Quarter-Love Crisis

Nudge 1 The Bus Pass

The Bus Pass

‘Wake up!’ I slam on the door, yelling. ‘Or I swear I will crease every single pair of your trainers.’

I promised myself that today would be different. I made a schedule, a tick-list and set a new wake-up time. And, yes, I snoozed two alarms before I got out of bed, but it still should have worked.

But nothing is ever that simple and I should have known that from the moment I found my brother’s clothes in the dryer.

The same clothes that have been sat there for over a week despite my multiple reminders.

At that point I would have folded them myself, but Mum said we needed to ‘teach Anton a lesson’.

What lesson? He’s learnt nothing and is only getting worse, and now the perfect outfit I’d planned is still sat, soggy, damp and likely smelly, in the washing machine.

After digging around in my wardrobe, all I could come up with was a pair of thick tights, and a top and skirt that I haven’t worn since sixth form.

I’m in a Peter Pan collar, for God’s sake!

When I do not have the neck to pull those off!

There was a version of me from thirty minutes ago that believed I could get my perfect morning back on track.

I ditched the yoga, skipped the tea and resolved to grab lunch on the go, and for a moment all seemed somewhat OK.

Then I hit the bottom of the road, stuck my hand in my pocket and realised Anton still had my bus pass.

A quick round of expletives and a speedy U-turn later, and here I am back at home at 7.

50 a.m., having an almost one-sided screaming match with my little brother.

I slam three sharp, hard slaps on his bedroom door before immediately following with rapid-fire knocking. If I had any real courage, I’d barge through it, but I’ve already learnt the hard way that he doesn’t wear a stitch of clothing to bed.

‘Seriously, Anton. I mean it,’ I hiss through the closed door. ‘I’ll ruin every single pair you own.’

‘Go away, Maddison!’ His voice is a husky growl.

Anton has never been a morning person and it’s only got worse with age.

‘Where’s my bus pass?’ I ask, banging once more for effect. ‘I asked you to leave it on the table when you got in last night.’

I could ask him to take money from me and he’d still do it wrong just to spite me.

He grumbles something unintelligible and I hear the shuffling of his duvet, and scraping, before his door inches open.

I can just about make out his face, set into pure resentment as he peers through the gap and recoils at the hallway light.

He is a gremlin if I ever saw one. One who cannot go back to university quick enough, if you ask me.

‘Aren’t you too old to be getting the bus to work?’ he asks, reluctantly passing the card through the crack in his door.

‘Buy your own bus pass next time.’ I snatch it off him.

‘Move out.’

‘Grow up!’

There’s no use. The door is already closed and the shuffling behind it suggests he’s already back in bed.

I’m already so behind I could cry, and at this rate I may actually be late to the office again.

So, I speed out of the door for the second time this morning, the gripless soles of my loafers be damned.

There’s no time to be practical – it’s make or break.

Get this bus or be late for the most important meeting of the year.

The heavens open above me, a non-forecasted torrential rain pouring demonically from the sky.

I rummage through my bag as I continue to skid down the street, a mum on the school run eyeing me for my choice of language as I curse the clouds.

I have an umbrella, of course – I always pack prepared – but what I do not have today is a hood – the only thing that could possibly keep my hair from frizzing.

High-powered businesswomen walk down the road in wool trenches, not parkas they’ve hung onto since they were sixteen.

High-powered businesswomen, however, probably have their own drivers, or at least their own very fancy cars. I have a worn-out bus pass and a head of hair that’s frizzing the longer I remain in denial. I do a quick mental calculation.

Bus – Eleven minutes away from bus stop.

Bus stop – Seven minutes away from my house.

House – Three minutes away from where I had got to.

Raincoat – On our banister. A one-minute grab at most.

Time behind schedule: Zero if I move fast enough to be back at bus stop in eight minutes.

‘Back again?’ Mum asks as I run through the door. ‘What did you forget this time?’

But I have no time to give her more than a grunt in response as I lunge for the banister. I have no doubt I’ll hear all about my supposed attitude later, but my mother’s wrath is a price I’ll simply have to pay.

I plough through the rain once more, shimmying to keep my handbag from sliding down my arm, fingers grappling as I try to frantically close the zipper on the coat before realizing it’s on the completely wrong side.

