Charlotte Street (17 page)

Maybe when it retired.

As I got in, Zoe was just sitting down.

‘Who were you texting?’ she said, smiling. ‘Walked straight past you, outside. You seemed engrossed.’

‘Just, you know …’ I stalled. ‘Sarah.’

‘Sarah?’ said Zoe, and there was a flash of something I couldn’t quite place. ‘So you guys …?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not …?’

‘Nope.’

A pause.

‘Shame.’

I flipped the lid of my coffee and sat down at my desk.

‘You guys were good together,’ she said, pretending to find logging on more difficult than it is. ‘It’s a shame you … you know, couldn’t work it out.’

And there it was. The familiar pang of guilt and regret, but stronger this time. Stronger because all this was coming from Zoe.

‘Yeah. Well,’ I said, brilliantly, demonstrating this was the end of the conversation. I stared at my screen and made a mental list of things to do.

Clem was next into the office, noisily clattering the door against the wall, all black slacks under a flood of gut, having used his few days in bed to experiment with an underbeard, it seemed.

‘Morning!’ said Sam. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, I am a little
coughy
, actually!’ he said, beaming. ‘This bloody chest infection!’

I had slowly discovered that Clem wasn’t the quiet, self-effacing man I’d considered him to be when merely popping into the office. Here was a man who hadn’t made it into his forties without being very proud of his powers of punnery, observation and topical satire. I’d go so far as to say too proud.

‘Trains were late again,’ he said, sighing. ‘
That
was a big surprise.’

He left a pause where he considered the laughter should have gone, and then said, ‘Bring back British Rail, that’s what I say!’

I made a polite ‘heh’ sound. But then he turned to face me fully. Now he’d found his target.

‘You know what I call First Great Western, Jase, when I travel with them?
Worst
Great Western. And then I’m like, well I’d hate to be on
Second
Great Western!’

He stared at me, willing my response, but all I could manage was another weak ‘heh’ noise. But this was cool. Maybe he’d exhausted his First Great Western material. And then he tried some First
Hate
Western stuff that seems to be work-in-progress, but didn’t seem to mind when I simply stopped looking, and swivelled back round.

I had press releases all around me, and a couple of reviews I fancied doing myself. The new Jim Jarmusch, for a start. I liked Jim Jarmusch. Or rather, I liked his name. Made me feel I knew about films, just saying it. Made me feel I was the kind of guy who’d buy obscure Colombian coffees instead of Maxwell House, because I ‘can’t
abide
instant’. Made me feel like someone at a dinner party boasting that ‘we don’t even
own
a television, actually; we can’t
abide
the thing’.

Made me feel
impressive
.

Maybe I’d just find out what other people had written about his new film; get a sense for the general reception. No sense standing out on my first few days.

I headed for Google, and as I typed ‘Jim Jarmusch’, I couldn’t help but notice that that wasn’t what was appearing in the little search box. Because I hadn’t typed those words. I’d typed:

Alaska Building London

I checked no one was watching.

I clicked search.

‘Erm … ‘scuse I?’ said Clem, swivelling round on his chair, a moment later. ‘Someone been using my computer?’

I froze.

‘Not me,’ I said.

‘Not you, Jason? Then why is your name in my login box? Unless of course it was not you and was instead the actor from the 1990s television programme
Beverly Hills 90210
. But I have not seen him in the office so methinks it must be you! But it seems strange your name should be in my login box if you’ve not, you know,
logged in
in it.’

All right, Clem.

‘Ha. “Logged in in it”. Logged in,
innit
. That is after all the purpose of a login box. To log in. Innit?’

Fine, yes, okay.

‘Is there a login fairy I don’t know about? A wee sprite, who logs in at random, wherever hence they do wish?’

All right.

‘It was me, Clem. I logged in once while you were off. I just remembered. My computer froze. I needed to log in somewhere else.’

Clem looked satisfied.

‘Mystery solved, methinks!’

He looked delighted, like a man who’d worked out that just by saying ‘methinks’ at the end of a sentence, you turn it into a joke.

‘So let’s see what you did on here,’ he said, turning back to the screen.

‘What?’

