But the story of her and Damien was there, for all to see, anonymous but familiar.
She was an optimist, but she’d been hurt. I’d stop short of calling her a romantic. She was a realist. An optimistic realist.
There was mention of the night she lost her camera, too, which prickled my skin and made my heart beat faster. I was referred to as both ‘a guy’ and ‘the guy’ in that order. She’d been back to Snappy Snaps the day after, the day I’d seen her while eating my magical pizza in Abrizzi’s, and she’d sat in the café once more that night, too, drowning her sorrows in sweet white tea while I avoided mine a hundred metres away.
And she seemed lovely.
And I knew it could never work.
Because The Girl – I could only call her Shona if I knew her, I decided – had made a decision. If someone wouldn’t show her the world – if she couldn’t see the world with someone – then she would see it alone.
She had sold her dad’s car, the Facel Vega from her childhood, the one he’d driven her to Glasgow to see Take That in, the one she’d taken on as her own when he’d passed, and she’d raised the money. She’d given up her flat, alerted HR.
So what chance did I stand now? What chance does anyone stand, when the other person doesn’t even know they exist?
The Girl would be leaving Saturday morning from King’s Cross.
Alone, because like me, she prefers hellos to goodbyes.
Maybe if I’d been in a film, I’d have found out the very morning she was going. I could’ve blamed impulse and urgency and following my heart, for flinging open the door of my flat or leaving an important meeting halfway-through or exiting my ex-girlfriend’s wedding or a million other tiny sacrifices. But I had all week to wait, and all week to think about it, to change my mind, to decide against turning up, to fantasise about what might happen if I did.
And then one night, Friday turned to Saturday, and the morning was soon upon me.
‘No,’
‘You gotta do it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Level Two. You do.’
‘I don’t, Dev.’
‘You do, Jase.’
‘I don’t, Abbey.’
‘You should, though.’
‘I can’t, though.’
‘You should Make It Happen, Mr Priestley.’
I sat in the kitchen, my packed boxes around me, ready for the move, ready for Level Two, and I watched the kettle boil again and again to the tick of the clock.
I’d woken early. Done everything I could to distract myself. I’d opened my laptop, clicked around, found my way to Facebook, and I’d laughed as I’d seen those same, seven words again.
… is having the time of her life.
But now they didn’t hurt. They cheered me.
I clicked on the pictures.
Sarah. Happy. Tanning. Her hand across her bump. Gary’s arm around her, adoringly. I smiled.
Sitting in the winter sun, I saw the postman come and go, heard the dog next door bark its welcome.
And as slowly I left the house, and I walked up Blackstock Road, towards Upper Street, and the Caledonian Road, past Power Up! and heading for King’s Cross, I knew I’d just committed myself to something.
I’d always known I would.
At the station I checked the platforms.
Nothing for a while. Cleaners, stewards, men with briefcases and papers.
I felt calm. The person I was looking for didn’t know what I looked like. The people around me would assume I was waiting for a train. For maybe the first time in my life, self-consciousness didn’t come into it. I felt … calm. I was in control.
And then … like I was drawn to the colours …
I stopped for a second, leaned against a pillar, nervously felt for the photos in my pocket, as I’d done all the way from home.
The blue coat. Red shoes. Backpack and bags.
I wanted to run away for a second. To change my mind and turn around. What exactly did I stand to gain here? What was I risking I would lose? What would Dev tell me to do? Well, he’d tell me to Use the Moment, to know that at least something had ended, even if nothing had started, but the thing about—
‘I know you,’ said the voice.
She’d spun around, flashed me a quick smile. That smile.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Do I know you?’
I was already closer to her than I’d thought. I pretended to look up at a departures screen, but it was broken, so I looked back again.
This was it.
I had it all practised, I realised. I knew exactly what to say and how to handle this, because despite myself I’d rehearsed this, and not just once. The best course of action was to be forthright, I’d told myself. Be practical and sensible; approach this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But that all started to crumble now, here, in her presence, around her voice.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Here’s the thing …’
She tilted her head at me, smiled … Was she remembering Charlotte Street, the taxi, the bags, the driver and his fag? Or maybe she’d noticed me in the café that night? Or maybe it was just because I was here, looking at her, like someone she knew.
A moment’s silence, mine to fill. But I couldn’t find the words. So I reached into my pocket, and I handed over the packet, now creased and crumpled and torn, and looking as tired and apologetic as I did.
It took a second for her to realise what had happened. That these were hers. That I’d developed them. That I’d seen something of her. Me – a stranger.
She could have done anything now. Shouted, or run.
But she didn’t. She opened the packet, started to flick through, a half-smile welcoming home some old and sad memories.
‘Obviously … to find you, I mean to give these back to you, because they’re yours, I had to … you know …’
I indicated the packet. She bit her lip, nodded. I couldn’t work out what she was thinking.
‘Thanks,’ she said, looking up. Her next question should have been, ‘How?’
But she said nothing. Like she’d been expecting me.
I cast my eyes around. Bags. Purse. Eurostar ticket in hand.
There was no time for anything other than this.
Well, this and maybe one more thing.
‘Listen, um … in case you ever feel like saying hello …’ I said, and I handed something else to her.
My disposable camera. Twelve moments of my own.
She took it, and smiled like she understood, then looked at me once more. It was a look of recognition, something slowly dawning on her, my face meaning more to her than it had.
‘I knew I knew you,’ she said.
‘I think I knew I knew you, too,’ I said.
