The Writers' Circle

The worst part of mornings is undoubtedly the dragging-yourself-out-of-bed bit. The rest is plain sailing. But it's the first attempt, the first, glorious raising of the arms, that stumps most. Especially women. Exhibit A: your average 35 year old mother of three, happily married and settled in a good career, yet still managing to sleep through the alarm every morning. 

The days in this house work on a strict schedule. 

6:45: an alarm sounds. The rasping call will disturb the room for an estimated time of fourteen seconds, before Husband musters the strength to turn it off. Within six minutes, Husband will have done the necessary in the toilet, and turned on the shower. Wife will remain sleeping. Oblivious. 

7:05: Husband will exit the shower, and Son will knock softly on the bathroom door. 'Dad? Are you nearly done?' 'Just about.' Wife will remain sleeping. 

7:08: Husband and Son will pass each other on the landing; Husband will tousle Son's hair, and Son will jerk away, with a disdainful tut. Wife will remain sleeping. 

7:10: Husband will be dressed in the usual - shirt, trousers, socks, pants, and very occasionally a tie - and Son will be trying to stay awake in the shower. Wife will remain sleeping. 

7:17: Son will leave the bathroom, knocking on Daughter's door on the way to his own room. Daughter will groan melodramatically, before realising what day it is, and drag herself to the bathroom. Husband will be immersed in the world of Sky Sports News. Wife will remain sleeping. 

7:40: Daughter will leave the bathroom and turn on the hot water, Husband will make his way upstairs, and Son will be dredging his way through a bowl of Cheerios (if a Monday, Wednesday or Friday) or Coco Pops (if a Tuesday or Thursday). Wife will remain sleeping. 

7:46: after brushing his teeth and attempting to do something appropriate with his hair, Husband will tap gently on the bedroom door, whereupon Wife will roll over. Husband and Wife will then engage in a conversation of sorts through the door, before Husband realises that better things would be achieved if he could hear his wife. Husband will spend the next four minutes coaxing Wife out of bed and into the bathroom, before going to wake Baby. 

8:15: all parties will leave House in various modes of transport and stages of consciousness, before reuniting at 6:15 in the evening. 

This is Laura's life. 


PART ONE: A DISTURBANCE

'Baby... Babe?' A sigh. 'Babes, it's quarter to.' 

A dull ache crept along Laura's spine as she rolled over and pulled the quilt over her head. Morning, already? Impossible. The air under the duvet pushed up her nose and into her eyes, and she poked her face into the open air before she suffocated. A pathetic groan seeped from her throat, and she heard a soft chuckle on the other side of the door. 

'Don't laugh at me.' Her voice was croaky; cracked like dry earth. 

'What?'

'I said don't laugh at me.' She pushed the quilt further away from her face; it was very hot under there. 

'I'm not.' A snort. 'I swear.'

'Is it Monday?'

'...What?'

'I said is it Monday?'

There was a small click, and a thin rod of light jumped into the room. 'Yes, it's Monday. It's also quarter to eight.'

With a jerk of her elbow, Laura sat up. 'What?'

'It's quarter to eight, I told you a moment ago.'

'Well, I didn't hear you,' she muttered, batting her hair away from her eyes with an uncoordinated hand.

'Well, I was behind a door.'

'That's why I couldn't hear you, James.' James laughed softly. He had a beautiful laugh; Laura had always thought so. It rose and fell like the wind, but was smooth and glossy, like newly washed hair. She loved to hear it.

'I need to go. Rob and Cassie are awake, but Emily's still sleeping. I thought I'd leave her as long as possible, give you both some sleep.' 

'James, that gives me half an hour to get myself and her ready,' Laura sighed. 

'Babe, she's tiny. How long can it take?' A smirk threatened on the corners of his lips, but he held it back.

'You'd be surprised.'

The smirk escaped, followed shortly by a beautiful laugh. Leaning forward quickly, James kissed his wife first on the forehead, then both cheeks. 'I love you, baby. Have a good day.'

Laura grasped his face in her hands. 'I love you, too. I'll see you at dinner.' The softest, gentlest of kisses, and he was gone. 

Their conversations were much the same every morning. 

						****

'Foster, my office, please.' 9:23. April 18th. Sunshine, light showers. 

James glanced across his desk at Tom, who shrugged, and frowning, left his desk. The office was cluttered, papers strewn across all available surfaces, as though trying to hide the ugly granite-effect covering. Should have done that on Friday. Across from his office and to the left was a broad door labelled 'Sandbrook'. Tosser. Didn't need a first name - or a title. Not even an initial. Just 'Sandbrook'. With two brisk knocks, James announced his presence. 

'Come in.'

He pushed open the door with a sigh. This could be about one of two things: the state of the office, or his recent lateness. The last two Thursdays, he'd been held up at the doctor's, but of course, Sandbrook didn't care for those sorts of excuses. So long as you were conscious and mobile, you were in work. No questions ifs, buts or maybes. 

'Ah, James. Sit down.' It was such a cliché. But then, Sandbrook was a cliché. He sat in a high-backed, leather chair, behind a pine-wood desk, the window at his back, a large bookcase in one corner, and a sleek laptop on his neatly ordered desk. He dressed in clean cut suits, usually dark blue or black, wore sensible ties, and highly shined shoes. Even his cufflinks were perfect. He opted for a shoe brush moustache - brown, like his hair, which was combed back in a quiff reminiscent of his eighties heyday. A gold signet ring settled on his thick little finger sealed the image. All he lacked was a cigar, though that was only due to recent smoking bans. He would not have been out of place in an episode of Dynasty. 

