Who He Is At The Weekend

Aud racked up a line, meticulously ordering the white powder into neat rows, easing the cocaine around the plate with his bank card, chopping here, sifting there; pressing until the fat mounds are neat little zebra stripes on the ceramic surface.

“It’s just like when you’re settling down with a bird for dinner at a fancy restaurant, one where they don’t laminate the fucking menu, and you order chips and she says she doesn’t want any but you know she fucking does...”

Aud tried not to listen. He sniffed, swallowed, tightening the ten-pound note and snorted a line. He can feel the particles scratch up his nose, mainlining stimulants into his brain, sending a tide of surging, raw adrenaline through him like an electric shock.

“She doesn’t want the chips, she wants the fucking chips, why can’t she just decide? I can’t understand it, I mean blokes and birds we’re just different, aren’t we? We find each other like, attractive, but we’re not, like, meant to be? Like, compatible? It’s weird isn’t it?”

Aud didn’t respond. He didn’t nod, he didn’t grunt, his face didn’t even twitch in reply. He just sniffed deeply, tasting that chemical zing as the last coke grains slipped down the back of his throat. Then he snorted a second line. He was coming up again. There was another dopamine boom coming and he wasn’t intent on being conscious when the bust hit. He decided that the coke was good shit. Better than the stuff he’d picked up the week before, it had been cut to mush and mixed to the eyeballs with Benzocaine.

“I mean every couple I know is either unhappy or single, you get me? You get it? Hey, hey here’s one for you; why does Dr Pepper come in a bottle? Because his wife’s dead. Good one right? Right, Aud?”

Aud laid back slowly on the sofa, unfolding his spine like a deck chair, sinking each vertebrae slowly into the fabric and feeling it envelop him in its soft embrace. The warm fuzz had hit him, the tingle in his arms, the numbness coursing down each limb and into every finger. He could feel the thump of his heart against his chest, battering the ribcage, trying to break free. It didn’t take long for his foot to begin tapping against the floor, following his cardiac rhythm with a rap, rap, rap on the cheap carpet.

“You like that Aud? You think it’s funny? I’ve got others; just give me a sec to think.”

Aud tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling, his lucid gaze following the patterns of the plaster, running from cracks in the white to spots of damp like black ink stains bleeding through paper.

“Shut the fuck up pal,” Aud wiped his nose and sniffed. “Take another line of Charlie, and just shut the fuck up.”

*

Hugo saw pretty much everything he liked in Alex Audley. He was young, bright-eyed, enthusiastic, calm and refreshingly old-school when it came to matters of obedience. He never questioned Hugo and he showed a great deal more respect than the rest of the snowflakes and waltzing nancy boys who constantly flitted in and out of Hugo’s office, complaining about their so-called “mental health,” long work hours and “improper use of pronouns.” It wasn’t that those complaints irked Hugo, it was that he didn’t quite understand any of them.

He leaned back in his chair, hearing the squeaks of protesting axels and plastic as he did so. It was an expensive office chair, with built-in lumbar support and a protruding headrest. Hugo’s wife, Karen, had insisted Hugo purchase the chair for fear of him getting a bad back, and what Karen wanted she usually got.  

Hugo sighed. No one else in the office seemed to remember Karen, apart from Audley. He took the time to ask after her. He also took the time to remember Jane and Tom, Hugo’s children, who were probably around Audley’s age by now. Audley called Hugo “Sir” sometimes. Not all the time, but enough to make it feel like Hugo was back in the eighties, which, to Hugo, were classed as the good old days of management. Audley had a strict and intrinsic attention to detail. He was modest, always impeccably dressed, and hardworking. He got his job done to the highest standard, spoke first in meetings, offered up useful suggestions when it came to strategy and he never boasted.

In fact, now Hugo came to think about, Audley was a model employee.

He looked out through his glass office window, running a wary eye over the open plan. Audley was stood at his desk, his hair neatly parted, his immaculate suit drawing the eye of several female clerks.

