He looks at me and I swear there are tears welling up in his eyes. I can tell he’s torn between telling her to piss off and being the dickhead who was mean to the pregnant lady, or caving in and offering me his seat. Lucky for him, her stop arrives and she pushes herself up off the seat.
‘There you go and thanks again.’ She glares one last time at the man shakily clutching his copy of the Metro and growls, ‘Have a nice day.’ And with that she’s gone and I’m back in my seat, which is now lovely and warm.
Make-up complete and only slightly smudged, I disembark at Central, where the queues for coffee are miles long, so I decide to slum it and buy one at Greggs outside. The weather has turned shitty, as it often does in Glasgow, so I practically sprint towards the office.
‘I’ve received an invite to the reopening of the Filmhouse on Friday night,’ gloats Patrick before I’ve even taken my jacket off. He’s the only one in the office so far and his creased, dishevelled appearance makes it look as though he’s slept here. ‘I hear they’re planning to make it more art house; you know, independent films, world cinema, black-and-white oldies? The launch will be excellent: free food and drink and a chance to mingle . . . right up my street.’
His pretentiousness nauseates me, but sadly his plan to make me envious is working. I love the Filmhouse, and the reopening is all anyone has been talking about for weeks. Such a great night will be wasted on a sad sack like him.
‘That’s nice, Patrick. Whatever are you going to wear?’ I mock and turn on my PC, which for once seems to be working.
‘Very funny, Catriona,’ he sighs. ‘I’m thinking definitely nothing in that shade of green you’re wearing at the moment.’
I open up my emails. Twelve new. The second one makes me happy to be alive.
‘Ouch. Touché, Patrick!’ I laugh. ‘OK, I’ll admit it, I am jealous . . . Well, I was until I received an invite too. Now I’m just happy. We should go together!’
‘What? You didn’t.’
‘I did.’ I smile winningly. ‘I’m guessing the whole office got one too. What fun!’
He mumbles something unintelligible and stomps out, almost knocking Leanne over on the way. ‘What’s up with Patrick?’ she asks, rubbing the spot on her arm he barged into.
‘He’s just found out that he isn’t special. Best let him stew in the gents’ for a while. How was your weekend?’
She opens a yogurt and licks the lid. ‘Good, thanks. Five-kilometre run and then dinner at my parents’ house. We’re off to Turkey on Thursday for two weeks, so I just had a chilled one to save some cash.’
‘Did you run to your parents’ house or are these things unrelated? Also, you can’t go to Turkey because we’re all invited to the reopening of the Filmhouse and Patrick really wants everyone to be seen there with him.’
She chuckles. ‘So that’s why he’s sulking. Ha, remember that time Gordon got an invite to that gallery opening instead of him and he called the organizers to complain?’
‘God, I’d forgotten about that. Has he always been such an arsehole?’
Leanne pulls a sad face. ‘Aww, he’s not that bad. You guys just clash. Give him your press award. That’ll cheer him up.’
‘Yeah, sure. Listen, since you’re away next Friday, I’m going to use your invite for my mate – is that cool?’
She nods and shovels a spoonful of Greek yogurt into her mouth, and I forward the email to Kerry to see if she fancies coming along. Free food and drink should convince her.
*
An hour later, I’m finishing up a telephone interview with an Edinburgh-based fashion designer who’s currently in high demand after designing the dress Kelly Macdonald wore to the Golden Globes.
‘Thanks, Megan, and congrats on your success! The article should be in this week, but I’ll let you know if that changes.’
‘Pleasure,’ she replies. ‘I love this magazine. Especially Glasgow Girl’s column – it’s hilarious!’
I grin. Sometimes I’d like to be able to announce that it’s me, but Natasha advised against it early on –
‘You’re writing some really personal stuff here, I’d use a pseudonym . . . keep an air of mystery about you. You know what the online trolls are like – they’re brutal. Once you put a name and face to your words, you make it much easier for them to judge you. Let them judge “her” instead.’
Very few people know it’s my column: only the office staff – who’ve been sworn to secrecy – and Kerry, Rose, Helen and Adam. When I won my press award, Natasha accepted it on my behalf. I just sat there and applauded myself.
‘– though my boyfriend thinks Glasgow Girl is unbearable. He calls her “The Bitch”. Does she work beside you? What’s she like?’
I stop grinning. ‘I’ve never met her,’ I lie. ‘She just emails her column in. Unbearable? Why does he think that?’
‘I dunno!’ She laughs.
