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.
“Here!” She hands me a glass and I devour it hungrily. My own breakfast was a cup of tea and oats with milk: total cost about 30p. Then Flora grabs a paper bag full of croissants and ushers me out again. “Come on. Help me get dressed.”
Her room is at the top of the house and has its own bathroom and dressing room. The wallpaper is a sheeny silver design of birds, and there are Diptyque candles everywhere and built-in cupboards and an antique desk. Everywhere you look, there’s something gorgeous. But Flora doesn’t even seem to notice her surroundings—she’s pulling jeans out of her wardrobe and cursing because she can’t find the ones she wants.