But I’ve lost Nolan’s trust, and it’s going to take a lot more effort on my part to get it back.
And I do want it back.
I like Nolan a hell of a lot – that much is obvious – and I don’t want to think that one stupid meeting with Robert Ainslie Blake may have ruined our burgeoning relationship before it really had time to get going.
Actually, Nolan is not the only problem I have, of course. I also have to deal with the existential dread that the human race is slowly but inexorably destroying our entire planet out of greed and ignorance, but . . . one thing at a time, eh?
Also, there’s Belgium to think about.
. . . sorry, the change of subject there was probably enough to give you whiplash. I have a tube of ibuprofen gel somewhere, if you need it.
But there is Belgium to think about, whether we like it or not.
More specifically, there’s a meeting in Belgium to think about – one that’s been planned for a couple of weeks now.
‘So, you’re okay with the travel arrangements for tomorrow, then? You’re happy to take the train?’ Nolan asks me, as he joins me by the ficus in his office. Previously, this has been the location of much passionate kissing. Not today though, unfortunately. And maybe not ever again, if I don’t sort this silly situation out.
‘Yeah, of course,’ I tell him. ‘It’d be bloody stupid for a company like ours to travel by plane. Especially when it’s so easy to use more environmentally friendly transport.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t come with you,’ Nolan says apologetically, as I examine the ficus for leaf mould.
Leaf mould can be a real problem, if you’re not very careful about how you treat your pot plants. I have impressed this upon Young Adrian, in terms that brook no argument.
I’m feeling a little awkward in Nolan’s company, for obvious reasons, so the ficus examination is saving me my blushes.
‘I have some leads here I’d really like to chase up, which can’t wait,’ Nolan finishes, still looking remorseful about the sudden change of plans. ‘Hope you’re not mad with me.’
I wave a hand, to indicate that I’m not bothered in the slightest.
How could I possibly be mad at him? After everything that’s happened?
And besides . . . I’m more than used to Nolan being out and about on his own, chasing up leads. Sometimes it feels like he’s out of the office more than he’s in it.
‘It’s fine, Nolan,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly. The meeting will be easy. Viridian’s reputation already exceeds the other companies who will be there, in my opinion. I’m sure I can wangle the account all by myself. And a nice train ride across the European countryside? I’ll love it.’
He nods and relaxes a little. ‘Okay. That’s good to hear,’ he says, and smiles at me.
‘Do you think . . . do you think when I get back, we could maybe go for a drink?’ I ask, in a tentative voice. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve missed you.’
‘Ah . . . yeah. That’d be . . . that’d be nice,’ he replies, but I wouldn’t exactly say he looks overwhelmed with joy at the prospect. ‘Let’s have a chat about it when you get back, eh?’
‘Okay, let’s talk about it then.’
I instantly return to my examination of the non-existent ficus leaf mould. It’s easier than looking into Nolan’s eyes.
It will take me about four hours to reach the location of my meeting in the centre of Brussels. A swift taxi drive from the city’s main train station will find me at the offices of Hergebruikt Ltd – a company that specialises in the recycling of old electronic components. They have just been blessed with a large grant from the EU, and are on the lookout for a new PR company.
Enter Eleanor Cooke, her smartest black suit, the most professional ponytail you’ve ever seen, a black suitcase full of winning arguments, and a look of confidence on her face that you could bottle and sell to the permanently anxious.
Things didn’t go well with Helen Carmichael and World Action Today, but there is no fucking way in hell they are not going to go well with Hergebruikt Ltd.
I will be one of four PR companies pitching their talents and skills to the board of Hergebruikt, and I’m lucky enough to be the last one to speak, at 3 p.m. This means I can send them out with a pitch so brilliant, it will cast all others from their minds completely. I’ll have half an hour to do my work – and that’s more than enough time, as far as I’m concerned.
My first train of the day is late, but never mind – I have given myself ample time to reach my destination. I intend to arrive a good two hours early, so I can grab some lunch and do some last-minute preparation in a rather lovely-looking coffee shop I’ve identified on Google, close to Hergebruikt Ltd.
A few delays here and there have been fully planned for. I have contingency. Lots and lots of lovely, stress-relieving contingency.
That doesn’t stop a small worm of stress burrowing its way into my mind as I stand on the platform awaiting the now twenty-minute-late train that will take me to London, from where the Eurostar will whisk me to the Continent in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Who needs a plane?
The journey time may be a fair bit longer doing it this way, but at least I won’t have to go through all the bother of negotiating a busy airport, and the security is far less onerous when you take the train. Also, none of that ear-popping stuff, or having to sit in other people’s farts.
No, the benefits of staying on the ground (or under it, in the case of the Channel Tunnel) are many – and that’s before we talk about how much better it is for the environment. I looked up the Eurostar’s emission figures, and when compared to flying, I might as well be spending my day planting an entire deciduous forest while simultaneously hand-feeding a baby seal.
