular shoulders, and an arm wrapped around a woman next to him. Going by the age gap, and the family resemblance, I knew that it just had to be his mum. That was when I realised I was sharing a desk. The picture, the various other personal items, the note. This wasn’t just my space, it was someone else’s too. I was sharing a desk with someone, someone who was looking out for me, someone who thought Damian was such a nightmare that they left me a note to warn me about him.

  When Damian called me into the office, to give me my very first assignment, I was so excited. I figured it was going to be something to do with his next project, whatever it was, because the art world was waiting with bated breath for what Damian was going to do next. What he actually gave me was a list of errands. Personal errands. Picking up dry cleaning, moving a dental appointment, trailing around Harrods for a very specific pair of shoes, which, you’ll know if you’ve ever been to Harrods, isn’t a quick process – the place is like a maze. By the time I got back to him, way after I was supposed to finish work, I was knackered. Not only was the work tiring but it was mind-numbingly boring. I was so disheartened that I grabbed my wad of pink Post-its from my bag and wrote back to my desk mate. Nothing too controversial. I just wrote:

  He certainly is.

  And I stuck it on top of the original note, to make clear that it was a reply.

  So I worked my first couple of days in the office, then I had a few working out of Damian’s apartment with him and it became very obvious that my job as Damian’s assistant wasn’t so much assisting him with work, it was mostly just managing his life for him, practically babysitting him most of the time. The following week I found a reply to my Post-it Note. It said, ‘We need to stick together. I’m Adam.’ and just like that a weird, Post-it-based friendship was born. It felt strangely exciting but mostly I was just happy to feel as if I had a friend.

  During my first couple of weeks I tried to talk with my fellow employees – that was when I realised they were lumping me in with Damian, keeping me at a distance, so I couldn’t ask them about Adam. Eventually I asked Damian. He said Adam worked for him on the days he wasn’t in the office, managing the place in his absence, which meant Adam also only worked the days that I wasn’t in the office. So, I haven’t actually ever met Adam, despite months and months of swapping notes. I waited a month or so to subtly add a framed photo of myself to our desk, so that Adam could see who he was talking to. Not just a photo of myself, that would seem at best unsubtle, or, at worst, incredibly narcissistic. I opted for a photo of me and David Attenborough, who I met when he popped into a museum gift shop I used to work in. I am such a huge fan of his and it’s actually a really great photo. I was so nervous when it was taken that I was convinced I was probably making a weird face, but it turned out perfectly. It’s one of my favourite things.

  The funny thing about my friendship with Adam is that I feel close to him, even though we’ve never actually met. I feel as if we know each other pretty well though, and I feel as if he knows what I’m going through. Adam has worked for Damian for far longer than I have, and for him to feel as if he needed to warn me on my first day, he must have known exactly what I was letting myself in for.

  It’s going to sound weird, given that we haven’t met face to face, and all of our interactions have taken place over Post-it Notes, but Adam is my best friend at work, the thing that keeps me sane, the person who gives me something to look forward to when I know I’ll be in the office. I just wish we could be in the office at the same time, or that a reason would come up for us to meet – that wouldn’t make me seem creepy – like a work Christmas party, but we’re not even having one this year. Not enough people were able to attend. That speaks volumes, doesn’t it? And I’m certainly not the kind of girl to just ask out someone I’ve never met. That sounds absolutely terrifying.

  I maybe, just maybe, have a slight crush on Adam. I mean, obviously I can tell from his photo that he’s completely gorgeous but it’s not just that. His notes to me are so sweet. I feel as if we’ve been slowly getting to know each other. I really feel as if he cares about me too, but don’t think for a second that I don’t know how delusional this sounds, because I do.

  I pen a quick thank-you note, asking Adam if he’s had a good weekend, telling him about mine. The best thing about writing on Post-it Notes is that you only have so much room to work with, like an old-school text message. When I was at school, and terrible at flirting, I really had to take my time with text messages to boys I liked. Well, with limited space, and at (what seemed like) a whopping 10p a go, there was always pressure to make sure that the message you sent was perfect. I feel like that with my limited Post-it space. Someone really should develop a dating app around the concept because it might make people think twice about what they say. If my brief stint on Matcher is anything to go by, people really don’t think all that hard about the messages they send on dating apps, and they really, really should. Adam made a better first impression on a Post-it than anyone did in their opening message to me on Matcher.

  I grab a bag of peanut M&M’s from my bag – Adam’s favourite desk snack – and stick the Post-it Note to them before returning them to the drawer. Time to stop daydreaming about Adam and get on with my work.

