Chapter 2
By the time Simone got off the tube, it was as though she hadn’t showered at all. Her skin was clammy, her painstakingly straightened hair frizzed at the edges, and her face itched beneath her carefully applied make-up. The street offered little relief; it was unseasonably warm for mid-March, but at least the metallic screech of the train grinding against its tracks was gone, replaced by a cacophony of beeping and shouting from drivers who deemed their journeys to be more urgent than anyone else’s. Caffeine was most definitely required.
‘Spare some change, love?’
The homeless man was outside her favourite coffee shop, sat on a makeshift cardboard bed. He was holding up a plastic pint pot, as if waiting for a cheers that never came.
Oh crap. She’d never been very good with homeless people. She always became hugely awkward around them, a sensation she detested and therefore tried to tie up in self-righteousness, thus preventing her from having to feel bad about their plight. When she was a child, back in the nineties, vagrants had been a rare phenomenon. There’d be the occasional grizzle-haired, trolley-wielding ancient who would scour bins and wear newspaper socks and make the whole thing look like an eccentric lifestyle choice. But nowadays, they were unavoidable. That wasn’t going to stop her trying, however. She kept her eyes above pavement level. Do. Not. Engage.
‘Can you spare any change, love?’ he said again, but this time with such confidence, her gaze was drawn towards him.
He was definitely rough around the edges, his wan face was creased with dirt and sparse cartoonish whiskers pointed directly out from his chin, but his eyes were keen and alert. Damn! She’d made eye contact. He raised the cup again.
She’d received a government leaflet once advising that giving money directly to homeless people exacerbated the vicious cycle of substance misuse, and meant they continued to avoid the help they needed. She’d gratefully swallowed it without question. Not giving wasn’t mean; it was mandated. By people who knew better than she did. Time to switch tactics. A gentle sorry, followed by a melancholy head shake and beatific smile, a facial contortion she hoped would convey I sympathise with your plight, and if I could, I would almost certainly give you some money, but it’s in your best interest that I don’t. This was usually met with a returned smile from the recipient, a tacit acknowledgment that, at its most basic, they were just two people trying to navigate life as best they could. Only today it wasn’t. Today the man gave her a look that seemed to convey, Nice try, sister, but I can’t survive on your carefully contrived thoughts and facial expressions, I actually need to eat, so I’ll ask you again.
‘Just a couple of quid’s change to get some breakfast.’
She didn’t have a couple of quid in change. True, she had a twenty in her purse, but if she could stop feeling like Hagrid had taken a shit in her brain at some point today, she was going to get her French bangs trimmed at the cash-only place near work. But the tractor beam of his gaze had her in its pull, and she didn’t have the mental strength to resist it.
‘Can I buy you breakfast instead?’
‘Where from?’
She motioned to the coffee shop. ‘In there?’
‘What’s on the menu?
‘Pastries.’
‘Empty calories.’
A nutritional expert. Brilliant.
‘Anything with protein in?’ he asked.
‘They have protein shakes but…’ But they cost eight quid, and cash flow wasn’t the best right now.
‘I’d prefer a butty.’
Opposite them was a greasy spoon with a flashing sign that made her eyes ache. She nodded to it.
‘Nah, that gets terrible reviews,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘I read them.’
‘How?’
‘On my phone.’
He produced a smartphone from his pocket. So many questions. How had he got it? How could he afford it? She didn’t need to know.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘I doubt it.’
‘How can I afford to have a phone?’
She wasn’t going to get through the next three minutes, let alone the day.
‘We’re given ’em by the authorities. Easier to stay in touch and get you off the street.’
‘How long have you been on the street?’ Oh god, now she was having a conversation.
‘Four years.’
‘How long have you had your phone?’
‘Four years. I’ve got good at Wordle though.’ He grinned.
She took a deep breath. Terrible mistake. A nearby drain reeked of wet dog crossed with an unemptied food bin. Being sick in the street would not be a good look. She was also disconcerted to note that someone was taking an interest in their exchange, just there on the margins of her vision. Tall. Broad. Wearing a hoodie.
The homeless guy waved at him. ‘Be with you in a minute, J.’
A mate of his? It didn’t matter. Best to ignore him. She wished she’d done the same with old Whiskers here.
‘How about a tea?’ she suggested.
‘Nah, you’re alright.’
Great. Time to leave. But he wasn’t letting her go that easily.
‘Are you on Instagram?’
Of course she was on Instagram. She had over two thousand followers, and if she didn’t get a coffee soon, she’d have to think of something else to post for their viewing pleasure.
‘No.’
The hoodie watching them gently scoffed. She refused to turn around.
‘I’m not gonna stalk you,’ said the homeless guy. He grabbed a large piece of cardboard with the Instagram logo and @StreetPete scrawled on it. ‘Can you post a picture of me? I’m raising awareness of homelessness.’
