Waterloo-City, City-Waterloo Read online

  Leanne Shapton

  WATERLOO–CITY,

  CITY–WATERLOO

  A Sketchbook

  Contents

  OUTGOING

  RETURN

  Acknowledgements

  Penguin Lines

  Camila Batmanghelidjh and Kids Company Mind the Child

  The Victoria Line

  Danny Dorling The 32 Stops

  The Central Line

  Fantastic Man Buttoned-Up

  The East London Line

  John Lanchester What We Talk About When We Talk About The Tube

  The District Line

  William Leith A Northern Line Minute

  The Northern Line

  Richard Mabey A Good Parcel of English Soil

  The Metropolitan Line

  Paul Morley Earthbound

  The Bakerloo Line

  John O’Farrell A History of Capitalism According to the Jubilee Line

  The Jubilee Line

  Philippe Parreno Drift

  The Hammersmith & City Line

  Leanne Shapton Waterloo–City, City–Waterloo

  The Waterloo & City Line

  Lucy Wadham Heads and Straights

  The Circle Line

  Peter York The Blue Riband

  The Piccadilly Line

  OUTGOING

  Tasselled red loafers, riding gloves, thick tweed, silk scarf, holding leather bag to chest.

  Fedora, lipliner, black Fila trainers, reading Flood by Stephen Baxter.

  Family of four eating assorted biscuits from tin.

  Quilted jacket, hands cupped to window, looking out:

  Houndstooth jacket, dyed red hair, Converse All Stars, earbuds, glancing at other passengers:

  No baby. Baby. No baby, no baby, no baby. Maybe a baby. Too young. Old. Hate fruit. It’s good for you. Always cold. Did I take the pre-natals. Fucking folic. Usually no children on this train, what is that family doing here; how old is the mother, thirty-eight, forty. Allie said pineapple but is that luteal or follicular. Omega-3s, kale, berries, there was that piece about Chinese herbs, herbalist. Hate acupuncture. Should try it again or maybe some relaxation exercises or meditation. I’ll do it now. Breathe … Blank white wall … Yellow dress from Cos. No … How did Sheila get pregnant after those three IVFs, how did she even afford them, where do people get their money. Babies and renovations. Usually at the same time. Sheils said something about vitamin D. But then Allie said full-fat dairy and nuts. Ice cream … Blank white wall … I don’t want twins like Allie. One of them is okay but the other one is a nightmare and his head is flat at the back. A litter …

  Blankness … Do I still have the number for that acupuncturinst. Abu, Abdi. Where’s my phone. (Mints, Zyban, E45, reading glasses, lipstick, need to get that one Tom Ford colour Flamingo, keys, floss, stick drive. Phone.)

  Hi Danielle, Your FSH level from your last baseline was 8.4. See you next week! Phonebook. A: Aaron, Abby, Abdi

  Will call at lunch. Goji berries, coconut water. No soft cheese. No, that’s later. I wonder why Keira isn’t pregnant yet. Clomid dose might be too low or something.

  Two black computer bags, black jeans, blue shirt unbuttoned to sternum.

  Biting nails, reading A Dance with Dragons by George R.R. Martin.

  Yellow tie, eating a Danish:

  So she didn’t like the colour. Gotta pick my battles. Can count like seven bad things that have happened since I left Bristol. It’s kind of piling up. Harsh of her to be giving me shit about not responding to emails when she hardly ever responds to mine including the one I sent Monday. Not keeping score, just was hard with all the stress of other stuff. Mary seems cool. Should invite her to the party but have to defer to Jas for the overall arc of the night since last time I made her hang out with my friends and the night ended in tears. Nothing fatal.