‘Let’s check the computer history. I can see every move you made. Hope it wasn’t kiddie porn, Jason. There’s a law against that now, and quite right I say.’

He chuckled, and started to click around, and a prickly, embarrassed heat began to burn my neck.

‘Mate, I was checking my email.’

‘Hmm … let’s see.’

‘Clem …’

He was enjoying this, now, and scrolling through God knows what. I was instantly, sickeningly nervous. What was I going to say if he found out? If he announced it out loud? I Saw You is an office joke, a space for weary sneering and easy cynicism, a space for
look-at-the-state-of-these-people!
, which is an irony, considering the amount of meals-for-one this place goes through, but still, I’d be hung out to dry. I’d be the new boy at school, the one everyone is desperate to slip up, even just once, so that they’ve got a nickname they can use on him for all eternity.

‘Clem, so help me God, I was checking my email. Come on.’

‘Little touchy there, Jason. Mind if I keep looking?’

‘Clem, there’s nothing—’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Jason! It’s my computer, methinks!’

And then I lost it. I don’t know what it was. The raised eyebrow? The patronising territorialism? The innocent jokey stumbling into someone else’s life? I needed to stop him.

‘Clem, you are the least funny man I have ever met, so why not stop fucking around with your shitty little jokes and do some fucking work?’

He sat stiffly in his chair.

You know those moments where you say something terrible that you didn’t know you were going to say and you’ve maybe three or four seconds in which to work out how to make it all seem a lot more lighthearted than you intended? Well, I blew my three or four seconds thinking about that.

‘Jason, shall we have a chat?’ Zoe was standing next to me.

I nodded, and stood up. Clem still hadn’t turned round. I looked at his screen. It remained at the login page.

‘Couldn’t have done it even if I wanted to, Jason, which I didn’t, because I value people’s privacy,’ he said, quietly.

Sam arrived, razor-burned and carrying a terrible muffin.

‘So I think we need to talk about you and Sarah and all that that entails,’ said Zoe, in the Starbucks round the corner.

‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about personal things like that with my boss.’

She smiled. But it was a good out; she knew that. My heart sank when I saw she wasn’t giving up.

‘It’s understandable, you being down … especially after all you guys
went
through.’

She made a pained face.

‘And—’

‘We don’t need to talk about this, Zo. And I’m not upset about Sarah. It knocked me about for a bit, but the best thing to do is just push forward. Find the next moment to look forward to.’

‘Come on, Jase. You get a text from her. Five minutes later you’re blowing up at poor Clem.’

‘The man’s a berk.’

‘Yes, he’s a berk, but he’s a
nice
berk,’ she said. ‘Methinks.’

I smiled.

‘Do you fancy a bite tonight?’ she said. ‘It’d be good to catch up. Hang out, like old times?’

‘I can’t tonight. I’m down to see a gig.’

‘Send someone else. You have that enormous power now.’

‘I’d like to do it myself. It’s a band. Happen to be playing in South London, so I thought I’d swing by.’

‘“Happen” to be in South London? Why are you going to be in South London?’

‘I’ve … something to do. See. Something to see,’ I said.

She looked at me, curious.

‘Do me good,’ I said, nodding at myself, like I’d considered it and maybe she was right, and actually, this might be the best thing for me. Like it was her idea.

She cocked her head.

Flats.

The Alaska Building in Bermondsey is flats. Flats tucked away from South London, and hidden behind the old gates of the converted factory, but flats all the same.

Maybe she lived here.

In, well, an old seal fur factory. I’m not sure I’m usually drawn to people who live in old seal fur factories. Or any place formerly packed with blubberers and fleshers and dyers. The clue was on the brick gates, with a dark and damp carving of an Alaskan seal. There was a pub opposite – the Final Furlong – which was chequered and blue but closed down and boarded up. No one on the streets, though. And no sign of life from the factory.

But still. Maybe she did live here. Or near here. Maybe she drank in the Final Furlong.

Actually, if she drank in the Final Furlong, this was never going to work.

I had the photo on me. My great idea was that perhaps I could ask someone. Keep things as lo-fi and natural as that. ‘Have you seen this girl?’ People do it all the time. They do it for cats, for God’s sake. And it’s not like I’m in Bermondsey all the time. It’s not like I’ll get a reputation for it.

