Title: The Rose Garden Conspiracy part 3
Author: Madeleine Mitchell Carr
Email:
Rating: PG mostly. A couple of scenes verging on PG-13
Subject: Josh/Donna, Sam/Ainsley (sort-of, in a very twisted way…)
Spoilers: Five Votes Down/Season 2 up to and including The Leadership Breakfast
Disclaimer: All the characters herein are the legal property of NBC and Aaron Sorkin esq. Sue me not, fair Sirs, as my pockets are empty and I do but dally awhile with these fair mortals and will return them intact, anon.
Summary: A stolen memo, a meeting in the Rose Garden and the IRS. A mystery is afoot. Does it have something to do with Josh's missing coffee mug? And what is CJ hiding in her office? Why is Donna in Ainsley's cupboard with Sam? Just another 'normal' day at the West Wing…
Another gratuitous Author's note: Having established that I know nothing about the IRS or roses, I feel that I must also confess my ignorance of the geography of the White House. But you probably already guessed that ;-)
Part 3 - Josh POV
I have officially added the name Samuel Norman Seaborn to my hit list.
In fact, he's gone straight to first place. Pole Position. Numero Uno. Top Dog. Congratulations my soon to be ex-best friend, you have finally out shone Toby Ziegler.
I cannot believe what I am seeing. My stomach is aching as though I've just been sucker-punched. I want to shout and scream and stamp, but all I manage to say is,
"Sam! You…you…you Cad!"
Yes, Josh Lyman's life has just become a bad melodrama.
Ainsley, who has been staring at the disgusting tableau in her cupboard with horrified fascination, turns to me in disbelief. I know, I can't believe I just said that either. My friend Sam Seaborn is in a cupboard with the arms (and legs) of my assistant Donna Moss wrapped tightly around him; there is no possible angle that exists from which this does not look compromising, and I just called him a Cad.
Way to go, Lyman! All I have to do now is curl my lip, shout; 'Unhand her, Villain!' throw my gauntlet to the ground and demand satisfaction. Pistols at dawn on the White House lawn…
Ainsley starts to giggle, a surprisingly girlish sound, but my eyes remain glued to the scene in the cupboard. Donna has raised her head from Sam's shoulder and her eyes are riveted to mine like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I want to say,
Donna, what are you doing?
Or,
Donna, why are you doing this?
Even,
Donna, what are you trying to do to me?
But I don't. I just keep on staring. Why does the world feel like it's just come to an end and nobody bothered to warn me?
Donnatella…
And to think that almost an hour ago, all I had lost was my job and my coffee mug. Why does this feel worse? Almost an hour ago, I yelled out her name and she didn't answer. I suppose I should have guessed there was something going on…
{45 minutes earlier…}
"DONNA!"
"For God's sake, Josh, get an intercom system or something. You sound like Heathcliff."
"That was Cathy, Toby, not Donna"
"So? The analogy still stands"
"…I mean, do I look anything like Heathcliff to you? Do I have a swarthy complexion and bad eyebrows? Am I standing on a blasted moor?"
"A what, moor?"
"Blasted"
"That's what I thought you said. Is it even a word?"
"Don't you read books, Toby? It means windswept."
"Well why didn't you say windswept?"
"Because 'blasted' is more…poetic"
"You think 'blasted' sounds poetic? Sure, why not, you probably think Roy Liechtenstein is a great artist…"
"Well the Pop Art thing was quite cool…"
"The Pop Art movement was an ironic oversimplification of popular cultural imagery, which only served to demonstrate the banality of…"
"Shut up!"
"You're missing out on an important part of your education here. Let me finish…"
"TOBY! Shut up, you're driving me crazy."
"Well that shouldn't be hard."
Silence.
More silence.
"Sorry"
"Okay"
It is okay, really. I know what just happened; we were trying to distract ourselves from the impending financial scandal. At least, I know Toby was, I was also trying to forget the mystery of my missing coffee mug, which for some reason was looming large in my mind.
"Toby?"
"Yeah"
He still looked uncomfortable, embarrassed and plain worried, and I decided to let him off the hook.
