by Drew Davies
As he fills his pockets with his possessions again, Adam turns his body so he can better see the turnstile and watches as the next few people file through. From this angle, he can spot that the motion sensor is much lower on these turnstiles than at the Underground, at knee height rather than thigh level. He would have had to aim the umbrella lower, but then he’d never get through the metal arms because the pole would be wedged through, stopping them from rotating. They are clever, these turnstile makers, he thinks. It’s almost as if they’ve designed them to be difficult to cheat. Unless…
Making a show of finding his card (‘In my jacket p-pocket all along, tsk’), Adam slings his bag over his shoulders, throws his coat over his right arm and picks up the umbrella in his right hand. Both lines are flowing again, so he joins his original queue. As the woman in front of him swipes her card, Adam extends the umbrella. He waits for her to walk a few steps and at the last ‘tink’, pushes the umbrella through the turnstile (his coat shields this action from onlookers behind) and rests it on the metal arms. This time, as the woman moves off, the light stays green. Adam swipes his card as he rests his thigh against the metal arms, but before he pushes through, he dangles his coat down the side of the sensor and unthreads the umbrella from its resting place with his other hand. Carefully, he walks through the turnstile, making sure to keep the dangling coat in place to cover the sensor. He can’t believe it, he’s made it. Adam expects at any moment to hear ‘Hey, you, come back!’ but he turns the corner of the foyer into the hallway behind without any intervention.
It’s the elevators next, but they’re easy. Even babies can do elevators! Adam thinks giddily. A doorway beside the two lifts is marked as a stairwell, but only an interloper would take the stairs unnecessarily, so he waits with the small crowd until the elevator on the left dings and the doors slide open. There’s a bit of interactive public theatre as people shuffle on, balancing their coffee cups and calling out their desired floor (there are seven all up, including a basement) while the person closest to the panel obligingly pushes the buttons. The doors shut and the lift starts its ascent to the first floor. On his previous visit, Adam instinctively travelled to the fourth floor – it was a halfway point after all, and four felt like a good round number – but today he has a loftier destination in mind. As the doors open and people exit the elevator, he is afforded a quick glimpse of the layout on each level. The first floor seems to be a warren of small offices: accountancy and IT probably (best to keep them locked away), while two and three are similar to four in that they are large open spaces filled with cubicles and dual screen monitors, two large offices in the far corners (his heart gives a leap when he sees ‘his’ corner office. It seems unoccupied this morning, its owner no early bird, sniffs Adam). The doors shut on four and the elevator resumes its climb with only two people left: Adam and a severe-looking woman in an expensive dress-suit and a statement brooch. She gives him a sideways glance and Adam worries she might challenge him on why he’s heading to the upper echelons of Mercer and Daggen, but as they reach the fifth floor he realises it smells ‘musky’ in the confines of the elevator and perhaps his deodorant hasn’t lived up to its promise of twenty-four-hour protection after all. As the lift doors open, the woman hurries out into the hallway and through glass doors that divide another reception area, this one smaller and swankier than the one downstairs, obviously for higher-ups and VIPs.
Adam steps out of the lift gingerly, turns left and keeps on walking until he finds the men’s toilet. Pushing open the door, he is met by the scent of lilac, the sound of panpipe music and the soft, amber lighting of a superior executive bathroom. Lucky bamboo twists sit in terracotta pots behind the basins and everything is neat and spotlessly clean.
He checks himself in the mirror. Adam needn’t have worried about appearing like Mark J. Smith’s doppelgänger – with the bags under his eyes, his pasty complexion, and hair wet, stringy and matted to his forehead, the similarity is uncanny.
Adam’s shirt is properly soggy, so he removes his suit jacket and stands, back hunched to the hairdryer, blasting himself with hot air. Next, he takes a handful of paper towels, wets a wedge of them and moves to a toilet cubicle, where he removes his shirt and gives himself a pirate bath, patting himself dry afterwards with the remaining towels. Dressed again, he exits the cubicle, washes his face at the sink, tidies his hair, sprays on more deodorant (which he’s brought with him in his bag), and steps back to take in the effect. Much better: less ‘drowned rat’ and more Michael J. Fox in The Secret of My Success.
