“OK, don’t give me any money,” says the girl, sounding exasperated. “Just sign the petition.”
“Yes, and what will you do with my signature?” Alan raises his eyebrows as though to say, I win, and gets on his bike. “And this path is private property,” he adds, gesturing to our crumbling, crappy path. “So don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas?” The girl stares at him. “What ideas?”
“I couldn’t say. But I’m telling you: private property.”
“You think I’m planning to occupy your front path or something?” says the girl incredulously.
“I’m just saying, private property,” Alan repeats impassively. He cycles off and the girl makes a furious sound, like the whinny of a horse.
“Tosser!” she exclaims—and I have to agree.
“Hiya,” I say as I approach her, wanting to make up for Alan’s rudeness. “Are you collecting for something?”
“Petition for the community center,” she says, in such a garbled way it comes out “Psh’ncommucenter.” She hands me a flyer reading Save Our Community Center, and I glance over it. It’s all about cuts and children’s prospects and it seems like a really genuine thing, so I put a couple of pound coins in her tin and scrawl my name on the petition.
“Good luck!” I say, and start striding off down the road.
A moment later I’m aware of a presence at my shoulder, and I turn to see that Sadiqua is following me.
“Hi,” I say. “Did you want something?”
“What do you do?” she asks chattily. “Like your job and that.”
“Oh! Well, I’m in branding. Creating images and logos for products. It’s really interesting,” I add, in case this is my chance to provide Inspiration To The Younger Generation. “It’s hard work but rewarding.”
“D’you know anyone in the music industry?” Sadiqua continues, as though I haven’t spoken. “Because me and my mate Layla, we’ve got a band and we made a demo.” She produces a CD from her pocket. “Layla’s uncle made these. We just need to get them out there.”
“That sounds great!” I say encouragingly. “Well done.”
“So can you take one?” She thrusts it at me. “Get it heard?”
Get it heard? By whom?
“I’m not in the music industry,” I explain. “Sorry—”
“But branding, that’s music, innit?”
“Well, not really—”
“But music in ads?” she persists. “Who does the music in ads? Someone does all that and they need sounds, don’t they?” She blinks at me with her blue-green eyes. “They’re looking for new sounds?”
You have to admire her persistence. And she’s right, someone does do the music in ads, even if I have no idea who it is.
“OK. Look. I’ll see what I can do.” I take the CD from her and put it in my bag. “So, good luck with it all—”
“D’you know any model agents?” she carries on without missing a beat. “My auntie says I should be a model, only I’m not tall enough, but why does that matter in a photo? Like, they got Photoshop, so why does it matter? Why d’you need to be tall and thin? They’ve got Photoshop. Just use Photoshop, know what I mean? Photoshop.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Right,” I say warily. “Actually, I don’t know much about modeling either. Sorry, I do really need to keep walking….”
Sadiqua nods with resigned disappointment, as though it’s only what she expected of me. Then, easily keeping pace with my stride, she reaches into her pocket.
“You want some jewelry? I make jewelry.” She pulls out a tangle of beaded bracelets and thrusts them at me. “Fiver each. You buy them for your mates and that.”
I can’t help bursting into laughter.
“Not today,” I say. “But maybe another day. Aren’t you supposed to be collecting for your community center?”
“Oh, that.” She gives a philosophical shrug. “That’s gonna close, anyway. I’m just collecting because, like, we’re all collecting, but we won’t save it or nothing.”
“You might!” I say. “What does it do, exactly?”
“All sorts. Like, they give kids breakfast and that. I always used to have my breakfast there, ’cos my mum never—” Sadiqua stops dead, and her bouncy veneer falters for an instant. “They give you Corn Flakes and that. But it costs money. Corn Flakes every day costs money, dunnit?”
I look at her silently for a moment. I like this girl. She’s funny and energetic and actually very beautiful, even without Photoshop.
“Give me a few more flyers,” I say, and take them from her. “Maybe I can help you raise some money.”
