Join Faye at the Town Council

You skip lunch in the cafeteria and head home as soon as the last lesson of the morning is over. You’ve just had a sandwich when Faye turns up. She’s wearing a smart blouse and jacket with a tight black skirt with black stockings beneath. She looks good in it. Yes, she definitely looks good in it. The blouse is tight across her chest. The skirt is long enough to be respectful, but short enough to tantalise. She’s clearly spent a while on her makeup, covering all but the darkest freckles, reddening her lips, eyes highlighted. She looks nervous.

“Are you ready? Good, you’re ready.” She reaches up and brushes imaginary lint from your clothes. Her hands linger on your chest longer than necessary. Is she feeling your chest? It stirs the monster in your trousers. Then she realises what she’s doing and pulls her hands away. “Let’s go.”

The two of you walk to the Town Hall. You could have driven, but then you’d have spent ages looking for a parking spot. There’s a small carpark outside the Town Hall, but to book a spot requires wading through red tape. It’s easier to walk.

Faye nervously chats, her conversation wandering between the health of Mr Peterson, gossip about her brother and Brianna’s father in Abu Dhabi, the sartorial appearance of the houses you pass, anything other than the reason you’re with her. While she talks, she shuffles her bag on her shoulder, and her green eyes dodge between you and the houses you pass. You smile and try to say nice things to her. Yet the fuzz of her fear deflects your words of confidence.

The Town Hall is just outside the centre of town, off one of the main sideroads. It’s a tall Victorian era building, all crumbling brick and glass. Reminds you of the main building at school. It was probably built at a similar time. The difference is that the school has been updated, while this building has remained unmodified and allowed to crumble.

Like all old buildings, its entrance is hard to find. The original, elaborate entrance is used only for ceremonial occasions. The everyday entrance is a small door off to one side, its label faded, half the signposts to it missing. Thankfully Faye knows where it is. She leads you into an echoing corridor, tiled floor, windows on one side, offices on the other. Reception is a glass window looking into one of these offices. Opposite sit several faded, worn chairs.

The receptionist is a disinterested man of indeterminate age, greasy brown hair plastered over his soft and fleshy head. His eyes barely notice you. They are immediately drawn to Faye. You can’t blame him.

“Um… how can I help you?” the man stammers. He’s struggling to get his gaze to rise to Faye’s face. They appear to be trapped at her chest.

“The Office of Elections.” That flusters him even more.

“Are you expected?”

“I didn’t think I needed an appointment.”

“Um… no, no. Why do you want the Office of Elections?”

“I wish to register for the upcoming council elections.”

“You can register to vote on-line.”

“No, I want to register to run.”

His shock at that declaration finally drags his gaze away from Faye’s chest and to her face. For a moment he does a goldfish impression, before he finally gets his shock under control. Stumbling over his words, he manages to tell you the route. It’s up an old, wide stairwell, through more echoing corridors, to a small office, its identity revealed by a signpost perpendicular to the doorframe, attached to the lintel. Faye hesitates to knock, then decides against it, and walks straight in. You follow.

The office is small and cosy, a single desk on which sits an antiquated computer, filing cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls, a window that overlooks the main street. It’s occupied by a nondescript female, greying fair hair, frumpy dress, horn-rimmed glasses, sour expression, on the phone.

“Yes, they’re just arrived,” she’s telling whoever’s on the other end. “Tell the council.”

She promptly puts the phone down and turns to you, giving the two of you the most insincere smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hello, I hear you wish to register to run in the upcoming Council Elections,” she starts. “Please sit down. You’ll be the one running?”

“I am.”

There are several wooden chairs opposite the desk. Faye takes one. You take another.

“And I hope you’ve come bringing all relevant documentation. It’s listed on the council website.”

“I have.” Faye delves into her bag and brings out a folder, stuffed with paper. For the next few minutes, she and the lady work through this paper.

“You are not a town member,” the woman states after having gone through it all.

“No, but Mr Smith here is.”

Faye points to you and you are carefully perused. Then you have to hand over your documentation for a very thorough going over.

It’s while she’s going over your documentation that the door opens and a newcomer enters. You spin to see a familiar face. Where do you recognise him from? A short, pudgy man with a shock of white hair, a white moustache, white beard, round glasses. Ah yes from an assembly. It’s Mrs Oversight’s husband.