The train to London arrives, which calms that stress-worm down magnificently. I’ve still got more than enough time to reach the Eurostar before it leaves. I am somewhat dismayed to find that the thing is packed more solid than a tin of sardines, but I’m on board now, and on my way.
I push through the carriage, searching for a seat. As I do, the reaction of my fellow passengers breaks down thusly: 87 per cent don’t look at me at all – as is right and proper on British public transport; 6 per cent of them give me a look of pity, because I am unable to find anywhere to sit; 2 per cent look guilty, which is an equally British response to seeing someone in such a situation; 3 per cent try to contain their smugness that they are seated and I am not; and the final 2 per cent look terrified that I’m about to try to throw them out of their hard-won seating.
All pretty much par for the course, then.
The only space I am able to find is outside the toilet, leaning against the window.
‘Why is it so busy?’ I ask a portly-looking man with a beard, whose thousand-yard stare isn’t as fixed as everybody else’s.
‘They cancelled two services this morning,’ he replies. ‘Something to do with electrical problems.’
‘Oh no,’ I respond, hoping that this train does not suffer from the same issue at any point.
The next hour or so of my life is not what you could call pleasant.
Unless of course you enjoy the waft of excrement assailing your nostrils every time the toilet door opens and closes. If you do, I suggest seeking some kind of help at your earliest convenience – no pun intended.
You inadvertently learn a lot about the toilet habits of the great British public when you are forced to stand stock-still in front of a busy toilet for sixty minutes. The amount of people who take a shit in public is quite phenomenal. I couldn’t do it if you paid me, especially not if the only thing between me and twenty other people was an automatic sliding door with a locking mechanism that is dubious in its efficiency, to say the least.
One poor lady discovers this about forty minutes into the journey, when she neglects to lock the door properly and is exposed to everyone else just as she is about to park her bottom on the toilet seat.
You see, the sliding doors on British
trains are very precisely timed to open again just as you are parking your bottom on the toilet seat, if you don’t lock them properly. Thousands of man-hours went into providing this very important service in the cause of public humiliation. There are only two objects in this world that keep absolute, perfect time – that atomic clock in Greenwich, and the sliding doors on British trains when they aren’t locked properly.
By the time we approach London, my legs are killing me and my nose has gone on strike. I’ve also drained far too much of my phone’s battery idly flicking through Facebook and Twitter, just to while away the uncomfortable journey.
But at least we’re at Waterloo. I just have to jump on a second short train to St Pancras, and then the journey can begin proper.
Then, as we’re literally about a hundred yards away from the platform, the sodding train stops. For no apparent reason.
Here we sit for ten minutes. For no apparent reason.
Nobody comes on the tannoy to tell us why this is. For no apparent reason.
They should just remarket the rail network with that as the new slogan: Network Rail – For No Apparent Reason. It’d be the most accurate and descriptive company slogan ever invented.
The stress-worm that has been wriggling about a bit thanks to all of the standing around, smelling other people’s farts (which I was supposed to avoid by not taking a plane!), is now starting to thrash about like it’s been caught on a hook.
If this bloody train doesn’t get into the station soon, I will be in danger of not making the Eurostar. I still have forty minutes to get there, but this is really starting to cut it fine.
The chorus of tutting coming from the entire train has now reached audible levels.
This is the equivalent of all-out rioting in any other country. If someone starts actively swearing out loud about the delay, it will be akin to rabid cannibalism.
Eventually the train does move into the station proper, still with no reason given for the delay. Then begins the struggle to get off.
Usually, I’m the type who’s happy to wait for other people – but not today, pal. Today, I’m Captain Elbows. That Eurostar is not leaving without me!
The portly bloke with the beard is a bit put out as I elbow my way past him, but other than that, most people can tell when someone is running late, so the passengers do their best to accommodate me as I push past with a frantic expression on my face.
At the ticket barrier, the machines aren’t working. Of course they’re not. Why would they be? That would be far too easy.
Would you like to know why they’re not working? Then please refer to my new Network Rail slogan.
Now I’m seriously up against it.
I get past the barriers, having had to wait for the slowest train guard in history to get through looking at my ticket. I’m surprised he didn’t want to set fire to it and render it down to its constituent parts, so he could analyse its carbon levels before allowing me through.
Now I have to run – and I do mean run – across Waterloo to get the train to St Pancras. This is not easy in black high heels, on legs that have already stood on a packed train for over an hour.
When I reach the barrier for the right platform, I’m pleased to say that these ones are working – after a fashion. It takes me five swipes of the ticket across the sensor before it finally lets me through. I swear a little louder with each attempt. If anyone tries to stop me now, I’m likely to take a chunk out of their shoulder.
I jump aboard the connecting train literally as the doors are closing.
. . . and find myself stood right next to the toilet in a packed carriage.
Unbelievable.
Is fucking everybody catching the Eurostar today? And have they all developed severe bowel problems?
It certainly seems that way, as the twenty-five minutes it takes the train to get to St Pancras is punctuated by farts, the smell of pee, more farts, and a toilet door that this time opens on the delightful vision of the hairiest bottom I have ever seen in my life. I can see the guy’s backside because he has inexplicably dropped his trousers to have a wee.
