HOW TO FIGHT LONELINESS

HOW
TO
FIGHT
LONELINESS
By Falcon B. Mews
aberrant architecture
First attempt: Wayne Rooney. Second attempt: Steven Gerrard. Third
attempt: Andy Townsend. In his bedroom cupboard mirror Jayʼs fourth attempt
looked like a Jamie Redknapp. Progress of sorts, but thirty minutes ago, when
he first started out on his quest to fasten a respectable knot in his tie, he
definitely wasnʼt aiming for premiership football status. Unless of course, his
cub-scout efforts fumbled upon David Beckhamʼs exact knot-to-collar ratio:
discrete, stylish, slender, showing total disregard for oversized sporting
heritage, Becks must have had private tuition, a clip-on, or maybe his wife tied
it for him. Who was he to judge, Jay frowned, undoing his stubborn knot for a
fourth time? His fifth attempt: another Andy Townsend, a step-backwards. It
was hopeless, he was hopeless, a grown man teased by the momentary
anticipation which came every time he threaded the big tail through the loop
lassoed around his neck and pulled it towards the floorboards. Keep cool, he
told himself, try again. Right over left, around the back, around again and
bring up through the neck. Pull through the loop to form the knot and tighten.
Number six had to be his final attempt. Jay had to be happy with a halfRooney. Otherwise, he risked being late for his meeting.
Combined with his new-ish rain-cloud-grey suit, and an M&S white
shirt, Jay counted on his new racing green tie to help him stand out. Not
everyone can wear green, or so they told him in the columns of the magazines
She used to subscribe to. According to the last issue he had read, consulting
first - as he always liked to do - the thermometer of whatʼs hot, whatʼs in, and
whatʼs up for that month, versus the out-of-favour, the down-and-out, and the
ʻso last seasonʼ, green looked set to be the ʻinʼ colour of the summer, ʻin a big
wayʼ. As a base-camp level adventurer, Jay settled on a tie to begin with. By
gradually phasing the colour in, he figured heʼd gage the stares of the tattooed
man on the Clapham omnibus before shelling out £19.99 for the peeledcucumber jeans from H&M.
He missed Her glossy magazines. He missed their direction. He
missed their insider tips. Even if the articles, the promotions, the
How
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advertisements, and the odd free gift did aggressively target women, at a
minimum, he missed having something to flick through on the toilet, or with a
cup of tea. Now they were gone, from his life at least. She used to buy them
like She used to date him. Now She continued to buy them whilst She had
stopped dating him. It was he who had become ʻusedʼ, he who had become
past tense, he whose subscription had not been renewed. ʻTop Ten Tips For
Looking Hot This Summerʼ. ʻTake Our All New Dating Quizʼ. ʻHow To Tell If
YOUR Man Is Cheating on YOUʼ. Who wants to read about that shit anyway?
He knew that stupid article in the February issue of Fashionista, the ʻSpring
Cleaningʼ edition, was responsible for originating the fresh start, the clean
break, and the ʻitʼs not me, itʼs youʼ platitudes She peppered Her speech with
in the kitchen of Her Docklands flat five minutes after he had come around wearing the grey suit - to take Her out for a kiss-and-make-up dinner. She
had her reasons. She claimed they were valid reasons.
Six months old, the grey suit had been his last Christmas present from
Her. Also his first, but Jay preferred to be sentimental. At Her request, the
first time he had put on the skinny-fit trousers, hemmed to the length of his
own inside leg, the jacket, brought into his waist in accession to the pins the
failed acupuncturist had stabbed him with in the store - an extra thirty quid for
personal tailoring, fifteen per item - and a different M&S white shirt, no tie,
ʻGreyʼ instantly became his best suit. She said he looked handsome. She said
Grey suited his wintery-blonde hair and pale grey-blue eyes, and the fitted
lines complimented his recently toned figure. Lacking a tan, Jay had read
another article in Fashionista that said he should be wary of too many light
colours washing out his complexion. However, She was adamant a bright tie
would bring the combination to life. His former first choice, now his second
best suit, his only other suit, the plain black one, had so far spent the whole of
2009 hanging up in his cupboard, unused and unloved, finitely zipped up like
a war casualty in a body bag, if, due to a run on resources, the makeshift body
bag had to be a humiliating three quid suit carrier picked out of the Argos
catalogue. Again, she was right, he needed to update. Blacky was his fat suit.
Blacky had been his university suit. Better than any old photograph, Blacky,
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34” waist, 32” leg, 40” chest, a panic purchase from Moss Bros., reminded Jay
how as a fresher he had thrown his full body weight behind drinking the extra
14 pounds.
Five years sounded like a good run to him, particularly when for the last
four he could easily have been accused of wearing his fatherʼs suit. Other
men might have cast similarly ill-fitting clothing aside. Not Jay. He had flogged
Blacky to within an inch of the trousers falling down. Confident of most
obituary writers finding enough sartorial meat to write half a tabloid page on
Blackyʼs eventful life, of the many highlights, Jay picked out the funeral of his
great uncle, the wedding of his cousin, and his graduation (ignoring the long
gown and blue sash he was obliged to wear over the top). Getting him a job in
August last year felt like an appropriate swansong. At the end of the obituary,
the summary paragraph would come down on the side of ʻa good runʼ, just as
Jay had done, before it then went on to mention Blacky being survived by one
offspring, Grey, six-months old.
Putting on Greyʼs trousers, 30” by 32”, younger, fitter, slimmer, sitting
on his hips without the need for a belt bored with a new hole through the
leather, and the jacket, 36” chest, with cuffs stopping at his wrists not his
thumbnails, Jay immediately moved around his bedroom with greater
confidence. Today, he had no time for compassion. He looked good. Picking
up his man-bag in the hallway, Jay pirouetted out of his front door and
thudded two at a time down the one flight of carpeted stairs. Shutting the main
door with a bang, he clip-clopped his heels the three steps along the flagstoned front ʻgardenʼ and hopped over the partially sunken railway sleeper,
which propped up the sloping front gate. Trumpeting his arrival onto the
pavement with unrecognisable bonhomie, Jay felt good. Pity there were no
other people around to witness him stepping out.
Walking down his residential East London street lined with four-and-ahalf storey terrace houses on either side, a Bertha Mason attic up top,
bumper-to-bumper cars in residents only parking spaces, and the occasional
stab at growing emaciated trees in metre-squared roadside patches of
cigarette-butt soil, the sun shined behind the shadow of imposing cricket
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stump council housing, the birds croaked lead vocals to the background hum
generated by the traffic roaring along Roman Road - twenty family saloons
and a white van away, and the wafts of indistinguishable curry spices began a
daily battle to overpower the air, reassuring Jay that today the world meant to
behave itself. Following the gentle slope of the street, Jay turned right onto
Roman Road, passing a row of shops selling own-brand southern fried
chicken, unlocking phones, and a laundrette promising one-hour dry cleaning,
He hurried along the forecourt of the fire station in the direction of Bethnal
Green tube station pleased that his trousers sat on the tops of his shoes
without kicking out like flares, his unfastened jacket didnʼt blow out like a
parachute to hinder his enthusiastic progress against the light breeze, and
together, the faultless lines of his jacket and trousers - unblemished by his
wallet and phone secreted in his bag - cast an encouraging silhouette in each
car window he glanced into on his way past. Todayʼs meeting would be his big
chance, Jay felt sure of it.
§
During all of their previous meetings with LSD, five in total, every
Tuesday morning for the last month and a half, Mr Gupta had taken the lead,
asking all the questions, providing all the answers, facilitating the on-going
day-to-day transactions, while Jay acted more of an observer, standing back,
feeling his way around, building in confidence, and slowly working his way up
to actually speaking. The way he saw it, he shouldnʼt jump in straight away,
blurt out the first thing that came to mind, and risk coming across too ʻin your
faceʼ. Soft toes. But this morning he had decided to say something. He had to
be bold. He had to take a risk. He had to get his name out there or he would
never get anywhere in life. It was all about confidence. Provided he sounded
confident, it didnʼt matter about the content. Once he started speaking, he felt
sure the rest would follow. An opening line, thatʼs all he needed, thatʼs all
anyone needed. The key to unlocking the secret to human interaction rests
squarely upon an opening line. Standing in front of the mirror all day
yesterday, trying out lines, putting on his suit, practising his knot, taking off his
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suit, and walking around his flat wearing in his new pointy black winkle
pickers, Jay could tell himself he could do nothing more. The rest he had to
entrust to fate.
“Hey Satch” Jay said over the jingle of the cow-bell signalling his
entrance into Gupta & Sons Newsagents, Off-Licence, authorised Oyster card
merchants and stockists of South African speciality food produce. The
newsagents shared its location directly in front of the south-side subway
entrance to Bethnal Green tube station with immigration solicitors and a
clothier running a far more successful sideline in multicoloured saris. Initially
drawn in by the intrigue of a cruel and misleading large blue sticker, which
dominated the glass shop-front window: ʻthis is a PORN FREE newsagentsʼ,
his subsequent disappointment had not prevented Jay from becoming a
frequent, if rarely spendthrift, visitor to Gupta & Sons during his two years
living in the area.
“Hey Jason, how is my favourite customer doing this morning?”
