The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  I decide to just see how I feel on the day. That’s all. Only when it arrives, I spend the morning pruning the wisteria and Japanese maples, avoiding any decision until the actual deadline, which, by my calculations, is about 12.30pm.

  When 12.30 comes, I make the decision to go – and it’s firm enough for me to put away my tools and make myself presentable. As I’m rummaging through my wardrobe, I am hit by a wave of regret that I spent so much money on a dress for Guy’s second cousin’s stupid wedding and not this. When I think of all the gorgeous outfits I could be wearing, the shoes I could have paired them with, I’m furious with myself. Still, I do dig out a nice knitted dress I used to wear in winter for special occasions and team it with ankle boots and tights. I tong my hair, I flick on some eyeliner, I look in the mirror and ask myself, again, if I really want to do this. This time the answer is a sure-as-dammit yes.

  I walk over to the house to see which of my parents are free and even before I’ve opened the door it occurs to me that I should’ve checked first. I find it empty. I phone Mum as I lock up and step back into the garden. ‘I thought you’d be back from Oxfordshire by now.’

  ‘We had a late breakfast and decided to stop off and see Jill and Tony in Abingdon while we were in this neck of the woods. What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

  I study the gate queasily.

  ‘Ellie, have you looked at Instagram?’

  ‘No. It’s not that – I was just thinking about going out, that’s all… but it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Okay.’ She hesitates. ‘Don’t forget Mandy is here this afternoon. She couldn’t do yesterday because of some emergency with her mother.’

  ‘That’s fine. I need to go. See you later.’ I end the call as Mandy is walking up the path, with Oscar behind her.

  He isn’t skipping like usual and instead skulks behind his mum.

  ‘We won’t trouble you today,’ Mandy tells me curtly. ‘Oscar’s going to sit inside. He’s got his iPad. He’s going to watch his YouTubers.’

  I lean my head to the side to see if I can catch his eye. He refuses to come out from behind Mandy’s legs.

  ‘Okay. I was thinking, though, Oscar: I really want to make it up to you for missing your assembly. I’m sorry I let you down.’

  He peers out. ‘I’m sorry I was mean. Can we plant some tomatoes again?’

  ‘It’s not the right time of year. But’ – I glance at Mandy, addressing the next sentence to her rather than him – ‘my friend Jamie has an event today in London, Piccadilly. It’s for his children’s book and there will be lots of activities. It should be nice. I’d be very happy to take Oscar if he wants?’

  Oscar looks up at her. ‘Please, Mum.’

  She studies me, unsure, her usual desire for peace tempered presumably by concern about leaving her son with someone she considers ‘a mad old woman’.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Oh please, Mum!’

  She looks at me. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right with him?’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ I reply, not even remotely certain.

  ‘I’m really not sure.’

  ‘I understand if you don’t feel comfortable with it. Sorry I mentioned it.’

  ‘Mum!’ Oscar pleads.

  She looks at him and sighs. ‘It would give me a chance to do a bit of my own Christmas shopping, I suppose. Oh, go on then.’

  Oscar runs towards me and grabs me by the hand. ‘Okay then,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘Shall we go and have some fun in London?’

  * * *

  This time, we borrow Oscar’s car seat from Mandy’s Fiat and pop it into Mum’s Volvo. The drive to the station is still hairy, but I manage to get there without anything approximating a melt-down, nor any alarming physical symptoms other than a slightly raised heart-rate and knuckles the colour of egg white. The radio helps, as does Oscar sitting in the back crooning along with Elvis to ‘Blue Christmas’. We get stuck behind the Rotary club float, but it at least distracts my passenger, who takes the opportunity to wind down the window and yell his entire Christmas list at Santa, who merely waves back, in between fortifying himself with mulled wine. The wait on the station platform is also fine, even when I’m clutching Oscar’s hand, cold biting my cheeks as I watch leaves dance on the tracks and feel the first inklings of disconnection. A thudding in my ears. A swirl of nausea. Then the train arrives amidst a screech of hot metal and we hop on.

