A commuter
And this, a new thing: they’ve automated the voice over the intercom.
Holborn Station
The bleeps of tickets being bought and Oyster cards being tapped, and a few pairs of feet trudge defeatedly up the stairs.
Among them is a tall man wearing a black denim jacket and looking uniquely unhappy.
He chews his lip, shakes his head, sits down directly in front of the commuter.
He takes out a pair of black wraparound headphones and plugs them into a scuffed first-generation iPod.
Then a woman appears at the stop of the stairs, and the man speaks out loud. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘Seb,’ says the young woman with the bleached-white hair, looking like she’s seen a ghost.
She heads down the aisle, steadying herself on the backs of chairs as the bus starts to move.
When she reaches this Seb, she slides into the seat next to him.
He ignores her, staring out of the window at a man on the pavement in a branded jacket who is trying his hardest to hand out free bottles of vitamin-infused water.
The young woman taps Seb’s shoulder, does a mime. ‘Take off your headphones,’ she says. Then, louder. ‘Please take off your headphones.’
He takes off his headphones. ‘Why are you following me, Clara?’
‘I want to talk.’
Seb doesn’t respond. The commuter thinks that Clara might be about to cry. Before she can, the bus pulls into another stop.
Red Lion Street
On the top deck, there’s a very long silence. Clara speaks first. ‘You’ve grown a beard,’ she says.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Seb replies.
‘Not that long.’
‘Almost a year.’
Clara winces. ‘Not quite.’
Seb says nothing.
She fills the silence. ‘I did try to tell you,’ Clara says. ‘That night.’
‘You have a boyfriend.’
The commuter’s book is lying in his lap, unopened. This is far more interesting.
‘You knew?’
‘I guessed it was something like that,’ Seb says. ‘In the very long time since.’
‘I could have died in an accident,’ Clara responds. ‘Or gone to prison.’
Seb doesn’t take the bait. ‘What was I, then?’ he says. ‘A distraction?’ He collects himself. ‘This is stupid. It was one date. You probably didn’t even think it was a date.’
‘I did,’ she says.
‘But you have a boyfriend.’
‘I did.’
There’s a silence. Her use of the past tense hasn’t gone unnoticed.
‘You broke up?’
‘A few months ago.’
Seb can’t seem to decide whether this is a good thing. The commuter puts his book back in his bag. He studies Clara’s sharp profile, the back of Seb’s dark hair. They pass Lamb’s Conduit Street on the left, a pair of bohemian-looking elderly gents drinking wine al fresco.
‘If it helps, I tried to find you,’ Clara says, then corrects herself. ‘Stalk you.’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re not on Facebook. You’re not anywhere.’
‘I called you,’ he says. ‘Several times. You never answered.’
‘I was still—’ she begins. ‘It wasn’t the right time.’
‘And after?’
She has nothing to say to this. Outside, on the fields, exhausted young lawyers take their lunch breaks in the spring sun.
Gray’s Inn Road
More feet up the stairs, and a couple of attorney-in-training types slide into seats across the way. Seb’s shoulders are still taut, and Clara is still sitting side-on to him, seeming desperate for a way to break down his defences.
‘It was complicated.’
‘I don’t need to know about him.’ A pause. ‘Who was he?’
‘An actor,’ she says. ‘Another actor.’
‘You have a type.’
‘You couldn’t be further from my type,’ she says. ‘I mean that as a compliment.’
Seb doesn’t respond to this. ‘Did you make your black-and-white film?’ he says. ‘Was he the star?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I gave up on that.’ She makes a dismissive gesture. ‘No one wants to watch a black-and-white—’
‘Do you do that a lot?’
The interruption seems to startle her. ‘What?’ she says.
‘Abandon things?’
She turns away, tenses up a little. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘I wanted to.’
More silence. They linger for a while on Theobalds Road, and the conversation remains stuck between them. The commuter’s eyes stray to the window, to the gridlock outside. Their voices punctuate the noise of the traffic.
‘You got a new job,’ Seb says, eventually. He sounds tired of bickering.
‘Yes,’ she replies, quietly. ‘Production. Films.’
‘Your dream.’
She looks up at him. She seems surprised that he remembers. ‘I saw one of your campaigns,’ she says.
Seb looks back at her. ‘You did?’
‘You were on a fucking billboard,’ she says. ‘A small one, yeah, but still a billboard. I stood there for ages, staring up at you. People must have thought I was a creep, ogling these blokes with their tops off in their DKNY jeans.’
She stops herself, looks down. Seb stays looking at her.
‘Would you ever have called?’ he says. ‘If I hadn’t walked into that room today?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.’
‘So you followed me on to my bus.’
She laughs. She can’t help herself. The bus is moving again. They reach another stop.
Rosebery Avenue
Someone gets off. No one gets on.
‘What did you think?’ Seb says.
‘About the billboard?’ she replies. ‘Too much buttock.’
‘About the audition.’
She tilts her head. She makes a non-committal sound.
Seb turns his entire body towards her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You nailed the scene,’ she says. ‘You’re a natural when you have someone to act against.’ A hesitant nod. ‘You’re definitely getting a callback.’
He looks pleased. Then, suspicious. ‘But?’
She speaks quietly. ‘The monologue was wooden.’
‘Wooden?’
‘You were stiff,’ she says. ‘You’re awkward on your own. Nowhere to hide.’
‘I know what wooden means.’
She throws her hands up. ‘You asked for my honest opinion.’
‘I never said honest.’
She puts her hand on his arm. Seb looks down at the hand, then back up at her. She doesn’t move the hand. He doesn’t ask her to.
‘It needs a bit of finessing,’ she says. ‘You’ve got the talent, the emotion. You just need someone to help you channel it.’
He raises a dark eyebrow. ‘Let me guess,’ he says. ‘That person is you?’
‘It could be.’
The bus passes the market stalls on Leather Lane, the jewellers on Hatton Garden, then breaks out across the main road. The next stop is the commuter’s, so he picks up his bag from the seat next to him, half stands.
Seb’s face is serious again. He scans their surroundings. ‘Clara. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’
‘I have fifteen minutes left of my lunch break,’ she says. ‘And I intend to make them count.’
‘You’re miles away,’ he says.
‘I’m right where I’m supposed to be.’
Seb looks at her. If he isn’t quite won over, he at least seems less angry than when she first arrived. ‘You’re not scared of anything, are you?’
‘I am,’ she says, and her voice sounds suddenly sincere. ‘I’m scared I blew it.’
Farringdon Road
A bevy of people rise from their seats, including the commuter, rucksack slung over one shoulder, carried with the crowd towards the stairs and the station beyond.
He pauses briefly, wanting to know if the couple will reach a resolution.
But Clara is moving, too, because Seb insists, because he’s practically pushing her out into the aisle and towards the stairs.
‘You need to get back,’ he says. Then, with another sigh, another shake of his head, ‘You have my number.’
Clara seems to take this as a win. She speaks fast as she’s carried away, too. ‘I’ll call,’ she says. ‘This time. I promise.’
‘You’re going to get fired!’ Seb shouts back.
‘It was worth it.’