Cursing the name printed with complete disregard for his privacy on the
front of his NatWest debit card, Jay had given up on being called Jay by the
nephew of the ʻSonʼ in Gupta & Sons. The latest Mr Gupta, a thirty-five year
old, unmarried, dual-passport holding British-Hindu, recalled from starting up a
dating website and vodka importation business in India after his uncleʼs stroke
to become the new owner, manager, shelf-stacker and Saturday morning
work experience girl, Satch did all four jobs in the shop without ever taking a
single day off. After the funeral last year, Jay didnʼt have the heart to tell him
he should change the sign as well.
Unashamedly erudite and forever flicking a wavy black fringe out of his
eyes, Satch was always immaculately turned out in an everyday wardrobe of
light cotton trousers, deck shoes, buttoned-down shirts and his signature
bright-coloured V-neck jumpers he draped over his shoulders like an allweather cape. Jay swore he recognised the outfits from the leaflets and flyers
that fell out of his Sunday papers, selling cotton-based summer clothing ʻas
worn by the quintessential English gentlemanʼ. Height appeared to be Satchʼs
one shortcoming. Rounded up to five foot three, Jay knew enough about his
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friendly local shopkeeper never to make it a point of conversation, but soon
after the previous Mr Guptaʼs death - no Goliath himself - he noticed the new
owner had raised the floor behind the counter a few inches so at the very least
he could be seen over the till.
“Good, good. How about you?” Jay replied. “Has she been in yet?” he
went on without waiting for Satch to respond to his first question.
“No, not yet, hold your horses. First things first, you must explain this
fine looking suit - very much the dapper English gent.”
“Thanks.” Jay said dismissively. “It was a present from the ex. Iʼve got
a meeting later.”
“Oh, I see,” Satch replied, nodding his head sympathetically. “I thought
you told me you were an architect?”
“I did. I am. I mean, I do. I am an architect, thatʼs right.”
“But I thought you told me you guys donʼt have to wear suits? I donʼt
think Iʼve ever seen you wearing a suit, in all the time weʼve known each
other.”
“Did I say that?” Jay frowned. “I donʼt remember. Anyway, youʼre right, I
donʼt, not usually anyway. Only for special occasions.”
“But I thought you worked from home?”
“I do,” Jay replied curtly, unsure of what Satch was getting at.
Satch tipped a clawed hand back and forth in front of his mouth already
amused by his own intimation. ““So be honest with me, youʼre in court later
arenʼt you?” What did you do hey, get a little drunk with your friends on the
weekend?” Jay opened his mouth to respond.
“Hold it!” Satch cut in, extending his hand like an overly zealous lollipop
man.
ʻHold what?ʼ Jay wondered. He wasnʼt about to cross the road. Frozen
bug-eyed with his back to the doorway, Jay waited for the shopkeeper to roll
up a copy of The Times to kill a deadly house spider climbing over the
chewing gum rack. Instead, Satch stood on tiptoes gripping each side of the
till for extra leverage and craned his neck over Jayʼs shoulder.
“Shit, LSDʼs coming,” Satch said. “Quick, do something, hide!”
7
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Mews
Panicked into action by frantic instructions - and Satchʼs inexplicable
disappearance under the counter - Jay kept his back to the doorway and
shuffled to his right-hand side, blocking the fridge full of cans of Coca-Cola, Dr
Pepper, and Sprite, and bottles of normal Lucozade, Lucozade Orange and
the new lemon flavour, which he kept meaning to try. Hopefully LSD didnʼt
need a drink, or any sweets. Standing in front of the amphitheatre of chocolate
bars, Jay began performing like he imagined an everyday customer would do,
hovering his pointed right index finger over the top row of Snickers, Twixs, KitKats and Mars Bars. He had no intention of buying anything. He rarely ate
breakfast before midday, let alone chocolate bars, but he had to look busy. He
had to look like he wanted to buy something. Otherwise, what reason did he
have to be in the shop?
Satch sprung up from behind the counter. “Good morning. How do you
do? Howʼs my favourite customer this morning?” Already envying Satch his
myriad opportunities to meet new people, Jay shook his head at his fairweather friendʼs shameless pragmatism.
“Hi, good morning. Fifteen pounds please.” LSD sounded blasé;
relaxed; unaffected, completely at ease with Satchʼs ludicrously over the top
reception. It might be her accent, Jay thought. On women, Welsh accents
always did if for him. The resilient chirpiness reminded him of home. On men,
he could take it or leave it, unless the accent was particularly thick, and on TV,
then it became slightly embarrassing.
Daring to glance to his left, Jay watched LSD hand over a debit card
and an Oyster card with the familiarity of a regular customer. He had to accept
that only he felt on edge. Only he was third wheeling a one-to-one commercial
transaction. Only he lurked in the corner of a shop not big enough to lurk in,
whilst doing a poor impression of an indecisive person trying to buy a
chocolate bar. Consistently pretending not to notice him, a laudable
impression Jay formally attributed to nerves, shyness, even playing hard to
get, the conduct of LSDʼs assured, professional and strictly over-the-counter
dealings with Satch invited Jay to rethink his interpretation of the ʻsignsʼ.
Perhaps her impression of indifference could be the real thing, he conceded,
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genuine lack of interest rather than run-of-the-mill feminine aloofness. Having
never spoken to LSD before, she was making it difficult for him to be certain,
either way.
But to look at, Jay knew LSD really well – in profile. He knew how LSD
liked to tuck her dark brown hair behind her right ear when she wanted to
concentrate. He knew her confused expression when she raised her eyebrow,
rippling tramlines across the side of her forehead. He knew her long lashes
blinked faster than his. He knew the subtle curve of half her nose, the mole on
her neck, and the dimple on her cheek when she giggled and shook her head
each time Satch handed over the chip-and-pin machine and asked if she
wanted any of her cash back. As long as she kept laughing, Jay knew Satch
would keep repeating his ʻjokeʼ. During braver frontier times, four weeks ago,
driving west in search of a connection, Jay had excused himself to lift a
newspaper off the counter, getting close enough to LSD to notice her dilated
pupil in her dark brown, almost wholly black right eye, which probably meant
she needed glasses.
On the occasion of their first meeting, six weeks ago, Jay had been
stood at the counter saying his goodbyes to Satch and tucking a newspaper
under his arm when she first came into the shop and stood to his right-hand
side, the only time Jay let this happen, for he considered the left-hand side of
his face to be superior to his right. Checking back to the minutes of that first
meeting, he knew she had an equally beautiful left eye, another charming
dimple, a similarly well-sculpted eyebrow, and more hair on the other side of
her head. Only the mole on her next was unique to the right side view of her
head. When Jay collected his paper the following day - at approximately the
same time he remembered venturing out the day before – LSD never
materialised, but he did find out her name, kind of. Satch said he didnʼt know
her first name, but her debit card said it began with an L, and her middle name
began with an S. Her surname Satch did know: ʻDoonʼ. In spite of her spiteful
bank paying greater regard to customer privacy than his own, her plastic also
revealed to Satch, and then to Jay, that LSD remained a Miss. Miss Doon.
Miss L S Doon. Miss LSD. LSD quickly became their code word for her.
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Hardly much of a test for the boffins at Bletchley Park, nor did it prove prudent
to drop into everyday shoptalk, but regardless of its negative side effects, LSD
caught on. LSD, Jay learned from Satch, came into the shop every Tuesday to
top up her Oyster card. Unfortunately, without a first name to go on, Jay knew
it would be difficult to find her on Facebook.
§
For their fifth meeting, on the fifth Tuesday, the second business day of
last week, Jay arrived late and met LSDʼs smile on the way out of the shop.
He was instantly relieved to see that half of her nose, her one eye, her one
dimple and her one brow on the right-hand side of her face, when matched
together with the corresponding features on her left, worked together as a
team as pleasingly as they did on their own. But almost as suddenly, he
realised the same reconstituted face was leading the rest of her body away
from him and towards the red and blue of the London Underground sign.
Prompted to forgo his newspaper, Jay flapped the briefest hello and goodbye
to Satch and followed in LSDʼs footsteps, striding across the pavement,
leaping down the steps of the subway, marching into the tube station, digging
his wallet out of his back pocket, slamming the black leather against the
yellow pad, jumping through the opening gates, like he always did never
trusting them to stay open long enough, ricocheting down the second set of
steps, and pushing his way onto the overcrowded westbound platform of the
Central Line. Unable to give her up, Jay had to get closer, nudging past
increasingly aggravated, hot-looking commuters huffing disapproval for the
delay, for the crowds, for the forty-eight hour heat wave, and now for him
elbowing past them. But he couldnʼt let himself get too close. Standing at the
back of a team of bodies scrummaging behind a front row of professional
commuters - who had long ago worked out where the train doors opened on
the platform, Jay could see her stood in the midst of a similar scrum taking off
her suit-jacket to keep cool. Drawing on his recent experience, the suit looked
expensive. The matching dark blue pin stripe skirt halting three fingers above
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the knee - suggestive but not slutty - followed the curve of her small behind
and cut in at the tops of her thighs. A fitted white blouse fitted around a
promising bosom. Jay had no comment on her height, neither short enough to
stare, nor tall enough to take a picture on his camera phone. But the suit, the
hair, the train, they all pointed towards a job in the City. He looked down to her
shoes, the one missing piece of the jigsaw. He prepared himself for the
disappointment of a pair of white, frumpy, commuter running trainers. Phew,
he thought, high heels. A sensible height, okay, she has to be safe, but high
heels all the same, so she must be important. She doesnʼt have time to
change. She doesnʼt even have the time to slip off a pair of ballet pumps. Talk
about hardcore!