James sat down. 'You asked for me, Mr Sandbrook?' He was tempted to bypass the 'Mr' and go simply for 'Sandbrook', given the information on his plaque, but he felt it would be insolent.  

'Yes, James,' Sandbrook touched the tips of his fingers together, in true businessman style. 'I've been thinking about you and your office, and your job. You've been here for quite a stretch, haven't you?'

'Seven years, sir,' James replied, masking the harsh edge of his voice with a smile.

'Quite a stretch, indeed.' Sandbrook's eyes dove swiftly to James' hands, which were clasped tightly on his knees, to the pile of papers stacked with an almost anal precision, and back to James' face. A trace of a frown had formed on James' forehead, and his eyes masked the niggling feeling in his stomach. He was a good worker. Surely a messy office didn't constitute punishment? Or, God forbid, sacking? It was Tom's office, too. 

'I think a change is in order, Foster.' Sandbrook reached for the sheet on the top of his exactly positioned pile. 'I'm moving you up.'

'Sorry?' The frown smoothed in an instant, then deepened further. 
He'd been in the same job seven years, Sandbrook was notorious for not giving recognition where it was due, never mind promotions. 

'I'm making you manager. You'll still be in sales, of course. I can't afford to lose you there. But you'll be head of your department.' 
Sandbrook gazed at James with the most illegible expression on his face. The skin of his cheeks was smooth, almost blurred, and his chin was softly dimpled. He would have been a handsome man in his younger years. 

'Well ... I ... Thank you sir.' James Foster was not often speechless. He rose from his seat to shake his boss' hand. Sandbrook shook firmly and coldly, as businessmen are wont to do, and passed the sheet to James. 

'You will attend weekly meetings in the boardroom, and report to me on how your department is running. There will be a meeting tomorrow between you, the other managers and myself to discuss your responsibilities and pay increases. Any problems, you come straight to me, as always.'

'Yes, sir.' James made to leave, fighting back the smile that urged to form. 

'And James?' 

'Yes, sir?' 

'Have a nice day.'

						****

'I swear, that man is having sex. There is no other explanation for it. 
He was actually civil in there!' 

James and Tom were sat in the boardroom, sharing a large bag of Doritos. Tom was hanging out the window, a cigarette dangled off his hand. 

'But I thought his wife was having an affair?' 

'Yeah, so did I. No wonder he's been such a bastard recently.'

'Maybe he's got himself some bit on the side too,' said Tom, contemplatively.

'You two are such gossips.' Two mugs preceded a large woman with warm eyes and honey hair into the room. Tom made to hide his cigarette, but on realising who it was, continued to smoke it. 

'Says you,' he muttered.

'Hey, women are made to gossip. We have to go through labour, you've got to give us something.' A chink of crockery, followed by a squelch of washing up liquid. 'Well, that and sex.'

'Christina,' Tom cringed. 'As much as I love you, I do not want to think about you having sex.'

Christina smirked over her shoulder at them, before washing her cups. 'So, who were you ladies talking about?'

'Sandbrook,' said James.

'Promoted him,' puffed Tom.

Another chink of crockery. 'Sorry?' Christina turned to face them, dripping suds on the floor. 

'My sentiments exactly. Just called me into the office and told me. I thought he was going to tell me off for the state of our office.'

'It is pretty awful, actually,' Tom admitted. 

Christina gazed from the handsome, yet haggard-looking man lounging, feet on the table, with his hands in a packet of Doritos, to the scrawny man poking his head out the window to drag on a cigarette. 'That's just bizarre.'

Tom peeled his head out from between the window frame to say, 'We think he's having an affair,' before replacing it. 

'No, you think he's having an affair, I just said he was having sex.' 
James stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth and looked questioningly at Christina.

'Oh, he's definitely having sex. He whistled this morning. Actually whistled. And I swear I heard a hum last week.'

'That man does not hum,' called Tom from out the window. 

'What man?' 

Sandbrook had strolled into the room. Tom nearly fell out the window in his haste to hide the cigarette. He tried to stuff it behind his back, but hit his hand on the window frame, burning his fingers on the end of the cigarette, and dropped it into the car park below. James pulled his feet off the table and straightened up, swallowing the exceedingly large amount of crisps he'd just stuffed into his mouth. Christina stared between the three of them, her lips pouted in an attempt not to laugh. 

'...My dad,' said Tom. James and Christina looked at him. 'He's been humming. He hates it when people hum. I think he's going senile.'

Sandbrook laughed heartily, and squeezed past Christina to make a cup of tea. The other three stared at each other. Sandbrook never made his own drinks. Christina nodded. 

The kettle's bustle just about masked the chinks of mugs, clashing clangs of cutlery, and, to their horror, the jaunty whistle issuing from their boss. Tom had moved from his seat on the window sill to sit next to James, and Christina stood with her arms folded in the corner, watching the whole affair with an air of amusement. 

At last, finally, Sandbrook had made his coffee. He turned, a proud glint in his eye, nodded in their direction, and left the room. 

The three of them looked at each other. It wasn't even funny. 'Good save.' Conceded James to Tom.

Tom got up and peered out the window and into the car park. 'Thanks. I dropped it.'

Christina laughed. 'Your meeting tomorrow will be eventful.' She made for the door.

'Don't,' said James. Sandbrook arrogant, patronising and clichéd, he could handle. But Sandbrook happy, considerate, and whistling? That was something he just couldn't deal with.