Hugo snickered, “Popular lad. Popular lad.”

Even a man as out of touch with his feelings as Hugo could see that Audley was handsome. Which made it all the more surprising that Hugo liked him. He usually hated pretty boys. He despised modern men and their obsession with weight-lifting, face cream and hair removal. Whenever Hugo happened upon an oiled-up, fake-tan-laden little shit dancing up the high street, mincing, pouting and showing off his body like a glamour model, he felt his blood boil. Men were no longer men. Not real men. But Audley’s good looks didn’t seem to dimmish his masculinity. He didn’t dress like a tart or indulge feminine whiles, he was smart, and wore his looks as he should do; like a man. What’s more, Audley didn’t act like he was good-looking. Modesty, humility and reserve flowed through him like blood.

Hugo watched, his eyes lazily flicking from his computer screen, which was open on the Daily Mail sports page, to Audley, who was collecting mugs for an office tea round.

“Bastard’s perfect,” Hugo grunted. He watched Audley approach the office door and hurriedly busied himself in his computer, pretending to write an email.

He heard the knock, looked up from his monitor feigning surprise and gestured for Audley to come in.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sir, can I interest you in a cup of tea?” even his voice sounded perfect to Hugo. Deep, formal, clear. No slang, no accent, the Queen’s English with a friendly tone and a perfect manner. Now, who could say no to a cup of tea from that?

“Please Audley,” Hugo handed his mug over to Audley who took it deftly.

“There is one other thing Sir.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve had a look at the Gray’s account from last year, it’s a little untidy.”

Hugo cocked his eyebrow. “Untidy?”

“Just rough around the edges Sir,” Audley smiled and Hugo saw two rows of perfectly white teeth; uniformed and straight, like soldiers standing to attention. “Nothing I can’t sort out today. I just wanted to let you know ahead of the audit, in case they ask about the changes I’ve made.”

Hugo nodded, smiling, “Good man, as you were Audley.”

Audley nodded, gave a brief “thank you Sir” and exited.

Hugo leaned back again and sighed. The fucking Gray’s account, well Audley had come to the rescue again. He watched as Audley strode across the open plan and towards the kitchen.

Hugo pulled out his leather-bound diary, a present from his daughter. It was gold embossed with his initials, which he hated because his initials were H.O.G which had led to some rather creative ridiculing during his time at Charterhouse. He bet Audley was a Charterhouse boy, or at the very least Harrow. He was too polite and well-mannered not to have been a boarder.

Hugo turned the pages of his diary to that coming weekend and stabbed a fat finger at the yawning blank page marked Sunday. “Golf,” he muttered. “No, a drink and lunch perhaps? No, golf.” He would invite Audley to golf and they could discuss his future at the company. Hugo rubbed his hands together at the prospect and went back to the Daily Mail sports page.

*

Annie Fines took a deep breath, quickly checked her hair in the reflection of a blank office monitor, straightened her skirt and strode into the kitchen, careful to walk past Alex without looking at him.

He was at the worktop, diligently making three cups of tea, a coffee, a black coffee and a green tea for Trevor, the bastard, who had insisted that he no longer consumed dairy, meat, animal products and caffeine. Annie wasn’t at all averse to veganism, of course. It was, after all, better for the environment, and animal welfare. It was just that Trevor had some very shady views when it came to gender fluidity. Plus, he had once admitted to agreeing with Piers Morgan which was enough to class him as a chauvinist in Annie’s book.

She set herself down at the cheap plastic table, hoping that Alex would notice that she had tanned that morning, as she crossed her legs and looked over at him.

“Hi Annie, how are you?”

She tried not to melt at his voice. It was like dark chocolate to her; deep, resonating and succulent. Annie hated that Alex made her feel that way, despised it. She was usually the one in control, the one lusted after, the popular girl who all the lads fancied and fought over like baying dogs.