  Agoraphobia and public transport are notoriously poor bedfellows. But, today, I’m going to be okay, I already know that. After all, I’ve done this before. I lived in London once. I saw it all. The nosepickers, the man-spreaders, the sneezers, the people who think it’s a good idea to eat a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish in a confined space with little circulating air. I’ve experienced the intense claustrophobia of rush hour, the hot, angry press of bodies. This train isn’t anything like that, at least not this far outside central London. At least not yet. For now, there are enough seats to find two together and as we sit, I clutch my bag to my chest.

  Oscar chats relentlessly as we hurtle towards our destination, mainly about the fact that he’s going to be in a nativity play. ‘It’s a big part,’ he says. ‘I just can’t remember what it is.’ When we’ve ruled out the roles of Joseph, a shepherd, a wise man, a sheep, a donkey and a lobster (which he assures me is an important one), he finally exclaims: ‘I’ve remembered: I’m a Gabriel!’

  Passengers shuffle in and out at the first stop like the pieces on a chessboard. The closer in we get, the more of them there are, all sharing the same air. But I can do it. I am doing it. My head is clear and focused and I’d already mentally mapped out a plan to change at Baker Street, take the Bakerloo line to Piccadilly Circus, before walking to the bookshop. We pass through Chorleywood without incident. Rickmansworth too. With each stop, more people embark, but I cope, I absolutely cope. But when we’re almost at the mid-point of the journey, the train doesn’t pull away after a handful of passengers have stepped off. Instead, the entire carriage is emptying, until Oscar and I are the only ones left. I glance around, holding my breath. Either something amazing is going down in Harrow on the Hill, or we’ve come to an unexpected stop and are not going anywhere.

  Chapter 64

  I beckon Oscar to stay by my side as I peer out of the door to see the crowd following instructions to exit the platform. I take his hand, step down, and we are swept along in a wave of stress and shopping bags, squawking pigeons and crying children. I start considering plausible possibilities. A terrorist incident? A suicide on the line? Something bad. Yet for all my catastrophising, the thing that’s uppermost in my mind is not the infinite number of potential disasters, but a single small and very personal calamity: namely, that unless there’s another train right behind this one there’s no way we will make it to the book launch in time.

  ‘Are you all right there, miss?’ A man wearing a TFL uniform approaches me.

  ‘I’m just… what’s happening?’

  ‘The line is closed for planned works, sweetheart. Didn’t you see the signs at the station when you got on?’

  ‘I might have been distracted,’ I mumble.

  ‘There’s a bus replacement service if you head outside.’

  ‘I love buses,’ Oscar says.

  ‘Will it get us to Piccadilly Circus in thirty minutes?’

  He sucks his teeth. ‘I think you’d be lucky.’

  Outside, there is a twenty-strong queue for the bus, but an electronic sign tells me that one is due any minute. As we stand in line, I feel hot and cold all at once. But one minute passes and instead of a bus pulling up, inexplicably, the expected time of arrival on the board jumps forward by 15 minutes.

  I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. But this isn’t anything like the sweeping physical sensations of a panic attack. My reaction is entirely logical and completely justified – because we are about to miss Jamie’s book launch.

  A text beeps on my phone. It’s from Lucy
.

  Are you around for Facetime in five mins? xx

  I text back.

  No. I’m at Harrow on the Hill station. No wifi.

  How come?!!! Are you with Mum?

  But I haven’t got time to respond. Instead, my head is whizzing with possible solutions to our problem when another text arrives.

  What’s going on? Are you all right?

  I’m with Oscar, trying to get to Jamie’s book launch.

  HURRAH! GO GET HIM!

  I tut.

  We’re not here to GO GET HIM. We’re not even going to make it. Metropolitan line closed, bus hasn’t turned up, no taxis.

  Her response arrives with lightning speed.

  UBER! I’ll send you the link.