I look down. I grabbed Anton’s coat. It’s larger, bulkier, not tailored at all.

But at least I will be on time, with my hair mostly intact.

That is, of course, if the bus app stops acting up.

Why the jump from six minutes to three when I’m five minutes away?

I pick up the pace, my rain-soaked loafers hooked on my feet with nothing but the sheer force of my toes.

It’s a race against time, gravity and the forces that clearly want me dead, but I power on.

I must. My future hangs in the balance. I cannot have suffered all this for nothing.

By the time I reach the end of the road I can make out the bus, a once-distant blob becoming clearer and closer.

I run. My lungs hate me, but there’s too much at stake.

It’s close – far too close, but I reach the stop just in time, my sigh of relief synced with the stilling engine and the whoosh of the doors opening.

I press my card against the yellow reader.

A double beep and a red light flashes up.

I try again. The same happens.

‘You’re out,’ the driver snaps at me through his little glass window.

‘Excuse me?’ I’m panting, still catching my breath.

‘Out of money. It needs topping up.’

Of course it does. Anton is the devil incarnate. Why would he think to reimburse me after using the card I pre-load with the exact amount I need to get the bus to and from the office each month?

‘I don’t think I have my bank card.’ I’m still disorientated as I riffle through my bag.

‘Just use your phone, darling.’ He tuts. ‘Everyone uses the phone these days.’

And I know that. I’ve not lived under a rock.

But after running through the rain and making this bus by the skin of my teeth, he’ll have to forgive me for not recalling the best practices when it comes to bus etiquette.

He doesn’t acknowledge the apologetic smile I give him as I tap my phone on the reader, so I can only assume his morning is going just about as well as mine.

But today can only get better. It has to get better. I have too much riding on it.

I got on the bus at 8.13. This bus ride is forty-two minutes with traffic.

It is super close, but I should just about make it with a couple of minutes to spare.

I take refuge in the first empty seat I find, and take a moment to breathe and re-centre myself.

I skipped yoga (as I do every morning), but that doesn’t mean I can’t meditate on the bus.

I take a deep breath, but my phone buzzes in my pocket before I can start.

Morning, sunshine. I’ve missed you.

Kimi’s message is followed by a whopping twenty-minute-long voice note.

‘Hey, bighead, I’ll try to keep this brief, but, honestly, I make no promises.

The group chat went off last night and I know you won’t read back anything over forty messages, which .

. . honestly, Mads, we really need to talk about.

Anyway, I thought I’d check in and let you know you’re needed round Devi’s tonight – she finally closed on her flat and she wants to celebrate with one last wine night at her parents’ place.

She’s supplying the wine, we’re ordering pizza and Raina’s gonna pick up some flowers and a card.

Don’t even try to come at me with your whole “it’s a weeknight” thing – we won’t keep it too late and I can pick you up on my way.

I haven’t been to yours in ages, actually, so it would be nice to pop in and say hi to your mum.

Speaking of Auntie, is she going to . . . ’

I zone out as I stare out of the window, making a mental note to listen properly before I see her later. Kimi, bless her, while one of my favourite people in the world, sure knows how to drag a simple point into five separate ones with additional backstory and side quests.

I text back. Is wine night straight after work? Her status jumps online the second it’s sent.

KIMI: Yeah, ASAP – why, you got plans?!

ME: The gym. I can meet you guys after?

KIMI: You weren’t gonna make it to the gym.

KIMI: Be honest with yourself.

She’s right and I know it, annoying as it is. The second I ran for the bus it was pretty much decided that my grand return to the gym could wait. That doesn’t, however, mean that Kimi has to be so loud about it. Especially so early in the morning.

ME: You are an enemy of progress.

KIMI: You can progress tomorrow when it’s not wine night x

I heart the message. She knows I’ll be there as much as I know I’ll be there. One of my best friends just bought her first home; I wouldn’t miss that for the world. But back to now. Deep breath. I pull out my journal and set my intentions for the day.

1. Apologise to Mum for not saying bye – throw in some kisses for good measure.

2. Don’t shy away from the facts with Pippa. I have worked hard. I have proof. I deserve a promotion.

3. Drink two litres of water (at least 1.5 while at work).

4. Go to the gym after work (you have the membership! Use it!). Wine night with the girls.

5. Plan revenge on Anton. Make it good. Make it super evil.