Chapter Text
The phone is still ringing. Sophie would have thought that whoever it is would have given up by now, especially on a Thursday evening. Certainly it isn’t a number she recognises. Probably doesn’t matter anyway - she’d set it to voicemail before she went to the bar.
Now she’s standing next to the sofa, trying to open a bottle of red. The cork pops out and she pours the wine, sloshing it a little into two glasses. She’s drunker than she’d realised. The phone continues to ring.
“Who’s calling?” asks Jeff, plonking himself on the sofa next to her, manspreading in the way that he invariably does.
“I’ve no idea.” says Sophie. “Probably telemarketers.”
“Bloody persistent, aren’t they?” he mumbles into his glass.
Officially, this isn't a date. Jeff had proposed it as “just a quick drink, so we can talk shop”. But he'd winked at her as he said it, which suggested that it might be something else. Sophie doesn't want to sleep with Jeff, exactly, but she doesn't know that she doesn't want to. Either would be fine, the way she feels at the moment. Just go with the flow.
Just as Sophie is leaning forward to silence it, the machine abruptly goes to voicemail. There's a beep, a brief pause, and then Mark Corrigan's voice.
“Sophie! If you heard that, please ignore it… um, I'm not a racist…”
Sophie glances at Jeff, who mouths something along the lines of “what the fuck’s he on about?”.
“Anyway, er, it’s good to hear your voice - I know it's just a recording but you do have a bloody nice voice…”
There's a muffled, nervous laugh, as if Mark is just now realising how awkward he sounds.
“God - er, I just called up to say “hi”...”
And then - Oh, God - he starts singing.
“And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like… I like you… I mean, not that, but-”
It isn't even particularly in tune. Next to her, on the sofa, Jeff is pissing himself laughing. Sophie just stares at the answering machine, feeling far too drunk to deal with this. It's like listening to a car crash in real time.
“Anyway,” Mark concludes weakly, “I noticed that the paper in the photocopier is running a bit low, so… I know it's not really your job, but, well, you know, so - see you tomorrow.”
He hangs up.
“Jesus Christ.” Jeff splutters. “Corrigan's a psychopath.”
“I think it's sweet.” says Sophie. She's not sure how she feels about this. Mark is apparently brave enough to leave an almost suicidally reckless message on her answering machine, but not brave enough to say it to her face. Perhaps the one will follow the other. In any case she doesn't want Mark's feelings hurt.
“You'd better not say anything at work tomorrow.” she warns Jeff, who scoffs in a way that betrays that he was definitely considering it. But Sophie gives him a look and he shrugs.
“Fine. I won't say anything.”
“I mean it, Jeff. You can't humiliate him in front of our colleagues, he doesn't deserve it.”
“All right, all right.”
He's clearly reluctant to let this golden chance to stick it to his work rival slip away. But then Sophie leans forward a little - granting him a view down her top - and she's sure that he'll do what she asks.
“Anyway.” He grins and slings an arm around her shoulders. Sophie doesn't know what testosterone smells like, but she's always assumed that it would smell like Jeff. Sweat and aftershave. “Where were we before Romeo there decided to ruin things?”
Perhaps it isn't a binary choice, Sophie rationalises. She could have both. If things go south with Jeff - as they might well, given that he's a bit of a wanker - then she'll always have Mark. Sweet, nervous Mark can pick up the pieces.
And there's no way that can go wrong. Is there?