off with him to go and live on a canal boat moored beside a flour mill. I blamed Kate for stirring things up.
When she texted me at Junction 29 on the M1, I’d just refuelled the car and myself. The Starbucks coffee had worked its magic and I almost felt human. The text finished the job nicely.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Lots o love K x’
Kate and I didn’t do touchy feely very often, but I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now that she was living in Australia, I missed her desperately. In only another two weeks she’d be flying back again. I could never stay miffed with her for long and at the moment it was even harder. Besides she could always bully me into forgiving her.
Coming off the motorway just outside Derby, I got horribly lost which made me late for my meeting, but I texted Kate back anyway before I went in.
‘Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. Love O x’
With the message sent, I switched off my phone. It had been beaten into me by one boss that it was totally unprofessional to have a mobile ring during a client meeting.
The meeting with three burly site managers who smelt of mud and sweat went on and on. I wasn’t offered anything to eat apart from some manky Nice biscuits. Tasty when you’re eight but disappointing when you need lunch.
On the journey home I was also regretting not stopping to go to the loo, but there had only been a men’s Portaloo on the building site and at that point I wasn’t that desperate. By four o’clock my misery was compounded by the traffic lady on Radio 5. I was ready to kill her. Did she really have to be so perky about a major hold up on the M1? I didn’t need to be told there was a ten-mile tailback. Any fool could see the red brake lights stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Should I send her a rude text message? Less chirpiness, please. Some of us are stuck in said traffic with a bladder the size of a basketball. Then I remembered my phone was still switched off.
Rummaging in my bag, with half an eye on the stationary traffic, I pulled it out and switched it on. It lay silent and still for a second before vibrating into life with great indignation. Three texts and six messages later, the phone shuddered to a halt.
Message one was mild. ‘Olivia, it’s me. I’ve had an email,’ wailed Emily. ‘Can you call me, please?’
Message two a little more agitated. ‘Olivia, call as soon as you get this.’
Message three was a curt. ‘Call me now.’
By the sixth message she’d reached full frontal expletives. ‘For God’s sake, where are you? What’s the point of having a fucking phone if you don’t fucking switch it on?’
What the hell was going on? I was about to phone her back when I caught sight of the driver behind. He shook his head so slightly that I might have imagined it, except he was driving a dirty great police car. I dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, my fingers twitching longingly but there was nothing I could do.
My battery died an hour later. Two minutes after that, on went the blue light and Mr Policeman shot off. Typical.
By the time I’d crawled off the M1 and through the London rush hour traffic, I was exhausted. A showdown with Emily was the last thing I needed. Grabbing my briefcase and rubbing the knots in my shoulder, I hurried towards the flat, nearly tripping over Charlie.
As usual he was lurking outside the front of the junk shop below the flat. It was a funny little place, crammed full of second-hand furniture and the sort of things that might have been antiques had they not been just a bit too tatty, chipped or broken. Although my flat was directly above the shop, the space below far exceeded the square footage of my lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It spread out along the street from room to room, none of which could be differentiated by any particular theme or style of products. On my occasional forays in there, I’d never seen a single other customer.
Charlie was probably waiting to follow
When she texted me at Junction 29 on the M1, I’d just refuelled the car and myself. The Starbucks coffee had worked its magic and I almost felt human. The text finished the job nicely.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Lots o love K x’
Kate and I didn’t do touchy feely very often, but I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now that she was living in Australia, I missed her desperately. In only another two weeks she’d be flying back again. I could never stay miffed with her for long and at the moment it was even harder. Besides she could always bully me into forgiving her.
Coming off the motorway just outside Derby, I got horribly lost which made me late for my meeting, but I texted Kate back anyway before I went in.
‘Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. Love O x’
With the message sent, I switched off my phone. It had been beaten into me by one boss that it was totally unprofessional to have a mobile ring during a client meeting.
The meeting with three burly site managers who smelt of mud and sweat went on and on. I wasn’t offered anything to eat apart from some manky Nice biscuits. Tasty when you’re eight but disappointing when you need lunch.
On the journey home I was also regretting not stopping to go to the loo, but there had only been a men’s Portaloo on the building site and at that point I wasn’t that desperate. By four o’clock my misery was compounded by the traffic lady on Radio 5. I was ready to kill her. Did she really have to be so perky about a major hold up on the M1? I didn’t need to be told there was a ten-mile tailback. Any fool could see the red brake lights stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Should I send her a rude text message? Less chirpiness, please. Some of us are stuck in said traffic with a bladder the size of a basketball. Then I remembered my phone was still switched off.
Rummaging in my bag, with half an eye on the stationary traffic, I pulled it out and switched it on. It lay silent and still for a second before vibrating into life with great indignation. Three texts and six messages later, the phone shuddered to a halt.
Message one was mild. ‘Olivia, it’s me. I’ve had an email,’ wailed Emily. ‘Can you call me, please?’
Message two a little more agitated. ‘Olivia, call as soon as you get this.’
Message three was a curt. ‘Call me now.’
By the sixth message she’d reached full frontal expletives. ‘For God’s sake, where are you? What’s the point of having a fucking phone if you don’t fucking switch it on?’
What the hell was going on? I was about to phone her back when I caught sight of the driver behind. He shook his head so slightly that I might have imagined it, except he was driving a dirty great police car. I dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, my fingers twitching longingly but there was nothing I could do.
My battery died an hour later. Two minutes after that, on went the blue light and Mr Policeman shot off. Typical.
By the time I’d crawled off the M1 and through the London rush hour traffic, I was exhausted. A showdown with Emily was the last thing I needed. Grabbing my briefcase and rubbing the knots in my shoulder, I hurried towards the flat, nearly tripping over Charlie.
As usual he was lurking outside the front of the junk shop below the flat. It was a funny little place, crammed full of second-hand furniture and the sort of things that might have been antiques had they not been just a bit too tatty, chipped or broken. Although my flat was directly above the shop, the space below far exceeded the square footage of my lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It spread out along the street from room to room, none of which could be differentiated by any particular theme or style of products. On my occasional forays in there, I’d never seen a single other customer.
Charlie was probably waiting to follow
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