I See You(2)

‘You’d better sort it out, then, Zoe,’ Graham said. So instead of booking viewings I stood in the draughty corridor outside Graham’s office, wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth. Hallow & Reed isn’t a bad place to work. I used to do one day a week doing the books, then the office manager went on maternity leave and Graham asked me to fill in. I was a bookkeeper, not a PA, but the money was decent and I’d lost a couple of clients, so I jumped at the chance. Three years later, I’m still there.

By the time we reach Canada Water the carriage has thinned out and the only people standing are there by choice. The man sitting next to me has his legs so wide apart I have to angle mine away, and when I look at the row of passengers opposite I see two other men doing the same. Is it a conscious thing? Or some innate need to make themselves bigger than everyone else? The woman immediately in front of me moves her shopping bag and I hear the unmistakable clink of a wine bottle. I hope Simon has thought to put one in the fridge: it’s been a long week and right now all I want to do is curl up on the sofa and watch telly.

A few pages into the London Gazette some former X Factor finalist is complaining about the ‘pressures of fame’, and there’s a debate on privacy laws that covers the best part of a page. I’m reading without taking in the words: looking at the pictures and scanning the headlines so I don’t feel completely out of the loop. I can’t remember the last time I actually read a whole newspaper, or sat down to watch the news from start to finish. It’s always snatches of Sky News while I’m eating breakfast, or the headlines read over someone’s shoulder on the way in to work.

The train stops between Sydenham and Crystal Palace. I hear a frustrated sigh from further up the carriage but don’t bother looking to see who it’s from. It’s already dark and when I glance at the windows all I see is my own face looking back at me; even paler than it is in real life, and distorted by rain. I take off my glasses and rub at the dents they leave either side of my nose. We hear the crackle of an announcement but it’s so muffled and heavily accented there’s no telling what it was about. It could have been anything from signal failure to a body on the line.

I hope it’s not a body. I think of my glass of wine, and Simon rubbing my feet on the sofa, then feel guilty that my first thought is about my own comfort, not the desperation of some poor suicidal soul. I’m sure it’s not a body. Bodies are for Monday mornings, not Friday evenings, when work is a blissful three days away.

There’s a creaking noise and then silence. Whatever the delay is, it’s going to be a while.

‘That’s not a good sign,’ the man next to me says.

‘Hmm,’ I say non-committally. I carry on turning the pages of my newspaper, but I’m not interested in sport and now it’s mostly adverts and theatre reviews. I won’t be home till after seven at this rate: we’ll have to have something easy for tea, rather than the baked chicken I’d planned. Simon cooks during the week, and I do Friday evening and the weekend. He’d do that too, if I asked him, but I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have him cooking for us – for my children – every night. Maybe I’ll pick up a takeaway.

I skip over the business section and look at the crossword, but I don’t have a pen with me. So I read the adverts, thinking I might see a job for Katie – or me, come to that, although I know I’ll never leave Hallow & Reed. It pays well and I know what I’m doing, now, and if it wasn’t for my boss it would be perfect. The customers are nice, for the most part. They’re generally start-ups, looking for office space; or businesses that have done well, ready for a bigger place. We don’t do much residential, but the flats above the shops work for the first-time buyers and the downsizers. I meet a fair number of recently separateds. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I tell them I know what they’re going through.

‘Did it all turn out okay?’ the women always ask.

‘Best thing I ever did,’ I say confidently. It’s what they want to hear.

I don’t find any jobs for a nineteen-year-old wannabe actress, but I turn down the corner on a page with an advert for an office manager. It doesn’t hurt to know what’s out there. For a second I imagine walking into Graham Hallow’s office and handing in my notice, telling him I won’t put up with being spoken to like I’m dirt on the sole of his shoe. Then I look at the salary printed under the office manager position, and remember how long it’s taken me to claw my way up to something I can actually live on. Better the devil you know, isn’t that what they say?

The final pages of the Gazette are all compensation claims and finances. I studiously avoid the ads for loans – at those interest rates you’d have to be mad or desperate – and glance at the bottom of the page, where the chatlines are advertised.

Married woman looking for discreet casual action. Txt ANGEL to 69998 for pics.





I wrinkle my nose more at the exorbitant price per text than the services offered. Who am I to judge what other people do? I’m about to turn the page, resigned to reading about last night’s footie, when I see the advert below ‘Angel’s’.

For a second I think my eyes must be tired: I blink hard but it doesn’t change anything.

I’m so absorbed in what I’m looking at that I don’t notice the train start up again. It sets off suddenly and I jerk to one side, putting my hand out automatically and making contact with my neighbour’s thigh.