by Jenny Colgan
Still, it made her look younger than she was, that was something about having a pixie face and a pointed chin. Although she was definitely growing out of the age where she could wear pigtails to accentuate trying to be cute, which she supposed had benefits in no longer having men ask her how long her stockings were.
OK, on a level of perfectly scientific analysis, she was better looking than about sixty-five per cent of the people she had been to school with and, according to Friends Reunited, every single one of them now had kids. All of them. Even Magda with the Sellotape on her glasses and you couldn’t tell if she was looking at you or not. Even Mary Tracey Frances McGoolie, who gave off BO like a blowtorch. And, up until now, Katie hadn’t had a date for four months.
Four months, entirely chap-free. And if she was being strictly honest…she doodled about while her computer warmed up, still staring into the lobby…if she was going to be utterly honest, Clive hadn’t really been the stuff of her dreams. In fact, if she was honest she’d only dated him to break her previous three-month date-free desert. That was why she hadn’t minded so much that he had a skin condition behind his ears and scratched it all over his caesar salad.
Katie quickly sniffed under her armpits. OK, so it wasn’t that.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Miko.
‘Nothing!’ said Katie. ‘Checking my email.’
Miko looked under her own armpit.
‘Have you got something new from IT they haven’t told the rest of us about?’
‘No.’ Katie sighed. ‘What’s wrong with me Miko?’
Miko gave her a narrow look. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘That sounded like hmm hmm BUT,’ said Katie. ‘You know, as in nothing…BUT; or I’m single…BUT.’
‘But look at the facts,’ said Miko.
‘Ahh,’ said Katie.
‘We’re in the middle of a crisis.’
‘I wish people would stop saying that. What crisis?’
‘The no-men crisis, you idiot.’
‘Is that a real crisis?’
For the first time Katie noticed that Miko wore false eyelashes to go with her false nails. Was anything about her real? Was that Katie’s problem – too real?
Miko stared at her.
‘What?’ asked Katie.
‘You mean you really don’t know there’s a crisis?’
Miko patiently indicated the big glass lobby wall again. ‘Girl. Girl. Baldie. Girl. Girl. Don’t you get it?’
‘There are no men?’
‘Durr.’
‘But that’s just something people say. We say it every day.’
‘Because it’s true,’ said Miko. ‘Why do you think I bought these tits?’
‘Maybe I should buy some tits,’ said Katie absentmindedly in the Square Root, hiccuping for good measure.
Terence’s little toad eyes lit up. ‘I think you look gorgeous,’ he said hopefully. Katie couldn’t believe she’d just said that out loud and, taking it as her own final warning, stood up. If his job was as brilliant as he’d been claiming for the last three hours, perhaps he wouldn’t mind getting the drinks. She stumbled to the ladies.
On Tuesday night the girls had met up in the wine bar. All around them were lots of other girls having girls’ nights out. A lot of white wine was being slugged. Shoes and voices were high. The only man in sight was the waiter. ‘Oh God,’ said Louise. ‘Keep me out of sight of the waiter.’
‘That waiter is the biggest slag in NW11,’ said Olivia loudly. ‘Oh. Sorry Louise.’
Louise was pink. ‘I’d had too much white wine. They serve it in those enormous glasses.’
‘And then a dog ate your homework,’ said Katie. Really, she wanted to talk about work but it was really difficult with Olivia there. Recently, she’d felt as if, on some level, there was a tiny teeny-weeny possibility that doing PR for new food and drink products was…perhaps just the slightest bit…pointless? Not that there was necessarily anything wrong with anchovy pretzels and pink cola, it’s just, that sometimes – like every morning on the Tube – she wished maybe she were doing something a little more useful.
‘What was he like?’ said Olivia to Louise, eyeing the dark-haired waiter preening himself in the bar mirror and deftly jamming two glasses down in the glass washer as if it were an incredibly cool thing to be doing.
‘Perfunctory,’ said Louise uncomfortably. ‘He gave me the impression that, working here, it’s part of his job description.’
‘Ladies.’
He had materialised at their elbow. Louise was suddenly peering for something so deeply in her fake Birkin she looked like a horse with a feedbag.
‘What’s that thing we’re meant to get because we’re too cool for chardonnay now?’ asked Olivia.
‘Pinot Grigio,’ said Katie. ‘Tastes the same, more expensive.’
‘Ah, the plastic Prada bag school of ordering,’ said Olivia. ‘One of those please.’
‘Of course,’ said the waiter. ‘You all look very nice tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ said Louise from the nose up. ‘Again.’
The waiter gave her a quizzical look which showed absolutely no signs of recognition whatsoever, and scooted off.
‘Maybe you should rethink that whole “having unbelievably casual sex” thing,’ said Olivia.
Louise grimaced. ‘I’m getting over Max, OK, and having a great time. Really, really great. Plus, as I keep telling you, it’s the law of averages. If there’s only one perfect person out there for you, you’ve just got to get cracking. And never look back.’
‘What if the one perfect person out there for you is a pig?’ said Olivia dreamily. ‘Or married to Jennifer Aniston?’