—
At the office I find an old CD drive in the cupboard, so I plug it into my computer and listen to Sadiqua’s CD. Obviously I’m hoping that it’ll blow me away and that I’ve discovered a star. Sadly, it’s just two girls singing a Rihanna song and then dissolving into giggles. But I decide I’ll still do what I can with it, and I’ll definitely try to raise money for her community center.
I don’t have any specific plans, or even ideas really, and I’m certainly not planning to bring it up with anyone. But then, on my way out that evening, when I see Alex waiting for the same lift as me, I find myself panicking for things to say. It’s gone 9:00 P.M.—I had a stack of stuff to catch up on—and I didn’t expect to see anyone. Let alone him.
I haven’t seen him since the carousel yesterday, but of course he’s crossed my mind about ninety-five thousand times. As I approach, I can feel the blood moving to my face and a horrible awkwardness rising up my throat. How are you supposed to talk to an attractive man you think you might have a thing for, anyway? I’ve lost every natural instinct I ever had. My face feels frozen. My hands feel flappy. As for eye contact, forget it. I have no idea what the appropriate level of eye contact is right now.
“Hi,” he says, smiling, as I reach the lift doors. “You’re working late.”
“Hi.” I smile back. “I had some stuff to do.” And I know the onus isn’t on me to continue the conversation, but as I mentioned, I’m panicking. So before I can stop myself, I blurt out: “I’ve got a really great cause I’d like to put forward as the company charity.”
This isn’t strictly true. I don’t know it’s a great cause—I only have Sadiqua’s word for it. But right now I need a topic of conversation.
“Oh yes?” says Alex, looking interested.
“It’s a community center near where I live. In Catford. It does breakfast clubs, that kind of thing, but it’s closing down. Cuts, you know…” I pull the leaflet out of my bag and hand it to him. “This is it.”
“Good for you,” says Alex, scanning the leaflet. “Well, we’ll consider it for next year. Or did you want to organize some kind of fundraiser meanwhile? What did you have in mind?”
The lift doors open and we both step in and of course now my mind is totally blank. Fundraiser. Fundraiser. Cupcake sale? No.
“Like, something that’s a challenge?” I say, grasping at straws. “So you feel you get something out of it as well as raising money? Like the marathon. But not the marathon,” I add hastily.
“Something hard, but not the marathon,” says Alex thoughtfully as we exit the lift into the empty, dimly lit lobby. “I’ll tell you the hardest thing in the world: that fucking skiing exercise. My personal trainer made me do it last night. Bastard,” he adds, so venomously I want to giggle.
“What skiing exercise?” I say, because I’ve never done any skiing exercises. Or any skiing, for that matter.
“The one where you sit against the wall. Torture. You know the one.” He looks at me. “You don’t?”
He goes over to a big empty wall, screen-printed with COOPER CLEMMOW in lots of different fonts, and takes up a position sitting against the wall, his thighs parallel to the floor.
“Doesn’t look so hard,” I say, just to wind him up.
“Are you joking? Have you tried it?”
“OK.” I grin. “Challenge accepted.”<
br />
I take up a similar position, a couple of yards away from him, and for a while there’s silence. The two of us are concentrating on the task in hand. I have pretty strong thighs—years of riding—but I can already feel them start to burn. Before long they’re really quite painful, but I’m not going to give in, I’m not going to…
“Tough, aren’t you?” says Alex, in a kind of gasp.
“Oh, what, this is the exercise?” I manage. “This is supposed to be difficult? I thought we were just warming up.”
“Ha-ha, ha-ha, very funny…” Alex is quite pink in the face. “OK, you win. I’m out.”
He slithers to the floor, just as my own thighs start feeling like they might spontaneously combust. I force myself to stay put for three more seconds, then collapse.
“Don’t tell me you could have kept going for another half hour,” says Alex.
“I could have kept going for another half hour,” I say at once, and Alex laughs. He looks over at me and there’s a flicker of…something in his eye. The same something I saw before. The you-and-me something.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. It’s one of those still little silences that you get when you’re adjusting your position in a conversation, maybe striking out in a new direction….But again I’m the one who panics, who brings things back to safety.
