The Note: An uplifting, life-affirming romance about finding love in an unexpected place

by Zoë Folbigg

  ‘What about me?’ asks Dominic, petulantly.

  ‘You can work with Karen. I need to get her off I Should Cocoa. She’s not keeping the client sweet.’

  ‘Karen Burns? Thanks Jeremy,’ says Dominic flatly, giving James a hard stare.

  James supresses his smile so as not to anger Jeremy and Dominic – a smile so small his dimple doesn’t dent. He has three months to make a living from photography. It might not happen, but a few months ago a girl on the train showed him that taking a risk for your happiness wasn’t such a crazy thing to do.

  *

  Sam walks through the glass double doors clutching a newspaper.

  ‘You only just went for lunch!’ says Maya, wolfing down a home-made ham and cheese sandwich at her desk. Even the canteen’s offering has gone a bit flat lately.

  ‘You have to see this, Maya,’ he says, shaking the paper. ‘Have you got time for a hot chocolate?’

  Actually, since Cressida took FASHmas off her, Maya’s workload has been a bit less overwhelming. Maybe she can leave her desk for lunch today, although Sam’s urgency is unsettling her. Her first column as Fifi Fashion Insider isn’t meant to debut until tomorrow.

  ‘Erm, yeah, what’s up?’

  ‘Let’s get out of here, I’ll show you over the road.’

  Maya puts down her half-eaten sandwich, grabs her wallet and slings her floral bomber over her shoulders. On the walk out it occurs to Maya that Sam hasn’t asked her to go for lunch or a hot chocolate or a quick chat at the Venezuelan cafe over the road in a long time. Maybe he stopped asking because she was too busy. Maybe she’s upset him. He has seemed less chummy with her in the past few months. Maya embraces the chance to put things right and gives Sam a jokey little nudge with her arm as she ushers him through the open door first.

  Sam looks around with a paranoid dart, as if they’re doing something they shouldn’t. As if she shouldn’t have touched him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of dodge. It’ll be all over the place in a few minutes.’

  It’s Wednesday. I wasn’t supposed to feel shady until tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ says Maya at the upstairs coffee counter over the road.

  ‘OK I’ll grab a seat.’

  Sam walks down the rickety staircase, heading to the basement seating area. Their favourite sofa is the only available space to sit.

  ‘Boom,’ Sam whispers to himself, the drama of what he’s just read outweighing the heavy heart he’s had for the past few months.

  Maya follows with a cappuccino for Sam and a hot chocolate for herself. Two girls wearing lanyards with the FASH logo around their neck, passes dangling between proud breasts, whisper to each other as Maya passes.

  ‘There goes the Christmas party if it is someone from FASH,’ says the blonde to the redhead.

  Shit.

  Maya sees Sam on the sofa at the back; he’s still clutching his newspaper. It has to be about the column.

  Do I tell him? Surely I can trust Sam?

  Then Maya remembers they’ve barely spoken lately, maybe she can’t any more.

  ‘Still a cappuccino right?’ Maya says as she hands Sam a low curvaceous cup and saucer.

  ‘That’ll do,’ he says, he too realising it’s been a long time.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Maya asks casually, brushing a wave of hair from her face as if to act natural.

  ‘This, man. Check it out.’ Sam thrusts an already weathered newspaper at Maya even though it’s hot off the press. ‘Read it. It’s got to be about FASH. I reckon that’s Cressida they’re talking about too.’

  Blood rushes to Maya’s face in the dark of the subterranean cafe as she pretends to read text she already read a hundred times. A silhouette sits at the top. A black illustration of a faceless girl in a full skirt, one hand on a small waist, pencil and tape measure in another. Wavy hair whisked back in a bun.

  She looks a bit like me!

  ‘Shit, Sam.’ Maya doesn’t know if she’s meant to act outraged or amused.

  ‘Who wrote it, Maya? And why have they got it in for FASH?’

  Maya measures her face. She wants to remind Sam about Rich Robinson buying a yacht so soon after he cancelled staff bonuses and froze salaries. About the indulgence of the executive board’s summer and Christmas parties when warehouse staff are squeezed on minimum wage. About everyone feeling pushed into working longer hours so FASH sells more parkas this year than last. Then Maya realises, if she said it out loud, it would sound petty. That’s business. Deep down Maya knows Fifi Fashion Insider is a personal swipe at Cressida, and she’s not feeling as proud of herself or as victorious as she thought she might.

