Chapter 6
Ihad never walked down Carnaby Street before – at least, not at Christmas. Given how busy it was when Megan and I turned down it to admire the lights, I doubted I ever would walk down it – or squeeze down it – again.
‘I didn’t expect it to be so busy,’ Megan shouted over the droning voices of tourists, spectators, and shop workers.
‘The lights are pretty, though,’ I remarked, looking up at the striking neon signs and Christmas fairy lights dangling across the street.
The theme was ‘Iconic’, with lights in the shapes of iconic phrases ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ and ‘Is it still raining? I hadn’t noticed’, alongside depictions of notable pop culture like Geri Halliwell’s Union Jack dress and Freddie Mercury’s white-and-yellow suit.
Megan had arrived straight from work, looking sharp in a tailored coat and immaculate heels. I, meanwhile, was my usual colourful self in a red dress, blue tights, and a hat with an oversized bobble that jingled when I moved.
‘I won’t lose you in this crowd,’ she told me, eyeing my outfit with amusement when we met at the top of the street.
‘Look!’ I dodged a passing tourist wielding a vape like a weapon, invading my personal space. ‘I see an opening!’ There was a vacant alcove by one of the only stores closed in the street.
Megan made a beeline for it, somehow finding me in the throng of bodies and pulling me with her.
‘Jeez!’ she said, exhaling dramatically. ‘Finally enough room to breathe. Whose idea was this again?’
‘Yours,’ I reminded her. ‘But look at it, it was worth the chaos, right?’ It was a visual influencer’s dream: every corner was a burst of colour and nostalgia.
It was perfect TikTok fodder for my channel, and I took my chance to quickly snap a few stylised shots from above various shoppers’ heads and around Megan’s tiny waist.
‘Be sure you get my good side.’ She struck a pose and pointed to the ‘What a sad little life, Jane’ sign above our heads, but the shot was ruined by my hands shaking so much from laughing.
‘This is brilliant.’
‘Well, you’re easily pleased.’ Megan relaxed her pose and leaned against the door frame, first checking to make sure there was no gum or lingering hazards that could jeopardise her Chanel coat. ‘And energetic. My feet are killing me.’
Nothing could quell my energy. ‘It’s Christmas!’
‘How many coffees have you had today?’
‘Too many,’ I admitted. It had been another long day of Pim rehearsals and put-downs, with the occasional light-hearted thanks and the odd joke from a lighting technician or the director to get me through.
‘You’ll be glad when it’s over.’
‘When I hand in my notice, you mean.’
Megan rubbed her ankle. ‘You said it, not me.’
I shrugged as I offered her my arm to rest on when she replaced her shoe.
‘I’m not good at looking forward. I never have been.
Not since… well, you know.’ Not since my mum got diagnosed.
Fear of the unknown was a childhood trait I never truly overcame or even embraced.
I kept moving forward but I didn’t stop, you’d think I was rushing towards the future, but I was more afraid I’d get stuck and never push on if I paused for a moment.
‘Sometimes I wish I could stop looking back.’ Megan’s expression softened as she released my arm. She smiled at me briefly; she was never very good at holding a smile even when she meant it.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and began scrolling mindlessly.
I watched her for a moment. There was a weight hanging on her, the kind that wasn’t just about a long day at work.
‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ I asked.
Her doomscrolling paused for a second in surprise. ‘Of course I am. I’m a fricking monk. Did I tell you I was thinking of going palaeo?’ That wasn’t what I meant and she knew it, and I knew she knew.
I nodded politely as she talked to me about palaeo vs keto diets, and eventually she trailed off, her jaw tightening.
There was a weariness about her that I hadn’t noticed at the pub with Josh; I couldn’t put my finger on what was different and I didn’t want to pry, so instead I reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze.
She tensed, then shrugged it off. Megan had never been one for overt displays of emotion, even with me.
‘I know, I know, you don’t care about diets.’
‘Not in the dieting kind of way. I don’t have the time to be that disciplined.’ Or spending time locating Whole Foods and organic takeaway meals. I spent enough of my life locating escabeche and nut-free nut roasts for Pim. I didn’t want to add my tastes into the mix.
I exhaled softly, feeling my energy start to match hers as I rested my chin atop her shoulder and stared at her screen blindly. ‘This coat is really soft,’ I said, burrowing my head into the shoulder pad of her jacket.
‘You can’t have it,’ she was quick to respond. ‘At least not yet.’
‘I always appreciate your hand-me-downs,’ I said but she continued to scroll. I caught seconds of #CleanTok footage and various parenting influencers, the occasional marital therapist, and news reels. It was typical TikTok fodder.
