Take a Moment

by Nina Kaye

  He puts on a repulsed face. ‘I’m with you. Can’t get much worse than that.’

  ‘What about the fact that I love it?’ I cringe.

  ‘OK, that does it. Excuse me, could I move seats, please?’ he jokes to a passing member of the train crew, who seems unsure whether to stop or keep walking.

  I laugh and shake my head, giving the poor staff member a signal that it’s fine to walk on.

  ‘And your wholly superior job is…?’ I prompt him.

  ‘Superhero?’

  ‘Come on. I shared my shame. It’s your turn.’

  ‘I’m a manufacturing engineer.’

  ‘Ha, that sounds even worse,’ I hoot triumphantly.

  ‘I’d say that’s debatable. Shall we ask your friend with the drinks cart to take the deciding vote?’

  ‘Not sure she’d be with either of us. So, what does a manufacturing engineer actually do?’

  Rather than waiting for an answer, I pick up my phone and look up the term.

  ‘Still got the same bad habit of validating everything through Google then.’

  I look up from my phone and laugh. ‘You got me. Very guilty of that, as well as being a notorious “smombie”. Trying to get on top of these things.’

  Matt looks amused. ‘I’d say by my observations so far you’re not doing so well at either. It took you long enough to notice me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, who made you chief phone-use observer?’

  As we continue our flirty banter, I realise that for the first time in months, I actually feel like my old self. Like a woman. A strong, desirable woman who can flirt and be flirted with. Not someone’s patient. Not someone who needs care or looking after. It reminds me of the way Dom and I used to bounce off each other, the chemistry between us still electric, despite being several years into our relationship. Where did it go? I didn’t even notice it disappearing until it was gone. All because of the cruelty of nature and the inability of the people in my life to continue to see me as the person I was – as the person I still am.

  Would this guy behave the same way towards me if he knew I had MS? Or if I were sat here in a wheelchair? It’s sad, but based on my experience so far, I do doubt it. I feel an unexpected smarting inside me: frustration at the injustice of it all.

  ‘You OK?’ Matt breaks through my thoughts. ‘Think I lost you there.’

  ‘Sorry, yeah. Totally zoned out.’ I pick up my drink and knock the last of it back.

  ‘Hope it was over something good.’

  ‘It was… something I need to think about less.’

  ‘Fair enough. So, do you have friends in Birmingham?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head and pour myself a refill. ‘Don’t know anyone who lives there.’

  ‘Right then.’ He looks a bit bemused. ‘Must be a damn good job if you’re up for starting over by yourself. Hats off to you. Though I do remember the last time we chatted, you said you liked it there.’

  We continue to laugh and chat all the way to Birmingham New Street Station. The two-and-a-half-hour journey has seemed to pass in a flash and, when the conductor’s voice comes over the intercom, announcing our imminent arrival and reminding us to take all our belongings as we alight from the train, I can’t help feeling a little disappointed that the journey is over so quickly. I’ve enjoyed my bit of escapism with gorgeous Matt.

  ‘Do you know where you’re going all right?’ he asks me, as we descend the steps from the train and find ourselves standing opposite each other on the busy platform.

  ‘Yeah, I remember a bit from when I was last here, and I’ve pretty much got the image from Google Maps stored in my head. I’ll find my way just fine.’

  He nods his understanding but shows no sign of moving.

  ‘It was nice to see you again.’ I feel the need to fill the silence. ‘Thanks for the company.’

  ‘You too.’ He looks at me, almost shyly this time.

  I realise that, knowing I’m single again, he now wants to ask for my number but is perhaps wondering if it’s a good idea so soon after my break-up. As much as I’m attracted to him, I’m not sure I want him to. It’s only been a matter of weeks since Dom and I went our separate ways, and I’m still a bit battered and bruised from that experience. I decide I should be the one to move away, so as not to give the wrong impression.

  ‘OK, see you then.’ I turn and start to walk off.

  ‘Wait.’ Matt steps forward and gently places his hand on my arm to stop me.