  So I stand in a windy London street, fumbling with the app, before managing to install it, add my details and, I think, order a car. It arrives in four minutes, we pile in and I tell the driver where we’re going, only to learn that he already knows this.

  Of course, driving anywhere in central London is a mug’s game. The roads are congested and unforgiving; traffic doesn’t flow, it splutters. However long you think the journey will take, double it, then add a bit extra. I know all this. Yet the moment I realise that, short of being airlifted, there is no way I’m going to make it to the bookshop for even the last five minutes, it’s like a kick in the stomach.

  Still, I mutter a few prayers. I stick on another nicotine patch for good measure. As we’re travelling down Park Lane, approaching the dazzling entrance of the Dorchester with its terrace of lit Christmas trees, I check the time and feel awash with despair.

  ‘Are we going to make it?’ Oscar asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Oh, Oscar… we might not. I’m so sorry. With all this traffic and the train and… I feel terrible. I’ve let you down again.’

  ‘It’s okay, Ellie,’ he reassures me with a smile. ‘Can we still go to London though, just you and me?’

  I decide not to tell him that we’re already here. ‘Yes. We can still go to London, just you and me.’

  I look out of the window, feeling regret creep up on me. I know Jamie wasn’t even expecting me, but I wish I’d got my act together earlier so I could have been there for him. I take out my phone and compose a text.

  I hope it all went well for you today. I bet you were amazing. Believe it or not, I tried to come and almost made it but the Metropolitan line was closed! Argh. Really sorry I missed it.

  I press send and lower my phone. Then I re-read it, twice. It suddenly doesn’t feel enough. I type another message.

  I’m really sorry full stop xxx

  ‘Here you are.’ The driver pulls up outside the bookshop and I try to pay him, only to be informed that this isn’t necessary either. I step out and Oscar follows me. The street is bustling with shoppers and bright with the glare of Christmas lights. I pause to take it all in.

  Here I am, in one of London’s busiest streets three weeks before Christmas, surrounded by people and noise. Yet the air is flowing freely through my lungs and none of it feels threatening. Not the beeping horns, nor the delighted laughter of excited children. Not the shoppers emerging from Fortnum and Mason, carrying hampers and bags of posh chutneys and Christmas puddings. Not the high-pitched beep of a flashing green man, nor the clash of carols emerging from adjacent shops.

  Oscar and I approach the window of Hatchards and my breath catches. There is a huge, beautiful display devoted to Danny and the Polar Bear, with row upon row of gorgeous, glossy copies, standing proud around a sign that reads: A FUTURE CLASSIC: MEET THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR TODAY AT 3PM.

  The sight of Jamie’s face makes my limbs soften. There is no filter on that photograph, but his handsomeness shines through. I’m again struck by something beyond curiosity, a fizzing disbelief that I couldn’t recognise this when I first met him.

  ‘Is that Jamie’s book?’ Oscar asks.

  ‘Yes. Shall we go and buy a copy?’

  The shop has stood in this spot since the 1700s, four elegant floors of sweeping bookshelves and antique tables, arranged with suggested reads. I head towards the enormous swirl of a staircase in the centre of the room and, as Oscar races ahead, I climb up behind him to the first floor. I can see where Jamie’s event has taken place as soon as I reach the top: on the opposite end of the long room, beneath a Georgian window, decorated with swags of pine and baubles. There are a series of small tables and beanbags, arranged around a larger one stacked with books. The shop is still busy but this particular party is over, the main players have gone home. The children who came to listen and draw, their parents, the author – and the illustrator.

  ‘Looks like we missed the drawing workshop?’ I say to one of the two young women dismantling the event.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid so,’ she replies, gathering up an armful of paper and pencils. ‘There are some signed copies of the book left though. They’ll make a lovely Christmas present. We’ve sold a load of them today.’

  Oscar is already at the table, flicking through a copy of Danny and the Polar Bear. I pick one up too and run my fingers over the image on the front. I open the cover and find two signatures: short, choppy letters that read Ulrika Sjöblad, then underneath: Jamie Dawson, written in his elegant, assured swirl.