Back in the hallway, Adam nips to the door leading to the stairwell and walks up the flight of steps slowly, listening for any noise above him. The online press release had said the refurbishment of the ‘empty space’ would start in December (the top floor had been leased to a celebrity chef, who was opening a seafood restaurant), but better not take any chances. If he’s discovered, he’ll just say he was going for a cigarette – everyone knows how smokers love to flout trespassing rules.
At the top of the stairs, he pauses, listening intently. There’s no sound. In fact, there’s no sound. It’s strangely quiet, except for a few intermittent clicks and the faint background hum of elevators. A small brown spider wanders over to his shoe, taps it cautiously with one of its eight legs and ambles on its way again. Adam rests one hand on the stairwell door and takes out his phone with the other, touching the screen to make it spring to life. He types in the password and, selecting Patrick’s message, hits reply:
Dude! Defo drinks tonight. It’s mad here. Going to lay low, get my bearings before they realise they’ve made a terrible mistake! Cheers for standing by me these past few months. Don’t want to get all soppy, but I really appreciate it. Will rip it up here – you see if I don’t… A
The text sent, he pauses – listening intently for one more moment – then pushes open the door.
In south London, Dylan has barely logged on to the computer when a Skype video call pops up from Chris. He considers ignoring it, but feels guilty instantly. They’ve been linked in the Big Brother programme for almost five months, and although it was rocky to start with, Dylan really does enjoy Chris’s fortnightly visits. It’s just… No, he’s being uncharitable. It’s nothing. He clicks accept, and a box pops up in the screen, filled mostly with Chris’s forehead.
‘Moonster!’
‘Hey, Chris.’
‘Moonamundo!’
Chris can go on like this for some time, so Dylan starts signing into his blog.
‘Moonarelli!’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Great, perfect. Peachy even.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Just wanted to check in with my favourite amigo.’
In their first few weeks, Chris had experimented with the bro-banter (as Dylan secretly thought of it), trialling a series of hip-hop influenced takes until settling on a (only slightly less racist) Latino-inspired persona. Dylan didn’t mind really. He couldn’t get angry with Chris for misjudging his tone in the same way he could never stay annoyed if Otis chewed his Nikes.
‘How’s the old grey matter?’
‘Better, thanks. I haven’t had an episode since the other day.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘Might be able to go back to school in a few weeks too.’
‘Excellento! That’s great news! The girls don’t know what’s about to hit them!’
Yeah, thinks Dylan, an invalid with skinny legs, who can’t sit up too fast for fear of passing out. I’ll be fighting them off.
‘How are things with you?’ he says, changing the subject before Chris can start giving him advice on chat-up lines.
‘Never better. This girl I’ve been seeing – Daisy – she’s kind of fantastic. You’ll love her.’
‘Does she like dogs?’
‘Mate, animals adore her. She’s like Eliza Doolittle. Every morning, small birds fly through her window and help get her dressed. A rabbit makes her coffee.’
&n
bsp; ‘She might get disappointed when Otis can’t make hot drinks.’
‘No one could ever be disappointed with Otis. How is the Beast?’
‘He was attacked by a pug the other day.’
‘Those things can be mean.’
‘It was tiny. It couldn’t even see properly with its big googly eyes.’
‘Otis is risk averse. It’s a sign of intelligence.’
‘It’s a sign he—’
Dylan stops dead in his tracks. There was a comment on his latest blog post. It might be spam, though. He shouldn’t get too excited, he told himself, as he clicked on the post.
Chris, who has been speaking, realises he’s being ignored and taps the microphone.
‘Is this thing on?’
‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘Do you mind if we postpone our next catch up until the following weekend? I was hoping to take Daisy away for a couple of days on Saturday. You know, surprise her.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Dylan replies, scrolling down to the comment section. And yes! There it was, from AquariusRising07. Janelle’s handle! The comment read simply:
Love this.
