“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.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I was insensitive. You’re a nice-looking girl.” The pink-cashmere woman runs her eye up and down my shabby Topshop coat. “I don’t know why you’re on the streets or what your story might be…but you should have hope. Everyone deserves hope. So, here. Happy Christmas.” She produces a fifty-pound note and offers it to me.
“Oh God,” I say in horror. “No. You don’t under—”
“Please.” The woman suddenly sounds fervent. “Let me do this for you. At Christmastime.”
She tucks the note into my hand, and I can see the little girl’s eyes shining with pride at her generous mummy. Clearly both of them are carried away with the romance of helping out a homeless stranger.
OK, this is the most excruciating moment of my life. There’s no point explaining the truth to this woman; it’ll be too mortifying for both of us. And, by the way, I know my hair isn’t blow-dried or anything and I know my shoes need re-heeling—but do I really look to her like someone who lives on the streets? Are my clothes that terrible compared to the average Notting Hill outfit?