Squeezing into the middle of the train, Jay kept an eye on the top of her
head. Vying with dangling arms and armpits, the accidental look-away
stranger eye-contact, and the substrata of sea-sick bodies cast adrift by
discriminately ergonomic ceiling hand rails, Jayʼs body bumped and bobbed
around the carriage, but his eyes remained fixed on LSD. Without a free paper
to read, or a shoulder to read over, or any space to do anything other than
stand upright like a Queenʼs guard waiting to ask Her Majesty a question, he
tried to guess at what type of job she did in the City. She looked too smart,
she dressed too well, and she was too feminine to be a banker. Perhaps she
was a lawyer or a management consultant, he thought. As the train pulled into
the next stop, Liverpool Street Station, Jay realised he had run out of other
jobs he knew people did in the City.
When the doors opened, the top of her head made a push for the exit.
Alighting onto the crowded platform, Jay was quite unprepared for the speed
of her step-aerobics up the escalators and her bar-queue slalom through the
bottleneck gates. Pushing legitimate commuters out of the way, he finally lost
sight of her as she stepped up to the main concourse and turned right towards
Upper Crust. Pausing beside the fruit-sellers inside the station to speculate on
where exactly she might be headed, Jay was jostled by the price of
indecipherable fruit on his one side of him and the shoulder barges and
throwaway abuse from harried commuters on his other side. Imagining her
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without her clothes, the smart suit, the fitted blouse, the serious heels, he felt
certain she didnʼt work in Upper Crust, selling baguettes, French mustard and
jambon to East Anglian day-trippers. Neither did she suit selling tampons,
after sun, and a rival sandwich-based meal deal from Boots, nor ties, more
ties, and in winter, maybe some gloves, from the Tie Rack. Jay systematically
ruled out WHSmiths, M&S, and The Body Shop. In fact, LSD didnʼt fit in with
any of the concessions in Liverpool Street Station. She worked in the City
proper, he was sure of it, but where? Not to worry, he decided, turning around
to head for the eastbound platform of the Central line, there was always next
Tuesday. Or tomorrow. By not knowing the exact nature of her employment,
Jay had inadvertently saved some excitement for later in the week. It would
give him the excuse to get dressed in the morning.
On the tube ride home, Jay wondered what LSD did for the other four
days of the week. Remembering her figure on the platform in Bethnal Green
station, she might get up early to go to gym. Except the suit told him she
arrives extra early at the office to finish turning around the document her boss
needs to look at before the Helsinki drafting meeting on Friday. Jay had
overheard someone else say it on the train; it sounded plausible.
§
Today - lucky number six - Jay intended this meeting turned out better
than his tie-knot he looked down upon. Or he had intended the meeting to turn
out better than the previous five, right up until the point when LSD walked into
the shop and caused him to freeze up, once again. Holding a Kit Kat in his
hand, his quickly revised plan involved breaking into Satchʼs one-sided
conversation to find out the price he had just peeled off the wrapper. But
before he could brave a word, he found himself charging out of Gupta & Sons
in hot pursuit of LSD - for the second time in seven days.
Enjoying the benefits of last weekʼs practice run, Jay caught up with her
at the bottom of the first flight of steps. Deciding to bide his time, he knew he
would get his big (second) chance when she paused at the gates. What would
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he say? ʻExcuse me, I think you might have dropped this?ʼ What might she
have dropped, he asked himself, looking around the floor of the station for a
helpful prop? Discarded one-day travel cards? She wonʼt be interested in
them, she isnʼt homeless, she has an Oyster card, sheʼs a fully paid up
member of the Transport for London community. Jay looked in his hands. A
four finger Kit-Kat in bright red packaging looked back at him. Great, he
thought, petty larceny as well as casual stalking. Fuck it, the Kit-Kat could
work. Girls love chocolate. Besides, Jay only needed the Kit-Kat for his
opening line. After that, she could throw it away. Would it really be that rude,
he wondered? He wasnʼt about to accuse her of dropping a Yorkie or a kingsized Snickers. Kit-Kats are light. Kit-Kats can be shared with friends. Kit-Kats
are the nationʼs favourite. Jay missed his chance to find out. Already holding
her TfL wallet in hand, LSD skipped through the gates whilst he scrambled to
find his wallet he had hitherto cleverly stored away in his man-bag to protect
his lines. The more furious he searched the more accomplished the wallet
became at hide and seek. The bag didnʼt have any secret compartments did
it? Got it. Itʼs fine. Donʼt panic. You can still catch her on the other side of the
gates, or down on the platform, or in the carriage of the train. The chocolate
bar still has a chance. ʻSEEK ASSISTANCEʼ. Again. ʻSEEK ASSISATANCEʼ.
Again. ʻSEEK ASSISTANCEʼ. ʻUrry up mateʼ, a voice resonated from the
brass depths of a tuba placed directly over his shoulder. ʻSEEK
ASSISTANCEʼ. Shit! Every time Jay touched his wallet on the Oyster pad, the
red warning light flashed up advising him to seek assistance. If it wasnʼt bad
enough to be following a girl whose first name he didnʼt know, or that heʼd
found out her surname and initials through illicit retailer collusion, bordering on
skimming, and quite possibly dating fraud, Jay certainly had no intention of
enrolling anyone else in his crime, or clambering over the gates. He debated
whether it would be easier to crawl under the gates, but his conclusion would
be irrelevant, he wasnʼt going to do either.
Stepping to one side, Jay kicked himself for not topping up his card.
That was his fault. Since he had lost his job he had become too cheap.
Scraping and kicking his soles over the scratchy ticket-strewn floor, Jay
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touched his wallet on the yellow circular pad at the bottom of the self-service
machines, selected twenty pounds pay-as-you go - he wouldnʼt be thwarted
again, inserted his debit card, typed his pin into the keypad, and touched out,
before ascending the ten steel-capped steps out of the station. Outside, he
saw Satch bending down in front of a white plastic Evening Standard board to
insert an A3 sized paper, which carried the first headline of the day,
screaming out in capitalised black marker pen: ʻMISS UK DRUG MULEʼ. Jay
turned the other way and headed for the traffic lights.
Satch looked up at him. “Look who it is,” he shouted, “my favourite
customer has returned. That was a quick meeting.”
Jay stopped and turned around. Pretending to notice Satch for the first
time, Jay walked over to the newsagents. “Sorry, I didnʼt see you there.”
“That was a quick meeting,” Satch repeated.
“No, itʼs been rescheduled for another time. Here,” Jay said, handing
the Kit-Kat to Satch, “I accidentally borrowed this from you earlier.”
“Much obliged.” Standing up Satch noticed Jayʼs spirits had taken a
sharp nose-dive in the intervening ten minutes. “In case youʼre interested…”
he went on, pocketing the softening Kit-Kat in his sand coloured linen
trousers, “…when Iʼm locking up I often see you-know-who coming past the
shop carrying a few bags from Tesco Metro.” Satch pointed his hand over
Jayʼs shoulder. “You know the one down on Bethnal Green Road…?”
Uncovering a smile, Jay looked at Satch askance. “Whyʼve you never
told me this information before?” Jay placed his arm around his friendʼs
shoulder. “Have you been holding out on me? Should I begin to worry about
competition?” Shrugging his shoulders, Satch returned an equally suspicious
smile. Letting him go, Jay offered his hand for Satch to shake. “I might catch
you later”.
“By the way,” Satch called out as Jay waited to cross the traffic lights
on Cambridge Heath Road, at the intersection of Bethnal Green Road and
Roman Road, “I lock up at seven thirty.”
Raising his hand in final farewell, Jay ran across the road wondering
whether Miss UKʼs career had taken a turn for the worse or whether the
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shocking Evening Standard headline simply publicised the next in a long line
of talent contests.
§
Six months ago She bought Jay the new suit to encourage him to make
a positive impression at work. It would do him good, She argued, to look smart
once in a while. Given he usually wore jeans, a T-shirt, a blazer, and his KSwiss trainers, he expected to get an invite to one of her corporate work
events in due course. Five months ago their argument lost its mettle when he
lost his job, through no fault of his own he hastened to tell Her. Architects just
happened to be the first luxury tossed overboard the sinking ship. Splashing
about in the water with him, some of his friends had moved home to live with
parents for the first time in ten years, some had moved into designing
sandcastles in Australia or the Middle East, and some now worked in HMV.
Jay had rent to pay. His lease had nine payments left to make. For a month
he tried to find another job, with no luck. Sure he rarely left the house. Sure
heʼd stopped shaving. Sure heʼd stopped styling his hair in the morning or
getting dressed, he couldnʼt see the point. Sure his sex drive suffered and
sure their sex life ground to a halt. It was a blip. A job would come along. He
wasnʼt just sitting on the couch all day like she implied. He had his laptop with
him. He had the Internet. He was applying for jobs. They never went out. He
needed to save money. How about I move into your place, he suggested, on a
temporary basis.
Four months ago She finished with him. She determined they wanted
different things. She determined he had no ambition. She needed someone to
take care of her. She said he couldnʼt even take care of himself. She no
longer found him attractive. That one really hurt. Spending another month on
the couch, he still had his laptop; he still had the Internet, but he no longer
applied for jobs. In addition to the results of his daily Google-porn searches,
his other amusement came from watching the progress of his patchy beard convincing as a goatee but reluctant to join forces with his unconvincing side-
15
Falcon
B.