‘I think people already know it exists,’ she said.
The hoodie behind her chuckled throatily. A woman with a small wheely bag and an air of high-mindedness approached, pointedly put some change in Pete’s cup, and cast her a barbed look. How was she at fault here?
‘Money won’t make the guilt go away,’ Simone told her.
‘If you cared, you’d post a picture of me on Instagram.’ Pete winked at the hoodie.
Was he a stooge? Was she on some hidden camera show? She really wasn’t in the mood to be dicked around. Not on a Wednesday. And not after last night’s doorstep shenanigans with Finchley.
‘I think it’s great what you’re doing…’
Did she? She’d never really considered that anyone making a bed from boxes would be motivated to do anything beyond begging.
‘…but people don’t go on Instagram to be reminded of how shitty the world is. That’s what the platform formerly known as Twitter is for.’
Another deep laugh behind her.
‘It is only a picture,’ the hoodie said. ‘I’ll happily take one of you together.’
She was too tired and hungover for some random stranger to be acting intellectually superior to her, even if at that moment an amoeba was intellectually superior to her.
‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘why don’t you have your picture taken if you’re so…’ she spun around, curious as to which do-gooder’s judgment she was being subjected.
‘I’ve already posted. See?’ He was holding up his mobile phone.
But it wasn’t the post that caused her words to grind to a standstill; it was the guy himself. He was hot, like, unusual-looking ex-Prada model hot. Perhaps a bit too old for catwalks, but still way too fine for catalogues. He was all angles and strong lines, but his tawny skin was peppered with freckles, softening the architecture of his face and lending him a playful vibe.
‘Bully for you,’ she managed.
His lips were naturally pursed, like words were constantly perched on the end of his tongue ready to tumble out, and his bright blue eyes had a slight downward turn at the edges, as if the effort of being so gaze-into-able had tired them out. Soft twisted meringue-like peaks of afro hair poked out the front of his hood. And he was tall, much taller than her in her heels, and she was five-eight without them. She scanned the screen for his handle; made a mental note: @Jasp-err.
He shrugged. ‘I guess it is.’
Simone didn’t like very attractive men; they were too self-aware and not to be trusted. As last night had demonstrated, men were troublesome enough creatures even without the constant temptation of eager women wanting to land themselves a superior specimen. No matter how attractive you yourself might be – and empirically she was doing okay for herself (not that it was something for which she could take much credit) – it was only ever a matter of time before they did something unutterably dickish. You know, like getting their twenty-three-year-old assistant pregnant when they were meant to be in a committed relationship with you. But unusually for her, she felt ambushed by this guy’s handsomeness, as if by not expecting it she’d been caught on the back foot. Best not to show weakness, though.
‘I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Jasp-err.’
‘I’m just saying it’s not that big a deal.’
‘Maybe not for your feed, but for mine it’s the equivalent of a turd in a box of turmeric buns.’
He smiled. She didn’t.
‘You seem angry about something,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Who are you? The woman whisperer?’
‘Whoa!’ He raised his forearms in surrender.
The hoodie was tight. No label, but his muscles had been designed by Michelangelo.
‘Didn’t realise it was Snark Week on the Discovery Channel,’ he said. ‘I was just asking.’
Snark Week. She’d have to remember that.
‘It’s nothing that a coffee and a handgun wouldn’t resolve.’ She checked her phone. It was getting late. ‘Seems I won’t get my hands on either this morning.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Pete. ‘Could be worse. You could be me.’
‘Very reassuring.’
‘True though,’ said Jasper.
Normally, whenever she encountered someone on an equal-ish attractiveness footing as herself, they would square off, almost daring one another to disappoint on other levels. It was a stupid game, probably some evolutionary bullshit at play. But this one wasn’t engaging in the usual way. The body language was all wrong. It was as if how she looked, or indeed how he did, were of no bearing on this situation. She was confused and, she hated to admit, slightly peeved.
‘Is it? Sure, I have a roof over my head, but I pretty much only own the roof. The bank owns the rest and charges me a fuck ton percent for the privilege. The walls are so thin I can hear the mice screwing next door – at least I can when my neighbour isn’t playing his frigging tom-toms. On top of this, I have a shitty boss whose idea of staff motivation is to use the carrot as a makeshift ball gag so he doesn’t have to listen to your cries whilst he beats you with the stick. I’m so hungover the Red Cross has opened an emergency care base in my brain, and all I really want to do is curl up on that cardboard and go the hell to sleep, which, if you look at the state of it, gives you some indication of just how bad I’m feeling. So I am sorry that I’m not capable of bringing you the happy-clappy are you alright, mate version of myself this morning. Or indeed any morning.’
Jasper was doing his best to appear contrite.
‘And out of interest,’ she said, ‘did you just come over to lord your virtuous superiority over me?’
‘I came to have a chat with Pete.’
These two went together like strawberries and bream. Curiosity got the better of her.