“I’m not sure how popular that’ll be as a fundraiser,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Well, it’s easier than a marathon,” says Alex.
“You say that—” I break off and peer out of the glass doors as a flash of red catches my eye. “Wait a minute. What on earth is that?”
The flash of red has turned into a streak. It’s red and white. A cluster of red and white…I stare disbelievingly. Are those Santa hats?
“What the hell—” Alex has followed my gaze and breaks into amazed laughter. “What is that?”
We give each other a brief look, then simultaneously make for the door. Alex swipes us out with his card and we both hurry into the crisp evening, gasping like kids at the sight before us.
About two hundred Santas on bikes are filling the street. Some are flashing red and white lights, some are tooting horns, and from somewhere is blasting Mariah Carey. It’s like a great big traveling Santa party.
“This is insane,” says Alex, still laughing.
“Join in!” calls a guy in a Santa hat, seeing us gawping. “Collect a bike and a hat! Join in!” He beckons invitingly. “Don’t be scared, be a Santa!” Alex and I stare at him, then at each other again.
“Come on,” says Alex, and we dash across the road to where people are collecting bikes from the hire point opposite.
“Twenty pounds to ride, Santa hat included,” a girl is shouting, waving a bucket at all the onlookers. “Join in! All for Great Ormond Street Hospital!”
“We have to do this,” says Alex. “Why would we not put on Santa hats and ride bikes round London? Are you free?” He meets my eyes, and again I feel a little fillip in my stomach.
“Yes, I’m free. Let’s do it!” I can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it. All around us, people are joining the Santa throng and singing along to Mariah. I see a pair of Santas riding a tandem, and one guy has pitched up on a penny-farthing.
This is why I moved to London, I find myself thinking, with a swell of glee. This is it.
“I’m paying for both of us,” adds Alex firmly. “I haven’t done enough for charity recently, and your altruism shames me.” He puts a fifty-pound note into the bucket before I can stop him and collects a bike, which he passes to me.
“Here’s your Santa hat.” The girl with the bucket holds out a hat with a light-up bobble and pops it on my head. I wheel my bike into place and look over at Alex, who’s wearing a light-up hat too. Stars are flashing all around the white rim of his, making him look endearingly angelic.
“Thanks,” I say, nodding my head at the bucket. “You shouldn’t have, but thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.” He smiles disarmingly.
I want to say something else—something witty—but there’s no time, because we’re moving. It’s ages since I’ve ridden a bike, but my feet find the rhythm instantly, and we’re off, down the road, a mass of pedaling Santas, with music and laughter fueling us along our way.
—
It’s one of the most magical nights of my life. We cycle from Chiswick to Hammersmith, then Kensington High Street, still full of shoppers, and past the Albert Hall. Then Knightsbridge, where Harrods is all lit up like fairyland and the shops are full of Christmas displays. We go along Piccadilly and up and down Regent Street, and I crane my neck to look at the dazzling festive lights overhead.
The evening air is rushing against my cheeks as I pedal. There are red-and-white Santa hats everywhere in my vision. I can hear the jingle of bike bells and tooting of car horns acknowledging us and the Santa cyclists roaring familiar Christmas songs over the sound system. I’ve never felt so invigorated. They’re playing that song about it being “Christmas every day”—well, I wish it could be this moment every day. Cycling through Piccadilly Circus. Waving at passersby. Feeling like a Londoner. And looking over, every so often, to smile at Alex. There hasn’t really been much chance to chat, but he’s always within ten yards of me, and I know when I look back I won’t remember, “I cycled with the Santas,” I’ll remember, “We cycled with the Santas.”
At Leicester Square we stop for hot chocolate provided by a coffee-shop chain. As I’m collecting two cups, Alex comes over, wheeling his bike, a broad grin on his face.
“Hi!” I say, and hand him one. “Isn’t it great?”
“Best way to travel,” he says emphatically, and takes a sip. “This is the end of the official route, apparently. We all split up and go our different ways; drop our bikes off wherever we like. I’m meeting someone for a drink now, anyway.” He glances at his watch. “In fact, I’m late.”
