Waterloo-City, City-Waterloo Read online

  Fifteen Friday.

  Fifty-seven Thursday.

  Three Wednesday.

  Hoop earrings, very long nails, reading magazine:

  A great neutral sandal. Rock a tropical print. Rihanna without make-up. Bikini top £3.99. Are you over ombré? Kate snapped up the Mulberry satchel. It’s all about intense hits of bright colour. Think tomato red, acid yellow, fluoro pink, cobalt blue and Quality Street purple. It’s a colour explosion. Love Love Love! Rooney has carved out a chic signature style. Copy her look. What’s not to love about the new pretty vibe? A peachy Prada bag. Spa-factor. Luxe metallica is one trend that always hits the spot. Sleek, stylish ponies. Louise is a natural blonde. Is there ever an excuse for cheating? The perfect girls’ night out. Ali McGraw meets Faye Dunaway. One word: Mexicana. Get it before it goes. There isn’t a stylish woman who’s ever been let down by a crisp white shirt. Bored of cornflakes?

  When was the last time I ate cornflakes.

  Ben’s mum’s house that first weekend visit. She did not like me. I wonder if she’d like me better after getting the promotion. Didn’t think I were good enough for her baby boy. The way I’d ask her a question and she’d answer to him. Turn her body away from me at the table. Then, how did I like being Ben’s secretary. A secretary.

  That she was a secretary once too. Should have kept getting up to answer my BlackBerry the way Ben did. Maybe get more respect that way.

  Beyoncé loves her. I can’t afford to split up with my boyfriend. Luck is an attitude. Wish lists at the ready … Be seen in skirt £14. Totally tropical vintage trophy trousers. Ricki keeps things simple and oh-so chic in this head-to-toe black ensemble. Super-elegant, waist-nipping and tummy-hiding … Her High-Street Highness. Where should Kate’s style go from here?

  Brown jacket, brown shoes, brown corduroy, lips moving.

  Perfect complexion, fingernails bitten to quick.

  Purple trench coat, engagagement ring, trainers.

  Purple crocodile handbag, eating chocolate eclair.

  High-heeled booties, two handbags, red lips:

  Just SO didn’t game it with Curtis. It’s not me. I can’t strategize after a certain point of attachment. Silly fool. It’s my cynicism and non corporate-ness and maybe this has nothing to do with that, but Curtis is driving me fucking nuts and I haven’t even started working on the team. His whole attitude … so egotistical and proprietary. Rather than acting supportive and caring like let me help nurture your vision he’s shooting down things I say, even in casual email or conversation, and then getting all competitive and judgemental if I voice a disagreement with him like when he proposed that currency play I thought was insane. Didn’t respond then dropped it entirely.

  Maybe I should call him on the phone and talk about our working relationship. Because the idea of him being this ‘voice’ of NatWest is so annoying and unrelatable to me. And this sense that it is ‘his’ department, ‘his’ project and I’m brought on to be his conduit. I am overreacting. His bossiness, combined with Dianne’s fearfulness, is starting to feel like a really hard combination for me, with my self-doubt and cynicism, hard to manage. Curtis isn’t the director. He’s sort of an overseer who helps when there is a restructuring. I think part of the problem for him, which I want to be sympathetic to, is that he is in a position of power with nothing specifically to do. I don’t think the others particularly like some higher person coming in and giving helpful advice that they don’t know if they have to take or not. I could be wrong, but that’s my read. If he were the director that would almost be better, because we could go to it and have a real clash if we needed to. And he would have tons of real stuff to do.

  God, I hope I don’t see that puffy-lipped slag again. Cheryl, or Sheri. She really thinks it’s her duty to be snooty. Michelle betrayal continues unabated and is baffling. I think I may not like her any more. Please let this shift. At least these boots make me look tall.

  Pigeon-toed stance, rooster chest.

  Shrugging, holding plastic water bottle.

  Biting nails, watery eyes.