"We'll forget the last five minutes ever happened"
"Okay"
"I have to…go find Donna now"
"Okay"
I left my office - and received yet another nasty jolt. I had been weighed down by doom when I'd come back from my meeting with Ainsley, so I hadn't noticed at the time, but Donna wasn't there and her desk was a disaster area. I stared in disbelief at the files and folders scattered on the floor around her desk, their contents spilling in every direction. Donna is the neatest person I know, there is no way she would have left her domain looking like the paper equivalent of a multiple freeway pile-up.
What the hell happened?
In a somewhat bemused manner, I half-heartedly poked through the fallen papers as though I thought Donna would be found buried beneath them, or something. I didn't find Donna, I found something else - a dark-brownish stain on the carpet.
Time stood still. I had to remind myself to breathe before the spots started appearing before my eyes. Before I could start thinking again, I found myself on my knees poking gingerly at the stain with my finger. It was cold and damp and smelled of…coffee.
Coffee!
"Josh, what on God's earth are you doing now?"
"Toby, have you seen Donna?"
"Are you okay?"
I must have sounded a bit strange. I hadn't really thought that Donna had been attacked at her desk, stabbed, and dragged away in full view of the dozens of people milling about the bullpen, but then my nervous system was not exactly behaving in a rational manner either. As it was, my brain was whirling in confusion at the clues surrounding me that were adding up to one huge enigma.
"Toby, when was the last time you saw Donna?
"Well, you should know Josh, you were there with me."
"Oh, okay. It's just, this is all a bit weird, you know?"
"What, you crawling around your assistant's desk? I would classify that as weird, yes."
I struggled to my feet, flushing slightly.
"I was looking for clues to Donna's whereabouts," I said, with a fair approximation of dignity.
Toby looked as though he was trying not to laugh again.
"I can understand her wanting to hide from you, Josh - she is a very intelligent woman, but I doubt she's attempting to do it under a couple of bits of paper."
"Shut up, Toby and listen a moment. Firstly, my coffee mug is missing. Secondly, Donna is missing and her desk is in a terrible mess, and lastly, there is a large coffee stain on the carpet. What does that tell you?"
"It tells me that you are obsessing about trivialities because you want to avoid thinking about the fact that we may both be out of a job tomorrow"
Well, he wasn't wrong, but there was no way I was going to tell him that.
"I am not obsessing, I do not obsess. You are confusing me with Donna who takes obsessiveness to the heights of absurdity - which is why she would never have left her desk in such a state."
"You know what, Josh? I really don't care, but if you want an explanation, I'll give you one."
He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes like a bearded Hercule Poirot.
"Using my keen deductive powers, I suspect that one of your fan-club, crazed with desire, broke away from the White House Tour and made for your office, panting with lust. Devastated to find you gone, she spied your coffee mug and knowing that it had once touched your sacred lips, stole it as a centre-piece for her Joshua Lyman shrine…"
"Toby…"
"Quiet, let me finish. Departing your office with reluctance, she encountered Donna, who was returning from a crucial errand. Your assistant, desperate to protect the sanctity of your personal belongings, leapt for the delusional stalker and a great battle ensued which resulted in much spilling of coffee and dropping of papers…"
"Toby…"
"Shh, I'm almost through. Wrenching the disputed coffee mug from Donna's grasping hands, the fan dodged past the horrified bystanders and ran deep into the heart of the White House, hotly pursued. They are even now, the hunter and the hunted, engaged in a deadly battle of wits, which can only result in the death of one, or both, and the breaking of the coffee mug."
"Have you finished now?"
"Yes"
"Do you know how much I hate you right at this moment?"
"I have a fair idea, yes"
"Well, good"
"Fine"
What can I say? Playing the straight man to Toby 'Funny Man' Ziegler is a lot like riding a galloping camel across the desert - you've got to hold on until the bitter end, or your journey home will be a lot slower and more painful that you ever imagined.
Talking of pain, it was at that point that Toby, his brief and frankly creepy descent into ponderous humour over, reminded me that we had Senior Staff in five minutes and the revelations of the morning and their potential consequences came crashing back into my mind. On our way to Leo's office, Toby and I reached a consensus that we would keep quiet about the IRS thing until we heard back from Ainsley, so that the whole affair could be presented to Leo as a fait accompli (or fate accompli). Might as well get all of the painful parts over with at the same time.