“Oh, right,” I say, trying not to feel crestfallen. I’d kind of thought…hoped we might go on….
But that was stupid. Of course he’s meeting someone for a drink. He’s a successful guy in London with a social life.
“I just need to text…them,” he says absently, tapping at his phone. “Now, what about you? Where are you headed?”
“I’m going home to Catford. There’s a drop-off point at Waterloo.” I force myself back into practicality. “I’ll head there, then I can catch the train.”
“You’ll be OK?”
“Fine!” I say brightly. “And thanks again. That was fantastic.” I put my hot chocolate down on the stand. (It’s lukewarm and not very nice, in fact.) “I’ll be off, then. See you in the office.”
“Sure.” A thought seems to hit Alex. “Oh no. You won’t. I’m going to Copenhagen first thing.”
“Copenhagen.” I wrinkle my brow. “Demeter’s going there too. A design conference, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.” He nods. “But I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
“It was amazing, wasn’t it?” I can’t help saying in a rush.
“Amazing.” He nods again, smiling, and we meet eyes. And the appropriate level of eye contact right now seems to be: full.
For an instant, neither of us speaks. I’m not even sure I can breathe. Then Alex lifts his hand in a kind of salute and I turn my bike to go. I could probably prolong the conversation a little longer, chitchat about the bikes or whatever…but I want to leave while the evening is still perfect.
And then rewind and play it in my head, all the way home.
Life has a dreamy quality at the moment. Good-dreamy and bad-dreamy. The cycling Santas…Alex smiling at me as we pedaled along…going to Portobello with Flora later today—that’s all good-dreamy. The office Christmas party is on Monday night and I keep imagining bumping into Alex in my little black dress. Chatting…laughing…he puts a careless hand on my arm when no one’s looking…we go on for a drink…back to his place…
OK, full disclosure: I keep imagining a
lot of different scenarios.
So life would pretty much be perfect right now…if it weren’t for the bad-dreamy stuff. More precisely, the fact that my laptop died on Thursday and I had to buy a new one and it’s given me this huge great well of fear, which I’m trying my hardest to ignore.
I still can’t believe it broke. The IT people at work couldn’t fix it, nor could the guy in the shop. He tried for an hour, then shrugged and said, “That’s fucked. Well, you needed an upgrade, anyway,” and my stomach went all gnarly with panic.
I need a laptop for all my design projects; I couldn’t not replace it. But I didn’t have that money. I’m on a really tight, planned-out budget; every pound matters—and a broken laptop is like a financial hurricane. It’s made a huge hole in my finances, and whenever I contemplate it, I feel cold with terror. I’ve been so careful with money. So careful. And then this comes along….It’s just not fair.
Anyway. I won’t think about it. I’ll have a great day with Flora and browse all the market stalls, and obviously I won’t be able to buy anything but that’s OK, because that’s not what it’s about, is it? It’s about the atmosphere. The vibe. The friendship.
Flora has suggested we meet at her house, and as I walk along the road, I feel my jaw sagging. If I thought Demeter’s house was impressive, it’s nothing on these mansions. The steps are twice the size of her steps. They all have front gardens and white stucco like wedding cakes. I find number 32 and survey it cautiously. This can’t be Flora’s house, surely. Is this…her parents’ house?
“Hi!” The door is flung open and I see Flora framed in the massive doorway, still in her dressing gown. “I saw you walking along. I’ve totally overslept, sorry! D’you want some breakfast?”
She ushers me into a hall filled with marble and lilies and a housekeeper polishing the banisters, then down an underlit glass staircase to an enormous kitchen with concrete work surfaces. Flora’s parents are seriously rich, I realize. And seriously cool.
“So…this is your parents’ house?” I say, to be sure. “It’s amazing.”
“Oh,” says Flora, without interest. “Yes, I suppose. D’you want a smoothie?” She starts throwing fruit into a NutriBullet, followed by chia seeds, organic ginger, and some special seaweed extract which I’ve seen in health shops and costs about three quid a shot.
My Not So Perfect Life Page 8