‘What if they live in Laos?’ said Louise. ‘That’s what bothers me. Or if they speak Tulag. Did you know that’s the hardest language on earth to learn?’
The other girls stared at her as the waiter popped out the cork from the bottle with practised ease and poured them large glasses.
Louise looked sulky as all around them the women squawked and chattered, their slim legs and expensive shoes glinting in the flattering soft light reflecting off the beige leather chairs. Katie looked at Louise and worried about her. And herself.
‘Goodnight Terence,’ said Katie when she got back from the loo. She tried to be as nice as possible.
‘£60!’ Terence was saying. ‘For this shit! Jesus!’
‘Would you like me to go halves?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘If you like.’
Crossly, Katie put down half the money, noticing Terence counted out his share and didn’t leave a tip.
She felt infinitely more sober once she hit the open air. She liked walking in the city at night. People and couples lurched, shouted or shuffled along, no one paying her the blindest bit of notice.
The familiar sounds of sirens and late-night misadventures echoed as she cut down past the Opera House, her heels clattering on the cobbles, leaving the heavy traffic behind her. A chap was weaving slightly by the side of the road, and she subconsciously hurried up a little bit.
‘’Ello darlin’,’ he shouted after her. ‘You look nice.’
Probably only compared to him, a very drunk man attempting to take a piss on the street, but still, she appreciated the gesture.
She was wondering how low she could possibly plummet on her male-attention appreciation charts, when suddenly, out of nowhere the man was right in front of her. She jumped six feet in the air.
‘Fuck!’ she said. ‘You gave me a fright.’
Her heart started to pound, hard, when she realised it wasn’t the same man after all. She couldn’t work out who this person was or how he had landed in front of her, but late on a Thursday night on a deserted street, it didn’t feel good…Her eyes whipped around to the side, but the genial drunkard was gone.
‘Ah,’ said a soft voice with a slight accent. ‘Yes. That can be what happens.’
He was tall and, with her heart banging furiously, Katie saw t
hat he was dressed all in black, with a hat pulled down over his eyes. He was standing directly in front of the streetlight and she couldn’t make out his face. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. This was not good. Man in black on deserted street – either there was Milk Tray involved or this was definitely the opposite of good. Her eyes flicked to the side to see where she could run to and she cursed her ridiculous heels.
‘No,’ warned the voice. ‘Running. Don’t do it. I have a knife. Or a gun. Or something really bad. And you look like a nice person.’
Katie stared at him, frightened beyond belief.
‘I – I am a nice person,’ she said, her voice two octaves higher than normal. ‘Can you let me go?’
‘I can always tell,’ said the man. ‘I only go for nice people.’
Oh fuck oh fuck. She was going to get raped or killed or kidnapped or tortured. The worst, the most awful thing was happening. Oh God. She was in the middle of one of the most crowded cities in the world. Where the hell were all the people? Oh no. She was going to be left for dead in an alley. She wondered how they’d describe her in the papers.
‘Show me your phone,’ said the man gruffly. He took her by the arm – Katie flinched and started shaking like a foal – and led her to the dark side of the road. They could have been a couple talking.
Her phone. Of course. If she were an actress in 24 she would have thought to have done something useful with that. But she knew from her trembling fingers she’d have been incapable of pressing the tiny keys as she drew it out of her bag.
‘This is a shit phone,’ said the man, staring at the cheap little black handset.
‘Yeah,’ said Katie. Everyone kept telling her it was a shit phone. Maybe that would save her life – or make him kill her out of sheer disgust at her poor taste.
The man dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his boot. ‘You should be more stylish,’ he said. ‘You should have a better phone.’
He carefully took her bag from her and started rummaging inside.
‘And look at this mess. What a mess. How can you ever find anything in here? It’s full of tissues and lipsticks.’
‘It’s to deter muggers,’ said Katie. She still couldn’t get a look at his face, but for a murderous rapist, he didn’t seem very interested in her. In fact, he was looking at her lipstick with more interest.
‘You have a boyfriend?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, I think you have no boyfriend. You should ditch the orange lipstick. Orange, not good for you. Maybe why you have no boyfriend.’
‘Are you going to make me up like your dead mother and rape me to death?’ asked Katie in a panic.
It was dark, but she could catch the incredulous glint in his eye.
‘No!’ he laughed. ‘I’m going to take,’ he emptied out the coin section. ‘Twenty-four pounds and nineteen pence. And these cards, for about half an hour. Don’t worry. They’ll give you the money back, so it’ll be fine. Except for the twenty-four quid. Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Katie, furious. ‘Don’t do it!’
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘No. I’m going to do it.’
He handed her back the bag.
‘That’s a messy bag. You should have a stylish bag. Don’t you have anyone to look after you?’
‘Shut up!’
‘Nice girl like you. Should have a nice man to look after you. Buy you nice bags.’
He looked regretful. ‘Well. Thanks. Have a safe trip home. Have you got a travel card?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. OK. Be safe. Bye!’
Katie turned around to stare at him as he dived off, quick as a cat. Her heart couldn’t quite take in what had happened and kept whumping away, and she suddenly found it difficult to get her breath. She leaned against the wall.
‘Fuck,’ she heaved.
The drunk man wobbled over.
