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  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Wow, you work fast – you’re moved in and settled down with your guy already.’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘You do live together, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sleeping in the same bed and all, not roomies or nothin’?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I hate to break it to you, hon, but you are officially settled down and living with a guy.’

  Silence.

  ‘How old is Oliver?’ Alicia continued after a few moments.

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. He’s settling down, not you.’

  ‘No, not necessarily, I just — ’

  ‘So why are you messin’ with some other guy?’ Alicia interrupted.

  Polly stayed silent.

  ‘I’m not judgin’ you or nothin’. There’s nothin’ wrong with settling down, if that’s what you want. Is it what you want?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly replied quietly.

  ‘Could you be any less enthusiastic?’ Alicia laughed.

  ‘I do want to be with him,’ Polly said assertively. ‘We have our problems, but doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Depends what they are.’

  Polly sucked in her cheek and bit down on the fleshy inner part while she thought about it. ‘OK. Sometimes I’m not sure how into me Oliver really is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s always really affectionate and telling me he loves me and I totally believe him, but he’s just not very good at showing it.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that we don’t always … you know … he’s not always keen to show me, like … physically how he feels.’

  ‘You mean like sexwise?’

  Polly wondered if such a word existed. ‘Yeah,’ she replied, ‘sexwise.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alicia, pausing to think. ‘If there are a hundred guys on the earth who are right for Polly, what number would you say Oliver is?’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘Say for every person in the world there are only a hundred other people who are right for them, like number one is the most perfect guy ever and number twenty-five is still pretty good, but there might be things that aren’t quite right. Where’s Oliver?’

  ‘Well he’d be pretty high up there because he’s a great guy and — ’

  ‘Just give me a number.’

  Polly considered it for a moment. ‘I’d say nine.’

  ‘That’s pretty good,’ replied Alicia. ‘So, I’ll ask again, why are you messin’ around with this other guy?’

  Polly stayed quiet.

  ‘Like I said, I’m not judging you,’ said Alicia putting her hands up as if to surrender. ‘You wanta know what I think?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Oliver sounds like a great guy, but a pretty damn important part is missing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Passion – that “fuck me right now” feeling – you get me? Sex isn’t everything … well, it is to me … ’ She laughed her raucous dirty laugh then continued. ‘If there’s no sex, then you are just roomies. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t have that all the time. We’ve been together for three years. Things calm down.’

  ‘Did you ever have that feeling with him?’

  ‘Well, sort of – I mean … ’ She couldn’t lie. She’d fallen for Oliver’s compassion and his kindness, rather than …

  ‘Anyway, why can’t you feel like that all the time? It’s not just men who get to feel horny, you know. Fuck, I’m horny all the time and I ain’t gonna apologise for it. You shouldn’t neither.’

  Polly shrank back a little.

  ‘Don’t you be embarrassed about this shit,’ Alicia said defiantly. ‘If your guy isn’t into it, then that’s his problem, not yours.’ She paused. ‘You know what, Polly? I think Ollie’s got you all wrapped up with a cute little bow on the box already.’

  Polly looked confused.

  ‘I mean, it’s like this – take me, everyone thinks I’m this little black girl from Sarf London, I’ve heard it too many fuckin’ times to mention. I’m a triple whammy – not only am I black, but I’m female and I got a big arse and titties to boot. So that’s me in a nutshell – the world has put me neatly in my box. We all do it – people are easier to handle that way. Problem is that once you’re in the box, it’s real easy to start believing it yourself, that you are only these things. No offence, hon, but I’m betting Ollie’s got you in a little box all of your own and this guy has come along and lifted the lid.’

  Polly could feel tears stinging.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you or nothing, but you need to know that you are the boss of you. No one else can make decisions for you and you shouldn’t be looking to no one to do it for you. It’s not about what Oliver wants or what Facebook or frickin’ TV thinks – it’s you. If it don’t feel right, then it’s not right, but if something feels good then it is good – own it. Own your own happiness and pleasure.’

  Nine

  The next morning Polly got up and showered at seven-thirty as usual. She dressed in a fitted black high-waisted skirt and a sleeveless purple linen shirt with a tie detail around the neck. She carefully tucked the shirt into her skirt, making sure it was pulled in tight and didn’t bag over – when it bagged it made her look bloated. Last night’s weather forecast had said it would be hot and humid again, but she went back into the bedroom to get her black cardigan just in case. She hesitated for a second before opening the wardrobe and wondered if all this was really necessary. She decided it was, grabbed her cardigan and then gently clicked the wardrobe door shut. Oliver fidgeted, kicking the duvet up and rolling on to his back. She looked over at him. The hair on one side of his head lay perfectly flat while the rest stuck up wildly, and his cheek had deep creases in it from the pillowcase. She stayed very still until she heard the slow, regular whistling of air leaving his nostrils again.

  In the bathroom, she did her face – a light brush of mascara and a squeeze of liquid blusher on each cheek. She rummaged through the jewellery box she kept on top of the bathroom cabinet, unable to decide what would go with her outfit. Eventually, she slipped on her carved wooden bracelet and the delicate gold chain with a round, hollow pendant that Oliver had given her for Christmas. She struggled with the catch. She contemplated waking him and asking him to fasten it for her, it would give weight to her alibi, but in the end she decided it would be overkill. After a dozen attempts she finally hooked it herself.

