he told me more about it. I asked if he wanted to come back to my flat. He couldn’t. He had a date. He got off the train two stops early. I stayed on.
From Farringdon, I take the Tube to Liverpool Street. People in dark suits zap around holding document cases. I do not exist to them; I have to stand aside in the street to let them past otherwise we would just collide, and I would have to apologise. I try to be how Luke must be – imagine the suited swagger, battering people out of the way with his broad chest. I make an attempt but I don’t have the armour, so I am knocked off the pavement into the gutter. Nicole is close behind me, I know without looking. The red ties and poppies that people are wearing remind me. Nicole and I are like the poppy really – I am that deep black circular centre, and she is the red, constantly surrounding me, but flimsy. I could tear her away in an instant. But Luke in all his greenery is our stem, uniting us. Pinned to Adam until he chooses to cast us off.
Adam’s building is like a granite spaceship. I step on an escalator at street level, and am carried up and up through dazzling black and glass, until I reach reception. They won’t let me past the security barriers without an appointment, so I phone Adam and try to make one. His mobile is off. I sit down on a cream leather sofa next to the barriers and consider my next move. As I do so, I see one of the side gates open, and a man comes out, depositing a pass on the counter. The gate is still open. The receptionists are busy with new visitors. I could slide through it, if I go now, now NOW!
And I’m in.
But I don’t know where Adam is to be found. I walk to what I think are lifts, but there are no buttons to press, just a small digital display on the granite pillars between each one. I stand staring at them. A suited man appears beside me.
‘Infra-red,’ he says, holding his pass to one of the displays. ‘Visitor?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
There is the sound of an ocean. I can’t think why and then I see the man go into the lift. I was expecting a ‘ping’ but apparently here tsunamis announce ascension. I get into the lift with him.
‘Which floor?’ he asks.
‘Banking,’ I say.
He stares at me. I try to remember more detail about where Adam works, and my brain delivers a name. The suited man nods.
‘Me, too,’ he says, waving his pass at another digital – or is it infra-red? – display. The lift starts to carry us up. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘Adam,’ I say. The man waits expectantly. Apparently there is more than one Adam. ‘Lomax,’ I add.
The man nods and the lift door opens. I wonder if that is his party trick.
I follow him through to another reception. Women with red neck scarves sit behind a shiny white curve, blocking my way.
‘Good meeting, Mr Shipley?’ asks one of the women.
‘Nothing to the pleasure of seeing you,’ Mr Shipley replies.
The woman smiles and blushes lobster-red to match her scarf. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that, whether it’s stipulated in the job description.
Mr Shipley does a sideways head movement in my direction.
‘He’s here to see Adam Lomax,’ says Mr Shipley.
The women notice me for the first time.
‘Take a seat, sir,’ one of them says, dismissing me. ‘He’ll be right with you.’
I sit down on another white leather sofa and wait. Beyond the receptionists is a city of glass. Glass rooms interconnect with other glass rooms through glass corridors. Everyone can see everyone – but they can’t touch them. Inside their little glass boxes, they strut around, men standing, women sitting. Imprisoned, in their own way. I spot Adam in one of the closer rooms. I see him talking but there is no one in the room with him. Then I see a blue glow emanating from his face. Bluetooth. Or digital. Or infra-red. Nothing physical. Adam looks up in my direction, and he nods to me. I nod back. He doesn’t come out, though. I can see him,
From Farringdon, I take the Tube to Liverpool Street. People in dark suits zap around holding document cases. I do not exist to them; I have to stand aside in the street to let them past otherwise we would just collide, and I would have to apologise. I try to be how Luke must be – imagine the suited swagger, battering people out of the way with his broad chest. I make an attempt but I don’t have the armour, so I am knocked off the pavement into the gutter. Nicole is close behind me, I know without looking. The red ties and poppies that people are wearing remind me. Nicole and I are like the poppy really – I am that deep black circular centre, and she is the red, constantly surrounding me, but flimsy. I could tear her away in an instant. But Luke in all his greenery is our stem, uniting us. Pinned to Adam until he chooses to cast us off.
Adam’s building is like a granite spaceship. I step on an escalator at street level, and am carried up and up through dazzling black and glass, until I reach reception. They won’t let me past the security barriers without an appointment, so I phone Adam and try to make one. His mobile is off. I sit down on a cream leather sofa next to the barriers and consider my next move. As I do so, I see one of the side gates open, and a man comes out, depositing a pass on the counter. The gate is still open. The receptionists are busy with new visitors. I could slide through it, if I go now, now NOW!
And I’m in.
But I don’t know where Adam is to be found. I walk to what I think are lifts, but there are no buttons to press, just a small digital display on the granite pillars between each one. I stand staring at them. A suited man appears beside me.
‘Infra-red,’ he says, holding his pass to one of the displays. ‘Visitor?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
There is the sound of an ocean. I can’t think why and then I see the man go into the lift. I was expecting a ‘ping’ but apparently here tsunamis announce ascension. I get into the lift with him.
‘Which floor?’ he asks.
‘Banking,’ I say.
He stares at me. I try to remember more detail about where Adam works, and my brain delivers a name. The suited man nods.
‘Me, too,’ he says, waving his pass at another digital – or is it infra-red? – display. The lift starts to carry us up. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘Adam,’ I say. The man waits expectantly. Apparently there is more than one Adam. ‘Lomax,’ I add.
The man nods and the lift door opens. I wonder if that is his party trick.
I follow him through to another reception. Women with red neck scarves sit behind a shiny white curve, blocking my way.
‘Good meeting, Mr Shipley?’ asks one of the women.
‘Nothing to the pleasure of seeing you,’ Mr Shipley replies.
The woman smiles and blushes lobster-red to match her scarf. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that, whether it’s stipulated in the job description.
Mr Shipley does a sideways head movement in my direction.
‘He’s here to see Adam Lomax,’ says Mr Shipley.
The women notice me for the first time.
‘Take a seat, sir,’ one of them says, dismissing me. ‘He’ll be right with you.’
I sit down on another white leather sofa and wait. Beyond the receptionists is a city of glass. Glass rooms interconnect with other glass rooms through glass corridors. Everyone can see everyone – but they can’t touch them. Inside their little glass boxes, they strut around, men standing, women sitting. Imprisoned, in their own way. I spot Adam in one of the closer rooms. I see him talking but there is no one in the room with him. Then I see a blue glow emanating from his face. Bluetooth. Or digital. Or infra-red. Nothing physical. Adam looks up in my direction, and he nods to me. I nod back. He doesn’t come out, though. I can see him,
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