I walked a little further down the street, until I saw the only real sign of life, in a kebab shop. I looked at the photo again.

This girl didn’t look like a girl who ate kebabs. She looked like a girl who probably bought an M&S salad for lunch, along with a Milky Way if she was feeling naughty. I liked that about her. She seemed …
healthy
. There was a glow. But that didn’t take away from the truth that is universally acknowledged, that once in a while, even Mr Motivator needs a kebab.

‘Hi,’ I said, when the man behind the counter finally turned around. ‘Listen, this’ll sound a bit odd, but does this girl ever come in here?’

He frowned, moved some chilli sauce out of the way, and took the photo from me.

‘This girl?’ he said. ‘Missing?’

‘Missing? No, she’s … I’m just trying to find her. We’ve lost touch.’

Now didn’t seem the right time to explain the camera.

‘Wife?’

‘No. A friend.’

‘Why you lose touch?’

‘Just, you know.’

‘You fight?’

‘Nope. So, does she come in here?’

‘No,’ he said, still looking at it. And then: ‘You can put in window.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes. Make copy, put in window. Maybe she come past. Why do you think she come here? She like kebab?’

He laughed for quite a long time.

‘Well, the photo was taken just over there, and—’

‘Make copy. Come, look.’

‘No, it’s okay. It’s probably a bit—’

‘Yes, make copy! Come!’

‘It’s fine!’

But he was hanging on to the photo. And then he was shouting. Shouting for someone upstairs to come downstairs. A young lad – seventeen, maybe, and in an ancient LA Lakers T-shirt – poked his head through a side door and the man, who was now talking to him in the way only a dad could, barked some instructions. The lad took the photo and closed the door, looking at it.

‘He make copy. Canon. Printer does copy. Canon.’

He nodded, and I made an impressed face, and said, ‘Canon.’

I wasn’t sure of the etiquette here. This man was doing me a favour of sorts. Helping me find my old friend who I’d lost touch with by sticking a photo of her in his kebab shop window. I suppose that meant I should buy a kebab.

‘Um … while I’m here, I’d like a kebab, please.’

‘Chilli sauce?’ he said, delighted.

Minutes later the door opened again and out came the lad, holding a sheet of A4 paper with a bad printout of the photo. He’d left space above and below for a message, and he’d brought a selection of colourful pens.

‘Go,’ said the man. ‘Write!’

‘Oh … okay,’ I said.

This was awkward. I’d told the man we’d been friends. Who’d lost touch. How was I going to word this without it making me look mental?

I grabbed a green pen, and then remembered hearing something once about only psychopaths writing in green pen, so I picked up a red one instead.

Are You This Girl?
I wrote, the man watching me the whole time, as he shook a fryer full of chips.
If so, get in touch!

I looked at it. I decided it needed more exclamation marks. So I added a couple in. Then changed pens and added more. And then I realised psychopaths probably did that, too.

The man seemed pleased with my efforts, and so I put my number at the bottom, and handed it to him.

‘Good luck!’ he said, sliding my kebab across the counter. ‘Hope she call.’

I nodded, and popped a quid in his Poppy Appeal tin.

Outside, on a dark street, I stood for a moment and watched the man and his son argue for a second, all lit up, like a private soap opera. The picture hung in the window, smudged and already ignored by a couple, huddled together and heads down, like a team against the night.

I looked at my watch. I was late.

The Kicks were playing in a small venue nearby – Camberwell’s bright green Crown & Anchor on the corner of Rodney Place, next to the windscreen repair centre, just opposite the estate.

They must have felt like they’d made it.

I did, though. Genuinely. Already, I felt like a proper music reviewer, representing my paper. My name would be on the door, I’d been told, saving me the £3 entry and making me feel important.

‘Hi. My name’s Jason Priestley,’ I said, and the girl on the door laughed.

I was used to this.

‘Wow, you smell like kebab,’ she said. ‘Sorry to laugh.’

‘Oh, yes. I just … ate a kebab. I thought you were laughing at my name.’

‘Why would I laugh at your name?’

She quarter-smiled at me.

‘Anyway, I’m from
London Now
,’ I explained.