We Met in December

‘Shall we stop for lunch?’ he asks.

‘Yeah.’ I point to the sign that beckons us through the little alleyway. ‘There’s a café upstairs there, in Neal’s Yard.’

We climb the stairs, which are rainbowed with a million postcards and posters, advertising everything from toddler gymnastics to Chakra Rebalancing.

‘D’you get your chakras rebalanced often?’ Alex grins.

‘Never. That’s probably why I’m so clumsy.’

‘Maybe they should start offering it on the NHS.’

The café’s cramped and the staff seem slightly frazzled, which feels at odds with the whole hippy Zen vibe it’s giving off from the signs outside. We find an empty table. The uneven walls are painted with thick white paint, and woven hangings are displayed on a rail with price tags underneath. I lean forward, thinking I must have read it wrong, but no.

‘They want £120 for that?’ I nudge Alex and his eyes widen in surprise. He passes me a menu. We both look at it in silence for a moment.

‘Hi, people,’ says a tall woman with her braids tied back in a thick ponytail. ‘Do you need time to have a think, or are you ready to order?’

I catch Alex’s eye and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh, because the menu is – well, it’s not Starbucks, that’s for sure.

‘Can we have a couple of moments?’

‘Sure. I’ll leave you some of this for now. It’s rose-quartz-infused water.’

She puts a carafe down on the table. There’s a pink crystal sitting at the bottom of it. We both contemplate it for a moment before Alex drops his head in his hands.

‘If we weren’t so bloody British, we’d get up and leave,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘Instead, we’re going to have to have a rice milk latte and a—’ he looks down at the menu and frowns ‘—spiralised courgette and carrot hummus open sandwich on pressed raw grain bread?’

‘I dunno, I quite fancy the radish and sprout salad,’ I say.

‘I want a cinnamon and raisin bagel, and a large bucket of coffee.’

I groan at the thought of it. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a bacon roll.’

‘Maybe we could get one on the way back.’

‘Ready to order?’ The woman has returned, and – being too polite to leave – we request our food, then sit back and look at the clientele. There’s a woman with two scruffy-haired children who’ve been freed from their pushchair. They’re climbing over the cushions on the bench to draw pictures with thick crayons.

‘Cute.’ Alex looks over at them.

‘I bet they’re called Hephzibah and Moon Unit, or something.’ I take a look at them, trying not to catch their eye in case they come over and start making conversation. I find small children slightly alarming.

‘No way.’ Alex shakes his head. ‘Myrtle and Theodore, and they go to a Steiner school and her husband earns shitloads working as an investment banker.’

‘Like the ones next door to us? You reckon?’

‘Totally.’

We’ve seen the family from next door going in and out a few times. They’ve got two nannies, I think, and a gardener, and a fleet of cleaning people who come in every morning. The children go off to school wearing the kind of expensive-looking woollen coats and hats that suggest they’re at a posh private school.

‘They must think we’re lowering the tone, don’t you think?’

Alex grins. ‘What, Becky and her random collection of low-rent waifs and strays?’

After the waitress brings our food, Alex takes a bite of his open-topped sandwich and makes a face. ‘God, this is disgusting.’

‘It is a bit weird,’ I say, picking a radish off the top of mine and biting into it. It’s got some sort of lime dressing on it. I steer the conversation back to Becky and the house. ‘I don’t think Becky knows what to do with the house, so it seemed like the easiest thing to do.’

‘Have you looked at the price of houses on our street?’ Alex raises an eyebrow.

I nod. ‘Have you?’

‘She’s like – literally beyond your wildest dreams rich. She could sell that and give up work forever.’ He sits back, giving up on the sandwich.

‘Not if she wanted to live in London.’ I carry on dissecting my food.

‘True. Anyway we better not go putting ideas in her head when we’ve just signed a lease, or we’ll be screwed. There’s no way I could afford a place in central London on what I’ve got.’

‘Me neither.’

We sit back in silence, watching the children as they try and climb out of their chairs and escape.

It’s only been a week, but Alex and I have got into a bit of a routine with our Exploring London walks. He’s had some time off, and it’s been nice to wander about and find my bearings a bit. I still reckon I could get lost quite easily, but I’m beginning to join bits of the city up and make sense of it. My first day is next Monday – and I’m being extremely noble about the fact that there’s something going on with him and Emma. Although I’m not sure what that something is – I haven’t heard any more nocturnal happenings but I can’t be sure. I’m just repressing all thoughts about how gorgeous he is.

He gets up to use the loo, climbing out of the tiny space in the corner where our table’s situated. A woman with a baby in a backpack asks him to help reach the highchair that is hanging folded on the wall behind us, and I try very hard not to notice as he reaches up, showing a strip of slightly tanned skin and the edge of his boxers peeking out underneath his jeans. Okay, I’ve repressed almost all thoughts. I am human, after all, and living with the nicest man you could imagine who just happens to be sleeping – on the quiet – with one of your other housemates isn’t quite as easy as you’d think. I grit my teeth and make a face, surprising the waitress, who looks at me with a confused expression.