But Alex Audley, well, he had her all tied up. She beamed at him, drinking in his sleek suit, his chin dimple, his angular jaw, and hazel-coloured eyes.

“Same old. Hugo being a fucking sexist pig again, you know,” she shook her head. “He’s shitting it over the audit and taking it out on the girls in accounting, you can see it.”

She watched as Alex turned, crossed his arms, and leaned against the kitchen worktop. He had a stern look on his face, his jaw set like his teeth were grinding against one another, his forehead creased in a slight frown. Despite herself, Annie thought the expression made him look all the more handsome.

“That bastard, he’s stuck in the eighties, thinks women should all be secretaries and cleaners,” said Alex. “Did you know he refused to use Jane’s new pronouns? It’s disgusting. Someone needs to go to HR about that man.”

Annie nodded enthusiastically, feeling the warmth of righteousness and affirmation, that came with agreement, rising in her. “Yes, they should, he’s archaic. This company needs a female boss, or a trans one, I’ve always said it. To make the minority employees feel more comfortable.”

Alex turned slightly to make the tea but his gaze remained on Annie, listening to her, watching. One thing Annie loved about Alex Audley, apart from his left-wing views and feminist allyship, was his attentiveness. He listened to you, really listened. He wasn’t just waiting for a break in your musings to make his own point, he truly took in what you were saying.

“I couldn’t agree more. As a cisgender male, I can’t say he’s been bad to me, well, really, life hasn’t been bad to me, whatsoever. But I can see how he treats the women in this office and it’s just not on.” Alex shook his head, scooped out a teabag from one of the mugs and casually flicked it into the bin.

Annie smiled, “I’ll go to HR about him, one day, once the audit is over. Until then, I guess, I need to just plough on.”

Alex smiled back, “All you can do Annie.” He stopped stirring and leaned against the counter, looking deep into Annie’s eyes as he spoke. Annie felt a slight flutter, like the wind-swell of a small bird beating its wings. It wasn’t that Alex had looked at her, she was used to men looking at her, especially that fat creep Gus. It was what she saw in those eyes. Those molten brown orbs were full of emotion and feeling. When Alex smiled, his eyes smiled too, when he spoke, they backed up his words, when he complimented you, when he sympathised, when he celebrated, his eyes told you that he meant every damn word.

“But, once the audit is over, if you don’t mind me saying, you shouldn’t put up with Hugo’s shit,” Alex continued, shaking his head. “You coping ok?”

“Oh yeah,” Annie flapped away the question with a wave of her hand. “You know me; I like having something to complain about, all the time.” She laughed, ran a hand through her hair, hoping that Alex would notice the beautiful curls she had painstakingly teased out of her locks that morning.

Alex grinned back and said, without blinking, “Oh I’m sure I could give you something you wouldn’t complain about.”

“Oh really?” Annie leaned forward, looking intently into Alex’s deep eyes.

“Really,” he replied coolly.

Annie knew this was the time to finally ask him out. Finally. Surely this was the right moment. This was flirting, right? This was him, flirting with her? Wasn’t it? She needed to ask him now, right now, and then they could spend the weekend together.

“You want a brew?” Alex asked suddenly, startling her. “I’ve made about a thousand already, another one won’t hurt.”

“Oh, go on then,” Annie beamed. “Thank you lovely.”

“No problem,” he turned to retrieve a mug, grabbed the Tetley’s box and, with that casual flick of his head, with that nonchalant turn that always caught Annie’s breathe, looked back at her and said: “I like that top by the way, it really suits you.”

Annie lost her grip on the cool, laid-back demeanour she had planned on maintaining for the remainder of their conversation and gave way to her dorky, natural smile. “Thank you,” she tittered. She felt the heat rising in her face and unconsciously presses a hand to her cheeks, feeling the rouge blossoming there.

“No worries,” Alex busied himself with the tea.