As it happened, everybody was far too distracted at the meeting to notice my abstraction, or Toby's glummer-than-usual face. CJ was uncharacteristically quiet and looked as if she would rather be anywhere than where she was. She also kept fidgeting and fiddling with her hair; something she only does when she's anxious. I wondered briefly if it had anything to do with her strange behaviour earlier but before I could ask her, Leo said crossly,
"Where's Sam?"
It was a testament to my state of mind that I hadn't even noticed his absence. A brief glance at the clock on the far wall told me that he was already five minutes late - something unheard of from Sam 'all-my-ducks-in-line' Seaborn. Toby's glummer-than-usual face approached the event horizon of glumness at the news of his Deputy's tardiness and I could tell that he was trying hard not to leap up to find Sam and drag him to the meeting by his ear.
Five more minutes of routine business passed until the non-appearance of Skippy finally broke the never very secure hold Leo kept on his temper and we were treated to a tirade of ear-wincing proportions which combined observations on the unprofessionalism of youth, the urgent need to brief his missing speech-writer on some GDC thing before the ozone layer finally gave up the ghost, and something to do with the President and a defence system, which frankly I couldn't follow and soon gave up trying. I was comforting myself with the thought that having refrained from spilling the beans about where I had last seen Sam lurking, I now had something I could use against him; blackmail material naturally being a cornerstone of friendship between men.
Leo finally threw us all out and Toby dashed off immediately to track down his errant whipping boy. I was wandering if it was too soon to find out my dreadful fate from Ainsley, or if she was still meeting with Mr. Not-Nice, when CJ grabbed my arm,
"Josh, wait up, I want to ask you something."
"Hey, Claudia Jean, ask away"
"Can you give me a matchbox?"
"I could of course give you a matchbox, but that would necessitate me going out to buy one, which I am sure you are more that capable of doing yourself"
She looked rather surprised at my answer, which is only fair, as I had been rather surprised at her question.
"I could, but I was hoping you would save me the trouble by giving me one of yours."
"Are you under the impression that I carry a quantity of matchboxes with me wherever I go?"
"So you don't have a matchbox?"
"No"
"Are you sure?"
I love CJ, but sometimes her thought processes leave me high and dry in Confusion Bay. Must be the altitude.
"I'm pretty sure, unless I forgot myself and purchased a box from the Little Match Girl on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue on my way to work this morning."
"But, I thought you had some a few days ago when you lit that fire."
Ah. The fire thing. Should have known that it would haunt me.
"Those were Sam's matches"
They weren't, but I was collecting early on the payback. Let him be confused by CJ for a while and see how he liked it.
"Oh. So no matchbox."
"No. But don't worry mi amora, you already have my love to keep you warm"
I managed to coax a smile from her harassed face, but she kept on with the match thing.
"Do you know anyone around here who does have a matchbox? Other than Sam, obviously, as he's MIA"
"CJ, as interesting as this conversation is, I am a touch confused on one point; why exactly do you need a matchbox? Are you planning a little arson?"
"No! I don't want the matches, just the box"
"Why?"
She looked baffled as though she hadn't anticipated having to answer that question.
"Well…er…matchboxes are very useful for…um…putting things in"
"What things?"
"Small things"
"Like what?"
"Er…matches?"
"Let me get this straight. You have some matches and now you want a box to put them in?"
"I don't have matches"
"You don't?"
"No. Why would I have matches?"
I briefly considered the therapeutic value of pulling my hair out by the roots, but decided to plunge on with the (marginally) less painful option.
"Well, I don't know. Why don't you tell me CJ? I mean, you seem to want a box badly enough"
She closed her eyes, attempting to regroup, and said with more coherence.
"I need a matchbox because it's the right size and shape."
"For what?"
"For…what I want to put in it"
"Which is?"
"None of your business"
And I said, as I am not above reusing a good line when I need it,
"So this whole conversation has been a colossal waste of time and money"
CJ shrugged and at least had the grace to look slightly apologetic.