  Oscar sits on a beanbag reading as I take two copies – one for me, one for him – then, as I turn to the till, change my mind and decide to make it three. I go to stand in line at the cash desk, close enough that Oscar is still in my sight, when I hear a voice from behind.

  ‘There’s a discount for that many copies.’

  I spin round to see Jamie, in the flesh, for the first time in what suddenly feels far too long.

  Chapter 65

  I feel a surge of elation at the sight of his face, the big, broad frame that somehow seems vaguely out of place amidst the dainty refinement of this bookshop.

  ‘I can’t believe I missed your event.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you came.’

  ‘Well, I tried to come. I was scuppered at every turn. How did it go?’

  Before he can answer I’m at the front of the queue, while Oscar rushes towards him and starts yapping about moonwalking and what happens in a drawing workshop. As I pay for the copies, I glance over to see Jamie taking him to a table and picking up a Sharpie. He begins drawing, as Oscar looks on.

  I make my way over after paying for the books, arriving in time to see him putting the finishing touches on Oscar’s own polar bear picture, which Jamie suggests he should now colour in.

  ‘You really didn’t need to buy those, Ellie,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’ve got copies at home I could give you.’

  ‘I don’t know much about the book trade but surely the first rule of becoming a bestseller is to not give them away for free. They’re beautiful, by the way. So did lots of people turn up?’

  The hint of a smile appears at his lips. ‘More than I was expecting, though admittedly that didn’t amount to much. A lot were mates though. They’re in the pub if you want to join us? Might be a bit packed in there, that’s the only thing.’

  The thought of standing in a busy pub makes my neck prickle, but I’d gladly put up with it if I could. ‘I’ve got Oscar with me, so I’d better give it a miss. I’m really glad it went well though. Just think, you could’ve been an internationally bestselling illustrator all this time, instead of delivering compost.’

  His eyes burn into mine. ‘Delivering compost had a lot going for it. I miss it.’

  Heat builds around my neck and I try to swallow but everything happens slower than usual. ‘Have you actually moved to Sweden, Jamie?’ I ask.

  He releases a spurt of laughter. ‘No. What made you think that?’

  ‘Your replacement at the garden centre thought you had.’

  ‘I spent a week on tour, then stayed a bit longer for a holiday. Did a bit of moose-tracking. Saw the northern lights. It was nice to have a break, you know.’

  I nod, as the bag I’m
holding slips from my fingers to the floor. Jamie picks it up and passes it to me, causing a tiny electric current as our hands brush.

  ‘What do you think?’ Oscar runs over to show Jamie his picture.

  ‘Wow. I wish I’d thought to make the polar bear in the book red and green.’

  ‘Can we go to London now?’ Oscar asks me.

  I grin. ‘Yes, why not.’ Then I look back at Jamie.

  ‘Maybe we can catch up another time,’ he says. ‘A drink perhaps. Though, I promise it won’t be anything like last time. None of that nonsense.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry too, by the way.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You were right about Guy.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m totally embarrassed. Mortified, actually. Especially about all the other stuff I said.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask gently. ‘Is that why you haven’t been in touch?’

  ‘I made a complete fool of myself.’

  I shake my head. ‘Jamie, you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of you to say, but it’s fine anyway. All in the past. All of it. And if it’s all right by you, I think we should pretend none of it ever happened and go back to how we were. Friends.’

  ‘Friends,’ I repeat. And just like that, my Hugh Grant moment drifts away like a plume of smoke.

  Chapter 66

  Oscar and I go shopping. We start next door in Fortnum and Mason, soaking up the atmosphere, which is busy, but lovely too. I load up a basket of goodies from the food hall, protesting with an ‘oi!’ when he pops in a candy cane, before promptly buying it anyway. I also get a small hamper, filled with things Mum will go mad for – caviar, chocolates, rose-petal jelly. Every so often I am struck again by the idea that I am in London, buying presents for the people I love.