Seven Daze (12 page)

Next door had reappeared at some point overnight. God knows where they’d been or what they’d been up to. Maybe he should have broken in while he had the chance. He shook his head. What was the point? He may have got a few hundred or some near worthless credit cards, but not ten grand. Plus, it was too close to home.

Leaving at ten to one, Jim walked the heavily-trodden path towards the cinema and coffee shop round the corner. Arriving a few minutes beforehand, he checked inside but she wasn’t there. Leaning against the wall, he checked his phone for missed messages: none. Of course, he knew she’d be late. She’d blame not being able to find her strapless shoes or her front door key or something.

He looked again inside the coffee shop. It had a lot to answer for. Selling its near infinite range of unpronounceable coffee-themed drinks, it alone had brought their initial conversation. He wondered how different things might be if she hadn’t cried so much when the ambulance left, or if she’d refused the offer of a drink.

He sighed. He’d never know.

He had to admit, this whole idea of dating someone was both new and scary. Not the same variety of scary as walking into a prison dining room on your first day; eyes everywhere trying to catch yours so they can accuse you of staring at them. No, it was different. A more awkward, stomach turning fear of being hurt in a different way. On the inside instead of out.

She arrived ten minutes late. Watching the sun catch her hair and smile, with her flowery summer skirt clinging to each step, Jim felt her entrance couldn’t have been better if a Hollywood director had staged it. With ten paces to go, Jim rested his head on his shoulder. The wolf whistle he was desperate to let out held back. Smiling, they walked the last few steps to each other. Unsure again whether to offer a kiss or his hand, he just said, “Hello.”

“Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find my strapless shoes.”

Jim’s smile nearly turned to a laugh as he shrugged his shoulders. “You look fine.” He quickly added, “More than fine.”

She smiled again as they walked past the cinema and the piece of tarmac that Geoffrey had nearly croaked on. Side by side, Jim thought of taking her arm but didn’t.

“Wonder how he is,” said Jim.

“I’ll ring the hospital later and find out. They said yesterday he was doing well.”

Jim nodded.

The conversation stilted as they neared the station. Charlotte hadn’t launched into the tirade of chatter Jim thought she would. Jim himself struggled to think of an intelligent topic. Polite conversation about the weather, disappearing shoes and the last art exhibition Charlotte had been to was all he could muster.

Arriving at the tube station, Jim inserted some coins into the machine to buy a one day travel card.

“Haven’t you got an Oyster?” She flashed her blue card at him.

He’d seen them around. One of them was in the toff’s wallet he robbed yesterday, but he was paranoid enough without having his entire travel details stored on a database. Plus, he could hardly register one without an address or bank account. Charlotte’s slight frown told him she was wondering why he didn’t have one for work. She didn’t look as if she believed he queued up every morning for a ticket.

“Um.” His brain was still cloudy from last night’s whisky. “I get a weekly Travelcard and work refunds part of it. It’s easier just to buy the ticket.” He’d no idea if the ONS would actually pay for staff getting to work and back. If they did, he thought the government ought to do something about it.

“Oh.” She didn’t look convinced. The lump of hair fell from its position on her forehead, snaking past her eyes.

Through the gates and down to the tube, Charlotte told him about her Oyster card and how she couldn’t do without it. Jim was surprised when she said it automatically topped itself up when running low and it even worked out the cheapest route and fare for each day. All that data though, all that information on every journey. It had evidence written all over it.

“What happens if you lose it?” The stolen card was still back at his flat. He was considering it.

“You report it stolen and they put a stop on it.”

The thought went as quickly as it came. Maybe Terence would give him something for it. They must have some value.

The LED display said the tube was three minutes away, which meant it was actually six minutes away. Jim was getting used to London and its eccentricities. The other passengers waiting were silent, except for a gang of young lads, no doubt going to the city for the day. Conversation still wasn’t coming naturally between them. Racking his head for something to say, Charlotte beat him to it.

“Cool down here isn’t it?”

Jim knew it was going badly; they were talking about the weather again. She’d probably sussed he was in a different league. This was going to be a long afternoon.