"So it would seem"
"Okay"
"Fine"
I hitched a thumb over my shoulder,
"Well, I have to go now and do something more important"
"Okay"
She flapped her hand at me and wandered back towards her office. I watched her tall figure for a moment and wondered if perhaps I shouldn't have probed a little deeper to find out what was really going on as opposed to what she chose to tell me, when she stopped suddenly and turned back.
"Josh?"
"Yes?"
"Do you have a spade?"
"Why…?" I began, then stopped with a shudder. Life was short and would rapidly get shorter if I attempted another conversation with CJ with her in this frame of mind.
"Goodbye Claudia Jean" I said pointedly and left as quickly as possible before she could ask me for carpet tacks or a bottle of rat poison. Why couldn't she go to the hardware store like normal people?
I trudged off back towards Ainsley's office contemplating all of the unanswered questions I seemed to have accrued in the mere two hours I had been at work. Like, did I still have a job? Would I go to jail? Where was Donna? Where, for that matter, was Sam? What was up with CJ? Why was everybody out to get me? Why did I bother getting out of bed this morning? As deeply upsetting as these questions were, there was also, deep inside of me, a small puddle of disappointment that my plans for the day had been ruined.
Plans? Well, one plan anyway. Today was the day, I had decided, that I was going to ask my assistant, Donna Moss if she would come to dinner with me after work. And I was even going to ask her in such a way that she wouldn't be obliged to say yes, in a Boss-Assistant kind of way. I was even not going to mention work-related matters as an excuse for some quality time with the Wisconsin Dairy Queen. And if she didn't run screaming from me in horror, I might have even suggested that we do it again in the not too distant future.
Not a date, because that would be unprofessional behaviour from a Deputy Chief of Staff, more of a social meeting for two private individuals in a potential state of 'like'. At least, I hoped that Donna was in a state of like (and I suspected that she was) because I had slowly been coming to the conclusion that she was kind of important to me. That I needed her, even. Actually, if I'm going to be honest for once, somewhere along the line she had become as necessary to me as breathing.
It wasn't as if I was going to plunge straight in and suggest that we perform the horizontal Rumba, because quite apart from the hideous complications that could ensue (in the White House, I mean), I didn't think we were ready for that sort of thing.
(Honesty, Joshua, honesty.)
All right, I wasn't ready for that sort of thing. I was getting better, I was even going to be much better at some point in the future, but I really didn't want to inflict the occasional nightmare/flashback thing on anyone (did I mention the running screaming in horror part?). The old 'exaggerated startle reflex' (as Stanley so eloquently put it) was still with me, and I couldn't run my usual five miles without gasping and reeling about drunkenly afterwards like a diver with the bends. However, I was not beyond laying a little groundwork. Who knew what could happen a few months, even a few years down the line? I just didn't want Donna getting desperate and running off with the first gomer she came across for want of a better offer.
Of course, my luck being what it was, when I reached Ainsley's office, I discovered something that really put the capital 'D' in my Day.
Donna has already found a gomer. The gomer is Sam Seaborn.
So, the mystery of where my assistant has been, and where Sam got to during the Staff meeting would appear to be solved. Did I do something terrible in a past life? I'd like to know, because that arch-witch Nemesis has sure got her Irony hat on today and I really don't want to play anymore.
Time must have slowed to a crawl because I'm still staring into Donna's startled-rabbit eyes. What I can see of her face over Sam's shoulder is tomato red, as well it should be. I know very well that I have no right to control what she does with her life, but Ainsley's CUPBOARD? Talk about undignified, and hurtful and plain stupid. What are they playing at?
Finally, there is movement from the cupboard and Sam slowly turns around, extricating himself from Donna's limbs with exaggerated care. Ainsley and I are treated to the sight of our co-workers looking like something dragged through a rose bush backwards.
I can't breathe. Donna's knees are grass-stained. Her KNEES are grassed stained. My eyes jerk to Sam and I take in the same green stains on his shirtfront and on his elbows.
What have they been DOING?
Immediately a thousand images start flashing through my mind like a movie on fast forward. And not the kind of movie you go and see at your neighbourhood multiplex either.
NO NO NO, STOP IT!