And then I backed away, and left her, to her bags and her train and her future, and I walked away, out of King’s Cross, to go and find Dev, and Pamela, and Abbey, and Matt, and tell them all about it, tell them that I’d found her but I’d let her go.
And then we’d drink and be merry, and I’d start the rest of my life, from this day forth.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Or ‘Halfway There’
‘So?’ I said, beaming. ‘What do you think?’
‘Amazing!’ said Dev, shaking his head, lost in the moment. ‘Just amazing!’
It was an hour since King’s Cross and we were in Postman’s Park one more time.
Pamela, Abbey and Matt had wheeled Dev there under the pretence of visiting an unusual Nando’s, but in reality they’d brought everything we needed: Pamela had made Krokiety baps, I picked up a six-pack of Lech, and the grand unveiling – with a little blue curtain St John’s had kept from when Princess Anne had opened the science block in the eighties – had gone well.
A new tile on the wall.
DEVDATTA PATEL, Restauranteur and videogame enthusiast
Risked his life on the Caledonian Road to save a stricken cyclist, did not actually die, but with scant regard for persona
l safety he hurt his leg a bit.
Dev stared at it, proudly.
‘I’m gonna bring people to see this, y’know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all, like, “Gosh, is that still there?”’
‘Yes, you’ll have to act embarrassed and humble,’ said Abbey, and Matt made a noise like she’d just said whales wear little hats.
I gave the tile a quick polish. It was a little away from the others, this one, and I’d had to sneak in pretty late last night with the contraband adhesive, but there it was, resplendent in the lunchtime sun.
I felt like Banksy. How long until someone noticed? How long until it mysteriously disappeared? It didn’t matter. It was all about today. Though I liked to think that maybe it might sneak by forever.
‘Here – Pamela … would you mind?’ I said.
From my pocket I fished something out.
She looked at it. It was bright blue with a flash of red text.
Single Use 35mm Disposable Camera.
‘Is new one?’ she said, and I nodded.
‘Brand new.’
I gave Dev a wheelie to the wall. I span him round, put my arm on his shoulder, and Abbey and Matt squeezed in either side.
Click.
It’s funny. Dev had always said that disposables were different. That what they contained was more special because you couldn’t instantly see inside. You had to wait. You had to invest in the moment and then wait to see what you got. And those moments had to be the right moments. You had to be sure you wanted this moment when you pressed the button, because time was always running out, you were always one click closer to the end. That’s what it felt like here. But that’s what made it exciting.
I looked at the tiny number at the top of the wheel.
1.
Eleven more clicks.
What would they be? Who’d be in them? What story would they tell?
I shoved the camera in my pocket, and looked up at my friends.
I was ready for Level Two.
We had to wheel Dev out of the park backwards when we left. He wanted to keep staring at his tile. I could tell what he was thinking. He was thinking, At last.
And so was I.
One year later.
It was love at first sight for smitten Jason Priestley when a girl he saw on Charlotte Street one night left her disposable camera behind!
Lovestruck Jason, 32, developed the film and discovered to his dismay that the mystery girl already had a boyfriend!
But he persevered and tracked her down to King’s Cross train station in London, where he handed over her photos as she left the country to travel round the world – for six whole months!
Shona McAllister, who is 30 and works for a book publisher, was intrigued, and managed to track down Jason’s phone number – thanks to a cheeky note his best mate had secretly hidden in the photo packet!
Jason, a part-time teacher who also writes the And Another Thing … column for style magazine Man Up, says: ‘I have always believed in making it happen!’
And of finding love thanks to a camera, he says, ‘I suppose you could say we just clicked!’
The pair recently announced their engagement.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My biggest thanks must go to Greta for her never-ending support, to mum and dad for theirs, and to Elliot, who makes life such fun.
Thanks so much to Dave Cobbett for advising me so brilliantly on the life of a London teacher.
Thanks to Jake Lingwood for saying I should write a novel and for his invaluable advice throughout. Thanks to Simon Trewin at United Agents for the same, and to Jago Irwin for the fun that comes after. Thanks to Gillian Green for her attention-to-detail and excellent ideas, to Ed Griffiths in advance, and to everyone else at Ebury for all the incredible work they have put into my books over the years. Thanks to the estate of the much-missed Richard McFarlane – aka Hovis Presley – for allowing me to include his lovely poem.
And thanks to you for reading.
About the Author
Danny Wallace is a writer, producer, and award-winning journalist whose work has appeared in newspapers and magazines including The Guardian, The Independent,Cosmopolitan, Elle, and GQ. His books include Join Me, Awkward Situations for Men, More Awkward Situations for Men, and Yes Man, which was made into a feature film starring Jim Carrey. Wallace has written a weekly column in the UK magazine ShortList since 2007 and is the host of Xfm London’s Breakfast Show, which won Loaded magazine’s 2012 Lafta Award for Funniest Radio Show. Charlotte Street, Wallace’s first novel, has been optioned by Working Title Films. Visit dannywallace.com for more information about his books and many other projects, or follow him on Twitter@dannywallace.
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Also by Danny Wallace:
Awkward Situations for Men
More Awkward Situations for Men
Friends Like These
Yes Man
Danny Wallace and the Centre of the Universe
Join Me
Random Acts of Kindness
Copyright
Charlotte Street
Copyright © 2011 Danny Wallace.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 978-1-443-41186-8
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
First published in 2012 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company
First Canadian edition
Danny Wallace has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Permission to reprint lines from ‘Ex’ by Hovis Presley, from Poetic Off Licence, kindly granted by permission of his estate.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
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