Wednesday

He’s lost his Oyster Card. Had it at the airport when he arrived. Didn’t have it when he got into London. So he has to queue for a ticket. I walk towards the big tube map on the wall. I don’t know where I’m going to go – perhaps if I stand there long enough I’ll have an idea. The thing is though, that the tube map will show you where to change, how to get from A to B, all that kind of thing, but it won’t help you if you don’t know where to go.

I know this. I’m not stupid. But I can’t think of anything else to do – literally not one thing, and because tube maps are helpful, and I definitely need help, I stand staring blankly at it. I am hoping he’ll just go once he’s got his ticket – just go, from there. Perhaps a crowd of people will swallow me up and he won’t see me anymore.

Then I feel his arms close around me, from behind. I turn and he pulls me right into him, close, warm – how we’ve been more or less the whole time, since we arrived here twenty-four hours before

He asks me if I’m okay, and I say yes, because I will be at some point. I will be. He doesn’t look okay either. Then he’s off, and I watch as he goes - through the barrier and along the passage to the escalators and the platforms. I make myself watch as he disappears. I want to run after him – shout his name, make him stop, then say it’s all been a mistake and I’ve changed my mind. This is so normal, this place – I grew up here – everyone around is hurrying – rushing to get to where they want to go – such a normal day, and I’ve just done the most fucked up thing in the world. Why walk away from someone you love – who loves you back just as much, why on earth would anyone do such a stupid thing?

So I phone Zach – I had said I would the day before. The minute his number starts to ring I realise I don’t want to talk to anyone. He answers before I can stop the call

“Allright?” he sounds tired

“Yes. Sort of. Not really. You?”

“No. Not really. What are you doing? Want to meet up somewhere?”

“We’ve just split up”

Saying it – aloud like that – I can’t finish the sentence. Something catches in my throat. I’m not going to cry in the middle of fucking South Kensington Tube Station on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m not. I run my finger under my eyes to catch the tears before anyone sees - brush them away – push them back in – I don’t know. I just want it to stop.

“Oh darling”

“I’m fine – really, I’ll be ok – I have to go”

I click the phone off. I have to. He’ll understand. I stare at the map again, but nothing happens and I think perhaps I’ll just get on any train – it doesn’t matter, otherwise I am just going to stand here and cry all day. Perhaps I’ll just go and sit in the bus station for four hours. I don’t know.

***************************************************

We’re sitting on some rather pretty Victorian tiles outside a pub in Soho, Zachy and I. There aren’t any tables here, just the pavement. Two motorcycle couriers are standing – the pavement’s obviously not good enough for them. They tower over us, and everytime they flick the ash off their cigarettes it drifts down and lands on Zachy’s black linen jacket which already looks as if it’s seen better days.

“Pint of vodka?” he says

“Bottle of absinthe and two razor blades”

He laughs, and goes in to order the drinks. I light another cigarette and shiver. The sun’s gone in. I put my bag in front of my legs. I’m wearing shorts and flipflops because they said it would be hot, so I have nothing else with me.

When he comes back out, we sit there, talking, and I tell him how sorry I am about Marnie phoning the day before – how she is crazy – how could she do that? Screaming at Zach – saying there was nothing wrong with the cottage except where he’d wrecked it, moving things around like that. All perfectly clean give or take. No vermin at all.

She is crazy. We’ve done everything we could possibly do. There’s nothing left. Zachy’s dream is dead and he’s devastated. I tell him how sorry I am and he says it’s ok – maybe he’ll find something similar – some other place he can work, some other cottage in the middle of nowhere. What we can’t do is help her anymore – that’s the saddest thing of all, because I don’t know what she’ll do now. I don’t think she has any options left.

“What about you?” He puts his drink down, pulls a blister pack of pills from his pocket. I take two and thank him. Everything hurts. I’m not sure these will help, but I might as well try. He takes three – three is his lucky number – he takes three of everything

I tell him what happened, and he rubs my arm and says it might work out in the end – you never know. He says when that kind of thing used to happen to him he’d lock himself away and drink for a few days – go on a bender. I tell him I don’t think it would do any good, but I’m really grateful all the same, and I try to knock some of the ash off his collar – it looks like he has extraordinarily bad dandruff.

“How about a walk then?” he stands up, then pulls me to my feet. “Perhaps a bookshop..”

We walk through the narrow streets, all snarled up with vans and taxis and lunchtime people. Suddenly it starts to rain – big rainstorm drops of rain, and the wind comes up, and the temperature falls about ten degrees. Soho is grey and dirty and noisy.

The rain gets worse. We decide to try to find the phone box on the cover of Ziggy Stardust. He’s never been there and always wanted to. I’ve been before, but not for years and I don’t mind going again – it’s something to do - he is being so kind. We stop in a doorway while I look it up on my phone and it says Heddon Street. By now it’s blowing a gale and it’s freezing. We laugh – it’s not funny, but there isn’t anything else to do – we can’t stand in a doorway forever, and we set off.

By the time we get to Hamleys I’m colder than I’ve ever been before. My feet are numb – I literally can’t feel the pavement anymore, so we dash in. This was one of my favourite places but today it’s terrible. Brash, garish, loud – awful fairground music – people in stupid costumes juggling, blowing plastic bubbles, stilt walking. It’s like the worst nightmare you could possibly imagine. Zach pulls a soft toy from a display – there are thousands of them arranged in a pyramid of neon and they have huge bulging eyes, like people when they have thyroid conditions. Suddenly I can’t bear it for one second longer.

“How about Liberty? They have a coffee place”

I have to shout to make him hear me. My legs are dry now, and I can feel my feet. My hair is dripping wet still, and icy cold. I don’t care what I look like. Even Liberty is disappointing – there is nothing I want – nothing I want to even look at. Everything’s ugly today. A group of Japanese tourists are eating a huge tea at the table next to us – plates and plates of triangle sandwiches, little cakes, the works. We drink bad coffee and I feel sick and wish everything was different. I think about him – going back, alone, on the train – then the crowded airport.

Down into the tube – the further down you go, the hotter it gets – airless, except when a train’s coming, and then there’s an unpleasant hot wind. We hug each other – tight, and go our separate ways. On days like this you just have to grit your teeth and wait for them to finish. Maybe tomorrow will be better – even though I know tomorrow I’m going to have to face Marnie, it couldn’t be worse than today.