  I know I should end it. It was weird that time I fucked up my elbow and she didn’t even remember, then laughed. And that time she asked me to her work dinner and then there was no space for me at the table, WTF. She’s so cute but she’s always saying sorry. That ain’t right. It’s been what almost two years. When I told her I didn’t want to talk for a while, after the last fight, she brushed me off. What is that. It’s just off. Something’s off. Have I ever felt something that is not off though. Maybe in school. Should just focus on my job now. Dad’s happy I’m with Lakehead, making OK money, for my age. Lakehead’s OK, a stepping stone. Have to get along with that twat Phil though. God what a twat. His whole thing is twatty. A few of the girls think he’s hot which is baffling. I suppose he makes them laugh. Would Jas like him. Christ what if she would. H. Christ. She didn’t even take me seriously when I told her I didn’t want to talk for a while. Jas, hello, I’m breaking up with you. Tonight. It’ll be nice with Jas, just relax. I’ll meet Mary before and then we’ll all grab a curry or something, get to know each other, it’ll be fine. Maybe they’ll be friends, talk about me. I don’t want them to be friends. Jas already has a thing against Mary and they haven’t met. But I guess it’s justified. She senses. She can smell it, all girls have that sense. What am I going to do. I think I want out with Jas. I keep saying this but she changes the subject. That time I told her I didn’t want to talk for a while. How long, she said. Unsure maybe. Then: can’t we talk about this tomorrow. Dodge a bullet. But she’s so cute when she’s all vague. I just gotta end it. No discussion. She’s got on my tits for so long and she knows it. I gotta be the guy. I’m the one who gets broken up with usually, the one who gets fired. Maybe it’ll feel good being on the other side. She’ll cry though, then I’m useless. Her crying. Mary’s not like that. Jas knows it’s coming.

  Ear-clip headset, black square-toed shoes, playing backgammon on iPhone.

  Kombucha drink, moustache, tan suit.

  Striped plastic carrier bag, pink wedges, smirking.

  Lavender shirt, red folder, enormous watch.

  Clean shave, FT, Cartier, reading BlackBerry:

  From: Ngu, Trang

  RE: file

  To: Jenkins, Geoffrey

  Hi Geoff, For some reason I cannot open the file, but if you are out of town for the next month, we won’t be able to work out a meeting anyways, but the idea sounds great. We won’t need stats until 6 Sept. You could keep a record and we can do a forward projection. Let me know.

  Thanks! Best, Trang

  Trang. Trang. Black turtleneck. The little one with the shiny hair. Cute. Looks like the bartender at Eight. Quiet. Maybe doesn’t have a boyfriend. Looks like the porn girl. So hot. 6 Sept. Set up a meeting. Hot.

  From: Jones, Helen

  RE: lunch menu

  To: Shore, David; McCarey, Colin; Duenwald, Mike; Hadin, Toby; Lombardo, Mark; Jenkins, Geoffrey; Wills, Ida; Hodgerakis, George; Griffiths, Peter

  Hi Guys here’s the menu, http://kiranindian.co.uk/

  Let me know what you’d like. Helen

  Why are Mark and Toby before me on the list. Helen likes them more, are they nicer to her. I never noticed Helen, fat bird, retro glasses, weird type. Does she have any sway with David. She must, god I’ve been so dim. OK. Helen, cute top. Helen, what are you reading. Seen any good movies, Helen. That one’s not bad. Maybe she’s cool. What is with the dresses she wears like from the fifties, Mad Men or whatever, looks like she’s got up for Halloween half the time. Sometimes though those weird birds are kinky, with the Madonna underwear or corsets and whatnot. Maybe Helen likes a bit of play, bit of hanky. She’s got that arse at least. Maybe some pony business, where’s she from. Leeds maybe.

  From: Lombardi, Mark

  RE: Lucy’s last day

  To: Crittenden, Lucy Cc: Shore, David; McCarey, Colin; Duenwald, Mike; Jenkins, Geoff
rey; Hadin, Toby; Lombardo, Mark; Wills, Ida; Hodgerakis, George; Griffiths, Peter; Patrick, Ian; Jones, Helen; Charlotte, Standing; Moffat, Casey; Edemariam, Heidi; Tibor, Bjorn; Lukas, Attila; Peet, Catherine

  Friday, sadly, is Lucy’s last day here at Kingfisher. That evening, after close, please join us in mourning our loss – and in buying her more drinks than she has any real intention of consuming.

  Where is the easy part: the bar of the Slug. Among the maze of rooms, the bar is the one without tables and with fewer tellys.

  When is trickier: Friday closes being what they are, we’ll head down there some time between 7 p.m. and 10. Expect a more exact departure time as the date approaches.

  Lucy. Which one is Lucy.

  Two leather handbags, reading glasses on head, holding teacher’s union memo.

  Holding coffee cup and banana peel.