Mews
burns - begin to look more and more like reclaimed plughole hair had been
pritt-sticked to the sides of his face. He couldnʼt even grow a proper
unemployed beard! Surviving on microwavable chicken curry, or oven pizza
when he needed the break, if Jay took a shower or changed his T-shirt he
would see the body She had encouraged him to gradually build up at the gym
rapidly slip away from him. Thoughts of digging out Blacky from the depths of
his cupboard tormented his increasingly gloomy dreams. Thankfully, when he
woke up the next morning, he had no job interviews to get dressed up for.
Three months ago Jay decided to set up his own architecture practice.
To save money whilst he was getting started, he would work from home.
During the day, his first floor flat was quiet. Mainly residentsʼ cars crept
reluctantly out of their hotly contested parking spaces. No primary school
playground teaming with screaming children set out to disturb him. And his
mobile workshop – his laptop - meant he could work anywhere with an
Internet connection. More often than not, his mobile workshop gravitated
towards the kitchen table. With no spare room to convert into his office/library,
the kitchen table beat both the couch and his bed hands down. Basing himself
in his bedroom - or even on his couch - with his laptop and decent Wi-Fi, Jay
knew his work would only go one way, and his eyes would only be drawn to
one genre of website. And it would not be BBC online.
Start at nine, half an hour for lunch, finish at seven. Nine and a half
hours a day, almost fifty hours a week. Screw the European Working Time
Directive! Except sharing his workspace with old newspapers, opened and
unopened mail, pizza flyers and the cardboard-box remains of yesterdayʼs
delivery, Jayʼs ideal working week soon became less than ideal.
Compounded by a landlord who watched too many property makeover
programmes and knocked through too many interior walls to create a ʻmodern,
well-lit, spacious apartment with an open-plan kitchen-lounge-dinerʼ, Jay also
had to contend with his couch being in plain view, his stereo he could play at
any volume - during business hours, the plasma TV he had bought last July
as a reward for completing six years of further education, and a box set of
series one to six of The Sopranos, which he had tried to ration to one episode
16
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
a night, but frequently found himself settling for a one- disc-a-night
compromise.
Everyday Jay battled the same urges and distractions to those he used
to defeat in the similarly open-plan offices of his former employers, The JRGH
Partnership, of St John Street, Clerkenwell, with the able assistance of his
colleagues and their thirty extra pairs of eyes. At home, left to marshal his own
devices, on-line news, on-line networking, on-line gambling, on-line shopping,
and on-line porn tested his resolve. Even the kettle proved a worthy
adversary, which Jay surrendered to seven times a day, on average, mixing
up tea and coffee with the odd hot chocolate in the evening.
In reality, his workday morning began at eight-thirty when he picked up
a newspaper from Satch. Jay couldnʼt really afford to waste a pound on a
newspaper when he could get the same news on-line for free, but in truth the
pound also bought him a reason to leave the house at least once a day (until
LSD came along, that is, then it bought him a whole lot more). His work
routine began at nine by tidying up the kitchen table. Next he made his first
cup of tea, checked his profile, checked his emails, and checked the online
news, before turning his mind to actual work at nine-thirty. Skim-reading the
newspaper with a second cup of tea, around eleven he checked his emails
again. Eleven thirty he boiled the kettle and drunk a third cup at his computer.
At twelve-thirty, he took an hour for lunch and reread the interesting
newspaper articles in more depth. With an after lunch coffee, he would recheck his profile: nothing to update. During his afternoon tea break, he would
attempt to complete the ʻeasyʼ crossword in the newspaper, very rarely
succeeding, and at five, he would have his fifth cup of tea to coincide with
Deal or No-Deal. Finishing work at six-thirty, Jay checked his emails again
with a final brew, to avoid drinking too much caffeine too close to bedtime. If
he ever got the chance to design a flat specifically for home working, Jay
promised to start by properly apportioning workspace.
After buying an off-the-shelf company, ʻCompany 12,376ʼ, Jay changed
the name with Companies House to ʻYoung, Olsen, Design & Architectureʼ. As
a trading name, it enabled Jay to hold himself out as an architect before
17
Falcon
B.
Mews
completing his Part III. Taking his lead from Haagen-Dazs ice cream, Jay
partnered his surname Young with Olsen, a fictional Swedish surname, to
make the business sound more professional to potential clients. Hinting at a
Scandinavian design-cool edge, the name also disguised the unprofessional
reality of him sitting alone in his underpants at his kitchen table in his one
bedroom flat tapping away on a single laptop. As an added benefit, the
acronym also looked cool on his business cards, which Jay had printed for
free on his first day of trading, provided the print company could place their
logo on the back. Besides taking receipt of the off-white business cards with a
thin sliver of silver running along the bottom underlining his title of ʻChief
Executive & Creative Directorʼ, little else of note happened on day one. The
next day, Jay set about designing his website. His first choice domain name:
www.YODA.com had already gone, not surprisingly, so he chose to register
the full name instead, Young, Olsen, Design & Architecture. Typing in the full
name his website came up first. Typing in the acronym Jay was content to be
hit number 19 on page two of a UK specific Google search, since the rest of
the results linked to sci-fi websites. To complete the illusion, the YODA postal
address at 44 Goswell Road, Clerkenwell, EC1Y 2AX, cost fifteen pounds a
month from a letting company who forwarded company mail to Jayʼs home
address in Bethnal Green. Jay already had all the design programmes he
needed on his laptop. His old mentor at The Bartlett provided him with pirate
copies of AutoCAD, Photoshop, and CS4, and his ex-employees, The JRGH
Partnership, had unwittingly gifted him a copy of Rhino. All YODA needed was
some work.
For the last two months Jay had been concentrating on winning a
commission. One year out of university with six months work experience and
with few contacts of his own, entering open competitions provided Jay the
obvious - and only - place to start. As first round submissions were usually
anonymous, he stood a chance of getting to the second round, at least.
Working on two inaugural submissions in tandem, one to design a temporary
bandstand to tour Londonʼs Royal parks, beginning by the Serpentine Lake in
Hyde Park, and the other, an entirely new build on a brown-field site on the
18
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
Kingsland Road earmarked for the proposed Dalston Art and Design Museum,
Jayʼs idea, his own original idea - rarer than it sounds, and unashamedly
recycled for each submission - came to him whilst he sat between dollops of
bird shit on a steel bench outside the Tate Modern, notebook and mechanical
pencil in hand, sketching out ideas for what would become his third
submission. Panting, wheezing, and clutching at his chest, for five minutes
Jay had watched a former jogger bent double on the Thames-side walkway
interrupt his view of Sir Christopher Wrensʼ St Pauls Cathedral in the
background and Sir Norman Fostersʼ Millennium Bridge on his right hand side.
Shifting to the edge of the bench, hands by his side skirting around the bird
shit, crippled by the indecisiveness of wanting to offer his assistance but
afraid to overstep the stranger-mark, Jay stalled half-sitting, half-standing, as
the jogger grasped at his feet trying to uncover what initially looked like an
electronic-tag-sized bulge in his left sock.
For each submission, Jay planned an ʻLʼ shaped structure designed to
look like an asthma inhaler resting on its side. The museum would have solid
walls whilst the bandstand would have a whalebone shell, but both designs
would house a steel and glass interior casing to represent the drug canister.
Entering the structure through the hole at the bottom, patrons of the arts
would, like asthmatics, be hit with a breath of temporary relief. The uncapped
lid, turned up on its side and positioned in front of the main entrance, would
house a ice-cream kiosk and deckchair rental business for the travelling
bandstand,
and
the
ticket
office,
shop,
studio
and
miscellaneous
administrative offices for the design museum. Jayʼs preferred choice of colour
for both submissions would be two shades of Ventolin blue: light blue for the
main body of the structure, with transparent panels positioned at seemingly
arbitrary intervals in the drug-canister to provide provocative sightlines of the
band and/or the sky, and dark blue for the kiosk/ticket office. That being so, in
the park, against the backdrop of the trees and the lake, he could see how two
shades of Becotide brown might be a more popular choice. In Dalston, Jay
intended the inhaler-shaped museum to butt up against the heavy traffic on
the Kingsland Road as a loud social comment on the pollution inhibiting the
19
Falcon
B.
Mews
City. In the park, the subtle, open-framed, inhaler-shaped bandstand would
emphasise the need for fresh air away from the urban sprawl. He didnʼt expect
to win, nor did he. ʻDear all, with regret, I am writing to inform you that your
design proposal was not shortlisted by our judging panel…ʼ Both rejection
emails utilised the never helpful hyperbolic letdowns he recognised from his
job applications: ʻexceptionally high standard of entriesʼ; ʻexceeding all
expectationsʼ; ʻphenomenal interestʼ, ʻselecting a shortlist was not an easy
matterʼ.
Assuming he could make it onto a shortlist, Jay knew the judging panel
would inevitably look to his previous designs in reaching their decision, thus
Jay knew he needed more experience. In fact, he needed some experience,
any experience. Puffed up with 3D visuals and renders of past projects he had
been working on at The JRGH Partnership, the experience section of the
YODA website boasted designs for a folly on a Buckinghamshire estate; a
prep school annex in Chiswick; a One-Stop-Shop in Deptford, and beach huts
along the Brighton sea front. An impressively busy six months to show off to
his parents, perhaps, but given his junior position at the firm, the judges would
know that choosing the door-handles to use on the beach huts would be the
extent of Jayʼs personal involvement with the project. If he was lucky, he might
have designed the skylight to be used in the Buckinghamshire folly; he didnʼt.