  I curse myself for not shutting this down sooner and slowly turn towards him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Uh… you don’t happen to need a tour guide, do you? I could show you around. Point out the good places to eat, bars, etc.’

  My stomach flutters. He looks so vulnerable, standing there waiting for my response. There’s something appealing about a man who gets nervous when asking a woman out – it shows a human side that speaks volumes over laddish bravado. There’s no doubt I’m attracted to him, but something just doesn’t feel right, which must surely be because I’ve just ended my engagement. But as he stands there, I can’t bear to let him down.

  ‘Sure,’ I hear myself say automatically. ‘How about you give me your number and I’ll give you a call once I’m settled?’

  ‘Great.’ His face immediately lights up.

  He relays the number and I type it into my phone.

  ‘Thanks, Matt.’ I smile at him. ‘I guess I’ll speak to you soon then. Now off you go before I change my mind.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He gives me a final grin, this time more confident, and strides off along the platform.

  As I watch him go, I wonder if maybe I was too quick to rule out a date. It doesn’t mean it has to go anywhere, and I do need to meet people to build my life here. I’ve just been handed my first Birmingham connection on a silver service plate. What’s wrong with enjoying the company of a gorgeous and genuinely nice guy? I definitely shouldn’t be ruling anything out at this stage in my new life.

  As I make my way along the platform, I notice the escalators to the main station concourse are out of order. There’s a lift nearby, but a queue is forming outside it, mostly elderly people and travellers with big cases, so I head for the stairs.

  I don’t think twice as I make my way up the first few steps, but by the time I reach the halfway point I’m out of breath, my muscles burning in protest. It’s a stark reminder that as much as I can feel quite normal when not doing anything too taxing, my body still isn’t coping well with more challenging physical activities – especially stairs.

  I pause and stand to the side by the handrail, allowing the other passengers to pass me while I get my breath back. Then I start to climb the second half of the long steep flight. By the time I reach the top, I’m really wishing I’d waited and taken the lift. Panting heavily, my legs now weak and heavy as lead, I find a seat in one of the waiting areas and allow myself time to recover: something I’ve had to get used to. As I’m resting and indulging in a bit of people-watching, my mind starts to tick once again – and not in a helpful way.

  It’s not such a good start, feeling like this, only minutes into arriving alone in the city that is to be my new home. I haven’t even made it out of the station yet. It’s so easy to forget that I’m ill when I’m just sitting having a laugh, like I was doing on the train. But here, now, too fatigued to make it to the shop across the walkway for a bottle of water, I’m almost starting to question my sanity. I’ve decided to move three hundred miles away from everyone who loves me, everyone who was willing to support me with my condition. I’ve snubbed the lot of them.

  My only connection in this huge city is a man I’ve met twice on a train, who probably wouldn’t look twice at me if he knew the truth. Because really, as Dom so eloquently put it, who would willingly ‘sign up’ for that? Certainly not someone who scales mountains for fun. What was I even thinking, taking his number?

  Frustrated, I pull out my phone, look up Matt’s number and hit delete. Sure, he�
�ll be disappointed. He might wonder what he did wrong, perhaps even think I’m just some tease who led him on. But I’ll be doing him a favour in the long run – he just won’t know it.

  Chapter 11

  Once I’ve recovered enough to get going, I seek out a taxi to take me to my new place. As the cab rattles along the busy Birmingham roads, past the huge high-rise buildings that would dwarf most of those in Glasgow, I look out the window curiously at the passers-by. It’s a far more diverse city population than that of Glasgow, something I noticed last time I was here too. A city that attracts all types of people – hopefully that will mean I can blend in here quite nicely.

  The cab eventually pulls up alongside the residential development that houses my new apartment at the edge of the city centre. It looks just as it did in the pictures: a large modern building, with two floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing me a peek at the sparkling grey marble floor and white walls of the foyer inside.

