Closed the door. Kept on walking.
A text came through a minute later:
Am just filling up with petrol if you still want a lift come back and meet me.
I didn’t reply. He rang. Did I want a lift? he asked. “Yes, if you can act like a normal person,” I said. I described the direction I was going, said if he wanted to drive me, he could pick me up. He rang again a minute later. Said he was at the end of the road now and didn’t see me. I said it was because I was still walking. Hung up. He rang again, asked where I was. Described the road I was on, the building I had just passed, the route I was taking. Hung up.
He sent another text:
This is really stupid, I’m just 10 meters behind u the whole way. And as per usual, is exactly what I knew would happen.
A minute later, his car came up on my right. I stopped walking. He reached across and opened the passenger side door.
“I just got your text,” I said.
“And?” he said.
“Goodbye.” I shut the door firmly and walked on. His car lingered a minute until someone beeped a horn, and he drove up to the next roundabout and disappeared. And that was it. Put on headphones. The next song was about someone walking out the door, and I felt good, and smiled so hard it brought tears to my eyes. mercredi, le 16 juin
Had a call late last night. Not work-A1 was having some sort of crisis and his woman was nowhere to be found. He left four missed calls and a garbled message. When I tried to ring, it went straight through to the answerphone. Boys. It was late, but I put myself at the mercy of the London Underground and went to his.
The tube route between my place and A1’s involves two changes. And I worry that time of night about missing the last train and being stuck in Earl’s Court with a Metrocard and distinct lack of clue.
The tube is, by far, the most antisocial mode of transport yet invented. On the bus, you can shield others from your germs by sneezing into the back of their heads. On the tube, you are forced to share breathing space with every phlegmy disease vector from here to Uxbridge. And in spite of being nose-to-armpit with complete strangers and mingling more viruses than a Crichton novel, you are Not Allowed to Stare.
In normal circumstances this would not be hard. City dwellers are masters of the Appraisal Glance, in which a person is sized up and dismissed in the split second they come into view. But when you’re trapped in a hurtling canister on a bumpy track to Dollis Hill, the eyes literally have nowhere to go. You have to stare. But you’re not allowed to. This is why paperbacks are so popular; it gives you a shield to hide behind as well as an excuse to not hold on to the rail and stumble over the snowdrift of Metro s cluttering the aisle.
Waiting for a District Line train, I was aware of someone looking at me. I pretended to check my watch and look up and down the track. Some youngish man, wearing a suit. Probably just idly checking out everyone on the platform. Fair enough. I needed a shower and some sleep and probably didn’t merit a second glance.
The train arrived. I sat down. The man sat opposite me. Was that another look? No. Ignore it. I looked at his hand. It was a fine, well-shaped hand. Very attractive. I rested my forehead on a side handrail.
In peripheral vision I could see him looking me over a couple more times. Definitely more than necessary. But he didn’t seem predatory. Probably just wondering why I’m out, as I do with people all the time. Probably drunk. Who rides the tube in a suit this time of night sober?
I looked up. His blue eyes were staring at me. Cool as. I couldn’t help myself and grinned like a loon. He didn’t crack a smile. We both looked away quickly.
Argh, I thought. Giddy moron. But I can’t help it; if someone looks at me and I’m not expecting it, I smile. I must have seemed a complete idiot.
Two stops. His head turned back toward me. I looked at him. Smiled. Stuck out my tongue.
And he laughed. Looked away again.
Right. Two more stops. Both looking obviously in other directions. Quite obscene eye-avoidance, actually. My stop was approaching. I stretched. I could see him glance at me but refused to meet his gaze. What was he going to do? I could wave as I stepped off. I could say something.
I stood up. The train slid into the station. The doors opened. Go on, at least nod, I thought. Then: follow me off, follow me off. I stepped onto the platform. No, wait, don’t. He didn’t. Just some drunk lad in a suit, going home. The train moved into the night.
(A1 was fine, by the way. A bit tired and emotional is all. By which I mean drunk.) samedi, le 19 juin
Was standing with a female friend, C, at the bar of a club. N was meant to be meeting us later, but had texted to say he would be late. We stood at the bar with our drinks, cooly avoiding eye contact and in complete denial of the terrible, cheesy music the DJ was pumping out.
A man careened in our direction. “Say, ladies,” he said, and I thought, Isn’t it a bit early for someone to be this drunk? “It’s my friend’s birthday, like, and he’s just standing over there-” and he pointed into a crowd of disorganized faces.
C was already putting her polite-smile mask on. Wasn’t it obvious we were not waiting to be chatted up?
But chatting up was not what the young squire had in mind. “And he was wondering, would you two show him your tits?”
C’s mask didn’t crack. “Sorry, no,” she smiled politely, turning back to her cocktail. I smirked.
“You sure, ladies? It is his birthday and all.”
“No,” I said less politely, and turned away. C and I ordered more drinks. N was being very tardy. We tried to have a conversation over the music, which was much louder now, but could not, and ended up just smiling vaguely at each other. C toyed with the furry fringes of her exceptionally tactile sweater.
Two more men lurched in our direction. We only half-turned to acknowledge them. It was the same young man again, and another. “Hi, ladies,” the second man said. It occurred to me that men only call women ladies in a mockery of chivalry. “It’s my birthday tonight, and I was wondering, would you two please show me your tits?”
Well. At least he said “please.” C’s mask was impenetrable. “No.”
“No,” I echoed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling a look of false pleading.
Does this ever work? I wondered. He didn’t even offer money, for goodness’ sake. So women are expected to act like whores for free, and this is considered being a good sport, while actual prostitutes are objects of mockery and revulsion. You have to wonder.
“No,” a voice behind the boys said, and it was N, a head taller than either of them. The boys scarpered.
N gave me and C a lift. She’s young, almost a teenager, really. Actually, she’s in her mid-twenties but acts eighteen. In the nice sort of way.
We were talking about marriage. She was curious about N’s situation, why he’s still single. She asked if I wanted to marry and have children someday. I said no. She said she didn’t, either.
“Oh, you’ll cave,” N said to her. “You’ll find the right man and it will just happen.”
She bristled but didn’t argue with him. “So what do you think about my future, then?” I asked N. “Spinsterhood?”
He looked at the road. He was being careful with his words. “I think you’ve chosen your own path and don’t want anyone to interfere with that,” he said. “You value your freedom above everything else. So yes, I think that’s what you will have if you want it. I’m not saying you’ll never change your mind, but it would take a remarkable man, and I think you’ll want to be single for a long time still.” dimanche, le 20 juin
I was flopped on my bed, reading. The phone buzzed. Dr. C.
“Top of the road, you said?”
“Bottom of the road.” Actually, I’m never quite sure which is which, but if he didn’t see the number, he was probably at the wrong end.