  I open up my laptop as I bite into my Twirl. I’ll just take a couple of minutes to enjoy it, before firing up my emails. The calm before the storm. This will probably be the only peaceful part of my day.

  The phone on my desk rings, making me jump, just a little.

  I glance down and see that it’s Damian, calling me from inside his office.

  ‘Hello?’ I answer, after quickly swallowing my chocolate, washing it down with my coffee.

  ‘Morning, Sadie, can you pop in for a minute?’ Damian asks.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be right there,’ I reply.

  I make a point to quickly finish my chocolate and chug a few mouthfuls of coffee before I go. Damian’s minutes are rarely actual minutes.

  So much for thinking I could enjoy my poor excuse for a breakfast for a couple of minutes. Time to see what fresh hell Damian has in store for me today…

  3r />
  I always hesitate before I open the door to Damian’s office. It’s only ever for a second but, with each day I work for him, I’m feeling as if I need to psych myself up more and more. I usually tell myself something before I open it – a different thing every day, but the sentiment is always the same. I remind myself how lucky I am to have this job, how well connected Damian is, how he can open doors for me. I am on the road to my dream job and, as far away as it seems, to stop moving would be a big mistake. And Damian does have the fastest cars, as he is always reminding me. Of course, I’m speaking metaphorically now; he usually means it literally. He’s very materialistic, for someone so artsy.

  It’s not that I don’t like him – we have a really unique professional almost-friendship – it's more just that every time he calls me in here he gives me something to do that I know is going to be either boring or completely weird. There is no in between.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say with a brightness that does not reflect the mood I am currently in.

  ‘Morning,’ Damian says. ‘Take a seat.’

  Damian is sitting at his ridiculously large desk, smack bang in the middle. His desk is absolute chaos, littered with a sea of papers, photos, miscellaneous camera bits like lenses and straps. His laptop is open in front of him. He pats it shut as I sit down opposite him to reveal a glass with a splash of bourbon in the bottom. Given how messy Damian is there is a chance this could be from another day but, given what a rock star he thinks he is, it could be from this morning.

  ‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’ I say. I can say things like that to Damian. I could probably say anything I wanted, none of it would matter, for two reasons. The first is that Damian does whatever he wants, doesn’t care what anyone thinks, and doesn’t listen to criticism. The second reason, which really does feel like a double-edged sword, is that Damian is absolutely, completely dependent on me. I’m sure he could live without me, and God knows I could live without him, but he doesn’t think so. He believes that, to allow him to be fully ‘open’ creatively, he needs someone to bear the burden of, well, day-to-day life, I suppose.

  ‘I was just on a call with Australia,’ he says by way of an explanation. I’m sure he’s joking but he doesn’t let his serious expression slip. ‘How did last night go?’

  Ah, straight down to business. Not actual business, obviously. He just wants to know how the dumping went.

  ‘Awful,’ I tell him very matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yeah, breaking up with someone is never easy,’ he says with a sigh.

  ‘Would you know?’ I ask with a laugh. I don’t wait for an answer. ‘She was a nice girl. I stayed for a couple of drinks with her. Lord knows what you thought was wrong with her. I couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘Well, Sadie, you have my blessing, if you want to go for it,’ he says, still straight-faced.

  ‘Yes, because I have time to have a love life,’ I reply sarcastically. ‘I’m seeing my friend tonight for a drink, for the first time in weeks. I definitely don’t have time to go on dates.’

  ‘Really?’ Damian replies, narrowing his eyes at me for a second. ‘Because it sounds like you’re saying you’re going out drinking two nights in a row…’

  He leans back in his chair, smiling smugly. As handsome as Damian is, smugness is not an attractive look on a man, as far as I am concerned. Luckily for him there are women (usually much thinner ones who wear way less clothing than me and have far looser morals) who find his arrogance really attractive.

  He’s dressed down today, which I envy. It’s not that I think Damian would ever tell me what I could or couldn’t wear, but I’ve never been one for going out of the house in my sweats. Damian looks good no matter what he wears. He’s very stylish, even when he’s dressed down in a pair of trackies and a hoodie – I don’t suppose it hurts that they’re always designer – which means that, no matter what he wears, he looks as if he should be on the cover of GQ magazine. His style is very much his own, which makes him seem all the more attractive, and then there’s that certain something he has…

  Damian has long-ish brown hair, which he always blows back, designer stubble and big brown eyes. He looks like a movie star – in fact, people often mistake him for Jake Gyllenhaal, but that might have something to do with the fact that he’s treated like a celebrity. A lot of people have no idea what he’s famous for but assume he must be a star.