She loved it!
‘Great, I’ll make it up to you. We can go tenpin bowling.’
Dylan has a new thought – a comment from Janelle often meant a follow-up email. He loads up his inbox, and sure enough, there’s one waiting.
‘Okay, maybe not tenpin bowling,’ says Chris. ‘Tough crowd. You choose. As long as it’s not one of those soppy teenage wizard vampire movies, I’m in.’
Dylan bites his tongue. Chris loves to tease him about ‘youth culture’, but he won’t take the bait today (and so what if he likes Harry Potter?). Instead, he clicks on the email:
Dylan!
I’m afraid I’m going to have to pause our little film club. I’m really sorry, but life is getting complicated, I hope you understand. I can’t get into it now, but there are forces at play, and I need all my energy to deal with them.
Keep doing your exercises, and stick to the programme, and you’ll be fine. Know what a great guy you are. Who knows, if you were a few years older, I might have snapped you up myself!
Chris is still talking.
‘…and George Clooney slapped me round the face with a French baguette.’
‘Great,’ Dylan says distractedly.
‘Aha! I knew you weren’t listening. George Clooney is a gentleman – the Cary Grant of our generation – he would never waste food like that. What’s going on, kiddo? You seem, preoccupied. Is it a girl?’
‘No.’
Chris knew about Janelle of course, but he’d always acted jealous at any mention of her (sensing that he was in her shadow), so Dylan had learned to keep her out of the conversation.
‘It is a girl, I can see it in your face. You sly dog, Moonshine. You’re chatting to her now, aren’t you? I feel dirty, like I’m being digitally cheated on. Can she hear me? Hullo, lady friend, nice to meet you! Be good to Dylan, or you’ll have me to deal with. None of your wily womanly charms and if you break his heart, I’ll…’
Dylan considers closing the chat box and saying the computer crashed. Instead, he reads the email again. What can Janelle have meant by ‘forces at play’? Maybe it was her abusive ex-boyfriend again? Or the domineering father she’d mentioned, during one of their heart-to-hearts? Dylan feels like rushing to her side – Janelle lived in Archway, he remembered, he didn’t know where exactly… Maybe he could offer to go visit? He hadn’t travelled out of Croydon for a very long time, but this would be worth the risk, times a million.
At the bottom of the email, Dylan notices a p.s. There was a p.s.!
p.s. I’m sending you something, a surprise – it should arrive in the next couple of weeks. You’ll have to sign for it, so keep an eye out.
‘Right,’ says Chris, ‘I can tell you’re riveted by my company. I’ll let you get back to your girlfriend. Call me next week.’
‘Good luck with Eliza,’ Dylan says to Chris.
‘Her name’s Daisy.’
‘Daisy, sorry – good luck.’
‘Thanks, pal. Don’t go changing, Moonskies.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Adios!’
But Dylan is too distracted to say goodbye. A surprise? he thinks, his brain ticking over wildly – what could it possibly be? He understood the symbolism though. In some way, Janelle loved him too. She loved him! And Dylan was going to do everything in his power to help her…
Five
‘Be prepared!’ goes the old Scout motto, but for a romantic weekend away a more accurate aphorism might read: always come prepared.
Pack your toothbrush. Pack a comb. Take Viagra, condoms, tampons, crampons (and climbing rope). Remember breath mints. Mouthwash. Femfresh™ and wipes! Your antidepressants in a multivitamin bottle. Real vitamins. That bit of weed you’ve been saving. Bring a copy of Zen in the Art of Archery. Pack floss, contact lens solution, cigars, poppers and something to keep the kids busy (at least for an hour). Don’t forget a hip flask of brandy or your Korean anti-aging cream. A waterproof camera. Coal tar soap. Hormone replacement medication. Pack your goggles! Take baby oil, your night brace and the printout with the doctor’s latest findings. Don’t leave without the instructions on how to turn off the alarm. Remember sun lotion. The dog-eared photo of your brother’s ex-wife. Tantra for Dummies and extra toilet paper. Tiger balm. Your new piercings. Bring ear plugs, gaffer tape and the final dose of penicillin. Protein shakes – vanilla, cherry and pecan brownie. Pack your therapist’s notes. The concert tickets. The signed divorce papers and moisturiser for the stubble rash. Buy Odor-Eaters. A fake ID. A briefcase for Monday. Bring a bottle of supermarket own-brand bubbly and a crate of energy drinks. Kosher jam for the morning. Pack your knitting – pack clothes if you must – if we have to leave London, why can’t we be a little prepared for once?