I can't get the pictures out of my head…
QUICK - Think of something else…Dead Kittens! The National Debt! Karen Cahill!
JUST STOP IT!
I am peripherally aware of Ainsley making strange noises beside me. All traces of her earlier giggle at my melodramatic exclamation are gone; she sounds as if she can't decide whether to choke or gag. I can relate.
OH GOD! Shouldn't have thought that - really bad image in my head now…
GET A GRIP!
I finally manage to throw a switch on my deranged thoughts and notice that Sam, rather than looking at me defiantly as I rather expected him to, is starting at Ainsley as though he'd like to stab out her eyes with the blunt end of a butter knife. This registers to me as odd since if there's anyone who has the right to be doling out the 'search-and-destroy' looks around here, it's Ainsley. I take advantage of their abstraction however, by approaching Donna,
"Donna…" I say. Which is a good start, but I'm kind of stumped now.
Donna gurgles alarmingly and starts frantically rummaging behind her.
"Thanks, Sam…" she says in a too high-pitched voice,
"…for helping me to find this…er…"
She whips her hand from behind her back. Her eyes goggle.
"…handy…um…bulldog clip"
If my heart wasn't currently being stomped by her stilettos, I'd have to laugh.
"Now I can go and…er…clip some really big pieces of paper together" she finishes, and flees the scene.
I want nothing more than to follow her, but I need to speak to Ainsley. Only one thing stands in my way -
That no-good, dirty, heartless, rat-fink Casanova.
But I can't talk to him now, I just can't. Punch his pretty-boy face into next week, maybe, but talk? No.
He and Ainsley are still staring at each other. Sam has this contemptuous expression on his face, like he's waiting for her to break down and confess something. But what? It's no good; I have to get rid of him before he drives me crazy.
"Sam"
"Yeah, Josh?"
He turns to me and I can hardly believe my eyes because there is no contrition or apology or even defiance in his face. Instead he's gazing at me with this nauseating expression of sympathy.
Sympathy? For ME? How dare he? I'll…I'll…
I quite consciously force my hand out of the involuntary fist it's made and promise myself - 'Later'. Instead I say,
"Toby and Leo are on the warpath because you missed Senior Staff. If I were you, I wouldn't tell them why"
I try and keep my voice level, but I'm sure he can hear the coldness in it. I'm 'on my uppers', as my Mother would say. It's almost satisfactory to see the sudden alarm on his face, but what Leo has in store for him is nothing to what I'm planning in my mind. Let him stew.
"Oh God" he groans "I lost track of time"
I'll just bet he did.
"You'd better go, then," I grind out between my teeth. He looks a little disconcerted by my tone of voice (Ha!) but takes my advice and makes for the door, but not before shooting another killing stare in Ainsley's direction and a questioning look at me.
When the sound of his footsteps has faded, Ainsley and I are left eyeing each other uncomfortably and neither of us can think of a thing to say. She looks as if she's trying to hold tears back; to her credit, they don't fall, but I'm left feeling as if I'm presiding at the inaugural meeting of the White House Broken Heart Club. Ainsley gives herself a little shake and says tremulously,
"What do you think they…?
But I don't let her finish. I can only take one punch in the face at a time. The Lawn Gymnastics Team will have to wait until I know whether I need to bother getting up for work tomorrow morning.
"What did Mr. Nice say?"
She opens her mouth to protest at this interruption, but sees my face and snaps back her professional façade. It's a little ragged around the edges, but it's good enough.
"Okay. Mr. Gneiss. Well, he was very happy to see the Rose Garden…"
I can't help but feel a little frisson of satisfaction at the apparent success of my plan to soften him up.
"…but Roses as a genus rarely display at their best in early February despite the current mild spell"
Oh. Have I mentioned that I'm not an outdoorsman?
"And?"
She pauses and looks at me speculatively.
"On paper and according to the information supplied to me by Mr. Ziegler, there is enough evidence to support a claim of intention to defraud. Mr. Gneiss agreed with me that the potential consequences, in theory, could be…bad"
Nemesis is back and she's breathing down my neck.
"How bad?"