  ‘Well some of the points resonate, Sam,’ says Maya, teasing the foam of the hot chocolate with her spoon. ‘FASH is as ludicrous a place to work as wherever this girl works. Or guy, the picture could be a red herring…’

  ‘Yeah but why go to the papers about it? Who can be that pissed about working here?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Sam. If Cressida is the nightmare boss this Fifi Fashion Insider is talking about, she’s been rude to lots of people in the past few months, it could be anyone.’

  ‘She’s not been rude to me.’ Narrow, defensive eyes don’t look like they’re smiling now.

  ‘Gee, Sam, do you think it might be because you’re a guy? It’s standard bitch-boss behaviour. Piss on the sisterhood but flatter the guys. It’s the only way she got to be site editor. I saw it happen at Walk In Wardrobe.’

  ‘Hang on, My, you didn’t write this did you?’ says Sam, eyes breaking into a crinkle as he hits Maya’s knee with the rolled-up paper.

  ‘Me? I can only write three or four words at a time, Sam, you know me. “Pastel-poppin prom dresses” and “Jaw-droppin’ jeans”? I know my limits…’

  ‘I know, just winding you up.’ Sam winks.

  Maya inhales hot cocoa and sugar scents, relieved that Sam seems to have thawed.

  Three tech guys walk down the stairs and survey the room for a seat. They wave at Sam and raise their newspapers. Sam raises his back.

  ‘Man it is gonna go off.’

  Maya needs to change the subject fast. ‘Hey guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m over Train Man.’

  ‘Train Man!’ Sam slaps his forehead with an exasperated palm.

  Maya looks mock-affronted to cover up the fact she is actually quite affronted.

  ‘Sorry. I know I was boring. But you stopped asking since I gave him the note, just thought I’d give you a little follow-up.’

  ‘I stopped caring, Maya.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maya shifts in her seat on the brown leather sofa. ‘Well I’ve started seeing someone, a guy I went to primary school with.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Maya waits for questions that don’t come.

  ‘What about you, Sam? Seeing anyone lately?’

  Sam runs his hand up the peak of his 45-degree fringe. ‘Yeah I’ve been seeing someone since the spring actually.’

  ‘Oh. How did I not know that?’ Maya feels like a bad friend. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘You might. Hayley from PR.’

  ‘Oh wow!’

  Sam seems prickly again, Maya feels awkward, and she wonders if it might have been easier to keep talking about Fifi Fashion Insider after all.

  *

  Lucy stands tall at the head of the oval table, hands on hips jutting through a black leather pencil skirt. At the opposite end, the monitor usually reserved for looking at pictures of FASH-forward celebrities is switched off. Cressida, Maya, Alex, Chloe, Holly, Olivia, Liz and Gaby, the new social media manager covering Emma, sit nervously around the table, waiting to hear Lucy’s take on Fifi Fashion Insider, who, in four short hours, has become the talk of Baker Street. Maya didn’t expect the piece to be picked up on this quickly, and especially not for it to be traceable to this small corner of a fashion empire. She makes a mental note to herself: if s
he makes it to a second column, throw in a few red herrings to put FASH off the scent.

  ‘Have any of you not seen this?’ Lucy asks sternly. Razor-sharp butter-coloured bob sitting atop glossy dark eyebrows.

  ‘I haven’t,’ squeaks Liz, who was probably too busy beavering away at her desk to read it.

  Alex slides the newspaper across the table so she can see.

  Cressida’s cheeks flush obstinately.

  Chloe’s red lips hang open, quietly and triumphantly, anticipating the reaction on Liz’s face when she gets to the bit that must be about Cressida, the ‘languid, vacuous, and most unsisterly female boss Fifi Fashion Insider has ever had the displeasure to work with’.

  Olivia tosses corkscrew curls like a flamethrower.

  ‘The PR team work so hard to build the FASH brand so that we’re relevant and reliable in the eyes of our shoppers. What this does is belittle the company and everything we try to do for fashion-conscious women. Rich is livid.’