Moreover, supplementing the 3D visuals and renders on the YODA website
with flashy slideshow photographs heʼd taken of a stilt-house built into the hills
above Christchurch, New Zealand, the view of Hong Kong Island from The
Peak, the tenement houses across the Lower East Side of New York, or
Peckham Library, south London (each building properly attributed to its rightful
architect in the small print), simply proved further evidence of his
inexperience. Jay needed to win a proper commission, a YODA design, to add
real experience to his website, to win other commissions, to gain more
experience, and to break out of his Yossarian spin-cycle.
Largely a facsimile of the first two, the rejection email Jay received in
response to his third submission to re-design the toilets in the membersʼ room
at the Tate Modern - from Jeremy Frame, project manager - did go on to
20
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
presume Jay would be ʻkeen to learn about the winning designʼ, endeavouring
to be in contact again once the winner had been decided. Filing the email in
his submissions sub-folder, Jay knew being caught short on the sixth floor of
the Tate Modern was as close as heʼd come to showing an interest in the
winning design. He certainly wasnʼt going to be checking his emails at eight
oʼclock each morning for a follow-up email from Mr Frame.
Before being let go by The JRGH Partnership, Jay had been working
on a design for an underground garage and swimming pool extension in
Primrose Hill, North London. He had earmarked the project for his Part III.
Regretting this missed opportunity, Jay rushed together a guerrilla submission
in a fit of post-employment desperation – stretched over three days and nights
of a very long red-bulled weekend. The plan was to poach the commission
from his previous employer with his trademark flash and a heavily unprofitable
discount. The client said no. It would be a huge risk to entrust the project to
Jay alone, without his Part III. Jay accepted that. So when the six-storey town
house hit the news as the most expensive property repossessed in the
recession, he didnʼt celebrate, that much, partly because his own luck had
changed in the interim.
Unbeknownst to Jay, his mentor from The Bartlett had suggested him
to the new owners of ʻThe Haggerston Pie-Shopʼ, an East London bakery
recently placed into receivership. The new owners planned to convert the
bakery into a bar. Keeping the same name, the minimal design brief for The
Pie-Shop stipulated Jay retain as many existing fixtures and fittings as
possible. Suspecting another ʻso bad itʼs goodʼ type of venue, which would be
populated by ex-graduates from The Bartlett, the RCA, or the AA, killing time
between signing-on, Jay figured the minimal brief also had something to do
with the minimal budget. Hot for six-months, the Pie-Shop would probably die
a slow, profitable death once the hype made it into the Style supplement of
The Sunday Times. Amongst all the excitement, neither his mentor nor the
owners deemed it necessary to inform Jay the commission would be unpaid.
But the money wasnʼt important. If and when the owners secured sufficient
21
Falcon
B.
Mews
financing to implement his design, at least Jay could point to The Haggerston
Pie-Shop as an example of his work.
Six weeks ago, stood at the counter in Gupta & Sons, Jay got hooked
on LSD. Since his membership remained valid for another four months, he
started going to the gym again. He started getting dressed for work first thing
in the morning: jeans, T-shirt, blazer, K-Swiss. To earn some money to pay
the rent and to repay the favour to his mentor, Jay agreed to deliver a series
of three lectures to undergraduates at the Bournemouth School of Art and
Design; five hundred quid cash in hand, plus return economy train tickets, plus
a reasonably priced lunch.
Today, he wore a suit. Today, he panicked. Today, he blew his only
project showing any real promise.
§
Re-entering his flat, dropping his keys and spare change on top of the
radiator cover, and picking up one of his two fancy wooden coat hangers off
the floor, Jay hung up his jacket and trousers on the back handle of his
bedroom door and put on a pair of board shorts, leaving his shirt and his
socks on for now, loosening his tie, but not taking it off. He would need to put
Grey back on later, for continuity. He needed to go to Tesco. He needed to
buy something for his dinner. Everyone needs to eat so he needed no excuse
to be there.
Lifting up his laptop from the floor beside his bed and opening up the
screen, Jay pushed the on-button, and walked over to the kitchen table
carrying the booting up computer slowed down by the pirated software.
Placing his laptop down at the top end of the table, his fatherʼs end - if he
were to follow his friends back to his parentʼs home, Jay grabbed the squeezy
ketchup bottle he had used the previous evening to polish off his crusts and
placed it back in the top cupboard next to the tins of tuna and the tea-bags.
Using the well-read pages of yesterdayʼs newspaper to wrap-up a growing
collection of empty beer bottles assembled like bowling pins next to the sink,
22
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
Jay cradled the bundle of moving-house style packages into the bin. The sink
full of dirty dishes would have to wait. Jay wanted to get stuck into his new
project while he felt the inclination. As long as he had another project to focus
his attention on Jay felt he should be okay. In the meantime, he could re-use
the same mug and he could angle the kettle around the plates, the
bolognaise-stained saucepan and the pasta-coloured plastic colander he
always found difficult to get entirely clean after he had used it to drain
spaghetti.
ʻFinally!ʼ Jay had said aloud last Friday night when he sat in front of the
TV with his laptop reading about a new competition on the Architecture
Societyʼs website. ʻThe credit crunch could be doing me a favour.ʼ Between
waiting for news of his submissions and waiting for new competitions to come
on-line, he had become accomplished at waiting, and watching The Sopranos.
ʻA leading investment bank in the City of London,ʼ the article read, ʻis
inviting architects and designers to submit ideas to utilise floor space across a
number of its offices in the capital, which have, for various reasons, recently
become free of use. Due to the market sensitivity of this information the
competition is being run on a no-names basis. In response to the anticipated
interest in the competition, applicants are asked to submit an initial design
proposal setting out their idea (in no more than 300 words) via the link below
by 31 July 2009. Late entries will not be considered. Stage 1 judging is strictly
anonymous. Your contact details, company details and CV should be sent in a
sealed envelope accompanying your design proposal. For stage 2, a short-list
of eight candidates will be invited to inspect the space before submitting a
scale 3 dimensional model, final design proposal and single A4 page
visualisations no later that 30 August 2009. For further information, including
example 3-D visuals of the available space, please see the link below.ʼ
Between trying on his suit, trying out opening lines, and trying to tie his
tie, Jay had been toying with a few ideas over the weekend. His first idea,
leasing office space to several charities and good-causes at a reduced rate,
sounded practical, tax-efficient, with oodles of corporate social responsibility,
but he had dismissed it as the obvious idea incapable of winning him the
23
Falcon
B.
Mews
competition. His second, third and fourth ideas, an art studio, a music studio,
and a dance studio, each sounded feasible, culturally commendable and a
left-field use of space, but the mess, the music, and parading groups of
dancers through the bank lunging and pirouetting in skin-tight Ribenacoloured leotards might be the distraction to bring the rest of the operation
crashing down. Jay decided to develop his idea number nine: ʻhot-deskingʼ.
Plenty of people had recently lost their jobs. Like him, he figured a large
number of those unemployed would look into starting their own business, or
move into consultancy services, or freelancing. Instead of working from home,
his idea would allow the self-employed to rent desks from the bank for a fee,
whether daily, weekly or monthly, in exchange for using the office and some
or all of its services, to run their businesses. Given the downturn, Jay felt the
strength of his idea lay in its roll-out-ability, as the Americans would say. The
desks were already in place. Sparing a few tweaks once he had seen the
actual specifications (if only to justify the large fee he intended to charge the
bank), transforming his idea into reality would, like the Pie-Shop, take very
little expense. So far, his skeletal proposal drew on his own experiences of
working from home. His productivity could benefit from leaving the house to
go to work. His appearance could benefit from having to get dressed to go to
work. His work could benefit from having a desk specifically set aside for
working. His business already benefited from a snazzy and misrepresentative
Central London postal address. To avoid going crazy he could benefit from
meeting people again on a daily basis. He needed the social interaction. He
needed to talk to people. He needed to get out of the house again. Social
networking websites had let him down. Wary of overdoing it, Jay left out the
bit about his love life, which could also benefit from some or all of the above,
and
his
burgeoning
porn
addiction,
and
his
new
ʻcolleaguesʼ
on
PartyPoker.com.
Come to think of it, his love life was in a mess. Where did he expect to
find another girlfriend? He couldnʼt keep stalking random girls he took a fancy
to in a shop. If only because LSD was the first time Satch had attracted
anyone 'fanciable' into his ʻPORN FREEʼ newsagents. Come to think of it, She
24
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
hadnʼt been all that bad. Sure She was pushy. Sure She was highmaintenance. Sure She was a big reason why he hardly ever saw his friends.
Sure She shouted a lot. Sure She was depressed. Sure She was angry. Sure
She criticised him for messing up the bed covers, leaving the kitchen
cupboard doors open and leaving drops on the toilet seat. Sure She waited for
him to sit down before she nagged him to take out the rubbish. But at one
point, She must have loved him. Occasionally She did stick up for him. And
She had encouraged his career with the new suit. She was a great cook. She
took care of herself, and She looked great. Shit, he really missed Her. Shit, he
wanted her back. Shit, now he couldnʼt think about anything else. Saving and
shutting down the bank project, Jay closed his laptop. Eleven-twenty, nearly
time for another cup of tea, then lunchtime. Seven-thirty couldnʼt come around
quickly enough. Too tired and too depressed to go to the gym, Jay took off his
shirt - careful to keep the tie knot in one piece – and did fifty one sit-ups, thirty
nine and a half press-ups, then collapsed horizontally on the couch, pressing
play on the remote control, pleased that last night he had not finished off the
final episode on disc three of series four of The Sopranos. Consulting the
time on the TV, Jay calculated disc four, with a break for lunch and two breaks
for tea, would see him through to Tesco-time. He needed LSD to help him get
over Her.