  False eyelashes, knee-high boots, combing hair with fingers:

  I should have asked if I could bring Alex. They probably started talking about me after I left all like, did she ask you if she could bring Alex and shrugging and laughing. But didn’t Jessa bring Lexy to the last one at my house and I don’t think she asked me she just included her in the email chain. It didn’t help that nobody talked to Alex. She looks cold but she isn’t. I should write a thank you note, the nice paper. Kelly must think I’m an idiot after that conversation and how I kept saying the word ‘poo’. Why did I say it so many times, I had only had one White Russian. She probably went home and told Oliver what a weirdo I am and that she doesn’t want to be on my team. That girl’s boots are nice, should I ask her where she got them, maybe I can take a picture of them without her noticing. Or I could just ask her. But what if she’s mean or doesn’t speak English then everyone will look at me. My hair. When Kat asked what is the situation with my hair. And then that woman in Boots said what’s up with your hair. The woman in the queue in front of me at Starbucks had the hair I want. I should have asked her. Or taken a picture.

  Scowling, arms folded, overstuffed backpack between feet.

  Large pearls, studded suede ballet flats, faded lipstick.

  Navy suit, white shirt, no tie, perspiring.

  Blue tent dress, large breasts, scrolling iPhone:

  Fleur-de-lys tie, direct eye contact, Zara Home bag.

  Black trousers, carrying cup of carrots and celery.

  Black pencil skirt, grey scrunchie, reading a copy of Mrs Dalloway:

  … and his eyes (as eyes tend to be), eyes merely; hazel, large; so that he was, on the whole, a border case, neither one thing nor the other, might end with a house at Purley and a motor car, or continue renting apartments in back streets all his life; one of those half-educated, self-educated men whose education is all learnt from books borrowed from public libraries, read in the evening after the day’s work, on the advice of well-known authors consulted by letter.

  As for other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of their struggles has become famous.

  London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith; thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare.

  Penny loafers, left penny missing, doodling on a copy of The Times:

  Ethnic-print dress, red umbrella, snow-white hair.

  Wet hair, wet feet, freckles.

  Wooden-bead necklace, t-shirt, two-piece suit.

  Hands pressed together, briefcase across knees, squinting.

  Large front teeth, mouth breathing.

  RETURN

  Bifocals, reading article on how to cure chronic back pain.

  Black suit, rotating index finger inside ear, then subtly sniffing finger.

  Navy blue dress, distracted expression,
black bra-strap showing.

  Quilted jacket folded in lap, hands cupped to window, looking out:

  Red lipstick, staring hard at nude-stockinged ankles and Nike trainers.

  Fingers laced, chewing gum.

  Navy suit, striped tie, scrolling BlackBerry.

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

  Too young, too young, too young. Baby. Baby. Probably all grown. Acupuncture next Monday, ultrasound Thursday afternoon. Cancel meeting with Bob. Does Bob have kids, maybe he’ll understand if I tell him but no I’ll just say doctor’s appointment. Not even telling Mum. Karen looks pregnant, she might just be first tri, not telling anyone, but looks a little green around the gills wearing a scarf in front of her belly, I could just ask her but that’s not done, not done. I wish I could tell someone, only Rach knows and she’s away. Dying to ask Bella if she flew when she was in her first tri. And what she did for nausea. Not puking at least, but the nausea my god, wish it were dead of winter so I could wear my sea-bands without anyone noticing. The nausea out of control. I’m going to pack on the pounds if I keep eating bagels but bagels is all that settles my tum. Heartbeat last week. Dennis wasn’t there, wish he were there. He did look sad when I told him, but still. Weird I want him so near now this is happening when I just wanted his sperm and to get away from him before. Animal thing. Is it pineapple I’m supposed to eat or just the middle of pineapple. Or is it eggs. Read somewhere about a woman eating six egg yolks a day. Jesus H. If I tell Rick in five weeks, that puts us into the negotiations with Templeton. Shit. Not going to go well. Rick has kids though, right, Rick has kids. And three nannies. And a wife who doesn’t work. There was that picture of her in Tatler. Jesus H. Fancy dress, looking a mess. Nobody looks good in fancy dress. Not even her. Rach told me she was afraid Ken would leave her at eight months when she was fat. He didn’t though. How fat am I going to get. I already feel so bloated and burpy. This part is not fun. I need a bikky. Four fucking bikkies. Cauliflower cheese for supper I think.