  Alex shakes his head and the soft whip atop it bounces a little.

  ‘Can I play devil’s advocate without it looking like it was me?’ he asks with charm only Alex can get away with.

  Lucy softens a little and takes her hand off her hip. ‘Of course Alex, go ahead.’

  ‘Well couldn’t Fifi Fashion Insider be talking about Walk In Wardrobe? Or Wicked Style? Or Garment Guru? Or any of the fashion big guns who have websites and in-house models and big offices in London?’

  Maya tries not to exhale a sigh of relief.

  I love you Alex. And I need to speak up fast so I don’t look guilty.

  ‘We both worked there, Cressida, it does sound pretty much like Walk In Wardrobe to me,’ says Maya, clutching at straws.

  Lucy looks at Alex, whose ice cream quiff has wilted a little with the heat of tension.

  ‘It could, Alex, but in this column Fifi Fashion Insider takes the piss out of someone in her office saying, “Once she confessed to having eaten pizza and panini in the same day as if such a disgusting feat of greed and gluttony had never been attempted before...”’

  ‘And…?’ asks Alex.

  A tear rolls down Cressida’s chiselled cheek.

  Lucy takes the deep breath of someone who knows what they are about to say will sound ridiculous.

  ‘Cressida told me she mentioned to the team that… that she once ate pizza and a panini in the same day.’

  Olivia tries not to laugh. She doesn’t know who wrote the column, but she’s bloody glad they did. Her lips stay pursed, her eyes look ignited. She’s enjoying every minute of this meeting.

  ‘Well haven’t we all?’ says Maya, trying to make light of the situation.

  Cressida looks across the table at her with disgust.

  Chloe and Holly smirk.

  ‘Well I’d like you all to keep your eyes and ears open; this kind of treachery needs to be ratted out,’ says Cressida.

  Lucy interrupts, preferring a gentler approach.

  ‘If there’s an insider writing a column for a newspaper, there could just as easily be an insider sending sensitive sales figures, data or strategy plans to our competitors. It’s a sackable offence. Rich Robinson will be sending a company-wide email to reiterate that, but I just wanted to talk to you all first, given the link to what Cressida remembers saying. As far as I’m concerned, if you sit within earshot of Cressida, it could have been you.’ Lucy looks at Maya and Maya’s throat suddenly feels very dry. She did discuss her concerns about Cressida with Lucy only days ago, but she did say that Cressida has ruffled everyone’s feathers. And Maya knows Lucy doesn’t play games. If she thought Maya was Fifi Fashion Insider, she would have spoken to her direct.

  Cressida sniffs while Lucy continues.

  ‘I won’t be going to Rich with that intel yet, it might be coincidence, let’s just hope it was a one-off.’

  Gaby looks bewildered, wondering what she’s got herself into with this maternity cover.

  Holly and Chloe look at each other and put on their best serious faces.

  A text flashes up on Maya’s phone, which she manages to flip over before she or anyone else could see it.

  Editor loves it. Loads of traction on Twitter, more of the same please. TD.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  November 2014

  James looks up at a wall of orange digits rolling, changing, buzzing with the same excitement as the incoming revellers heading out on this Saturday night to theatres, restaurants and parties. The next train to Hazelworth departs in twenty-six minutes, which is almost as long as the longest you ever have to wait for the next train to Hazelworth.

  ‘Shit.’

  James really doesn’t want to wait around tonight of all nights, but he heads towards the large coffee shop in a glass box in the middle of the station. A girl with a doughy body and a low blonde ponytail looks at James expectantly. A black name badge has Nicola written in white chalk on a low breast.

  ‘Double espresso please.’

  ‘Drink in or take away?’

  James looks through the glass up at the clock. Twenty-three minutes.

  ‘Here please.’

  He could do with sitting down.

  ‘Would you like our special mountain blend?’

  ‘What’s different about it?’

  ‘It’s nuttier than the standard blend and costs just twenty pence more.’

  ‘OK then.’

  ‘Would you like a muffin or a cake?’

  ‘No thanks, just the coffee.’

  ‘Sandwich or fruit toast?’