Trying to lighten the mood and spotting a lull in the crowds, I rushed out into the street and struck a pose under Sherlock Holmes’s deerstalker hat. ‘What do you think? Could this outfit one day become an iconic neon sign?’
Megan looked up and laughed at my pose, as I proactively lifted my leg and hugged a door frame. ‘I’ve never felt so sexy.’
She snorted so hard she almost blew her own phone away, nearly dropping it on the damp wintry pavement.
I laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. ‘Right!’ she declared, back into Christmas mode. ‘I need to get to Doc Martens. Are you willing to join me in the mosh pit?’ She referenced the growing crowd again.
‘If I don’t make it, tell Josh I died well.’
‘There would be no better way than this, in his mind anyway.’ Megan agreed, pushing forward.
Once we got past Timberland, we were able to breathe again. The crowds mostly gathered at the entrance to the street and less people walked the whole street, though it was still a relative squeeze.
The smells and sounds of Christmas were more apparent here. I lifted my nose into the air to catch the strong scent of roasted chestnuts, and I gravitated towards the singer playing ‘Stop the Cavalry’ by Jona Lewie, a highly underrated Christmas song.
‘I’m going to pop in here,’ Megan said as we reached the store she wanted. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘You go ahead; I want to listen to the music.’
She murmured in assent and carried on with her shopping task, as I gravitated towards the singer, a man by the sound of his voice.
A crowd had gathered around him, blocking him from view; people were hovering with Styrofoam cups of mulled wine and hot bags of chestnuts. It was a perfect Christmas gathering.
I joined the throng just as the singer sang the last notes of ‘Stop the Cavalry’ and the crowd began to dissipate. To keep their attention, he struck up his next song quickly: ‘Sweet Caroline’. Not quite a Christmas classic, but a banger nevertheless.
Ducking under the arms of retreating listeners, I found a spot as the inevitable fist-raising dum-dum-der moments began. And that’s when I saw him.
It was the busker from Covent Garden.
He looked remarkably similar to the last time I’d seen him, even wearing the same kind of outfit in front of the same microphone stand. This time, he was playing a blue-ice-coloured guitar.
I watched for a few moments, mouthing along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ as the crowds ignored him and wandered past, only involving themselves in the song’s famous chorus with fist-pumps and mouthed singalongs.
As he came to a close, I reached into my pocket and found my trusty purse I’d had since childhood, and you could tell – it had diamonds stuck on the purple velvet in the shape of the word Diva – and pulled out a ￡10 note. Stepping forward I dropped it into his upturned hat on the ground.
‘For charity,’ I said with a wide smile.
It took him a moment to place me. When he did, his eyes widened. ‘Covent Garden girl.’
I sucked my teeth in amused embarrassment. ‘The very same. Although I’m surprised my moniker isn’t “beggar girl” or “insulting cow”.’ We both laughed. ‘Sorry about that, by the way.’
‘You said that… before, I mean.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ I nodded and felt suddenly like my arms were very out of place at my sides. ‘Oh, well! That was really good,’ I said, gesturing to his guitar.
‘Thanks!’ I waited for him to carry on, to say anything, but he just stood smiling confidently. It was mildly infuriating.
‘You’re a man of few words.’
He made an agreeable ‘hmm’ sound and rubbed the back of his neck; whether self-consciously or just because he was cold without a scarf I couldn’t tell.
‘I can be.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those singers that lets the songs speak for me,’ I mocked and realised I had gone right back to insulting him. Shaking my head and scrunching up my eyes, I almost shouted. ‘Sorry! That was rude too.’
‘Mocking, not rude,’ he laughed. ‘And it was funny.’
‘I’m not normally so insulting.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ He was still smiling as he leaned down to pick up some loose change that had fallen short of his upturned hat.
‘No, truly.’ I leaned down to help him. ‘Most people tell me I’m too nice for my own good.’
‘I’d say giving a tenner to a busker is pretty nice, so maybe they’re right,’ he said, lifting the hat so I could drop the collection of five- and twenty-pence pieces back into it.
‘Well, it’s for charity,’ I pointed out, groaning much louder than a twenty-nine-year-old should as I pushed myself back up to standing again. He didn’t groan at all, the bastard.
‘Actually…’ he began playfully, his lips tilting into a lopsided smile that I often associated with charming bartenders and waiters looking for a tip.
‘Aha, so this time it is for you.’
He shrugged. ‘Man’s got to earn a living.’
‘Indeed he has,’ I said, crossing my arms but still smiling. ‘I won’t begrudge you for that. You may keep the ￡10 note.’