  Sunglasses on head, collar popped.

  Black trench, arms crossed over chest, knees hyperextended.

  Perfect ponytail, perfect posture, pink flats.

  Pale blue shirt, reading A Dance with Dragons by George R.R. Martin.

  Yellow tie, biting fingernails:

  Told her I don’t want to talk for a while. How long, she said. Unsure maybe. Then, can’t we talk about this tomorrow. I have a headache and I’m exhausted. Of course. Jas. I don’t know how long, for at least a couple of weeks, or until you feel like you can bring something to the conversation. You hurt me so much, been so careless. I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt. Am trying to leave this smoothly, give you a chance to not feel railroaded. But this isn’t helping. You’ve just hurt me more, being more defensive. Selfish. Gotta get my stuff out of there, leave the key. I know I can be a real sucker. Trying to live less by the hour more by the day but the hour looks pretty good sometimes. Mary, the poetry professor at Birkbeck. Dated Kev four years ago. Trying to get out of that relationship for a while. Made out after we got drunk with Neil’s band. Then the party and slow dance and made out in front of folks, embarrassing. She’s smart. Fit. Not sure what I’m ready for. Well I told her, I said, well you know how I feel. And I think she got that, and she said the same. Her in her puffy jacket with the fur around the head so cute. This guy is such a bore and bad to her. I fancy her. She should go steady with me but if she wants to stay in it for some reason then let it be innit. Valentine’s Day is coming up. The card Jas gave me with a Christmas gift, something like I promise no more taking for granted-ness, no more crankiness next year. Send Jas an email telling her not to get in touch any more. Erase her from phone, text, instant message and put all the stuff she gave me away. I didn’t say leave me alone I said leave me be.

  Dinner tonight with Dev. He’ll have some good advice. Look at him and Cheryl. What’s it been two years; they seem cool. A cat even. But do I want that. Yeah I want that. Didn’t want that when Louise wanted that but maybe want it now. Louise was pushy. Tried to make it perfect. Weird seeing her in Tesco, buying a cake and celery. Still cute but not in the same way, what was it maybe jeans, jeans and little shoes when she would always wear heels. Looked older. Lovely to see you she said, when did she start saying lovely.

  Sad face, holding lilies.

  Green terry-cloth scrunchie, black briefcase.

  Braids wrapped around head, wool scarf tied in bow.

  Chewing gum, holding Coke Zero, Cartier, reading BlackBerry:

  Hi Geoff, I work in marketing at Kilworth, and am part of the team that puts together our subscription programme. My colleague Jill has been working with LMF on the Loughman project – but she’s out on mat leave and I’m trying to fill in the gaps so we can make our deadline. (Which was a couple days ago.) As I understand it, last week Jill sent the proposal but Loughman wrote back today with concerns that we’d strayed too far from your original concept. We were under the impression that we could alter it as we saw fit – so we made some changes. We wanted to create an abstract that bore a strong resemblance to your ideas for the existing framework, but also change it enough so that our subscribers felt like they were getting something exclusive. Charlotte and Jennifer want to make sure you approve of the proposal before we present. It can be accessed via our FTP here: ftp://ftp.Kilworth.com/graphics/Loughman%20DO/HOPE%20LAND%20SKYPE%20DO%20RMX%20FINAL%20%20Folder/ Could you take a look and let us know what you think? If you disapprove of anything, we’ll need to start from scratch on Monday and turn out a new version under a tight deadline, so if you could get back to us as soon as possible, we’d appreciate it. Please let me know if you have any questions, problems with the FTP, or … have no idea what I’m talking about. Thanks, Megan