§
There she is. There she is. There she is. Satch was right, God bless
him. Jay raised his eyes instinctively towards the heavens. There she is
standing with her green basket in front of fruit & veg looking as lovely as she
did in the morning, still in high heels, still in business mode, still making
important decisions.
Arriving early to walk each of the aisles with the objective of amassing
an impressively cosmopolitan basket - currently containing salmon fillets,
tinned anchovies, an avocado, fresh olives, fresh pasta, couscous, pine nuts,
haloumi, a block of parmesan and pomegranate juice - Jay had no idea what
25
Falcon
B.
Mews
he would make for his dinner, but he felt confident his basket would hold up to
scrutiny sitting on the supermarket tiles next to hers, while he picked out the
sweet potato, the artichoke, the box of cherry tomatoes, the miniature fish net
of lychees, the bag of royal gala apples and the promotional box of
raspberries heʼd purposely forgotten on his first time around fruit & veg to give
him an excuse for doing a victory lap of the supermarket.
As Jay had come to expect from observing LSD over the last six
weeks, she didnʼt browse the shelves. She already knew the aisles she
needed to visit, skipping the dead weight. She already knew the items she
wanted to purchase, swiping products off the shelves without pausing to read
the ingredients, check sell-by-dates or ponder a recipe. Ten minutes later,
with his forearms beginning to ache under the strain of a generously filled
basket, Jay stood in the same queue as LSD buffered by a single old lady
gripping onto a tartan postmanʼs trolley. Lined up on the conveyor belt, LSDʼs
basket of goods looked paltry in comparison to his. If he were being honest,
Jay felt slightly let down. Two Weightwatchers meals-for-one, one lasagne,
one spaghetti-bolognaise - buy two save a pound (Note to self: talk about last
summer in Tuscany); Special K and two pints of skimmed milk (Note to self:
avoid fat jokes, even at own expense. Read the clues: low-fat cereal, low-fat
milk and low-fat meals, all point to weight issues. No signs of it now. Perhaps
bullying problem at school, so avoid memory lane. Stick to the present. Gym
chat fine, she clearly works out. Remember to name drop ʻcardio-vascularʼ);
Bio yoghurt (Boring); Mozzarella (Definitely onto a winner with Italy); a five
pack of Crunchies (Low-calorie count, maybe Kit-Kat idea would have
worked); a five pack of Wrigleyʼs Extra (Nice breath, possible smoker,
possible weight issue again –trick the appetite); underarm deodorant, extra
silky (Smooth, nice smell); a four pack of own-brand toilet roll (Donʼt go there.
Although could use some myself, leave for another day, for sake of
appearances); Fashionista magazine, ʻFor the stylish modern woman always
ahead of the gameʼ (Sweet! The magazines are making a come back. Donʼt
need Her after all), Apples. Golden Delicious. (I like Golden Delicious. Why
have I gone for Royal Gala? Because Granny Smiths are disgusting thatʼs
26
How
to
Fight
Loneliness
why. Royal Galas are the second best choice for a mature looking basket. No
time to change).
Accepting the receipt in with her groceries, LSD collected her bags
together and took off. The clock began to tick. In front, the white-haired
buffer pulled a tin of spam out of her postmanʼs buggy. Leaning over the
conveyor belt, bang, she placed a ʻnext customerʼ marker down. Result,
thought Jay, one tin of spam. Excessive luggage for the weekly shop, but
what did he care. He spoke too soon. Moving slower than a human statue, the
buffer leaned over into her buggy to pull out a tin of chunky soup. Why pick
today, a Tuesday of all days, to be tin-shopping day? Could his luck get any
worse? Yes, he realised, judging by where she had placed the ʻnext-customerʼ
plaque on the conveyor belt. Jay pondered his options. He considered leaving
his basket of shopping on the floor, but it might look weird if he did catch up
with LSD empty-handed. ʻCan I help you at all?ʼ Jay asked the old lady. ʻNo!ʼ
she barked back, obliged by good manners to add a belligerent ʻThank youʼ.
Jay tipped his basket of cosmopolitan groceries into a heap behind her shitty
tins. Startled by the noise, the middle-aged black lady sitting behind the till
looked up at him. Jay smiled at ʻMargaretʼ, fours stars - a general of the
supermarket checkout. At least Margaret appeared to understand his need for
haste, swiping discounted tin after discounted tin through the scanner, touchtyping the numbers off the damaged barcodes, and mercifully giving the
tannoy a wide-berth. Jay wasnʼt sure what the old lady planned to make for
dinner either but he wished she would hurry up. Whyʼs she talking to
Margaret? Donʼt bother Margaret, he pleaded to himself, Margaret doesnʼt
need to hear your story after a long day in the trenches. Whatʼs she after, a
further discount? An OAP discount? Jay felt like stepping in - they were not
on the busses now. Margaret pointed to aisle seven: Sauces, Soups and
Spreads. ʻThe miso soup should be there with the rest of the sushi packs,ʼ
she said. Jay frowned at Margaret. What the hell? Old people donʼt eat sushi.
Margaret smiled at him, understanding his anguish. Jay smiled back. He
wanted to let Margaret know he blamed her for none of this. Following the old
ladyʼs bone-idle progress towards aisle seven, Jay shared an eyebrow sigh
27
Falcon
B.
Mews
with the fellow suit standing behind him, one suit to another, making a suitbased connection, swapping obsessions with time, expensive watches, nice
suits and the old woman scuttling towards the sauces. ʻFuck the raw fish,ʼ Jay
felt like screaming into the tannoy, ʻGet back to the checkout and pay for your
shitty tins. Time is money people!ʼ
Standing outside of the supermarket gripping two plastic bags in each
hand Jay considered running along Bethnal Green Road in the direction of his
flat. Accepting that his suit, his shoes, his shopping, and his man-bag looped
over his shoulder would all slow him down, not to mention the high risk of
breaking into a sweat in the still warm summer evening, Jay also considered
ditching the shopping. Reason prevailed: he lacked the disposable income to
throwaway forty-five quidʼs worth of fresh produce. Weighed down to a
slumping, Neolithic toil past Gupta & Son, scraping his shoes and his
metaphorical knuckles against the concrete, Jay failed to decipher the layers
of graffiti exhibited on the metal shutters padlocked to the ground. Satch had
gone. LSD had long gone. He had lost her definitively this time. The thrill of
the chase had come to an end outside the place where it had all began.
Raising his speed to normal walking pace and raising his chin off his
chest to normal walking position - staring at the pavement in front rather than
the tops of his shoes, Jay wanted to get back to the flat to get back to feeling
sorry for himself. He should never have left the house. It was a crazy idea.
Additional square-footage, extra consumers, and superior deals, he should
have known the supermarket would be no easier than the newsagents. Hold
on. There she is. There she is again. Itʼs not all over. Stooped behind a
scooter parked on the corner of his street and resting her plastic bags on the
paving stones in front of Baltimore Fried Chicken, Jay noticed LSD bent over
directly in front of him - on the other side of Roman Road - tucking her hair
behind her ear to rifle purposely through her handbag. For her phone, he
guessed, to answer a call from her boyfriend. Letʼs not be defeatist, Jay lifted
himself, it could be her mother, a friend, a colleague, or not even a phone call
at all. There were endless possibilities. Perhaps she needed to find a pen to
write down a few lines of poetry, or put away a leaflet for an upcoming golf
28
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sale. Executing a subtle pavement u-turn. Jay retreated ten metres towards
the tube station. He crossed Roman Road in front of the fire station, forced
into a brief hop and a skip in the middle of the street when he thought he
might have misjudged the speed of an oncoming Focus. Safely on the other
pavement, Jay slowed down his walking speed for his approach to LSD,
readying himself to offload a passing ʻhelloʼ. As he came towards her, she
looked up. She smiled at him. He smiled back. Then he continued walking.
Why was he still walking? He walked on. He walked past her. He turned left
towards his flat: Bugger! Shit! Fuck! Balls! He felt her eyes on the back of his
suit jacket. Or was she looking at his bum? Suddenly, Jay became selfconscious. He completely lost the ability to walk properly, or in a straight line.
Zigzagging up the street, the bottom of legs felt like they were kitted out with
deep-sea diving weights. Lifting his feet off the floor, one lead weighted shoe
at a time, his buckling legs kept propelling him forward regardless.
Running up the stairs to his flat, Jay scratched his key into his front
door lock on the fourth frustrating attempt and walk-ran over to the window.
Standing his back against the wall, he peered out into the street like a spy who happened to take his grocery shopping on a stakeout. She was nowhere
to be seen. Impossible. Where could she have disappeared? Dejected, Jay
lowered his shopping bags to the floor. Stepping on the backs of his new
shoes, he offloaded his man-bag from around his neck letting it fall to the
wooden boards with a thud (besides his phone and his wallet he had added
two music magazines to the bag to give it more weight). Catching the standby
light winking in his direction, Jay collected his laptop from the kitchen table,
unfastened his suit trousers and made his way over to the couch, shuffling the
last few steps with the bottom half of Grey crumpled up around his ankles
before sitting down. Sorry Grey, you donʼt deserve this. What else could he to
do? What else did he have to look forward to? He didnʼt have a girlfriend. He
didnʼt have any money. He didnʼt have any work. His overdraft had the
unauthorised limit in its sights. He had already changed his credit card three
times. His student loan repayments had stopped, thankfully, since he had lost
his job, but he still had to find two hundred quid a month to pay back his
29
Falcon
B.