  I pay the driver and get out of the taxi, noting how fresh the air is in the middle of the UK’s second largest city. Digging out my keys, I flash my key fob in front of the door sensor and the excitement at the thought of walking across the threshold of my new place finally returns. This is more like it.

  Once inside, I cross the foyer and get into the waiting lift. As it ascends, I inspect my appearance in the mirror, noting that I look a bit off colour. Not surprising really, given the way I felt before in the station. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had that second gin and tonic after all. Nor so much fun on the train.

  As I tune in to my inner voice chiding me – something it never used to do – I stop and take a reality check. What’s the real situation here? Stairs were never my best friend. Now they’re my worst enemy, alcohol or no alcohol. And if I can’t have a bit of fun occasionally, then what’s the point in anything?

  The lift arrives at the fifth floor and the doors spring open, bringing me back to the moment. I find my apartment and unlock the door, which opens into a tiny hallway. Closing the door behind me, I dump my bag on the floor, keen to explore my new habitat. It’s more compact than my apartment in Glasgow, but it does have a small balcony to enjoy the warmer weather the West Midlands enjoys over Glasgow.

  My furniture and boxes greet me in the kitchen-living room and the bedroom, giving the place a welcome sense of familiarity. It’s just as I’d hoped. Aside from unpacking my things, which I can do gradually, I’m already moved in.

  While exploring the kitchen, I find there’s a surprise waiting for me. The fridge is filled with some basic essentials, including milk, butter, bread and a block of cheese. Confused, I look around me. There’s washing-up liquid and a sponge beside the sink, and a pack of teabags on the counter.

  ‘Where did all this come from?’ I ask the empty room.

  Then I spot an envelope propped up against the wall near the kitchen’s electrical sockets. Ripping it open, I find that it’s a ‘new home’ card from the removals company.

  ‘Dear Ms Morton,’ I read aloud. ‘Thanks for using Bridgeton Removals. We hope you had a smooth journey. Thought you’d appreciate not having to visit the supermarket as soon as you arrive. All the best for the future.’

  In perfect synchrony, my stomach emits a hungry grumble. I cross the room and place the card proudly on my round glass dining table.

  ‘How nice is that?’ I continue my conversation with the empty room. ‘Probably the only card I’ll get.’

  Digging a plate, a mug and some cutlery out of the brown cardboard box marked ‘kitchen crockery’, I give them a quick wash and make myself a cheese sandwich, which I hungrily wolf down with a cup of tea. Then I look around at the brown packing boxes and feel immediately exhausted. There’s no way I’m dealing with them now. Instead, I go through to my bedroom, make up my bed and switch on my small flat-screen TV, which the removals men have helpfully tuned for me. Lying back, I start watching a film that’s just begun, but it’s not long before my eyelids start to feel heavy, so admitting defeat, I climb under the covers and allow myself to drift off.

  * * *

  Having arranged not to start at my new job until midweek, I spend the next few days unpacking and familiarising myself with my new surroundings. This includes basics such as finding the closest supermarket and testing out the walk to my new office, as well as the essential task of signing up with a GP – something my neurologist suggested I do immediately, so I can access help quickly should I need it.

  Being a high-calibre example of life’s ‘doers’, my natural instinct is to rush around like a hummingbird seeking nectar, getting everything done as quickly as possible. But, aware of my limitations and the potential to set myself back, I force myself to work at a reduced pace. This doesn’t come easily, and on several occasions, I find myself starting to flag the way I did at the station. While I’m becoming more attuned to the warning signs, it seems that only when I’m hanging by my fingernails do I take proper notice. It will take practice to learn to hit the brakes sooner, but at least I’m no longer soaring off the cliff edge Thelma and Louise style.

  * * *

  By the time my first day at my new job comes round, I’m properly settled and ready to get going with my new career challenge. As I stand in front of my full-length mirror, assessing the suitability of my ‘day one’ outfit, I’m a jangle of nerves and anticipation. This is where my brand-new start really begins. No more awkward conversations and pitying looks. No more being kept away from tasks considered too challenging for me while my boss tries to dress the alternative up as a ‘development opportunity’. I will just be Alex, the experienced project manager who’s moved down from Glasgow. Full stop.