  Megan. The tall one with Jill that day. Fit. Holes from eyebrow piercing. What if I ran into her. If she was on the train now. Where does she live. Hey, Megan right. Right! I like your (point to eyebrow shyly). Oh yeah, what do you like about it. Kissing hard in the gents. Or is Megan the other one with the green cardigan, smells like pine tree. Megan. Megan. I think it’s the eyebrow one. Fit. Do you ever wear the ring in. Sometimes. Oh yeah. What would I have to do to see you wearing it. I don’t know, first buy me a drink. What’ll you have. Whisky. Would she drink whisky. I don’t have any whisky at home. She probably likes white wine, all birds like white wine, or, like, Coronas. There was that one in New York who liked that Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Tasted like candy. She tasted like candy too but then she threw up then acted like I didn’t notice. She was sad. And they think the English have the drinking problems. New York girls are tougher though. Meaner. I like a little mean, maybe Megan is mean.

  No neck, nine zippers on backpack.

  Very long brown hair, white jacket, black skirt, tapping foot.

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

  Fucking Tanisha. Well, I’m sorry you miss me, but really can’t say that I miss you back. I’m sorry if that is hurtful to hear but I really have not missed you for one instant and I’m glad you had the baby so I could use that as an excuse to cool the friendship a bit. I’m sorry if that is hurtful. Do I want to have lunch again. Honestly. Honestly. No. I don’t like you much any more. I don’t like thinking of how one-sided the friendship was for so long. I don’t like being the friend you always complain to about being tired, about being fat, about being sad, about having shingles, about how much your husband hates his job, and then on top of all that you thanking me for being so understanding and forgiving when you sit like a lump and ask me nothing while your husband drinks my wine, eats my food and insults me. Fucking Gary. Of course you miss me. I fucking want the green ones. Fucking getting them if someone has not bought them now already.

  I don’t understand why you’re so comfortable taking and taking and never giving. I’m actually not very forgiving. Who says to me at the engagement party ‘I’m so tired’ like I give
a shit. Who offers to throw a hen party when she has shingles and is in constant pain, then complains to friends that her feelings were hurt when I don’t take her up on the offer. What is that woman wearing. Those boots are criminal.

  Head in hands, bag between feet.

  Hoop earrings, very long nails, reading magazine:

  Scorpio (24 Oct to 22 Nov): Although you’ll do yourself no favours by talking endlessly about how hard you’ve worked, you need to remind certain people that they haven’t been doing their fair share. It’s important to do so in a way that enables you and those concerned to enjoy yourselves as you get quite a lot done. A healthy, harmonious atmosphere will make all the difference. Virgo (24 Aug to 23 Sept): Rather than struggle with a proposition that’s too labour intensive or costly, consider pooling resources wth someone you can trust. And be quite blunt about the fact that you don’t want to go ahead single-handedly and that it could benefit the two of you if you were to form a working partnership. Make sure terms and conditions are thrashed out before you begin. Ever wonder how Victoria Beckham works a year-round golden glow? Repairing raspberry. Skin-strengthening ginger. Wearing a good sports bra is vital, whatever your size. So cool it hurts. Glow on!

  What am I going to wear to Paul’s wedding. If Ben’s best man where do I sit. Will his mum be there, God hope not but possible. Maybe green, green dress, tan pumps. Something like what Kate wore in LA, what was that. Or the blue I bought but never wore. Strapless but cute, is cute right. No. I don’t even want to marry Ben. Don’t even want to marry. His mum probably wants me to dress like Kate. Boring. Like the girl in accounts, Phyllida, she’s every man’s mum’s dream. Skinny too. I wonder if she is dating. Maybe some older guy, would be funny though if she was dating an indie rocker. I’m way more Alexa than Kate. And that’s what Ben likes about me.