“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.
Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!
But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.
The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down — so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.
Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.
As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s Vogue, too? I’m about to ask him — then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white) — and something tells me he didn’t.
“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”
“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.
“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.
“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so. . impotent!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us. .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It matters whether we arrive or not.”
“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”
“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”
“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”
He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.
“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”
Oh God.
“I. . ahm. . I’m going to. .”
I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.
I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.
“It’s not that important,” I mumble.
“I don’t believe that,” he says nicely.
Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up — and thank goodness, it’s my stop.
“Good luck,” I say, hastily getting up. “I really hope you get there in time.”
As I walk along the pavement I’m feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what’s more important? Clothes — or the miracle of new life?
As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner — and feel a jolt. There’s a girl coming toward me and she’s carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.
Oh my God.
What if she’s got my scarf?
What if she asked for it specially and that assistant sold it to her, thinking I wasn’t going to come back?
My heart starts to beat in panic and I begin to stride along the street toward the shop. As I arrive at the door and push it open, I can barely breathe for fear. What if it’s gone? What will I do?
But the blond girl smiles as I enter.
“Hi!” she says. “It’s waiting for you.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say in relief and subside weakly against the counter.
I honestly feel as though I’ve run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a “reduced by 50 percent” sign.
I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful.
That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag — and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What’s it like? It’s like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It’s like waking up and realizing it’s the weekend. It’s like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It’s pure, selfish pleasure.