CHAPTER SIX

Jess

14th January

The office of Elder Branch Publishing is smaller than I remember from my interview. Or maybe I just expanded it in my imagination in the six long weeks between being offered the job and waiting to start. Anyway, the nice thing is that it’s as bookish as I remember. And when I walk in, an office full of heads shoot up, meerkat-style, and my face goes very red.

‘Ah, Jessica,’ Veronica greets me. Veronica is the publisher, which I’ve learned means she’s basically where the buck stops. She’s very nice, very posh, and very busy. I don’t correct her and tell her it’s Jess, because she’s quite fierce and I’m extremely nervous.

‘So, as you’ll know, as Operations Manager you’re responsible for keeping all the publications on track, but of course you got the job, so we can be certain that you’re going to be absolutely wonderful. This is Sara. She’ll show you the ropes.’

Sara gives me a tour of the office. She’s tall and thin, in a flowery dress, and opaque mustard-yellow tights that match her cardigan. In fact everyone in the office seems to be wearing a variation on the same outfit. Most of them are in a meeting, but the handful I’ve met have that shiny, expensive-looking hair that comes from being well-nourished and brought up with lots of healthy outdoor activities. They’ve all got the same accent too – sort of home counties crossed with London – and I’m feeling distinctly suburban. Sara’s hair is held back from her face with a Kirby grip, which she takes out and puts back in about five times in the process of our conversation.

‘So, basically your job is just to make sure you keep all of us in line, hahaha,’ she snorts, as if the idea is slightly unlikely.

‘Not all of us are as disorganised as you,’ says a voice from the other side of my desk. A head pops up. ‘Hiya. I’m Jav.’

She’s tall and slender in a pair of black trousers and a jade green tunic, her long black hair hanging down her back. Her desk is neatly stacked with books and thick printed manuscripts, a pencil case from The Strand bookstore in New York, and a reusable coffee cup. It looks exactly like you’d expect an editor’s desk to look.

‘Jess,’ I reply, with a little wave.

‘Jav likes to put us all to shame by terrifying her authors into delivering on time.’

Jav raises her eyes skyward. ‘I just happen to be efficient, that’s all.’

Unlike the rest of my colleagues, she’s got an accent from somewhere up north – Manchester or somewhere around there – and I warm to her instantly. Not just because she’s efficient, although I have to be honest and admit that’s a bit of a plus. I’ve been used to working at my own pace in the past, and I’m a bit apprehensive about my work performance now hanging on whether a manuscript gets delivered on time or if a publishing schedule goes awry. I swallow and try and look as if I’m super confident.

Sara steps back and gives a ta-dah sort of wave in the direction of my desk. It’s empty, with a desktop computer and a leftover stack of Post-it Notes sitting beside the keyboard. Someone’s already left me three proof copies of books that aren’t out until next summer. I look at the covers and can’t help thinking how nice it would be to climb into one of them and—

‘Right,’ I say, tapping the top of my desktop monitor in what I hope is an authoritative manner, ‘I better get to work.’

‘I’ve left email logins on a Post-it Note – you can change your password and stuff, obviously, and there’s a meeting about the Tiny Fish publicity campaign at half ten. You should pop in, meet the rest of the team.’

Jav pushes her chair sideways when Sara leaves, and swings herself round.

‘Just shout if there’s anything you need.’ She tucks a stray lock of black hair back behind her ear. ‘I know it’s a bit scary on the first day, especially when you’re not – well—’ she lowers her voice ‘—one of the posh lot, but they’re all very sweet really.’

‘Oh God. How did it go?’ Becky drops her bag beside me on the kitchen table with a crash. I’m sitting with my head in my hands, my hair hiding my face, so I can see why she’s thinking the worst. I lift my face up to see her looking at me, head on one side, like a concerned sparrow.

‘Oh, it was fine. I’m just so tired that I can’t move. You know what it’s like when you start a new job – you’ve got so much stuff to remember and your brain gets overloaded. I could literally fall asleep here.’

‘That’s not a good idea,’ she says, briskly. ‘We’re supposed to be going to Pilates, remember?’

‘Oh my God. I can’t.’

‘It’ll be good for you.’

‘I don’t want to engage my core and strengthen my glutes. I want to lie on the sofa with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and watch crap on TV.’

‘You can do that afterwards. It’s not on until nine.’

‘You know what I mean.’

She hooks me under the elbow and tugs me up to standing. ‘Come on, I’m not going on my own. Last time I did that creepy Charles tried to hit on me afterwards.’

‘FINE,’ I say, yawning so hard my jaw cracks.