‘Hello darlin’!’
‘Where the fuck were you?’ she shrieked at him. ‘I could have been killed!’
He straightened up and managed to focus for a second.
‘Sorry love,’ he slurred. ‘I’ve already got a girlfriend.’
And he wobbled off.
‘Don’t worry love,’ said the policeman.
Louise, who she’d called in from home, was hanging about worriedly.
‘I mean, he didn’t, like, touch you up or nothing, did he?’
Katie looked at him hard. Was this the new, softer, intouch policing she kept hearing so much about?
‘No,’ she said calmly. She was feeling a lot less shaken up now than when she’d stumbled into the police station at Covent Garden. In fact, after a couple of cups of tea, she was actually feeling strangely embarrassed about the whole thing, as if she shouldn’t have bothered troubling anyone for something as clearly unimportant as a non-rape/murder-related mugging. Outside a car alarm was blaring away, but nobody was paying it the least attention.
‘He just jumped me, took all my stuff and scared me half to death.’
‘Yeah,’ said the policeman, as if he’d just been told one of his shoelaces was untied. ‘That happens.’
‘Go find him and put him in prison,’ said Katie. ‘Now, please.’
The policeman looked down at the blank sheet of paper on his desk. ‘It’s just, we’re not doing too well with the witness description.’
‘Black hat pulled down over his face. Foreign accent.’
‘Oh, him,’ said the policeman. ‘He shouldn’t be any trouble at all.’
‘Do you work late?’ said Louise, batting her eyelashes.
‘Louise, would you kindly shut it?’ said Katie.
Louise shrugged. ‘Sure, sure, just…’
‘I work shifts,’ said the policeman, bluntly appraising her. ‘Often up late, know what I mean?’
Katie quickly spotted the wedding ring and raised her eyebrows.
‘Do you…come and go in the night?’ said Louise lasciviously.
‘Actually, now I come to think about it, I hit my head on the pavement and now have concussion,’ said Katie crossly.
‘Depends if it’s an emergency,’ said the policeman over her head. ‘You know…if you really really need me.’
Katie stood up from the dingy grey plastic chair. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a lift home in a police car while it’s going “nee naw nee naw” is there?’
‘Maybe,’ said the policeman, still looking at Louise. Louise coloured.
‘I’ll just take the form for my insurance, thanks.’ Katie snatched the banda sheet away from him.
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ he said. ‘You’ve just described something that happens a thousand times a day in the West End and you’ve given us nothing to go on. We’re really sorry.’
Katie harrumphed. ‘Well, it shouldn’t happen at all. Anything could have happened.’
‘Yes, trust me, you’re not the type. Can I offer you some victim support?’
‘I’m not the type???’
‘Shh,’ said Louise. ‘He probably just meant you don’t look like a soft target. That’s good, you know. You look like a proper Londoner, not a rube.’ Louise brushed down her micromini thoughtfully.
Katie grimaced. ‘I don’t think that at all. I think I’m…I think I’m getting tired of this stupid city, you know.’
‘Shh,’ said Louise again. ‘You don’t mean that. You love London.’
‘I thought I did,’ said Katie. There was a car alarm going off here too, but she didn’t think it was the same one. She wandered over to where Louise was making instant coffee from a tiny fun-sized jar. That was one of the disadvantages of her new flatmate; she wasn’t quite the coffee purist Katie had learned to be – another important London skill. She picked up the jar.
‘How on earth could this jar of coffee cost £2.39? It’s scaled for a family of mice.’
‘It was late,’ said Louise. ‘It was all I could get from the corner shop.’
K
atie looked at the massive patch of damp over the kitchen wall. ‘You know, I can’t fix that patch of damp because every ten minutes someone new moves in next door and they won’t share the cost so nobody knows what to do.’
‘And you’re lazy and disorganised,’ said Louise. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I don’t know…I think maybe London is driving me nuts.’
‘Just because of one lousy mugger? And one crappy date? What about all the fantastic museums and parks we never go to?’
‘OK, but that was just tonight. But London…it’s so full of show-offs and loudmouths.’
‘But we like those kinds of people.’
‘I know – maybe that’s the problem,’ said Katie. She stared at the damp patch and tried again. ‘It’s just…everyone always wants to know what your job is. Why is that?’
‘Because when you meet a lot of new people, you have to ask them something?’ said Louise. ‘If you live in a small village you don’t need to say anything at all. Everybody already knows how overdue your library books are and how much money you make and whether or not your husband’s having an affair with the goat from the next village. And whether so and so’s daughter cheeked Mr Beadle at the bus stop. And who threw away the advertising leaflets in the big hedge.’
‘You really hated Hertfordshire, didn’t you Lou?’ said Katie sympathetically, patting her knee.
‘Well, London is what it is. I mean, so there’s the rain and the buses and the clubs you can’t get into and the Congestion Charge and the snotty shops and the way everything is always fifteen miles away and takes for ever and the way no one from the north, south-east or west ever sees anyone from anywhere except those places and despises the people that come from anywhere else. It’s obsessed with trainers, cocktails, guest lists and whatever the fucking Evening Standard tells them to be obsessed with.’