‘Are you some kind of double act? Sherlock Homeless Doctor Hotson.’
Jasper and Pete exchanged a half-smile and an admiring nod. This was also unusual. Most men she met resolutely ignored the fact that she could be witty. Women like her were there to appreciate men’s jokes, not make any for themselves.
‘Not bad,’ said Jasper. ‘You could also have had Django Cashless.’
‘Who’s the double act?’ she asked.
‘Tango Cash.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Really? Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell. Two cops with very different approaches who have to team up to clear their name.’
‘When was it out?’ she said.
‘Late eighties.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-five.’
He was a year older than her.
‘Best era for buddy cop movies,’ Jasper said.
‘Yeah,’ said Pete, all misty-eyed. ‘48 Hours.’
‘Another 48 Hours,’ said Jasper.
‘Lethal Weapon.’
‘Lethal Weapon 2.’
‘Bad Boys.’
‘Bad Boys 2.’
‘Not seen it,’ said Pete.
‘You’ve not seen the latest one?’ said Jasper.
Pete gestured to his surroundings. For a fraction of a second, she wondered what his life was like before he became Street Pete.
‘Ah man. We’ll have to watch it one day,’ said Jasper.
She was also no clearer on what the relationship between these two was.
‘Well, I’d love to stay listening to you two list films all day, but I need to go to work.’ She pulled the twenty out of her purse, bent over and shoved it into Pete’s cup. ‘Here. Have it. I was going to get my hair cut, but the way this day has started, I’ll probably tear it out instead.’
‘You said you didn’t have any money,’ said Pete.
‘I said I didn’t have any change.’
‘Semantics,’ said Pete.
How did this guy know about semantics? Nope. No further engagement.
‘Spend it on Spice. Crack. Popcorn. Whatever gets you off, mate.’
She sensed Jasper wanted to say something to her, as if her impending departure had nudged the natural order of things back into alignment. Perhaps his disinterested vibe was a ruse – something advised by that pick-up artist book The Game which had done the rounds a decade ago. Still, the sooner she got to work, the sooner she could sit and stare at her screen and not do any work. She turned and strode off, not even bothering to acknowledge Jasper as she went. Two could play that game. She was about twenty strides away when she heard urgent footsteps behind her. That was more like it.
‘Hey!’ He was next to her. ‘This is a bit awkward but?—’
‘The answer’s no,’ she said.
‘Eh?’
‘You’re going to ask for my number.’
‘Am I?’
‘I know how this works.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah. First you play it cool, get me all intrigued. Then you ask for my number. Then you leave me waiting days to text. Then we go out, possibly a few times. Then we bone. Then, having got exactly what you wanted, you get bored and move on.’
The only guy she’d ever been certain didn’t have an ulterior motive, or wouldn’t mess her around in some way, was her dad, but even he’d betrayed her by dying.
‘I’m flattered,’ she said, ‘but I already have a boyfriend.’
Jasper’s whole face was an apology. She’d been right.
‘Erm … actually I was going to point out that you have bird excrement on your back.’
‘What?’
‘One crapped on you when you put money in Pete’s cup.’
This wasn’t in The Game. Was he kidding? It was an interesting gambit if so. She took her jacket off. Sure enough, there was a streak of bird crap down it.
‘Goddammit! I knew I should have given up fucks for Lent. Tell Pete I want my twenty back.’
Jasper reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. An actual cotton handkerchief.
‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘A Regency drama?’
He smiled and passed it to her. A lesser mortal might have been disarmed. She laid the jacket over a bollard and dabbed at the splotch. It was like smearing wet chalk and coal together.
‘Why the hell would bird crap be black and white anyway?’ she said. ‘Worms aren’t black and white. Bread’s not black and white.’
His eyes twinkled. ‘You could argue that nothing in life is black and white.’
She cast him a withering look.
‘Not into philosophical jokes,’ he said. ‘Noted. You know it’s meant to be lucky.’
‘That’s bullshit.
‘No, that’s bird shit.’
He was quick. And enjoying himself. There was no sorting the jacket now, so she turned it inside out and lay it across her bag. The hangover sweats were kicking in anyway.
‘Do you want this back?’ She held the soiled handkerchief out to him.
‘You’re alright.’
‘Great. Well, if I need to unconditionally surrender from anything today, like my life, at least I can wave this. Have a good one.’
She walked off, trying not to think about how much of an egotistical idiot she must have seemed. She could deal with the egotistical bit. She’d spent her whole life having people assume she was up herself just because of an aesthetic configuration of her DNA and a desire to cloak her emotions, but she didn’t like being proved wrong about men. It was disconcerting. It went against her confirmation bias. Still, there was an eight-million-to-one-shot of bumping into this one again, and despite the stain on the back of her jacket, or her genetic good fortune, the rest of her life thus far had proven that she wasn’t actually that lucky.