‘But you’re a smart girl with a great CV and you haven’t even looked, Chloe.’
I stuck my tongue out at the phone.
‘Telling me what I have not done is really not helping, thank you, Heidi. I need positive comments right now. Do you not think I deserve a bit of support and sympathy or have my two best friends decided I’m a loser and already cut their losses?’
‘Of course not, I do sympathise and I promise I’ll come round after work but right now I have to prioritise and… Gerry, put that down… don’t do that Gerry. Come on now. Let’s talk about why you want to cut your head off… I’m sorry, Chloe, I have to go.’
I gazed out of the window at the grey winter afternoon. The old man from the basement flat below pottered in his garden that was the size of a generous shoebox. Perhaps a knee-length boot box. He held a watering can, his narrow shoulders stooped as he poured water onto the window boxes attached to the wrought iron fence bordering the pavement, despite it being evident from the angry sky that a rainstorm was approaching. He chatted animatedly to a nonchalant cat with black and brown splodges on its fur that looked as if it had been finger painted by a toddler. The cat conscientiously licked every inch of its fur while its owner chatted, the cat jumping every so often as if spooked by the presence of its own tail.
A door to my left opened and closed and the young Chinese woman from number nine carried her red Quinny baby buggy down the steps to the street. While she lovingly tucked her baby in like Moses about to be sent off down the river, she passed the time of day with the old man. His bald head tipped back occasionally when something she said made him laugh. She gestured frequently towards her child as she recounted, I imagined, the amazing feats he or she had achieved that day like waking up and burping.
I sighed and pressed my palms up against the windowpane.
‘Denise, I am officially at the self-pity stage,’ I said out loud.
Was that even a stage? I’d forgotten. If not, it should have been. I made a mental note to call the show first thing on Monday morning.
I had been living in my flat for five years and it was only now I realised I had been resolutely modern British in my approach to my neighbours. I was polite and friendly. I exchanged conversation about the weather, I stroked their dogs and admired their children. I was respectful and quiet. Yet I didn’t know them. There were only a couple – Neil and Ali – whose names I knew… or was it Abi? Heidi was the sort who left a spare key with her neighbours and they left theirs with her so that she could let herself in and look after their cats when they went on holiday. Perhaps my insular behaviour stemmed from the places I had lived in as a child, which either did not have keys or, if they did, were in such dodgy locations that if you left said key with a neighbour, they would be round with a few mates and a white Transit ridding your house of its contents. Either that or I was simply unsociable.
Now, as I looked down at the old man and the young woman brightening each other’s lives for a few minutes, I regretted my actions. For the second time that week, I felt excluded from a club. They were all in a cosy neighbourhood club and I hadn’t been invited. Well, how bloody dare they? (It was the anger stage again, Denise). I raised a fist to knock on the window but it froze in mid-air. Admittedly it may have been my fault. After all, I had always left early for work and come back late and when I did have free time I had either wanted to dedicate it to my friends or shut myself away in my sanctuary without worrying about the possibility of nosy neighbours banging on the door to hang out on my lovely cream sofa.
I glanced back at my immaculate sofa. It looked as good as new. I sighed and pressed my hand back on the windowpane. What I wouldn’t have given right then for a less pristine sofa that reflected a life full of the fun comings and goings of friends, neighbours, family, children, dogs, cats… anyone. What good was it all if I didn’t have anyone to share it with?
Steeling myself to be brave, I plastered a smile to my face and rapped on the windowpane. The woman ducked as if a roof tile had been dislodged. The old man glanced around at street level and (I have no idea why) sniffed the cat. The cat stared up at me, blinked and then returned to licking its bum. I knelt up on the window seat, opened the little window above the main pane and knocked louder this time. It was the young Chinese woman who saw me. I waved enthusiastically. A brief smile flashed across the woman’s face and she gestured to the old man. He turned to face me, held his lower back with one hand and his wire-rimmed glasses with the other and looked up.
‘Hi neighbours!’ I called through the little window, my smile now manically set on my face. ‘How are you? Anyone fancy a cup of tea? Come on up!’