Ask him now, ask him now, ask him now. No, you can’t now, you look like a strawberry. Annie cursed under her breath. Why was it that the only bloke she wanted to ask out managed to disarm her before she could do it?

“Here you go, two sugars and milk, right?” Her tea was already on the table and Alex was opening the kitchen door, a mug-laden tray in one hand.

All Annie could do was smile up at him. It must have looked look like a wince of discomfort, an off-the-cuff grimace. Annie couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“I’ll see you around,” Alex said, before ducking out of the kitchen.

“Fuck,” Annie grabbed the tea and took a sip. Alex even made good tea. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” One of these days she would ask him out and he would say “yes” and they would spend Saturday together, and Sunday, if she was lucky.

She sighed, exhaling back into the chair. She could just tell that Alex would be the perfect date. Kind, attentive, charming, sophisticated, one to impress and seduce the parents, one to make the girlfriends jealous, one to make the unwanted men stay away. They would stay awake talking left-wing politics, feminism, modern gender issues and how sexy his allyship was. Their shared views, principles and sentiments would be a bedrock for their relationship. Annie took another sip. He would make her happy, genuinely happy.

*

Gus was one of life’s hangers-on, a sideman, a peripheral, and mostly spent, force. Fat, stout and with no redeeming features but a thick head of dark hair, he was fully aware that he would, and probably should, have been a bully’s treat during his time at school. Which is why Gus had got through school by being a bully himself. Then he had spent much of his working life, arse-licking any superior who would let him.

Consequently, Gus had grown into something of a caricature. In any TV gangster drama, the lead villain always had one fat lacky who was brought along to drop-offs or shoot-outs. That token fat lacky was Gus. He was the nameless and faceless bouncer outside every city nightclub. He was a piece of the background furniture, always the extra in an otherwise thrilling film and, in this instance, the Hollywood star was Audley, or AA, as the office lads called him.

AA was an anomaly to Gus, to any man in fact. Women and men loved him equally, and with as much passion, but for totally different reasons.

He managed to effortlessly, and unashamedly, dispel all the Femi-Nazi bullshit with the lads while upholding it to the highest standards with the women. He was an impeccable worker, who put in more time and shifted more numbers than anyone else, keeping an army of managers happy. More impressively, he did it all while squeezing in a lunchtime pint, dozens of daily tea rounds and lengthy chats with everyone in the office. AA remembered every meeting, every appointment, every phone call, every birthday. He flirted with Annie Fines without her calling HR on him but still managed to crack jokes about her tits and her lips fillers and her impossibly short pencil skirt to the boys. He had got James from IT to do his job, quickly, quietly and with a smile on his face. And, to top it all off, he had Hugo Oswald Goddard, the company’s most notorious arsehole, eating out the palm of his hand.

The man was a god.

And that’s why Gus, who barely got excited by anything let alone lunch with a client, was over the fucking moon that he was doing this lunch with the big AA.

Sat opposite him, wearing that tailored grey suit with the thin mauve tie and matching braces, Gus couldn’t help but feel a certain attraction to AA. He wasn’t gay, far from it, but you respected a man that could look that good, it’s why David Beckham was so popular amongst men. You were, up to a point, jealous of a bloke who looked that good but ultimately, you wanted them by your side.

“You good man?” Audely’s voice was like melting better, just calmy, coolly, sliding into the conversation like it had been there all along.

Gus nodded, “Yeah fine. Just want to nail this one, Hugo’s been up my arse since the audit announcement.”

Audley tutted, swatting away Gus’ worries like a troublesome fly. “Don’t sweat it. Hugo’s an old fusty fuck and he’s looking for someone to hammer until the audit’s over with. You know how he gets.”

Gus shrugs, “Still…

Audley shook his head, straightened his tie and poured Gus a generous glass of Malbec. “Still nothing man, you’re good at your job, you’re good at netting clients and your accounts are solid. I know it, you know it. So fuck Hugo.”