Is this a thing? Do men do this on a regular basis? Just strip themselves naked from the waist down when urinating? Surely not. The dry-cleaning bills alone would bankrupt the country.
The hairy-arsed man is of course aghast when he realises that the toilet door has swung open, exposing him to all of us. He handles it a little better than the poor woman in the last train, by shouting, ‘Sorry folks! I’ll keep my cock away from you!’ as he leans over to bash the close button repeatedly. How considerate of him. I don’t think my soul could take seeing a stranger’s penis at this stage in my day. I want my overriding memory of this trip to be a successfully gained client contract, not the sight of a winky nestled in what must be a magnificent thatch of pubes, if the hair on the backside is anything to go by.
When the train pulls into the station (this time with no inexplicable delay), I am again first off. I am now Field Marshal Elbows, having been repeatedly promoted in battle for the excellent use of the boniest part of my anatomy.
Originally, I had a good hour to get through Eurostar security and passport control. I now have thirteen minutes.
The stress-worm is now a snake, coiling its way from the top of my brain, down my spine and into my rapidly tiring legs.
Unbidden, thoughts of being thirty thousand feet in the air with a gin and tonic in my hand appear in my mind, as I’m shuffling forward with my passport and ticket actually grasped in it instead.
No.
Don’t do that.
You’ve just been a little delayed is all. You still have time.
This is still better.
It is.
In the first bit of good luck I’ve had today, the queues at the security checkpoints are minimal. Everybody else is already on the Eurostar, ready to leave. But I’m still on the verge of total panic as one of the female security guards directs me over for a manual pat-down. I could scream. I really, really could.
Not at her, though. I don’t need a night in a jail cell. So I hold my frustration in with a bitten lip as she checks I’m not carrying any offensive weapons or explosives.
I can’t miss this train. I just can’t.
There won’t be another one for two hours, and that’ll be way too late to get me to the meeting on time.
The pat-down finishes, and I snatch up my briefcase from the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt. I have two minutes. Two minutes to get on board the Eurostar.
There are actual grunts and moans of stress and tension erupting from my lips as I rush headlong through the departure lounge and towards the platform. The seconds are counting down, and I’m deathly afraid I’m going to be late.
I’m going to miss the train! I’m going to miss the bloody tra—
Oh, it’s going to leave thirty minutes late.
Of course it sodding well is.
I could have sauntered through security. Fucking sauntered.
I don’t know why this damn train is going to leave so late – but the slogan is already taken by Network Rail, so the Eurostar company will just have to think of something else.
Eurostar – Pour Aucune Raison Apparente Non Plus, possibly.
Regardless, I have made it on time. I can climb aboard, in the safe and secure knowledge that I will make the meeting at Hergebruikt.
And I can barely contain my gratitude when I see that I will not have to spend the whole journey watching people go to the toilet. There’s something very wrong with the British transport system that this is a thing you have to be grateful about, but there you have it.
No, on the Eurostar I have my very own seat. In fact, I have a seat with nobody sat next to me. Can you imagine such a thing? To have room to put my briefcase down, and to be able to stretch my legs out? All without having to look at any arses?
Joy unconfined.
I can now take the next couple of hours to recover from the ordeal of getting here, relax a little, and
maybe even have an alcoholic beverage.
Lovely stuff.
As the Eurostar eventually pulls away from the platform, I have to reflect that it’s probably a good job I’m on my own. Nolan is many things, but he’s not the kind of guy who would cope well with toilet views and a hot, cramped train carriage. He has many, many great characteristics, but I’m not sure resilience is one of them, bless him.
No, it’s far better he’s off chasing leads for Viridian, rather than coming along with me. That’s where his talents quite obviously lie.
I can handle this meeting on my own – of that I have no doubt.
And the trip should be plain sailing from now on. No more delays for Ellie Cooke now we’re headed towards the Continent, I’m sure.
I’m an idiot.
Why did I jinx myself?
The Eurostar journey was fine until we hit the outskirts of Paris, where the train came to a grinding halt thanks to signalling issues in the city.
The Eurostar’s progress through to Belgium isn’t going to be halted completely by the problem, but it will delay us. Right outside Paris, to be exact, while they try to get everything sorted out at the Gare du Nord. The French countryside is always beautiful, but I could really do without having to look at it today.
The stress-snake – which has uncoiled nicely thanks to the smooth ride under the Channel, and the two gin and tonics I’ve downed – starts to wind itself up again. I still have a lot of contingency time in hand, but this delay is really going to start eating into it, if we don’t get moving soon.
We do not get moving soon, however. We don’t get moving at all for nearly half an hour – and when we do, it’s at a much-reduced rate, thanks to the fact that the poor buggers working for the French rail service are having to negotiate every train in and out of Paris without the full use of their complicated signalling system.
Gnawing.
That’s what I’m doing.
Gnawing on my fingernails like an overexcited squirrel.
Going Green Page 22