They were polite enough to smile but then the young woman pointed to an imaginary watch and grasped the handles of the buggy. The old man pointed at the sky, lifted the cat from the wall, nodded to the young woman, waved at the baby and, with a brief smile in my direction, shuffled indoors. I’m sure the cat even sneered. The young woman pulled up the hood of her jacket and hurried away at such a pace I swear the wheels of the buggy were smoking by the time she turned the corner at the top of the street. Any ounce of self-esteem I had left climbed out of the open window, teetered on the window ledge and dived headfirst into the Mr Downstairs’ basil plants. He had it coming, the unsociable old git.
CHAPTER SIX
Pinch of salt
I ordered a skinny something or other with sugar free syrup and no cream. And a triple chocolate muffin. I chose the comfortable purple armchair in the window, its fabric worn by the tucked up feet of students and the sharp suits of the office workers who frequented the café. From there I had a view of the Tyne Bridge; the magnificent green metallic structure that was still the King of the Quayside despite the addition of the Millennium blinking eye bridge that twinkled at night like the Tyne Bridge’s pretty Princess. Most Geordies would admit to feeling at home at the sight of the bridges dominating the river and, despite not officially being a Geordie lass, I always had the same reaction. The fact that my office had a view of the bridge had only cemented my love for the area. My office that I could see now from my worn purple armchair through the glass of the coffee shop door as I waited for six o’clock and the end of the working week.
Really? Had I really become the office stalker?
‘Can I get you a top up, pet?’
Resisting dragging my eyes away from the glossy blue office door with the neon BLUNTS RECRUITMENT AGENCY sign above it, I glanced at the young man in his coffee shop uniform. He had one thumb tucked into the pocket of his green apron and the other hand outstretched towards my cup. His smile was as sweet as the muffin.
‘You’re very welcome to stay and warm yourself,’ he beamed, ‘but you’ve been nursing that half cup for about an hour without moving so I just wanted to check you hadn’t died.’ He laughed like someone running a glittery stick over the top notes of a xylophone. ‘Only joking, I just thought you might like a fresh one before we get canny busy and you have to queue. It’s like Leicester Square in here after six with all the business folk rushing in and rushing out. Always rushing as if they’ve got somewhere important to be.’
‘You mean Piccadilly Circus,’ I grumbled, letting him take the cup.
He wafted a smooth-skinned hand.
‘Do I? Ee well I cannot imagine what that’s like, pet. Leicester Square was manic enough for me.’
He wriggled away and busied himself at the counter while singing a Little Mix song at top volume. I wished I could be so happily uninhibited. He soon returned with a fresh cup of coffee topped with so much cream and chocolate it looked like a cake in a cup.
‘Just settle up with me before you go.’ He leaned closer and winked. ‘I added extra toppings on the house because you look like you could do with a bit of cheering up.’
I blinked up at this sweetly handsome young Barista who could not have been much older than nineteen and I felt a lump surge into my throat. It might have been the muffin but I think it was in response to the
sympathetic tilt of his head. This young man pitied me. Me, the successful manager from the office across the road who had rushed in here and rushed out again on many an occasion because I did, in fact, have somewhere important to be.
I cleared the lump with a sharp cough and lifted my chin.
‘I’m fine thank you. Wonderful. Great. I just have a naturally downturned face. I’m like Jack Dee, only female.’
His smile faltered.
‘And I’m just relaxing here for a moment before I have to rush off. It is Friday after all and I’ve had such a hectic week at the office I’m entitled to a little down time. I’m a recruitment manager you see, I run the office, I’m very successful.’ I tried to ignore the way his eyes moved over my sweatpants down to my Ugg boots. One week out of the rat race and I had turned into a chav. I grabbed my caramel leather Tod’s bag. ‘I bought this for myself you know and it’s very expensive. I don’t have a rich boyfriend.’
‘You don’t say,’ he said with a tight smile.