  ‘Let’s talk work, shall we?’ I say, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got a list of jobs for you to do today.’

  Damian pushes a piece of paper towards me. Skimming it confirms the usual list of boring jobs he often gives me. I sigh subtly.

  ‘You’ve reminded me about Christmas gifts – I’ve done all your Christmas shopping,’ I point out.

  ‘Not all of it,’ he says. ‘I need a present for you.’

  I smile but only for a second.

  ‘You want me to buy myself a Christmas present?’

  ‘Look at it this way, at least it will be something you want,’ he says.

  ‘Well, there’s that,’ I reply.

  ‘I do have some work-work for you today,’ he continues.

  ‘Oh?’

  It’s been a long time since Damian’s last exhibition and people are starting to wonder what’s going on. Apparently, he’s got some sort of creative blockage.

  ‘I’m scrapping everything we’ve done so far,’ he says. He’s done this a few times already, for the new exhibition he’s planning. The first time I was in shock – all that work! – but I don’t bat an eyelid now. ‘I need some new subjects. Some more worthwhile subjects.’

  I gasp theatrically.

  ‘The underwear models weren’t worthwhile?’ I ask in disbelief.

  He frowns at me for taking the mick.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know where I thought that was going to go,’ he says. ‘I thought they might have some depth.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking now?’ I ask.

  Damian is a portrait photographer but his pictures have always said so much. They’ve packed powerful punches, hidden messages; he’s made political statements, given voices to victims. He’s putting a lot of pressure on himself lately but, I have to admit, his last few shoots have felt so empty, and the harder he tries to find or create worth in an image, the emptier it seems.

  ‘Can you find me some prostitutes?’ he asks with a bizarre yet not entirely surprising level of casualness.

  ‘You definitely don’t pay me enough for that,’ I reply almost instantly.

  ‘No, not for me,’ he says with a scoff. ‘Obviously not for me. For the exhibition. I want real, interesting women with real things going on, stories, darkness, struggles. I want to give them a voice.’

  ‘We both know you can get girls to sleep with you for free, just promise to take their photo afterwards, before, during – whatever,’ I can’t help but tease.

  Damian laughs, but only for a split second. He takes things so seriously sometimes.

  ‘Come on, Sadie, this is serious. I’m struggling.’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ll try my best,’ I lie.

  ‘Maybe search online?’ he suggests.

  ‘Yes, sure, I’ll search online, that’ll work,’ I reply. It absolutely won’t. Damian doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.

  As we move on to chatting about what the day ahead looks like I secretly wrack my brain for alternative ideas for Damian’s next exhibition. I mean, I doubt he would even accept one of my ideas but, if I could come up with something good enough, perhaps there’s a way I could make him think it was his idea? I do that all the time with smaller things. Things like leaving parties early, stopping drinking, being fussy about who he gives his number to…

  Of course, I have no idea what I could suggest, but I’ll have to think of something. I suppose I could give it some thought while I’m buying myself a Christmas present. And I’ll tell you what, the harder it is to come up with something, the better my pre
sent for myself is going to be. I’ve definitely earned it this year.

  4

  I was so excited for my first non-work night out in weeks that I spent ages getting ready.

  It’s December and it’s bloody freezing. This suits me just fine though because, as far as I’m concerned, more is more when it comes to clothing. It’s rare that I have much skin on show, and I’m not one for wearing tight-fitting clothing. I know it sounds weird, and aggressively feminist (and the fact I feel as if I need to justify it is exactly why we need feminism), but I like to keep my body relatively under wraps. I express myself through my outfits and my creativity, and I want that to be the reason people are drawn to me, rather than because I’m wearing a tight, short dress. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with people wearing whatever they want, and I would never judge anyone for wearing what they want – how can I, when I’m wearing a trilby hat, as I am tonight?

  Overthinking how I dress is yet another horrible side effect of working for Damian. He shoots a lot of women in their underwear – he’s completely desensitised to it now – so if women want to get to him, they feel as if they need to compete. For them, less really is more. And Damian being a man – a famous man with an endless supply of women to choose from – he’s there for it. Briefly, of course, because it’s always only a matter of time before I’m having to sit these girls down and tell them Damian doesn’t want to see them any more. But I think that’s largely why I like to wear lots of clothes. I don’t want to compete.

  I’m wearing my long hair down, which means it covers a fair bit of my long, floaty dress. I’ve teamed it with a black trilby hat, a black leather jacket and enough gold bangles to sink a ship.