The Temp

And then suddenly, standing in the doorway, was this divine Italian with a chicken sandwich in one hand and a vanilla latte in the other.

This was something I swore would never happen: me having a crush on someone I work with. So, of course, when it finally comes along, I have to go the whole hog: I've not just got a crush on someone I work with, but on my boss. I have turned into one of those snivelling seccies across whose neck creeps a flush of crimson at every mention of his name, who glows with pleasure at every word of praise, who stays late on the offchance of a trip to the pub. Flatmate Trish keeps humming that old music-hall song "Oh she wept with delight when he gave her a smile, but trembled with fear at his frown".

Giovanni is one of five bosses. I have a little room all to myself, which is probably part of the problem: if you don't know anybody in a building and are shut off from getting to know any of them, you tend to go a bit stir crazy. The architects I work for share one of those glammy spaces with lots of skylights and an indoor vine, and I am, for some reason, consigned to what could be mistaken for the broom cupboard. I have a window, however, so it can't be. Through my window I can see Covent Garden: shoppers and jugglers and drunks in suits mingling in the grey afternoon light, noise and bustle adding to my sense of isolation.

So into this feverish state walked Giovanni, Italian, snaggly white teeth, vulnerable-looking specs. And instead of saying something Italian like "Ciao, bella, what's a beautiful chick like you doing in a place like this?" he shook my hand, said "Good morning" and introduced himself by his full name, which has about twelve parts and loads of del's in. I didn't notice him much at the time, just though him pleasant.

Until lunchtime. As always seems to be the case in offices full of creatives, I ended up not getting a break myself, as each of them stopped off at my door, said "I'm off out. Would you get my phone for me?". By three, I was light-headed with hunger, cross and tearful, and, because sandwich shops never keep PRs-who've-been-dumped-on-by-their-superiors-hours, aware that the only nutrition ahead was a McShake and chips.

"Hi," he said, "I realised you'd probably never got lunch, so I brought you these". To a girl in my position, anyone bearing a chicken sandwich is fairly angelic. That was when I realised that Giovanni, despite the striped shirt, was rather good-looking. I smiled mistily. "It's okay," he said, "I know how it is to be somewhere where you don't know anybody. I just came to England myself." "How are you finding it?" "Okay," he said, "But lonely. I haven't made many friends yet."

And then he flashed me a Look: one of those looks that pierce the soul and make you think "jacuzzi". I kept catching myself sneaking predatory glances around the office whenever I emerged, to see who he was talking to, daydreaming of tropical beaches, lifts home, hotel rooms in out-of- season seaside resorts.

It's embarrassing when someone comes in to give you dictation and all you can do is count the golden hairs emerging from his sleeves, when you find yourself getting up an hour early to wash your hair and do your makeup when it's usually all you can manage to find a pair of unladdered tights.

Last day came: my last chance. Spent the day kicking myself for my lack of backbone, checking my reflection in the window behind my desk. Five o'clock. Giovanni said goodbye. Said how nice it had been to know me. And what did I do? Waved him off, crammed my hands in my mouth to stop myself screaming. Grabbed my coat with the intention of pursuing him to the tube, ran down the stairs just in time to see him bend through the window of a sleek red sports car, kiss the sleek brunette within full on the lips, take the wheel and skid off into the night.