He smoothly pushed the glass to Gus, “Nail this meeting and stick it in his fat face.”

 “Alright,” Gus smirked, unable to quell the smile brimming on his lips. “Yeah, ok.”

 “Good lad,” said Audley. “We’ll be back at our desks, watching Annie, and that arse of hers, swinging in and out of the office in no time.” He winked at Gus who grinned back.

Gus liked Audley’s “changing room banter” his “guy talk.” It was one of the many reasons that men gravitated to AA. He was no snowflake bullshitter. There was a space for men to be men in his world. He wasn’t one of these pussies who was giving away everything to the rise of third-wave feminism. He wasn’t sexist, or misogynistic, he just had a place for a bit of blue in his life. Besides, Annie, the tart, wouldn’t wear those clothes if she didn’t want the compliments. Everyone knew it.

Audley checked his watch, “They should be here in five.”

 “Talking of Annie,” Gus leaned across the table, keeping his voice low as though Annie had bugged the restaurant and was listening in. “You ever going to ask her out?”

Audley shrugged, “Can’t be arsed with all her ‘woke’ shit, she would be such hassle. Although, I bet she’s decent in the sack.”

There was a pause, a lull, the dragging weight of silence.

 “You think I have a chance with her?” Gus asked. He didn’t know where the question came from but he knew AA was the one to answer it. He wouldn’t take the piss; he wouldn’t be a cunt about it. He would answer, he would be honest and genuine. That’s just who he was.

Audley leaned back considering the question, formulating a serious answer. His deep brown eyes were trained on the wine bottle, his brow creased in a frown, as though he were thinking hard.

He sat like that for a good few moments before speaking. “To be honest mate,” he slapped a friendly hand down on Gus’ shoulder. “You’re too good for her. Way too fucking good. She’s stuck up, she thinks she’s the shit and she loves attention, you don’t need that. I don’t think it matters if you ‘might have a chance’ because she deserves you like Hitler deserved a pardon from the Pope.”

Gus guffawed with laughter, drawing a few pointed stares from neighbouring diners. Audley always knew what to say. Gus felt the warmth of confidence brewing in him, the fuzz of his ego growing. He was bigger, stronger, taller and smarter than he had been moments before. Audley was right, fuck Annie, he was a stud, he was the shit, he didn’t need her.

“You’re right,” he took a swig of wine. “You’re always right.”

“Clients are here,” Audley nodded to the opposite end of the room where the concierge had just taken coats from a small party of balding men dressed in suits.

Gus stood with Audley. God, he was fucking glad he had got this lunch. He wondered, absentmindedly, as the clients bore down on them, all smiles and brisk, curt strides, if Audley was free at the weekend… Maybe they could go for a pint together...?

*

Aud got in at 5.30 on a Friday and hit the booze first.

He had got his weekends down to the minute details, like a scientific formula which had been tinkered with and eased until it had produced the perfect result; a forty-eight-hour binge of drugs, alcohol and debauchery, with a sober-ish Sunday for Aud’s recovery.

Diving into the shower; Aud finished off three light beers, and a shot of whiskey, before drying off and cracking out another couple of fingers of the good stuff.

After dropping half-a-pill and finishing another finger, he dressed. Jeans, t-shirt, jacket and combat boots.

A knock at the door heralded his dealer who dropped off an eighth of coke, with a couple of pills and enough hash for the Sunday comedown. He threw in some speed too, which Aud fucking hated because it sent you up and down like the drop tower at a leisure park but he took it anyway.

His dealer, the cheeky fuck, stayed for a couple of Calvin Kleins then fucked off to his next drop.

Aud sunk the speed, washed it down with a whiskey and started on the coke when the speed high began nosediving.

By 9pm he was buzzed, nodding his head to music thumping through his speakers, gumming coke and then taking a pill every half hour before wandering into town.