"Theoretically, in addition to the criminal charges that Mr. Ziegler could face, there is enough evidence in the form of a paper trail to link his drastic drop in salary to the President himself"
I feel dizzy. What is she saying?
"What are you saying? I signed off on the $1 thing…"
"Yes, you form part of the chain of command, but unless you confess to masterminding the conspiracy, the responsibility rests with the Oval Office."
The speculative look is back in her eyes. She's wondering what I'm going to do. I know what I WANT to do - I want to erase this day forever from history, I want to build a time-machine so I can go back and make Toby's aunt re-write her will and leave her money to a Cat's Home, I want to scream and shout and rail at the unfairness of it all. Unfortunately, I also know what I HAVE to do…
Suck it up, Joshua
"You'll have to tell them that's what I did, then. That I masterminded it, I mean."
I can barely get the words out. Ainsley's eyes have widened in surprise.
"But you didn't"
"So?"
I'd like to say more but there appears to be a large rock lodged in my throat.
Ainsley's shocked expression has softened into something like respect. Well it appears that my day is not a total disaster; I have managed to impress a Republican. Hooray.
"Josh, I have to confess that I have been guilty of underestimating you in the past, but this unprecedented spirit of sacrifice that you are…"
"I get the point."
It's nice to know she's impressed, but does she have to go on about it?
She smiles at me as if she understands. I can't smile back, because…well, because I've got nothing to smile about.
"However…"
There's more? Oh, please God no…
"Your gallant attempt to cast yourself as White House scapegoat will not be required since, as I said before, this potential consequence is theoretical at best. Mr. Gneiss had brought additional information with him that obviates the need…"
Her phone rings and I jump about a foot in the air. I was totally lost in thought as I got stuck on the 'however' bit and have hardly heard a word she's said since. Not that I would have understood it anyway. Verbose is the kindest thing you can say about her way with words.
Ainsley looks frustrated at the interruption, but I only feel a kind of numb relief that at least I know the worst. And it IS the worst.
"Yes, Mr McGarry," she says into the phone, then mouths at me what looks like, 'Don't go away, I haven't finished'.
What else could she possibly have to say? I back towards the door shrugging my shoulders hopelessly.
She looks almost frantic and clamps her hand over the mouthpiece saying,
"Josh, wait. Please!"
But even from here I can hear Leo's bark over the phone and Ainsley, though a Republican, is not stupid enough to ignore him. She rolls her eyes at me in desperation, but I can't take anymore and I almost run out of the door. As I head back up the corridor, I can faintly hear her voice saying,
"No Sir, Sam's not here"
Ten minutes later, I'm sat at my desk and if anyone were to ask me, I couldn't have told them how I got here. I know that I need to think about what to do next, but the only plan I've come up with so far is to sit here with my head in my hands. Random thoughts keep popping into my head. I have to tell Toby about this - will Donna stay on here when I'm gone? - I've got to go and tell Leo - I want to talk to my Father - there's no point in asking Donna now - what's the same size and shape as a matchbox? - what will I do now? - why Sam, Donna? - and on and on.
"Josh, I've got to talk to you."
For a moment I wondered if I've conjured up his voice in my mind to torture myself but when I look up, he's really standing there.
Sam Seaborn.
Everything I'm feeling is swept away in an icy-cold torrent of rage.
"I have nothing to say to you."
He plunges on regardless.
"I'm worried…"
"You should be"
"…about you."
"How generous. A generous back-stabber, that's a novelty"
"I was trying to help!" he cries. He has that wide-eyed innocent look down pat.
"That's an interesting euphemism"
He looks puzzled. Perhaps he doesn't know what 'euphemism' means.
"I understand, Josh. I know you're taking your anger out on me…"
"How did you guess?"
"…because Ainsley's not here, but…"
"AINSLEY? What's she got to do with it?"
If he doesn't stop with the commiserating looks, I will hit him, I swear to God.
"You don't have to pretend with me, Josh. I know what's going on. That thing in Ainsley's office, earlier? I heard…"
"A thing? You're calling it a THING?"
His voice gets all quiet and earnest.