  She looked in the mirror and took a deep breath. Her stomach fluttered again. She shook it off and got on with her hair. She ran her fingers through it to get rid of the last of the tangles, then pinned up the front with a couple of grips.

  At 8.20 she pulled on her trainers. She picked up her two bags – a small leather handbag which had her purse, keys, phone, travel pass and other essential bits, and her canvas tote bag that held her book, heels, cardigan and umbrella. She pulled the door shut behind her, and then gave it two hefty shoves to make sure it was definitely locked.

  Once outside, she turned left and made her way towards Shepherd’s Bush tube station, her regular route. She’d given up on the bus; there was no avoiding the tube any more. The builders working on the site across the road were already on their morning tea break. They were lined up on bricks and planks, basking in the sunshine. Polly got three wolf-whistles, one more than usual. She saw the young mother who lived two doors down with her brood. She was trying to squeeze them all into her tiny car. There were little arms and legs kicking and screaming all over the place. Polly smiled at her, but got no response. The woman just stared back blankly, as if her brain were still asleep.

  She turned right into the alleyway at the end of her road. It was a short cut she’d only recently discovered. It took her straight up to the main road, bypassing the junction. When she got there, the guy at the corner shop was already set
ting out the flower and newspaper stands. He was well ahead this morning. As usual, he was overseen by his father standing solemnly at the shop door. He was using a pen lid to scratch an itch just under the front of his turban.

  After that, she didn’t recognise anyone – they all merged into the faceless mass of Londoners.

  When Polly had first moved to London, she’d been overawed by the hustle and bustle of the city and found it exhausting just being here. She’d grown up in a small village surrounded by green fields and wide-open spaces. She never appreciated it until she moved away. In London noise seemed to attack from all angles, and at first she’d struggled with the seemingly endless bodies ducking and diving in front of her. She wasn’t used to the darkness, either. The huge buildings cast shadows over her everywhere she went, so even when the sun was out the air still felt cold. She found herself constantly crossing the road chasing the sunny spots. The first time she walked over Waterloo Bridge, it felt as though she had just come out of a long dark tunnel, but was then straight back into it on the other side.

  Having lived in London for several years now, she was used to its rhythm. There was a pattern that everyone unconsciously followed, a dance that no one needed to be taught. It made sure things moved along smoothly. Londoners knew how to criss-cross effortlessly, pre-empting one another’s movements.

  Five minutes after leaving the flat, Polly got to Shepherd’s Bush tube station. But she didn’t go in as she should have done. She didn’t make her way down to the Central Line. She didn’t fight her way on to a train to Holborn then make the short walk to the office at the other side. She wasn’t going to work.

  Instead, she ducked into a quiet coffee shop round the corner. She ordered a small soya latte and sat down at a table out of view from the front windows. Her plan was to stay there until Oliver went to work, then go back home and wait for evening.

  Her coffee sat on the table in front of her, getting cold. She didn’t normally drink coffee, it made her feel rotten an hour or so afterwards, but she needed something, and it was too early for alcohol. She waited to call Lionel at the office before taking a sip – she was trying to preserve the morning croakiness of her voice. By twenty to nine, she decided it was time. Running out of yesterday’s meeting came in handy – Lionel was full of concern and understanding. He wished her well, and told her to take it easy and not rush back to work. Once she’d hung up, she guzzled down the coffee.

  Oliver was scheduled for the late shift at the hospital so she knew he wouldn’t be leaving the flat until at least ten-thirty. At eleven she decided it was safe to go home.

  Back at the flat, she slumped on the sofa, still wearing her trainers and with both bags slung over her shoulder. She stayed like that, staring into space and thinking – comfortable in her discomfort.

  When Polly was twelve, she had made a plan. She wanted to be engaged for two years before getting married at twenty-eight, then have her first kid at thirty. She wanted at least three children – four if there was time. According to her plan she wasn’t far off track. But the older she got, the more the dream was becoming a nightmare. When she was little, she’d tried to picture what it would be like to be grown-up and living with a boyfriend. She had imagined a woman who was mature and self-assured, in control of her own life. In reality she felt exactly the same as she did as a child, just a lot more insecure. There had been no transformation into this mythical grown-up. She wasn’t there yet. She might never be there.

  She couldn’t help wondering if tubing really even counted as cheating? She knew it did, but it wasn’t as if she was in love with the guy and planning to run off with him; they’d barely spoken. It momentarily crossed her mind that maybe even it was Oliver’s fault: he wasn’t interested so she’d had to go to someone else.

  She went round and round in circles. She prayed for an epiphany or some great revelation – no such luck. The only thing she kept coming back to was what Alicia had said – if something feels good then it is good – own it. Deny yourself nothin’.

  Just after midday, Polly managed to get off the sofa. She changed out of her work clothes and put on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt. She watched TV for a bit, then tried to read, but she couldn’t settle. She logged on to Oliver’s laptop to check Facebook. There was nothing of much interest. She flicked around a couple of other sites then gave up.