“I always think of the blitz whenever I’m here.” He looked up at the CCTV camera pointing at his head. Maybe an Oyster card was the least of his worries. “I’ve always thought they must have been freezing in the middle of winter.”

Charlotte looked round. If she was looking for some evidence of the blitz, sixty years of renovations and graffiti had removed it. “It’s amazing everything they went through, isn’t it?” She looked back, her eyes locking on his. “To think, the things we moan about today. Hardly bears comparison does it?”

Jim wondered if it could get worse. He’d introduced death and destruction into the conversation. If this was going to work, he had to make one hell of an impression. “I’m sure one of the rights they fought for was for us to sue the council if we fell over a pothole. Wasn’t that what Churchill said after ‘fight them on the beaches’?”

It was nearly funny inside his head. After the words left his lips, he realised it was less than funny. She smiled, nothing more. A gust of air, forced through the platform, told them the train was arriving. The clock still read three minutes away as it had for the last five. Minding the gap, they took a side bench in a half full coach, sitting next to each other.

Sharing the tube with Saturday shoppers, tourists with cameras and the odd miserable worker, the tube trudged through the relative coolness of the underground. Sat in near silence, which Jim found uncomfortable, he occasionally caught her eyes in the reflection from the window opposite.

Most people disembarked for the main sights leaving the tube quieter as it headed towards the dead-at-weekend financial area. Taking advantage of their near privacy, Jim caught her eye again in the tunnel-blackened window and stuck out his tongue. Her eyes lit up, dimples appeared and the lump of hair dislodged itself from her brow. She screwed her nose up theatrically and returned the gesture. Near laughing, Jim stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his hands in a way he hadn’t since school. Giggling, she stuck her own hand in front of her nose and waved it. After saying, “Ner ner nener ner,” Jim laughed loudly then turned to her.

Removing her hand from her nose, her eyes met his. Her clear blue retinas seemed to peer into his soul, searching for something. He felt himself blushing but kept the gaze, slowly moving his head inch by inch towards her. She licked then pursed her lips. Her own face was moving towards his too. Now just inches apart, if the driver hadn’t have said, “Next stop is Bank. Bank is the next stop,” Jim thought they would have kissed.

Walking along the sunny embankment, the mouldy Thames beside them, Charlotte led Jim towards the art gallery. She’d already got them lost twice and, laughing and joking around, they’d reverted to giddy teenagers.

The art gallery now just in view, thanks to the help of some GPS mapping app on Charlotte’s iPhone, Jim’s heart beat harder as he struggled for things to say. The tube driver had a lot to answer for. He’d made a difficult position harder. He considered stopping, taking her hand and moving in for a kiss. This was London though. She’d likely smack or spray him with mace. Instead, he looked at the river. Warm but murky despite all the attempts to clean it up. He wondered how often it was dredged. How long would a body lay at the bottom before it was noticed? He hoped he wouldn’t find out.

“What you thinking about?”

He looked round, the midday sun catching the lump of hair that stood ready to fall down. Feeling himself smile, he said, “Nothing. Nothing that can’t wait.”

With the gallery now in sight, he thought of reaching for her hand. The near miss in the tube was in danger of becoming ancient history. As his hand sneaked its way towards hers, her pace seemed to increase. Unsure whether she’d seen the hand or was just keen to get to the gallery, he shrugged his shoulders, put his hand in his pocket and followed her.

At the entrance, a security guard, or curator as he later learnt he was called, greeted and handed a pamphlet to Charlotte. She thanked him before they walked a few paces towards the middle and tried to get some bearings. Looking round, the gallery was filled with pictures and sculptures made of both stone and what looked like domestic rubbish. White backgrounds and walls made every piece leap out from sharp angles. The pictures and pieces of art themselves were, Jim thought, nothing special. Blobs of paint and old cans stuck together didn’t really work in his book. It wasn’t art as he knew it. He was no connoisseur, and he could admire the effort and ability it took to paint a landscape, but five blobs of varying shades of red paint on a woman’s trainer? He didn’t see how that took any ability. He also didn’t see what the hell that had to do with repressed slave labour workers. Charlotte seemed to get it though. That was good enough for him.