‘I’m independent. I rule with an iron rod, keep my staff on a tight rein. I’m like one of the Dragons only I’m currently undercover. Yes I’m doing some undercover recruiting. Honestly. I work just over th…’
My arm froze in the direction of the coffee shop doorway that was now blocked by the still figures of Naomi, Nigel, Kimberley and Ben. The Barista made a loud popping sound with his lips.
‘Thank God for rush hour,’ he chirped and wriggled away.
I was aware I was opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish that had jumped out of its bowl and was slowly dying on the carpet. Naomi glanced at Ben, who nudged Kimberley, then all three took a step back, leaving Nigel in front as the spokesman.
‘Are you alreet, Chloe?’
His voice sounded nervously high-pitched.
‘Me? Of course, of course, never been better thank you, Nigel. I was just… I was…’
If his was high-pitched, mine was like a dog whistle.
Naomi shook her head, her wayward curls bouncing from side to side as she scurried towards me and pulled a red velvet armchair close to mine.
‘Sit, sit,’ she said to the others, flapping her hand.
‘Careful you don’t sit on the iron rod,’ I heard Nigel mutter.
Naomi tutted at him, sat close beside me and placed her hand on my arm.
‘We’re gutted for you, Chloe. It must have been such a shock. Margaret’s doing the petition and that but I don’t think it’ll change their minds. And well we’ve wanted to contact you this week like, but we thought it best that we didn’t remind you of what you were missing.’ She paused. ‘Not that you’re missing anything other than the usual boring old business.’
Nigel laughed.
‘But we did staple Gary’s jacket to the chair when he was still in it and he didn’t even notice, the bell-end, until he tried to go for a piss and took the chair with him.’
‘That was mint!’ Ben chuckled.
Ben and Nigel hi-fived each other.
‘Oh and Kimberley got off with that accounts temp who’s got a wonky eye,’ Nigel hooted.
‘Shut up! It is not wonky. It’s just a bit lazy,’ Kimberley squealed.
‘Lazy!’ Ben snorted. ‘It’s so busy looking everywhere else but forwards it must be chuffing knackered, man.’
‘It’s been a funny week,’ Ben laughed.
‘Aye it has that,’ said Nigel.
‘Guys you’re not helping,’ Naomi hissed, ‘can’t you see how bad Chloe looks? Have some sympathy, please.’
My eyebrows leapt towards my hairline.
‘Thanks, Naomi but I’m fine. I’m just chilling out here with a coffee and reading a…’ - I glanced around for a magazine but there wasn’t one – ‘… thing and meeting a few friends in a bit as it happens.’
Naomi pursed her lips and nodded while gently ‘uh-huh-ing’ as if she were talking to a person of limited intelligence.
‘Right, aye,’ she said, glancing at Kimberley who was staring wide-eyed at my sweatpants, ‘but you do look canny bad like.’
I rubbed my hands on the scuffed jersey wishing I had changed before I left the house. I had even forgotten to put on makeup. I might as well have sauntered into town wearing just stretch marks and a smile.
‘I was at the gym,’ I protested. ‘My new fitness regime, which is great because I have all this free time and so very soon I’ll have a body like… well like Jesse J and my personal trainer, Juan…’
Juan? Said the sane part of my mind, which was reducing in size by the second. Get a grip, Chloe.
‘…yes Juan said I could even release a workout DVD at the end because I’ll look so amazing. The Redundancy Regime DVD. Brilliant isn’t it? It’s intense exercise and diet.’
I nervously lifted my coffee to take a sip and my nose disappeared into a small mountain of cream. As I wiped it away, I saw Nigel lift his finger to his temple and wind it up. After years of being their responsible boss, I was losing their respect in a matter of minutes. My entire reputation wiped out by a pair of Gap jogging bottoms and a coffee topped with so much bloody fluff it could have been reclassified as soft furnishings.
I pulled my arm away from Naomi’s pitying touch and looked at my watch.
‘I have to dash guys. Things to do. I’ve been so busy all week with one thing and another I haven’t even had time to miss the office, you know, gym, lunches, meetings.’
‘Meetings?’ said Naomi a little brighter.
I jumped up and held my bag in front of me in the hope it would cover my sartorial disaster.