  She went into the bedroom and lay down for a sleep. It didn’t take long for her to drift off. Sleep had always been her solace; it gave everything a new sheen, took away all the crap. Today was no exception, and when the alarm on her phone went off at four, she jumped up out of bed feeling full of energy. She was ready.

  Polly strode into a busy Tottenham Court Road tube station – rush hour. She felt giddy, partly with excitement, partly because of the three shots of whisky she’d downed before leaving the flat. She made her way down the escalator, holding on tight to the moving handrail. She was wearing her red satin stiletto heels. They’d cost a fortune, but she was wooed by the five-inch, steel-tipped heels. She rarely wore them; despite the satin finish the peep-toe front strap felt as if it cut right to the bones of her toes. But on occasions such as this she was willing to endure the pain.

  The end of the escalator caught her unawares, and she had to use the people around her for support until she made it to the wall. Commuters huffed and puffed as she got in their way. She felt an irresistible urge to giggle. She felt so filthy, all these people around her going about their usual boring business, whilst she walked amongst them on her way to meet him. She could feel the material of her skirt brushing her naked buttocks.

  She continued down the walkway, staying close to the wall just in case. Her steel-tipped heels echoed loudly along the tiled floor, drawing backward glances from several men. She made her way down the steep staircase that led out on to the westbound platform, revelling in the sound of her heels clanging on the metal runners.

  On the sixth step, the shoes became her undoing. She stumbled, but managed to grab on to the handrail, hoisting herself up just before her bum hit the stair. A torrent of people pushed past her, rushing for the train that had just pulled in. She heard a couple of sniggers and a few commuters turned back to look up at her. Polly stayed put until they’d gone. Only then did she realise that the back of her skirt had ridden up when she tripped and her naked buttocks were on display. As she stood up straight and wrenched down her skirt, she felt like crying. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the feeling would pass.

  ‘You’re OK, Polly, you’re OK.’ Her voice echoed in the empty stairwell. The sound was soothing and made her feel a bit calmer. Her voice was a lot more assured than she felt inside. She brushed herself down, took a deep breath and continued on, albeit with a little less spring in her step.

  The platform was busy and noisy. She checked the time on the board – 5.47 p.m. Her heart started to pound. She walked down the platform behind the crowd that had just come off the train and were now making their way to the exit. Her ankles gave the odd wobble, protesting her heels. She kept her mind focused and busy on the task at hand. She stopped three-quarters of the way down the platform, she reckoned this would be about where the fourth carriage would stop.

  She slowly turned around and made her way to the back wall. She leant against the tiles – they felt cool against the flush of her body. She watched as tourists, shoppers and people on their way home from work trickled in slowly, filling up the platform again.

  The sound of electric ‘eels’ racing down the train tracks made her jump. A strong rush of warm wind lifted her skirt. She quickly moved her hands to keep it down, checking around her to see if anyone had seen, but no one had noticed. The warm wind over her naked thighs and buttocks teased her. She was suddenly tingling all over; she couldn’t wait to see him again, feel his hands on her body. She closed her eyes for a moment, completely losing herself in the memory.

  When she opened them again, her reflection stared back at her in the carriage window that had stopped d
irectly in front. She’d been worried about bumping into someone she knew, but she barely recognised herself. He’d said to look slutty, and she’d done her best. She’d scrunch-dried her hair into big wavy curls. Her hair was naturally curly, but she usually straightened it. She was a little out of practice and had used too much mousse, and, looking at it now, had ended up with beauty queen hair. She’d gone to town on her makeup too. Her eyes were rimmed with thick black eyeliner and her lashes long and gloopy with mascara. Her cheeks had a sheen of pink blush, and her lips were a glossy cherry red.

  She scanned down the train then moved to the double doors at the centre of the fourth carriage. The train doors beeped, then opened in front of her. She took a deep breath then pushed her way in through the mass of bodies tightly packed together in the busy carriage.

  People were squashed in the vestibule and in lines between the seats. Polly squeezed her way into a tiny gap by the door and looked for something to hold on to. The heat was almost unbearable and the air was thick and rank. She gripped on to a handrail at the back of a seat. Her hands felt slippery with sweat. The doors of the train beeped again and then shut.

  The train pulled off into the tunnel. Polly had no idea what to do next, so she stayed where she was. She bristled with excitement.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing happened.

  By the time the train got to the next stop, she was still standing there, waiting. She tried to look for him, but there were too many heads and newspapers in the way for her to see any further than the faces directly in front of her. She managed to push her way round so she was facing the other way, but still couldn’t see him. A woman next to her tutted and the guy opposite gave her a filthy look for upsetting his newspaper arrangement. She glared back. She was starting to panic.

  ‘Where is he?’ she muttered to herself. No one acknowledged she’d spoken, she barely noticed herself.

  It occurred to her that she might be on the wrong train. She unzipped her handbag and groped inside for her mobile. As soon as she found it, she felt hot hands on each of her thighs and a body press in behind her. She stopped dead, dropping her phone back into her bag. She turned to look, but his head darted forward, pressing against her cheek so she couldn’t.