Daisy is having trouble zipping up her suitcase when a car horn toots outside. From her first-floor bedroom window, she watches as a cherry red Alfa Romeo – surrounded by a small but appreciative crowd of onlookers – pulls into a parking space below. Emerging from the leathered interior of the two-seater, Chris seems like he expects a round of applause, but the crowd disperses silently instead. Glancing up, he sees Daisy and raises a hand in greeting. She feels it then, the delicious flutter of her good fortune – a life flowing with spontaneous easy pleasures – but she pulls herself together, afraid she might jinx it. Chris is handsome today, though. What is it? Definitely not the cheesy rented sportscar. He’s wearing his usual look of posh-Brit-meets-American-casual – a periwinkle linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, tan chinos with a brown belt and grey espadrilles – so nothing especially titillating there. Perhaps it’s because she knows the body beneath the fabric now: the red devil tattoo on his left thigh, the solid legs built up from years of rowing, the surprisingly hairless groin. She considers him some more but comes to no definitive conclusion – maybe it is the new wheels after all?
Downstairs, Chris is pointing at something, first casually and then more emphatically, and so engrossed is Daisy that it takes her a few moments to understand he wants, quite reasonably, to be let in.
* * *
Chris is leaning across the doorframe in a mock-Lothario pose as she opens the front door.
‘What do you think?’ he asks, waggling his eyebrows towards the car.
‘They’ll love that in the Lake District,’ Daisy replies with a grin, widening her eyes for effect. She’s beautiful today, Chris decides, quite stunning in a low-cut turquoise top, flicky black eye makeup and a gold snake necklace (the head curled around her clavicle to grasp its own tail) – like some Egyptian queen.
‘Nice try,’ he says, leaning in for a kiss and feeling a thrill at the casual intimacy he’s allowed now.
‘Cornwall?’
‘I’m not telling.’
‘So, it might be Cornwall?’
‘I’m not ruling it out.’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s Cornwall then,’ she says, planting her mouth on his.
‘No,’ he says, when their lips part again, ‘it’s not.’
‘That could be misdirection.’
‘Misinformation, you mean?’
‘You admit it?’
He laughs and chances another kiss.
* * *
They successfully fasten her suitcase and load it into the boot of the car.
‘Wherever we’re going,’ says Daisy, drawing the seat belt across her chest, ‘it must be a bit of a distance to justify this bad boy. I can’t imagine we’ll head to Brighton, or you’ll have to do laps around Hove just to get your money’s worth.’
‘It’s not the length of the ride,’ says Chris, turning the key in the ignition, the engine starting with a muffled growl, ‘but how you enjoy it that counts.’
‘Said the actress to the bishop!’ they both say in unison.
‘Now, Scotland,’ says Daisy as he pulls out from the kerb, ‘might be too far. We’d have left London earlier. By my calculations,’ she licks a finger and holds it up, ‘we are heading… north. Or west. I’m not very good with directions. I know! We’re heading to Wales, aren’t we? Leek country!’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ says Chris, squeezing her knee. ‘You’re in a mischievous mood today.’
‘Am I?’ Daisy doesn’t feel particularly mischievous – excited maybe. She clears her throat. ‘Joking aside, I really do have to let Mum know where I’m going this weekend. She’s worried you might molest me or something.’
Chris looks at her horrified, the colour draining from his face.
‘Of course, I didn’t think – we’re going to…’