"What do you want me to call it Josh? There are lots of ugly words I can think of to use, but I'm afraid to say them out loud. Donna says…"
"Stop it! I don't want to hear it! I don't care what Donna says to you"
My rage is getting hotter at his unbelievable attitude. I thought he was my friend…
He has started pacing and looks frustrated.
"Stop trying to avoid the issue Josh. I told you I wanted to help, and I will, but just stop it! What did she threaten you with?"
He throws the last question at me belligerently and confusion is added to the anger. Has the world run mad? Why would Donna threaten me? What does he think I've done to her?
"Sam, what the hell are you talking about?"
He ignores me and continues pacing.
"I could hardly believe my ears when I heard her say those things."
What has Donna been saying?
"Oh, she had me fooled all right. She had us all fooled, with that pretty little face and that long blonde hair and those eyes, and all the time she was planning THIS, that conniving little b…"
I cut him off in mid-word my slamming him against the wall. I think I'm shouting incoherently and shaking him, but all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
"You BASTARD! How dare you blame this on her! If you say one more word, I'm gonna…"
Sam, who's been gurgling pathetically and trying to tear my hands from his collar, gets purchase with his hands and pushes me. My hands slip to his lapels, but I hang on as his momentum sends us staggering drunkenly across the room. We rebound off my desk and a pot of pencils crashes to the floor.
"JOSH! Get off me! You're acting like a crazy man!"
I'm leaning back over the desk and he's trying not to overbalance.
"I'M CRAZY? What the hell were YOU doing cavorting about the place with my assistant?"
"I was only trying to help!" he wails again. It doesn't make much sense the second time either.
I'm forced to take one of my hands from his grass-stained jacket so I can grab the edge of my desk to pull us upright again and he twists and pulls away from me. He tries to step back, but slips on the rolling pencils and crashes to the carpet in a heap of flailing limbs. I wrench myself vertical and go to pull him up so I can punch him down again, but he suddenly starts wriggling and squealing like a girl.
"What?"
"OW! You're standing on my hair! Get off!"
"Oh. Sorry."
WHAT AM I SAYING?
"On second thoughts, how would you like it if I start PULLING it out?"
I reach down for his head but he rolls jerkily away from me.
"NO! Leave my hair alone!"
He tries to get his feet under him but one of his legs catches me in the knees. My arms pin-wheeling, I can feel myself falling backwards so I lean forward at the waist but I overcompensate and have to duck and roll to prevent my head from hitting the edge of the desk. I crash into it anyway and a pile of folders topples majestically onto my body.
Ow! Godammit, that hurt!
Through a flurry of papers, I can make out Sam crawling towards the door. So far gone that I can't even remember why I'm doing this, I growl and leap for his trailing foot. Hampered by files, I only manage to grab the hem of his pants before my chin hits the carpet. It's enough to stop him though. His knee slips and he lands on his stomach with an "Oomph!"
"GET AWAY FROM ME YOU DEMENTED MADMAN!" he yells, hoarsely and starts crawling on his elbows. I think his suit must be beyond repair by now.
I hold on and follow. On one elbow.
"Just stay away from her" I say weakly (this is really tiring).
Reaching the door, he gets his hands under him and drags his knees up. He manages to drag me a couple of yards before I let go of his pants and I'm left sprawled face-down in the middle of my office, wincing at the carpet burn on my wrist.
Lurching to his feet, Sam turns at the doorway. His hair is standing in all directions and his eyes wide with alarm.
"I'm going to find Donna now, Josh. I think you need HELP."
Just hearing Donna's name come out of his mouth is enough to set me off again. I practically hurl myself to my feet and go for him but he sees me coming and with a startled yelp, slams the door in my face. My face meets glass. I bounce off, stagger in a circle and collapse gracelessly onto my back.
I stare at the ceiling for a while.
I'm wondering why I feel slightly better than I did before. Must be all the exercise.
The pattern on the ceiling tiles is oddly soothing.
Why do they call them 'suspended' ceilings? What are they suspended from?
If Donna found someone she was happy with, I'd be happy for her. Maybe.
She can't be happy with HIM. Could she?
No.
I have a plan.
I may be down, I may be humiliated, I may be jobless, but I'm gonna get Donna away from that two-faced back-stabbing Don Juan if it's the last thing I do…
TBC