  ‘No thanks, just the coffee.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No thanks, I just want my coffee. Please.’ Wide, exasperated eyes.

  ‘That’ll be £2.10 please,’ Nicola smiles, her perky tone jarring with her worn face and sunken eyes.

  Once he’s paid, James finds his small white cup and saucer at the end of the counter and seeks a high stool in the corner, where he knows his photographic equipment will be encased safely by his feet and glass walls.

  James rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands like a tired toddler. Treacly nutty bitterness bounces on his taste buds. It feels like midnight, not early evening. James was up at 5 a.m. and on the first train from Hazelworth, bright-eyed and excited to be shooting a Paralympian in training for next weekend’s Remembrance Day special for The Observer. His first newspaper gig, which will do his portfolio the world of good. Weddings and corporate headshots are good money-spinners, but they don’t carry the kudos of shooting for one of the UK’s most respected Sunday papers. James had to go into London and out again to Windsor to photograph Matty Weatherall swimming in the Thames, riding his specially adapted handbike, then putting on his carbon-fibre blades to do a lap of the track at a local running club. Matty was a Royal Marine Commando who lost both of his legs in a Taliban roadside bomb in Afghanistan. What James saw today made him feel humbled, pampered and lazy.

  The day had started tetchily – Matty wasn’t overly keen to be tailed by a photographer, but as the hours passed and James quietly and thoughtfully got the pictures he needed without getting in the way of transitions and fuel stops, he won Matty over.

  ‘You know I’m not here to interview you, I’m just taking the pictures,’ James said gently, when he saw a scowl through the lens.

  ‘I know mate, it’s just I’m not doing it for all this. “The media circus” my mam calls it. I’m doing it for me.’

  James put the viewfinder back to his eye and respected Matty even more.

  In a pub on the river at the end of the long, draining training session, James bought himself a pale ale and a pint of lime soda for Matty. And then one shy guy asked another just one probing question.

  ‘What got you through it?’

  ‘My missus. I thought about her every day out there. I thought about her every day during my recovery back here. I think about her when I’m pushing the bike or putting these on my stumps.’ He looked down and tapped one prosthetic leg with th
e other, giving a light tinny ring. ‘I just wanted a normal life for us. A family. I’ve wanted to be a dad since I can remember. But as I got fit, I realised I could be better than normal. I always pushed myself, I suppose that’s how I got to be a marine, but I didn’t realise how far I could go. I’m gonna be a dad next year and Carly is as proud of me as I am of her.’

  ‘Oh congratulations, mate,’ said James, savouring his pint the way Matty savoured his water at every pit stop during his training earlier. ‘You should be proud of yourself too.’

  ‘I am. Every day.’

  In the glass box, James turns the espresso cup around on its saucer and wonders what Carly looks like. How pregnant she is. How it would have been nice to take her picture too.

  James unzips the laptop from its case to have a look at some of the images from today, but then he thinks of her and wants to shake off his feeling of laziness and inertia.

  When was it?

  As James downs his coffee shot he remembers all the furniture of Kitty leaving him. Mid-summer. Long days.

  The note was in my backpack that day.

  James closes the lid of his laptop as quickly as he opened it and wakens his phone by punching in a code. He goes to the sent items in his email. He can’t remember when it was exactly but he remembers her name.

  Search: Maya Flowers.

  Do I still have her email address?

  Sent items show James the email when he told Maya Flowers he had a girlfriend. Last May. Kitty would already have been in a relationship with Simon but this doesn’t make James sad. He feels the pang of hope and yearning as his thumb hovers over the screen of his phone, before he looks up at orange digits and realises he needs to pack away his things and head to platform 10.

  He zips up the laptop case, puts it in his backpack and slings it onto his back, then closes it. The long thin bags of the tripod and the lighting reflector rise out of the backpack, crossing over above his shoulders like the swords of a ninja.

  Camera case in one hand, James lifts his phone off the table with the other. He looks up and sees Maya Flowers through the glass, walking past, heading out for the evening. He is so close, but if he called her name she wouldn’t hear him. If he banged on the glass wall that separates them, the man with his arm draped triumphantly around Maya’s shoulder probably wouldn’t notice either.