Aud didn’t give a shit where he went; as long as the bathroom cubicles were big enough for him to rack up and sniff in peace, without some fuckhead banging on the door. Time slipped. Pills, coke, pills, coke, pint. Fight. Fight. Next pub, next club.

He was still riding the buzz by midnight, not feeling his cut knuckles or his bloody nose, not caring that his jacket was ripped.

Re-supplying when out on the town came easily. Some equally coked-up girl with smudged eyeliner thought he was handsome and paid through the nose for a couple of bags for them to share. It wasn’t long before her hard-earned cash was going right back up her nose; and Aud’s.

By early morning she had passed out upstairs and Aud was crashing in her shithole of a house. It was filthy. A tirade of dust balls chased one another across the mottled carpet, the walls were yellow with smoke and the TV was on the blink; flitting from a re-run of Jeremy Kyle to a blank screen, every few minutes.

The lad sitting beside Aud on the living room sofa was twenty, maybe twenty-one, and he wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

He was the kind of guy who took one bump and started talking at a thousand miles an hour, chomping through words like a traction engine, flitting from anecdote, to joke, to comment, to compliment with a speed so frustrating that Aud didn’t bother to respond.

“Shut the fuck up,” he wiped his nose and sniffed. “Take another line of Charlie, and just shut the fuck up.”

The lad obliged, snorting and doing that clichéd Hollywood thing of whooping as he shot the line. Aud wanted to tell him to shut up again but he was in the zone; somewhere between up and down, lingering just below ecstasy, floating in the space that lazily took you down the river towards morning; that’s if he kept up the coke, and took at least one more pill.

The lad laid back next to Aud. “Fuck,” he breathed.

Aud said nothing.

“Hey, Aud.”

Aud said nothing.

“Aud, you seem like, well dressed, and, like, well-spoken you know, and you have stacks man. What do you do?”

Aud grunted, “Office, downtown.”

“You like it?”

Aud shook his head, “I’m a completely different person at work.”

“Oh yeah?”

Aud said nothing again, returning to his vow of silence.

“Who are you at work?”

“What?” Aud stopped. He stopped tapping his foot, stopped clucking, stopped floating, stopped zoning. He sat upright, arms resting on his knees, looking forward at the blinking TV, watching it wink in and out of digital consciousness.

“Who are you at work? During the week?” the lad repeated.

Aud smiled, “I’m my boss’s fucking favourite. I hoover up his shit, take his shit, eat his shit, I call him ‘Sir’, I pretend that I like wearing a fucking suit and I lick his arse clean. During the week I’m the girl’s man, all the women in the office like me one way or another. I do all the modern feminist bullshit, pretend to be sensitive, flirt with them strictly and professionally, I toe the line, I do the bollocks awareness courses and I make sure I listen to all their endless shite. Then with the lads, I’m a fucking bloke’s bloke who sinks pints and fucks girls and talks football and cars. I peddle the same macho shit that they all do. I say stuff like: ‘It’s bullshit that we can’t talk about girls arses and ogle them, why do we need to be sensitive?’ I constantly joke about lads being under the thumb, telling my married colleagues to escape the missus and come out with the lads. I repeat those febrile little sayings like ‘gains recognise gains’ and ‘bros before hos’. All that shit. And you know what? Every single person laps it up.”

Aud laughed. He laughed and laughed, didn’t stop until his breath was strained and wheezy until he needed to lay back on the sofa again, panting, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m whoever and whatever they fucking want me to be,” he whispered.

The lad racked up, absentmindedly scraping the bank card across the powder, watching Aud as he did so.

“So, who are you now?” he asked, herding the coke into one uneven and fat line that was so untidy it made Aud want to puke. “Who are you at the weekend?”

Aud shrugged, grabbing the rolled-up tenner, and readied himself for another line. “I have no fucking idea,” he replied.

*

Did you enjoy Who He Is At The Weekend? Then why not check out one of Dom’s other short stories? Maybe his micro-fiction collection Dark Times or his published piece The Right Honourable?