  Quilted jacket, pointy black shoes, large watch, earbuds:

  I have not cultivated my talents. I have not tried hard enough. I like Adele’s voice because it reminds me of Aunt Harriet, I like sewing because it reminds me of my mum. I am not good at my job. There will be no soap in the soap dispenser again. The scars of your love remind me of us/ They keep me thinking that we almost had it all. Will go see Gary and Tanisha and the baby after work and bring food. Crisps, more milk, bread and bananas, bottle of red. Maybe I can go in my lunch hour. Crisps, more milk, bread and bananas, bottle of red. Should I buy the shoes. I bought the blue ones a while ago. On eBay they were new in the box for £165. I think it’s outrageous the lady wants £250 when she probably got them at a sample sale for £100. But I love the blue ones – cornflower or royal – so much I want the green ones too. They weirdly go with everything and are instant updaters, which is what I need to get by in a corporate environment. The blue go with the yellow dress, the grey suit. Green won’t go with the yellow, but they’ll go with the pink. Blue go with the black but not the brown, green will go with brown, they’ll go with everything, I need to get them.

  The scars of your love remind me of us/ They keep me thinking that we almost had it all. I love Adele. The scars of your love remind me of us/ They keep me thinking that we almost had it all. Who gives a sofa to someone anyway, we were totally crazy to even do that, especially when Tanisha moaned for weeks about being pregnant and having to arrange to get it picked up. After moaning for years about not being pregnant. We never should have given it. Who gives someone a sofa. And what is with the emailing and asking if we want to have dinner when you leave it up to us to decide on date, restaurant and time. That is a crap invitation. Crap. Crap invitation.

  Two-piece suit, sandals with socks.

  Heavy-framed glasses, windswept hair.

  Grey shirt, grey suit, grey shoes, listening to MP3.

  Straight long shiny hair, large Yonex tennis bag, reading texts:

  Please don’t silent treatment. I told you the things I did out of sadness, not anger. Sent 07:35

  I can’t stand it any more. If you can’t control your outbursts I’m out. You leave me no room to respond, all I hear is you coming at me. Received 08:01

  I gave you room, you just defended yourself.

  Like always. Sent 08:01

  I was explaining my position. Received 08:02

  Which is defense, not apology. Sent 08:03

  Why can’t you just apologize? Sent 08:10

  When you are flying off the handle

  I can’t apologize. Received 08:24

  Why can’t you apologize before I lose my temper? Sent 08:25

  Brown shoes, khakis, Prince of Wales check jacket, blue rubber bracelet.

  Grey dress, large breasts, chunky necklace, crying.

  Leopard-print scarf, doing Metro crossword.

  Black jacket, black trousers, black shoes, blue shirt, shaved head, holding stopwatch:

  00:03:58. For 2.4 km. I can swim that, I can swim that in 40:00:00. Today at the Grange Club. Hope that wanker isn’t there too. If I can go a 23:00:00 for the 1500m I can do 40:00:00 for 2500m. Training is paying off. I can do this.

  Yellow-and-black skull cap, shirtsleeves rolled up.

  String of pearls, lipstick on teeth.

  Glossy head of hair, blue cotton suit, nose in air.

  Swiss army backpack, discreetly inserts mint in mouth:

  Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. OK.

  Today: glide through the lobby, affable smile to security. Nod to Tony. All systems normal. Play it cool. That girl looks like Gillian. Wearing that lacy top she had on last Tuesday. Top Shop or Bond Street. Nice. Pink nipples or brown. Pink. Does she like me. Maybe just a bit. Give her boyish grin. That is not Gillian. Eyes down, look away from the tits. Or maybe Dan’s in the lift. Dick in a suit. Not even a sharp one. Clothes make the dick. Does he know I’ll outmanoeuvre him today, tomorrow and every day he puts his dickishness in my face. Wonder if he thinks I like him. I’ll ask him out for lunch. Two Rieslings, lean into him, look into his eyes. ‘Hey Dan, are we friends, you and me?’ Him, taken aback. What can he say. ‘Course, dude. You’re the coolest guy in the office.’ Maybe he would. Shit. Abort.