Mews
professional studies loan. Six hundred quid a month for rent. And eighty quid
a month for that fucking gold-star gym membership She had made him take
out. He could move back home. Move back to Pembroke. Move back to
Wales. Move back into his old bedroom. Sign on. Catch up with his old friends
who had never stopped signing on since that first summer after A-levels when
they thought it would be a good idea to go down to the Job Centre en masse
and start collecting spending money for their fortnight in Magaluf. Everyone
except Jay; his parents wouldnʼt let him sign on or go to Magaluf.
To his friends, Jay was the hero. Jay had made it past Cardiff. Jay had
made it all the way up to London. Jay was going to hang out with famous
actors and rock bands. Not quite the way it turned out, but he would hate to
see the look of disappointment on his friendsʼ faces when he turned up at the
same Job Centre as them and printed out the same job vacancies from the
same machine on the same recycled supermarket receipts. He would have to
take ʻcrossing the Severn Bridgeʼ off his CV. He would go for a drink with
them. They would catch-up, swap-stories, and reminisce about the old days.
He would have his old friends back. He would have regular friends. He would
remember why they were his old friends. Besides a shared comprehensive
school education, he would soon realise that they no longer had anything in
common. He had moved on. They had moved on. Some of them would be
married with kids by now. Still, he would accompany them to Zanzi-Bar, the
nightclub on the high street. Still, they would get drunk together. Still, he would
find a girl to talk to. Still, she would pretend to be impressed by his further
education, and he would pretend to be visiting his parents for the weekend.
He would sneak her into his house and with a helpful hand over each otherʼs
mouths they would fuck in the spare room while his parents slept upstairs. In
the morning she would be gone with his fake phone number and he would
never have to see her again.
While Jay took his time deciding which one of the on-screen girls he
wished to get to know more intimately, his broken buzzer screeched from the
hallway. Closing his computer and scrambling to his feet, pulling his trousers
up and repositioning his boxer shorts, the squawk of the broken buzzer
30
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caused Jay similar excitement to his younger self, tearing down the stairs of
his parentʼs house to the metallic sound of the letterbox flapping open and
closed; albeit now a slight timing nuisance. He guessed it might be a large
package being delivered. Better yet, it could be a friend popping around to see
him. Or maybe, just maybe, She might have come around to make up with
him. After four months She had realised She could do worse than him. Sliding
his socks over the polished floorboards, on second thoughts, at eight-fifteen in
the evening, the first possibility would be unlikely. Plus, he hadnʼt ordered
anything on-line since The Sopranos. Reaching the intercom, the second
possibility also sounded improbable. None of his friends lived close enough to
him, or had the inclination, to just ʻpopʼ around without calling his mobile first.
Guys just donʼt ʻpopʼ around anywhere without calling first. Pushing the button
with his finger, the third possibility was preposterous. She had taken three
hours to explain her valid reasons to him.
ʻYes?ʼ Jay spoke languidly into the mouthpiece, having whittled down
every potentially excitable option out of one unexpected buzz.
“Hi, sorry to bother you, its number 4 from upstairs, Iʼve lost my keys,
would you mind…”
Before the crackly female voice could finish speaking, Jay pushed the
second button to open the door downstairs. The mechanical drone of the
locks clicking open and shut drowned out the end of her sentence. But it was
still the highlight of his day: getting overexcited by non-existent parcels and
listening to half a sentence from a stranger via the intercom. Jay returned to
the couch to get back to prior business. Two hollow knocks broke his
concentration. Not again? He hadnʼt even got around to dropping his trousers.
Jay thought of ignoring it until a louder set of knocks rapped the frosted glass
panel in his wooden front door. The greater conviction determined heʼd get up
off the couch to answer it. Plus, he only had to close his laptop this time.
“Hi.”
“Hello, hey, how are you, hi...”
“Number 4 from upstairs,” she said pointing at the ceiling with her
finger. “Thanks again for letting me in.”
31
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Mews
“Not a problem. Donʼt mention it. No worries. Itʼs my pleasure. What
can I do for you?” Jay stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his
right leg hiding behind his left. Biting his lip, he forced his speech to slow
down. “Do you live upstairs?” he said, now sounding like a policeman.
“Yep, Iʼm afraid so. Donʼt worry though, Iʼm not a burglar or anything.”
“No, sorry, thatʼs not what I meant. I mean, what I meant to say is that
Iʼve just never seen you around before, except, er, just now of course, outside
on the street, standing with your shopping, when I walked past, just now…”
“Oh, thatʼs funny, Iʼve been here for a while.” She looked at her watch.
“It must be getting on for eight months by now. And Iʼve seen you around. I
often see you in that little shop next to the tube station. Weʼre so silly in
London arenʼt we? No one says hello anymore. I used to see you a lot more
with a girl with blonde-ish hair.” She positioned her hand at her eye-level.
“Quite small. Your girlfriend maybe?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” Jay corrected her. “We broke up about four months
ago.”
“Iʼm sorry to hear that.”
“No, donʼt be, Iʼm well over it by now. A lucky escape.”
“Thatʼs a good way of looking at it.”
“Err, would you like to come in? Iʼve just put the kettle on.”
“Umm….”
Jay sensed she needed further encouragement, or less wiggle room to
back out of his offer. “My nameʼs Jay by the way,” he said, scrunching up the
inside lining of his trousers pockets before holding out his right hand to shake
hers, “nice to meet you.”
“Laura, nice to meet you too.”
“Hey, are you Welsh?”
“Yeaaaah,” she replied, hesitantly.
“Me too!”
“No way?”
“Yep. Where you from?”
“Swansea. And you?”
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“Pembroke.”
“You donʼt sound it.”
“I know. Donʼt ask.”
“Okay, I wonʼt.”
“No, I didnʼt mean it like that. Donʼt take it…”
“Calm down, Iʼm only messing with you.”
“Oh, okay, great. So, now weʼre officially not strangers anymore, and
fellow countrymen no less, or countrymen and countrywomen, or countryman
and woman, or whatever the correct word is, we should cement this
momentous occasion with a cup of tea. We Welsh have to stick together.”
“I donʼt know. I should be getting this shopping home.”
Jay wanted to point out he knew she had nothing frozen in her bags so
she was in no hurry, it would keep. “You can use my fridge if you want, for
temporary cooling, free of charge.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Jay pinched the skin on his thigh through his left trouser pocket in lieu
of shaking his head in disgust at his devastating chat. “Donʼt mention it,” he
replied encouraged to plough on by a lack of witnesses. “Weʼre neighbours
now, weʼre meant to be good friends. So, er, would you like to come in?”
“How can I refuse when you reference the Neighbours theme tune?”
“Precisely. Come in”
Jay led the way along the brief hallway into the open-plan space, the
one shot his flat had at any ʻwow-factorʼ, and walked over to the kitchen
opening the fridge door and freeing up some space on the top shelf for her to
deposit her milk, her bio yoghurt, and her microwaveable meals for one.
“Impressive fridge for a bloke,” she said, picking up the block of
haloumi. “Do you get to cook much?”
“I try,” he lied. “Nothing spectacular. I bet youʼd put me to shame.”
“I wouldnʼt be so sure. I canʼt cook to save my life.“ Replacing the
haloumi, Laura picked up the net of lychees. “I donʼt even know what these
wee things are - talk about not judging a book by its cover. I wished youʼd told
me what to expect before I put my microwavable lasagne in your fridge, how
33
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Mews
embarrassing.” If this continued, Jay would have to revise up the success of
his expensive shopping trip. Closing the fridge door, Laura looked along the
pile of newspapers, Jayʼs matching white toaster and kettle set, and a sticky
pot of strawberry jam sitting on the black, imitation-marble, kitchen surface, “I
thought you said the kettle was on.”
“I did,” Jay said, stepping across her to push the button down. “It is, it
must have already boiled. Lets go and take a seat on the couch.”
“Nice place.” She was lying now. He knew that. The flat wasnʼt nice.
He knew that as well. It once might have been but now it was a mess. In his
twenty-seven years - near ten of which he spread across various flatwarmingʼs, house parties, pre-game drinks, and pre-game ʻcoffeesʼ, Jay
recognised ʻnice placeʼ as the two words an adult guest feels utterly
compelled to bestow upon a home not entirely overrun with vermin. Admittedly
he also found good cause for the nifty pairing. Only a kid in single figures
could walk into his flat and say ʻwhat a dumpʼ with any confidence. Real
enthusiasm showed itself in further commentary: on the great view, on the
stunning location, or on the enviable outside space/balcony. Lauraʼs lips
remained sealed.
“Thanks, sorry about the mess, Iʼve had to bring a lot of my work home
at the moment.”
“Donʼt worry about it. Iʼm no better, I promise you.”
Silence. Jay looked at her and smiled. Laura smiled back. Jay
reasserted his smile when he realised he had no immediate words to follow up
his initial smile. She examined the paintwork on her nails; chipped, he
guessed, from the grimace on her face. He looked away. He looked around
his flat like he was the visitor. The plasma TV looked impressive but girls
tended to get less excited about his forty-two inches.