  The only downside to this experience is that I have no one to share it with. My previous firsts were something I did with Dom by my side. He was my biggest supporter, as I was his. It makes me wonder whether he’s felt it too. Or if he’s already moved on, relieved at the second chance he’s been given by walking out of my life. As this thought buzzes around my head, attempting to hijack my positivity, I mentally swat it away. That’s part of my old life now. It’s locked away in a box and I’ve hurled the key so far into the sea of forgotten experiences, it can’t be opened again.

  Back on track, and happy that I look the part, I grab my bag and head out of my apartment. When I emerge into the still morning air, I can’t help thinking that the spectacular sun for my first day is a good sign.

  As I reach Sheepcote Street, the strip of road that separates the quiet of my residential area from the urban buzz, I receive my first reminder that I’m in a large city. The huge modern commercial buildings of Brindley Place stand regally, like huge chess pieces, and heavy traffic signals that the morning rush is very much in progress.

  I cross the road and make my way to the main plaza of Brindley Place, experiencing the same bubbly, energised feeling I’ve had each time I’ve walked through it over the last few days. The design of the space, the splashing of the fountains and the cafe situated in the centre all give it a bit of a European feel. Just beyond the water features, there’s a cluster of bars and eateries, housed in more traditional, red-brick buildings. And beyond that, an entry point to Birmingham’s canal network with its fascinating reminders of the city’s industrial heritage: the old cranes used to unload narrowboats, the charming cast-iron bridges, and the renovated canal house, now a pub, but with its beautiful original features retained. An open-air warren of pathways just itching to be explored. It’s an area that’s already stolen my heart. I just know I’m going to love living here.

  For a moment, I just stand and take in the large office block that is home to my new employer. It’s about eight storeys high, with a glass-fronted facade made up of individual floor-to-ceiling windows that allow passers-by to see the workers at their desks. Taking a final deep breath to ground myself, I walk inside and approach the reception desk.

  ‘Good morning, madam. May I help you?’ an attractive blond woman wearing a headset greets me.

  I give her
my most confident smile. ‘Hello, yes, please. My name is Alex Morton. It’s my first day at Fletcher & Co. I’ve to ask for Emmanuel Akintola.’

  The woman types something into her computer at lightning speed.

  ‘Perfect. Just give me a second and I’ll call her.’ She punches a number into her desk phone and waits for an answer. ‘Ms Akintola? Hello, it’s Lara from reception. I have Alex Morton here waiting for you… OK, great, thank you.’ She disconnects the call and returns her attention to me. ‘Just take a seat. Ms Akintola will be down shortly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I give her an appreciative nod and make my way to the seating area, perching myself on the edge of one of the charcoal-grey armchair-style seats. A few minutes later, my new manager appears out of the lift and enthusiastically click-clacks her way across the tiled floor towards me. She’s about ten years older than me, with beautifully braided dark hair tied up in a ponytail, make-up that looks like it’s been applied by a professional, and a very stylish dress sense; she’s wearing a figure-hugging caramel-coloured faux leather pencil skirt and a cream asymmetric sweater.

  ‘Alex, hi. It’s so great to finally meet you in person.’ She extends her hand and I get to my feet and shake it vigorously.

  ‘It’s great to meet you too.’ I smile at her. ‘I’ve never done the whole interview process by phone before. It’s a different experience.’

  ‘It is that. But no point in dragging you all the way down here with the technology we have available to us these days.’

  I’m expecting us to head for the lifts, but Emmanuel gestures instead to the main entrance.

  ‘How about we go for a coffee first? Get to know each other properly. Then you can meet the rest of the team. We can sort your staff pass on the way back.’

  ‘Great.’

  We make our way outside and across the plaza to an Italian cafe-restaurant called Conti’s, nestled right in the centre of the cluster of bars and eateries that overlook the canal and the International Conference Centre.