The thing about living in Notting Hill is that even the most basic gym class is super posh. There’s a string of black Range Rovers parked outside the fitness studio, and inside everyone’s Lululemoned from head to toe. I’m in a bog-standard pair of sports leggings from JD Sports and a vest top, so I hide at the back of the room so nobody notices me, taking a yoga mat and parking myself in the corner beside a young mum who has a sleeping baby in a carrier. Becky’s standing at the door answering a last-minute call when the instructor walks in.

‘Hello, everyone.’ She’s a cheerful looking Australian woman of about forty-five, with the figure of an eighteen-year-old. Her buttocks are so perky that they look like they need their own morning TV show. She tosses her water bottle to the side of the room and claps her hands. Her ponytail swings. Oh God, I think, this is shaping up to be a torture session.

‘Now then,’ she says, giving me a welcoming smile. ‘We’re going to shake things up slightly this evening, for those of you who like to hide in the corners. Pull your mats back a couple of feet.’

Everyone does as they’re told. There’s a very quiet murmur of dissent, but nobody’s brave enough to speak up.

‘Excellent. So the back row is now the front row, and the front row is the back.’ She looks very pleased with herself.

I don’t know who’s more disappointed – the Lycra-clad goddesses who like to show off in front of everyone, or the scruffy reprobates like me who are now centre stage. I’m pretty certain my knickers have gone up my bum and now I can’t hoick them back out.

I haven’t been to a gym class since school, when Miss Bates the terrifying PE teacher used to make us do yoga with a side order of military-style barked instructions. Now I’m standing beside my mat wondering what exactly I’m expected to do.

We start off lying down, and it all seems very restful and soothing. But the next thing I know we’re on our sides doing something with our legs that’s making me want to cry. I’m not the only one. Just as we shift positions, the baby starts screaming at the top of his lungs, and there’s a brief – but oh God, much appreciated – pause as his mother hisses an apology and gathers him up and exits, trailing muslin cloths and water bottles, her yoga mat unravelling behind her. I eye the clock. Another half an hour to go and then I can escape.

‘Keep those heels together. We want to feel those glutes engaging,’ she says, cheerfully.

My glutes feel like they’ve been set on fire and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit down again. This is torture.

It’s possible it’ll go down in history as the longest half hour of my life. I’ve seen Pilates classes before, and I always thought they looked pretty gentle – like exercise classes for people who can’t be bothered getting all sweaty. Except now I’m lying face down on the floor with my arms by my sides, doing what looks like the tiniest little movement. I wait until the instructor has passed by me and flop my arms down onto the mat, and lie there quietly, like roadkill.

15th January

Next morning, I wake up with the alarm and sit up with a yelp of pain.

Last night, as we’d walked home Becky had said, cheerfully, ‘You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow.’

Bloody hell she wasn’t joking.

‘You all right?’

I bump into Alex as he’s coming out of the bathroom, wrapped in a grey dressing gown. He’s towelling his hair and looking amused.

‘No I am not all right. Becky took me to a torture chamber last night and now I can’t actually walk, and I’ve got three meetings in a row this morning.’

‘You need to come for a walk to loosen yourself up. You free on Friday afternoon?’

I nod. ‘Ow.’

‘It hurts to nod?’

Stupidly, I nod again. ‘Apparently. Ow. Anyway, yes I am free. Well, I’m working, but we all get Friday afternoons off to work from home, so … as long as I catch up over the weekend, I think that’s fair enough.’

Alex looks at me, one eyebrow cocked slightly.

I press my lips closed. God, I can’t half go on. ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. I’m free at one. Want to meet me here and we can go for a wander?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Alex

18th January

I meet Jess after lunch. She’s still in work clothes – a pair of dark grey trousers, black boots and a soft red jumper, which is an improvement on my work uniform. I’ve been living in scrubs for the last week on a placement in the paeds ward, and it wasn’t until I got home last night that I realised I had a teddy bear sticker stuck to the side of my beard. I’d like to think nobody noticed, but knowing the staff of Paddington Ward, I suspect they thought it was amusing.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes,’ she says, but it’s in that sort of brittle, not very convincing kind of way.

‘What’s up?’

‘Just one of those days. Loads of work stuff.’

‘We don’t have to do this if you’d rather get on?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, I need the fresh air. Just that first week of work thing. I feel like I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

We start walking.

‘So how did you end up knowing your way round London so well?’ Jess asks as she pulls her hat down a bit further on her head. It’s weird that January’s often colder than December – even though December is the month most associated with winter and snow. It feels a bit like it might snow now – the sky’s a funny sort of yellow-grey colour.

‘My dad worked here for years. He used to get the train up, and when I was old enough I’d come up with him in the holidays and just sort of wander around.’

Jess looks at me sideways like I’m a weirdo. ‘On your own?’

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