  Out the lift and into reception. Morning Jake. Morning Gavin. What does that guy do all fucking day. Watch porn. Maybe there’s a category for that: drilling the gay receptionist – law, banking and multinational editions. Slide down the corridor, polite hellos to all who dare come before me. The fire inside is not a fire you see. Into the office, flick the blinds up. Sun’s going to be in your face, pal. Ten to ten, cowboy time. Settle the nerves. This is how it will go: Drew comes in, gesture him to sit down across from me. Got three inches height on you buddy. Keep up with the smiles. Don’t let him know what I know. Then out it comes, sotto voce: ‘So, Drew, a little birdie tells me there may be some differences of opinion with me re: you … Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth than through the grapevine, yes?’ Better to get it straight from the horse’s arse, you shit-talking prick. See it now: Drew shifting in the chair. Me playing cool, eyebrow raised. Drew squirming, eyes blinking against the sun, thinking up lame response. Give him a minute before I put the knife in … What’s he gonna say. ‘Oh Gavin, I think you’re great. There’s never been a problem between us.’ Shit, what if he does. Rewind. Gotta go in harder, faster. No margin for error. Can the pleasantries. Minute he walks in, I give him the old samurai stare. Samur-eye. When I look at you like that, you’ve been looked at. Don’t even offer him the chair. Straight in: ‘Drew, I’m tried of hearing second-hand the shit you’ve been talking about me behind my back … No, please don’t interrupt. I’m talking … This is how it’s going to be.’ Drew panicky, like some fat old prizefighter who knows he’s gonna get knocked down. ‘So here’s the deal: I have eyes and ears in every office on this fucking floor. I have this place covered. You wanna start something, you better be ready to finish. ’Cause I’m already in the tenth round, and I wasted guys younger, smarter, tougher than you, and I got off on doing it. You got that?’ Bank. Stay cool. Samurai. samurai.

  White ballet flats, keeps falling asleep.

  Fur-lined coat, tote bag, counting on one hand.

  Two identical black handbags, runny nose.

  Knitted hat, wingtips, toothpaste at corner of mouth.

  Black hijab, both black-gloved hands holding pole.

  Enormous scarf, two handbags, reading Kindle.

  Large backpack, pink hoody, holding map of London, reading iPhone:

  You’ll like the Waterloo–City line. The majority of passengers on the W–C line are traveling between all points converging on Waterloo Station, and Bank, in the City. The majority of passengers are on their way to and from work. This work is usually in the finance sector. There are few children, strollers and elderly. The trip is brief, the occurrences of one-unders are minimal, chatter is rare and the view is nil. The line has a nickname: The Drain. This might refer to the physical properties of the line, running as it does beneath the River Thames in a sort of curve reminiscent of plumbing. Also to the complete
emptying out of the cars at both ends. It’s like what we have in NY – the S train between Grand Central and Times Square.

  Some stats I found for you: Construction on the line began in 1894, when men bore through the clay beneath the Thames at a rate of 10 feet every 24 hours. The line is one of the oldest in the city, but was not part of the London Underground until 1994. Before then it was operated by British Rail.

  When you get out walk southwest and head toward Waterloo Bridge; you can cross here to get to the Globe theater and my favorite pub is there too.

  If all your favorite things are here why didn’t you come with me. The invitation was open, you could have said yes instead of being all like, Oh you’re going to have a great time, I’ll make a list of all my favourite places and things to do and it’ll be like I’m there with you. Not even getting the hint that I was inviting you to come. You’ve been here so much when I told you I wanted to go it was like I was saying let’s go. It was like saying I want you to come with me. Then we could have got this off the ground and not had it be such a secret any more. You could have told your wife it was for my work, for the guideblog I was working on and needed a friend to travel with. She’s cool, she would have understood, then we would have been here together. Then we would have been on this fucking train together and doing all of the things you told me about. You know London so well it’s like you’ve written the blog already. Shit. You know everything about London already. You would have been perfect.

  Pink tie, pimp roll.

  Two handbags, sweat beading on forehead.

  Woman with eyes closed, copy of Easy Living in lap.

  Fat man, both hands twisted outwards resting on knees.

  Chewing pen, Asda bag, mole like a tear.

  Black wheelie-bag, black boots, pink rose in hair.

  Counting passengers, chewing gum:

  Thirty-seven today.

  Sixty-two yesterday.