“No, she won’t,” he retorts. “I told them she was coming and they’ve put it aside. Because I’m thoughtful like that.”
“But honestly, Ant.” Flora sounds exasperated. “Why didn’t you just get her stuff?”
“Because I’m out of cash, OK?” He glares at her.
Oh God. Now they’re going to start fighting about my lunch.
“It’s fine!” I say brightly. “No problem! Thanks so much for keeping my place in the queue, Ant!”
But as I head to the checkout, I feel mounting dread. I thought Ant was buying us all lunch. I never would have come in here otherwise. I would have made an excuse and left. I’ve even got a tuna sandwich in my bag, all wrapped up in cling film.
It might not be that much, I tell myself as I approach the checkout. Don’t overreact. It might be OK.
The girl at the checkout is waiting for me and beams as she places my tray carefully in front of the till.
“So that’s the muffin…the salad…”
She rings up each item, and I try to look relaxed. Like a cool, rich Notting Hill girl. Not someone who’s holding her breath and making frantic calculations as each item is added. It’s got to be fifteen…eighteen…twenty quid, maybe?
“So, your total is thirty-four pounds, eighty-five.” She smiles at me and I stare back, dazed. It’s far, far worse than I imagined. Thirty-five pounds? For snacks? That’s a week’s supermarket shopping.
I can’t.
I just can’t do it. I can’t spend thirty-five quid on a few little bits. Not after the laptop disaster. I have to leave. I’ll text Flora and tell her I suddenly felt ill. She’s totally engrossed in Ant, anyway; it won’t matter.
“Actually, I’ve had a change of plan,” I say awkwardly. “I can’t stay for lunch. Sorry.”
“You don’t want any of this?” The girl looks taken aback.
“Um, no. Sorry. I feel a bit ill, I have to go….”
With shaking legs I head for the exit, take my coat from its hook, and push the door open. I don’t look back. If Flora asks, I’ll say I didn’t want to pass on any germs to her. I mean, it’ll sound lame. But lame is better than broke.
The cold air hits me sharply as I step out of the café, and I shove my hands in my pockets. Well, that’s it, then. I’d better head home. And just for an instant I want to cry. I want to sit on the pavement and bury my face in my arms. I can’t afford this life; I can’t be these people. I don’t have a mother saying, Darling, here’s a hundred quid.
Or a mother.
I know I must have sunk very low, because this isn’t a thought I let myself have. Much. Tears have actually started shimmering at my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. Come on, Katie. Don’t be wet. I’ve probably just got low blood sugar. I’ll eat my sandwich; that’ll make me feel better.
I send a quick text to Flora: Not feeling good, had to go, sorry, enjoy lunch xxx Then I find an unobtrusive spot on the pavement, crouch down, and get out my cling-filmed sandwich. It doesn’t look as appealing as the pumpkin muffin, but it’ll taste better than it looks, and in any case—
“Cat?” My head jerks up so sharply, I nearly crick my neck. Flora is standing three feet away, staring down at me in astonishment, holding a cupcake.
“Flora?” I manage. “Didn’t you get my text?”
“What text?” she demands, looking upset. “What happened? Why did you leave? I saw you go. You didn’t even say goodbye!”
“Ill,” I say, in croaky tones. “Suddenly ill. Sick,” I add for good measure, and pull a tissue out of my pocket. I retch into it, turning away as though for politeness’s sake.
“Oh my God,” says Flora, sounding shocked.
“It’s a bug. Don’t come near.”
“But you were fine a minute ago!” Her eyes are wide. “Should I get you…a doctor? A taxi?”
“No!” I cry, sounding like a scalded cat. “No taxis. I need…fresh air. I need to walk. I’ll walk. You go back and have lunch.”
“Why are you holding a sandwich?” Flora’s gaze drops curiously to my hand.
Shit.
“It…um…” I can feel my face flaming. “Someone gave it to me. Someone thought I looked unwell, so they gave me a sandwich.”
“A stranger?” Flora looks perplexed.
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“They said…” My mind scrabbles around. “ ‘You don’t look well. Here’s a sandwich.’ ”
“They just gave you a sandwich?” Flora seems even more flabbergasted. “But why?”
“I think it was a…a political thing?” I hazard desperately. “Anti-austerity sandwiches or something? I’ll have it later, when I’m feeling better—”
“No, you won’t!” Flora grabs it out of my hand, looking horrified. “You can’t trust some random sandwich from a stranger! Especially if you’re ill!” She throws it in a litter bin and I try to hide my dismay. That was my lunch. And now it’s in the bin.
“They gave us these freebies.” She holds out the cupcake sorrowfully. “But if you’re feeling sick, you won’t want one, will you?”
I’ve read rapturous descriptions of Butterfly Bakery cupcakes. This one is an exquisite chocolate creation, with swirly marbled icing. My stomach is growling at the sight.
“You’re right,” I force myself to say. “Just seeing it makes me feel…you know. Ill. Yuck,” I add. “Urgh.”
“Such a shame.” Flora takes a bite. “God, that’s yummy. Well, you look after yourself. You’re sure I can’t get you a taxi?”
“No, you go.” I make a batting motion. “Go back to Ant. Please. Just go.”
“Well, OK. See you on Monday.”
Shooting me a last, uncertain look, Flora blows me a kiss, then disappears. When I’m sure she’s gone, I slowly rise from my crouched position. I’m gazing fixedly at my sandwich. Yes, it’s in a street bin. Which is gross. Unspeakable. But it’s still fully wrapped in cling film. So…in theory…
No, Katie.
I’m not getting my lunch back out of the bin. I’m not sinking that low.
But it’s wrapped up. It’s fine.
No.
But why shouldn’t I?
Without quite meaning to, I’m edging toward the bin. No one’s even looking.
“I’ll just take a picture of this bin for my blog on food wastage,” I say in loud, self-conscious tones. I take a photo of the bin and move still closer. “Wow, an untouched sandwich. So…I’ll just take a photo of this sandwich for my research about how food wastage is a real problem these days.”
Flushing slightly, I pick the sandwich out of the rubbish and take a photo of it. A little girl, aged about five, is watching me, and she pulls at the sleeve of a pale-pink cashmere coat.
“Mummy, that lady gets her food from the bin,” she says in high-pitched tones.
“It’s for my blog on food wastage,” I say hastily.
“She took that sandwich out of the bin,” says the girl, ignoring me. “The bin, Mummy.” She tugs at her mother’s arm, looking distressed. “We must give her some money. Mummy, the poor lady needs money.” Finally her mother looks up and shoots me a distracted glance.
“There’s a hostel a few streets away, you know,” she says disapprovingly. “You should get help, not harass people for money.”
Seriously?
“I’m not harassing people!” I erupt with indignation. “I don’t want your bloody money! And it’s my sandwich! I made it, OK? With my own ingredients.” Tears have started to my eyes, which is all I need. I grab the sandwich and stuff it into my bag with trembling hands. And I’m just starting to stride off when I feel a hand on my arm.