‘Oh yes, loads of meetings. This head has been hunted so much I’m surprised it’s still on my shoulders. Only this afternoon Henry Watkinson called and offered me an incredibly exciting opportunity but I said “Sorry, Henry, I can’t be rushed. I need to focus on a little me time. A little Chloe Baker time. If you want the best, you’ll have to wait until I’m ready, Mr Watkinson,” that’s what I said.’
‘But Watkinsons announced they were going into liquidation on Wednesday,’ Naomi frowned.
I swallowed.
‘Er, yes I know that. Of course I know that. Ear to the ground, finger on the pulse.’ I began to edge towards the door. ‘It’s a new venture… very hush hush. Top secret. So, um, anyway guys great to see you but I can’t stop I have to…yes, bye then!’
I clattered through the door and gasped for breath. Before the door swung shut and I began to run, I heard the happy little Barista shout – ‘Oi! She didn’t pay for that bloody coffee, the tramp!’
The Metro station at Monument in the centre of town was packed with commuters, snogging teenagers and terrifyingly young single mums pushing prams and eating Gregg’s pasties. The new pastime of the ‘hoodies’ or ‘ragies’ as they were referred to in Newcastle, was apparently to play their music loud on their mobile phones without headphones so we had no choice but to share their dubious tastes in music. The tinny racket competing for the most annoying award on all sides of me sounded as if it had been made by alien life forms. Muttering to myself about the youth of today having no respect, I slung the shoulder strap of my bag across my body and stood as far away from another human as was possible on a four-foot wide platform.
A smart woman of about my age in a stylish black coat, knee length leather boots and carrying a black Prada bag, clip-clopped confidently across the off-white tiles and stood beside me. After years of commuting on the same line, it came naturally to me to smile at other ‘professionals’ like myself. I glanced at the woman, flicked my head at the coughing and spitting ‘ragie’ behind me and raised my eyes to the ceiling. The woman actually did a double take, raised her Prada bag protectively to her chest, pursed her lips and turned away. I gasped and, swinging my own expensive bag excessively to catch her attention, tried to concentrate on holding back the tears.
I used to be you! I wanted to shout at the stuck up cow. And I never thought this would happen to me. Don’t look down on me!
Yet hadn’t I don
e the very same in the not too distant past?
I was still swinging my bag like a pendulum beside her when the train cruised along the platform and the doors hissed open.
Either I was distracted by my own thoughts or all the fight had left my body. Whatever the reason, I found myself jostled backwards while Miss Snooty Boots and her fellow commuters, the ragies and the single mums fought their way onto the train.
‘Stand clear o’ the doors, please,’ warned the announcement.
‘Bloody hell,’ I cursed out loud as the doors slid shut, leaving me still standing on the platform.
Tears welled up in my eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day. If I maintained the same rate, the Environment Agency would be issuing a flood warning. Angrily, I banged on the door, the tears blurring my vision. I just wanted to be home in my flat where I could hide from the world and its cruelty. I hated everything and everyone, including myself.
It was a smiling face and the wave of a hand clutching a familiar pink tissue that suddenly cleared my tears. I gasped. The handsome man from Tynemouth Metro Station – Malachy Doyle’s brother - stood on the other side of the glass door just inches from my face. He tilted his head, made an exaggerated sad face and waved the tissue before smiling again. His shiny ebony hair covered one eye but the other eye sparkled mischievously. I surprised myself by smiling and then laughing. He had caught me crying in public on a platform for the second time in three days. The poor man must have thought I was always a gibbering wreck. If only, I thought, I could have opened the door and explained. Fate had brought us together for a second time, if you believed in that sort of thing, and I had royally fucked it up twice. Sliding doors.
I waved as the train made a buzzing sound and my knight with shining eyes slowly moved to my right. As he did so, he frowned, glanced at the door, reached out and lifted up a Tod’s bag in soft caramel leather identical to mine.
What happened next must have, in reality, occurred in seconds but in the repetitive flashbacks I suffered afterwards, the incident seemed to have so many stages and thought processes it could have been hours.
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