Tim and I met through my boss, Anna. She was holding an early Christmas party in October—far too busy to actually do it at Christmas—and threw us together over canapes and Buck’s Fizz. She said he was “nice” and “reliable” and as I was approaching thirty, that wasn’t to be sniffed at. I laughed at what I thought was her trademark sarcasm but realised she was absolutely right about him five seconds after we were introduced.
Tim described himself as a financial analyst and proceeded to talk about the crunching numbers, fast-paced anxiety, living the dream, and the joy of driving a Lamborghini…on and on. It was like a strange game of tennis. He batted between extreme positivity of a lifestyle he thought I should be impressed with and the depths of despair when he said he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. I remembered feeling the frown lines appear across my forehead the more he talked. Such a shame, to be living such a fast pace, and although I’d only just met him, I felt intrigued by his story.
The next day, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him again because I could see the editorial storyboard mockup with the headline, “London’s Power Hungry: The Truth,” or because I genuinely liked his sad little face.
Twelve weeks later—I was still none the wiser.
People interested me. Stories held my attention. I found opportunities for article ideas in every corner of my life. The mundane train commutes, lunch in Piccadilly square, Saturday morning rush hour at Skye’s café, and North Laine Sunday afternoon shoppers in Brighton. I carried notebooks. Wrote down illegible sentences on napkins. Dictated into my phone. I had enough ideas to last me five years’ worth of monthly editions of Upfront.
But I still hadn’t determined if Tim was more than just an idea for an article or something more.
OK, yes, we were taking it slowly. That was sensible, right? I had a busy career and he certainly did. We hadn’t met friends or endured afternoon tea with the family. We hadn’t been on a weekend mini break or talked about where we would spend the next holiday. It was…casual. I hadn’t seen him for a week. Texts were dwindling, balancing between sparse and nonexistent. I hadn’t seen so much as a peek of his naughty bits. I hadn’t even seen a flash of his ankle, for God’s sake.
It all felt a bit too casual. Which is why I’d planned this surprise, to meet him after work with an evening of culture and fine dining. This Essex girl could be classy when I wanted to be and let me tell you, I’d gone all out.
I closed my eyes and counted the stops in my head. St Paul’s was next. Heart of the London Stock Exchange. I smoothed my hair down for the final time and repositioned myself nearer the doors. It was so busy, I could at least rely on being pushed out onto the platform like a ginger party popper.
“Excuse me. Thank you. Excuse me, please. Fab. Thanks.”
I dislodged the laptop bag from my knee, navigated my way through the crowd, and stepped out onto the platform. Finding my way out was easy. In London, you followed the crowd. A swarm of men and women in suits ranging from stylish to needing a good press filtered through the station. They were going both ways. In and out. A power-hungry conveyer belt. Perhaps the Stock Exchange really doesn’t sleep?
The sound of a saxophone carried over people’s heads as we jostled for the exit. Standing at the bottom of the escalator was a guy in sunglasses, ripped jeans, and an old leather flying jacket. His long grey ponytail was poking out from underneath his trilby hat where a Queen of Hearts playing card was sticking out from the band.
“You’re really good!” I shouted over his saxophone. Jazz was a favourite of mine. My mum used to love Ella Fitzgerald and the copy of her greatest hits was treated like a shrine.
“Thanks, darlin.” His thick cockney accent made me smile. I noticed he had a rolled-up sleeping bag and a rucksack beside him. I knew the neatly folded pile of cardboard boxes would most likely be his mattress for the night, and it was freezing outside. Next to him was a cute Jack Russell curled up on a blanket, trying to get warm. I bent down and stroked behind his ears. He showed immense interest, pushing me backwards to the floor.
“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” I asked as I checked my watch. It was approaching half six. January was bitter in London and would only get worse as the night wore on.
“I’m going to try my luck at St Mungo’s shelter tonight. Hopefully they’ll have room.”
“Get there early and you should be fine. Here.” I took out my purse and gave him a ten pound note. “Get something warm to eat.”
He immediately lit up. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Play some jazz for me, OK?” I said, smiling and as I got on the escalator and he started to play a perfect bluesy rendition of “Summertime.” I took my phone out of my pocket—it was always on hand in case of an idea—and typed into my notes, Homeless crisis – Are we doing enough? because I wished I could do more. My first Christmas in London was spent serving dinner at one of the homeless shelters. I helped out as often as I could. There’s a framed picture of me on the wall at Whitechapel Mission, wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” across my chest. I’m throwing my head back in laughter, clutching onto the arm of a lovely volunteer called Will. Otherwise known as William. The Prince and future King of England. He said I was as mad as a box of frogs. How could I take that as anything but a compliment?
My phone still in hand, I sent Tim a text, casually asking if he was still at work.
Please be still at work.
Tim: Just leaving
Mission accomplished. Major fist pump.
Tim’s office wasn’t far from the tube station. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, but it was cold. I pulled my scarf around my ears to stop the bite, and tried to readjust my hair. As I waited to cross the road, I spotted Tim emerging from the immense glass entrance to his office. He was wearing a suit and a long wool overcoat to protect him from the weather. I wondered if it was normal I didn’t feel a boom or even a pitter-patter when I looked at him. Perhaps fireworks grew over time?
I wasn’t sure I was feeling anything until he stopped next to a woman he’d left the office with, and proceeded to push a loose tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. A move that was a tad too familiar for a colleague, tender even.
Strange. Wait…what’s he doing now? Is that a…thumb stroke…to her cheek? I don’t think he’s ever stroked my cheek. with his thumb or otherwise.
I crossed the road on the green man—totally on instinct, but safely nonetheless—tipped my head, squinted for a better look, and caught their…
Mother fudging kiss.
“Are you serious?” someone shouted…and that someone appeared to be me. Tim turned and his face dropped to the ground. I almost heard the splat, the roll of his eyeballs across the tiled terrace.
“Stace?”
“Are you even serious?”
“What are you doing here?” Tim asked, pushing his kissing partner away by her face. I would have laughed at his pathetic attempt to cover his tracks, if I wasn’t so annoyed. Not with him particularly, but because of the soul-destroying waste of time that seemed to be on a repetitive loop.
Twelve weeks we’d been seeing each other. Fair enough, I’d spent six of them being less than enthused about our potential to be the next Meghan and Harry, but that clearly wasn’t the point. I couldn’t shake off the question that circled my head. Why did I waste my time on relationships that never got off the starting blocks?