The hour walking round went too quickly. There was only one piece he could describe as likeable. A landscape in the classical sense, except it portrayed a modern street scene. Muggers hiding in the shadows, ladies of the night advertising their wares while pimps looked on threateningly, and drunks flailing at each other over some pointless argument. He stood for five minutes taking in every detail.

“Good, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah. It’s like the opposite of an old painting, isn’t it?” He’d never make an art critic on a late night BBC2 programme, but he hoped he’d got over his point.

“Past meets present.” She pointed to the same street scene in the pamphlet by some artist from the 1800s. “Wonder what the original artist would make of it.”

Jim nodded. He walked with Charlotte for another ten minutes as she looked at all the works. Quiet, the gallery only had about ten visitors. Some were obviously upper class. Cravats and country clothing worn as emblems of wealth. Maybe they were looking at the exhibits as potential purchases hoping to buy something from the next big thing. Others meanwhile were ordinary but affluent Londoners, here for a day of culture. The artists themselves were few and far between. Charlotte congratulated one on his excellent piece of work, but the young man’s lip curl and snarl proved he put more effort into his attitude than he ever did into his attempt at art.

Jim felt he’d been well behaved throughout. There was obvious temptation to make money, but he’d let it go. Charlotte meanwhile had taken a few secret pictures on her mobile even though photography was banned. “You’ll get me in trouble,” he’d said, the irony lost on her.

After a brief attempt by the curator to sell them some artwork and give them brochures for future events, they went to the coffee shop next door. Buying Charlotte a coffee and himself a tea was not a cheap process. He also managed to nearly get her order right. It was certainly closer than his previous attempt.

Sat by the extensive glass windows, looking over the Thames and its craft chugging by, reality was catching up with him. Time was moving on and although he was enjoying every minute, he had a lock-up to rent and money to somehow make. Conversation had all but died, but occasionally Charlotte would mention the work she needed to do as preparation for tomorrow’s meeting. He sensed, or hoped, she didn’t want the afternoon to end either but knew it had too. There were other days they could do this. Assuming he wasn’t dead in five days.

Catching the tube back to their stop it was too crowded to pull funny faces, so they sat in silence reading the tube map over and over again. When Jim leant slightly on Charlotte’s arm she didn’t pull away. Leaving the station they meandered through the streets, Charlotte deciding which streets. It was unsaid, but Jim knew she was going home and he was walking her. This whole date malarkey had been easier then he’d thought. He’d been expecting to be constantly trying to entertain or impress her. Without the aid of alcohol, the real and not very interesting him was all he had to offer. Funniest thing of all was she didn’t seem to mind.

Nearing a newly converted block of old warehouses, Charlotte started talking again. Not the slow conversation she’d been making all day, but her old style of phone hyper-talking. Her speed increased the nearer they got to the luxury ex-warehouses. He thought her defence mechanism had kicked in.

The non-stop breakdown of what she was doing tomorrow reached a crescendo as she stood by the door to one of the old buildings that had been nearly tastefully renovated. Turning, she faced him.

“This is me then.”

“Looks nice.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Bit expensive to heat in the winter but it just about does, I mean ...”

He wanted to kiss her, not only to shut her up, but also just to make it clear how much he’d enjoyed the last few hours. The near miss haunted him again. Would that be it forever? He’d be kicking himself for the rest of his short life if it was. The mood just didn’t feel right to pounce. No alcohol, that was the problem. He didn’t want a detailed breakdown of electric bills and why storage heaters may look good but are useless at heating a warehouse. He wanted her.

“... but that’s what you get for having so much open space I suppose.”

She’d finished.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve had a great time.”

“Thank you.” Her hair flopped down.

“Can we do it again?” He expected her to say no. He didn’t know why, but this whole dream, this whole Charlotte thing had to end. Maybe she’d be kind and end it now for both their sakes.