“Laura Doon. I guess when people see your initials they expect you to
be called Lorna?”
“Why do say that, because of the book? Yeah, sometimes, I guess. No,
not so much. Actually, not at all, most people our age have never heard of it.
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Anyway, how did you know my surname was Doon? Have you been stalking
me or something?” Laura smiled. Jay shat himself.
“Donʼt be silly,” he said, leaping off the couch and walking briskly
towards the kitchen. Jay stood next to the kettle, gripping his fingers around
the handle and fiercely watching the water remain insolently stagnant through
the translucent measuring peep hole, until, until, until, contrary to popular
opinion, the appliance would bloody well boil.
“Milk and sugar?” he asked.
“Just milk for me please, and a wee bit of sugar.”
“So milk and sugar?”
“Yes please,” she giggled.
How did he know her surname? How could he know her surname?
Think. Think. Think. Would being honest in this situation really help him out?
Would telling her he had found it out from Satch come across as romantic or
really creepy? Using a spoon to drown the teabags under the hot water, Jayʼs
brain focused on survival, imagining his head, shaped like a pyramid bag,
being repeatedly dunked in the swimming pool by the school bully. Opening
the fridge door, ostensibly to pick out the milk, surreptitiously to buy him some
time by ducking his head inside the cooler, Jay left the door wide open to
mouth a muted ʻFUCK, FUCK, FUCKʼ at the artichoke and the avocado; the
pair of them stared back at him unhelpful, inanimate and green.
Holding a mug in each hand, Jay walked over to the couch to certain
arrest and imprisonment.
“Do I need a coaster?” she asked.
“No donʼt worry about it,” he replied placing her tea directly on the ringmarked coffee table.
“Itʼs on your buzzer,” he said, overly loud given the proximity of her
head to his mouth. “Itʼs on your buzzer outside”.
“What is?” she replied taken aback.
“Your surname. Your surname is written next to your buzzer outside.
On the intercom.”
35
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Mews
“Oh right, now I get you. Good observation skills.” Close one, Jay
thought. “Yours isnʼt,” she went on. “Doesnʼt it say something funny like
ʻHouse for Letʼ or something?”
“Yeah, ʻHome for Tenantsʼ. I guess I should change it at some point.”
He laughed, she giggled. When the next line of the conversation came slower
than expected, they both laughed again. They laughed too long for what they
had been discussing, but as long as it disguised the silence. Jay felt too
exhausted by his mental anguish to think of something to say. His last foray
into kick-starting the conversation nearly cost him his freedom. Fortunately
Laura broke the tension before Jay could start making arbitrary humming
noises or stretching his mouth around a protracted ʻsoooooʼ.
“Soooo, you say you work from home? What is it you do, exactly?”
“Iʼm an architect, but I donʼt just work from home. Weʼre so busy in the
office right now I had to bring some stuff back with me. Only for a couple of
weeks or so, I hope anyway.”
“Wow, architecture, thatʼs cool. My cousinʼs an architect, he says itʼs
absolutely brutal at the moment.”
“Yeah it is, but you manage.”
“I suppose thatʼs right.” Laura flicked up the bottom of his grey jacket
with her fingers then let it drop onto the couch. “You look to be doing alright
though.”
Is that a sign, he wondered? Is that foreplay? Is she trying to make
physical contact? Thanks Grey, sorry about before. “How about you? Your
suit doesnʼt exactly look cheap?”
“Itʼs a little bit embarrassing actually.”
“How so? It looks very nice to me.”
Laura smiled. “No, not the suit. Another reason. I canʼt tell you though
otherwise youʼll laugh.”
“No I wonʼt, I promise?”
“Browniesʼ honour?”
“Cub-scoutsʼ honour,” Jay offered, raising three fingers on his right
hand and bending his little finger back with his thumb.
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“Thatʼll have to do. Here goes. Iʼm a lawyer….”
“Well, okay….,” Jay interrupted her, ”…itʼs a little bit embarrassing I
grant you but Iʼm not going to laugh at you for it.”
“Shut up….” she said pushing his upper arm, vindicating the press-ups
he had done earlier in the day, “…and let me finish.”
Shifting his body on the couch so both of them werenʼt sitting austerely
airline, Jay rotated his torso towards hers and pointed his right knee towards
her thigh. Settled into his listening position, he tapped her on the knee: “Okay,
sorry, go ahead.”
“I was a lawyer until two months ago. I mean, I still am a lawyer I just
donʼt have a job to go to at the moment. This credit crunch is a real killer. Itʼs
crazy. So many of my friends are losing their jobs.” Jay kept nodding his head
sympathetically whilst debating whether he too should come clean. “Youʼre
probably wondering why Iʼm wearing a suit?”
“It did cross my mind,” he lied, again.
Laura lowered her gaze to her tea mug resting on her right knee.
“Okay, here goes…Every day since I lost my job, I wake up at normal time, I
put my make-up on, I put on my usual work clothes, I get onto the Central line
just like always, and I head into the City. The only part of my old routine Iʼve
changed is getting off at Liverpool Street. My old work is at Bank so Iʼm too
scared of getting off there just in case I run into any of my old colleagues.
Theyʼre bound to ask me what Iʼm up to now. What do I tell them? That I take
my laptop to the upstairs of Starbucks by Spitalfields Market and sit there all
day listening to my iTunes and applying for jobs? Hardly. Do you know what
else I do? I make one Grande skinny latte last all day! Iʼm sure thatʼs illegal.
And I sneak a packed lunch in with me to save money. I know thatʼs definitely
illegal. Iʼm such a sad-o. My colleagues…err, sorry, my ex-colleagues, would
think I am such a loser. I am a loser. Liverpool Street is only one stop away. It
probably makes more sense for me to walk to Starbucks, especially when itʼs
not raining. And it would be cheaper. I just canʼt give up the habit of taking the
tube. I havenʼt even told my parents yet ʻcause theyʼd just worry about me and
nag me to come home. Why would I want to move back to Swansea?” Laura
37
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Mews
looked directly at Jay. “Iʼd just be bored and miserable over there rather than
being bored and miserable over here.” Looking back at her, Jay focused on
the bridge of his nose to avoid the difficulty of her iridescent eyes darting back
and forth in search of his reaction. Lifting his mug, he dropped his eyelids to
consult his tea for reasons why she should not move back to Wales. Number
one: weʼve only just met. Number two: I think I might really quite like you, and
number three: it would be nice for us to get to know each other properly. Of
course, none of these reasons he could actually tell her. “I bet youʼre thinking
Iʼm a massive loser right about now?” she asked.
“No, not at all, quite the opposite if Iʼm honest. I completely understand
the situation youʼre in. In fact, the project Iʼm working on at the moment would
be perfect for someone in your situation.”
“How do you mean?”
“Basically, itʼs for this investment bank in the City which has more office
space than it needs. My idea is to lease individual desks to people in similar
situations to you. That way you wouldnʼt have to spend your day in Starbucks.
But listen, before I bore you to death with all the minor details, thereʼs
probably something I need to tell you….”
“Before you do, whilst Iʼm pouring out my heart, can I make one more
confession first?”
“Sure, of course, go ahead.” Jay felt in no hurry to tell her he was a
fraud.
“Okay, no more after this, I promise.” Laura smiled mischievously. “Do
you know the real reason why I go into that grubby little shop next to the tube
station?”
“No, why?” ʻTo top up my Oyster Cardʼ, Jay knew what she intended to
say.
“I canʼt believe Iʼm going to tell you this.”
“You can tell me.” ʻEveryone has Oyster Cards these days,ʼ Jay
prepared himself to say, ʻDonʼt be embarrassed, theyʼre not like dinner tickets
at schoolʼ.
“Because I saw you go in there….”
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Loneliness
Jay looked her in the eyes to check it wasnʼt a wind-up. “I – did – not –
know - that,” he said like a British tourist taking his time to carefully pronounce
each word.
Laura felt her cheeks with the back of her hands. “Yeah itʼs true,
otherwise Iʼd never choose to deal with that little Indian guy with the rubbish
jokes. He always tries to talk to me about the strangest things. I think he might
even be flirting or something. If it werenʼt for you Iʼd just use the machine in
the station to top up my Oyster. I canʼt believe youʼve never noticed me. Iʼm
really hurt. And I canʼt believe Iʼm being so forward. I hope you know itʼs all
your fault. If I carried on waiting for you to make the first move I swear Iʼd have
to stand in that newsagents for another year!” Laura shook her head. “This is
so embarrassing. Why do you think I stopped on the street just now? I saw
you in Tesco. I was hoping you might offer to help me with my bags…”
“Oh my God Iʼm so sorry, you must think Iʼm such a scumbag? I canʼt
believe Iʼm such a scumbag. If it helps my cause, had I realised, I definitely
would have offered to help.”
“Not really,” she laughed. “Anyway, it doesnʼt matter now. What were
you going to say?”
This is it, Jay told himself, the moment youʼve been waiting for. Donʼt
play it cool. Donʼt be an idiot. Tell her how you feel. Tell her everything. He felt
his heart beat like the tail of the horny dog from flat three upstairs thumping
against the wooden floorboards. “If weʼre really being honest,” Jay said,
lowering his voice to its sincerity and integrity setting, “before I tell you that,
thereʼs probably something else I should confess….”
Falcon B. Mews with aberrant architecture
39