“On their way,” says Rosa. “And I really think, Alex, that this is all about specifics. I spoke to Dan Harrison today and he’s incredibly vague….” As she talks, she heads toward the market stalls. Alex seems absorbed in what she’s saying, and Gerard—whoever Gerard is—is sending a text.
As I trail along behind, I feel totally mixed up. So this was always a work thing. It was always a group thing. Am I all wrong about everything? Did I fabricate that spark between us? Am I a deluded loon, crushing on my boss?
But then, as we’re walking along, Alex turns and gives me a little wink. A little flash of camaraderie. You and me, he seems to say. And although I don’t react beyond smiling politely back, I clutch it to my heart like a hug. I didn’t invent that. That was something. I’m not sure what—but something.
—
I don’t stay at the pop-up for as long as the others, because Alex gets caught up in some long phone call from New York, during which Rosa makes it quite plain she thinks I should go back and carry on with the surveys.
“It was great that you gave your input, Cat,” she says briskly. “We love hearing from junior staff. I mean, it was very cool that Alex asked you along. But you’ve really got to crack on with that research, yeah?”
And there’s something quite steely about her tone. So, without even saying goodbye to Alex, I head back. But I don’t feel dispirited—quite the opposite. When I reach the office, I run up the stairs and hum the merry-go-round tune as I make my way to my desk.
Flora looks up. “Hey, Cat. I was looking for you. So, listen, do you fancy going to Portobello on Saturday?”
“Wow!” I say in delight. “Definitely! I’d love to! Thanks!”
Don’t sound so overexcited, I chide myself. It’s only going to Portobello market. It’s no big deal. People do this all the time.
But the truth is, I don’t. Weekends can be a bit lonely for me, not that I’d ever admit it.
“Great!” Flora beams. “Well, come to my house first—we’re just round the corner—and then we’ll go Christmas shopping….”
As Flora babbles on, I sit at my desk, suffused with happiness. Life’s turning around! First of all, an interesting man is…well. What is he? He’s on the horizon. And now I’m going to Portobello with Flora, and I can post loads of cool stuff on Instagram…and it’ll be true. For once, for once, it’ll be true.
The next morning is a proper crisp winter’s sunny day. In fact, it’s so bright, I almost need sunglasses as I step out of the house. I pause on the doorstep to get some lip balm and see Alan at the front gate, engaged in some kind of argument with a stunning teenage girl as he unfolds his bike.
She has glowing latte-colored skin, bright blue-green eyes, super-short hair—almost shaved—and long teenage legs poking out of a school-uniform skirt. She’s holding a stack of flyers, and it’s these at which Alan seems to be directing his ire.
“Charities are all corrupt,” I hear him saying in disapproving tones. “I’m not doing it anymore. It’s all middle-management bollocks and tube ads. I’m not paying money for a tube ad. You want to help someone, help a real person.”
“I am a real person,” objects the teenage girl. “I’m called Sadiqua.”
“Well, I don’t know that, do I?” says Alan. “How do I know you’re not a con artist?”
“OK, don’t give me any money,” says the girl, sounding exasperated. “Just sign the petition.”
“Yes, and what will you do with my signature?” Alan raises his eyebrows as though to say, I win, and gets on his bike. “And this path is private property,” he adds, gesturing to our crumbling, crappy path. “So don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas?” The girl stares at him. “What ideas?”
“I couldn’t say. But I’m telling you: private property.”
“You think I’m planning to occupy your front path or something?” says the girl incredulously.
“I’m just saying, private property,” Alan repeats impassively. He cycles off and the girl makes a furious sound, like the whinny of a horse.
“Tosser!” she exclaims—and I have to agree.
“Hiya,” I say as I approach her, wanting to make up for Alan’s rudeness. “Are you collecting for something?”
“Petition for the community center,” she says, in such a garbled way it comes out “Psh’ncommucenter.” She hands me a flyer reading Save Our Community Center, and I glance over it. It’s all about cuts and children’s prospects and it seems like a really genuine thing, so I put a couple of pound coins in her tin and scrawl my name on the petition.
“Good luck!” I say, and start striding off down the road.
A moment later I’m aware of a presence at my shoulder, and I turn to see that Sadiqua is following me.
“Hi,” I say. “Did you want something?”
“What do you do?” she asks chattily. “Like your job and that.”
“Oh! Well, I’m in branding. Creating images and logos for products. It’s really interesting,” I add, in case this is my chance to provide Inspiration To The Younger Generation. “It’s hard work but rewarding.”
“D’you know anyone in the music industry?” Sadiqua continues, as though I haven’t spoken. “Because me and my mate Layla, we’ve got a band and we made a demo.” She produces a CD from her pocket. “Layla’s uncle made these. We just need to get them out there.”