December 23rd
Ed
I’m sorry! Five more minutes, I promise! xx
Five more minutes. She said that ten minutes ago.
In fact, she first said it forty-five minutes ago when I still had some feeling left in my fingers and couldn’t see my own breath every time I sighed with exasperation. She also told me she’dabsolutely, definitely, one million per centbe ready to leave work at six-thirty to make the drive to my parents’ house, and yet here I am at seven-thirty– alone in my freezing car, with the engine turned off so I don’t drain the battery.
I glare up at the office block, towards Kate’s window on the fifth floor, hoping a stern look might somehow motivate her to leave sooner. God, this building is depressing. It looks like a Victorian workhouse with walls of intimidating, uninspiring brown brick and windows all separated into smaller glass sections, resembling prison bars, even with the tasteful Christmas decorations outlining each frame. The whole ghastly structure surrounds a private one-hour-a-day-of-exercise-like courtyard which is now a private car park for brand-new-Mercedes-owning staff only and not their disgruntled boyfriends who drive 2012 Volkswagen Golfs. Unlike the contemporary, shiny, glass buildings popping up all over London, this one is considerably less modern. . .bleak, even. Kate doesn’t share my views. That’s not entirely unfamiliar these days.
I’m given a momentary burst of optimism as I see someone peer out of the window, and hope to glimpse a flash of her red hair, but although Kate’s been up there long enough to grow a beard, I’m guessing it’s not her. Come to think of it, I’m not even certain thatisher window; she’s worked at Parish Scott Taylor for three years, but I’ve never actually set foot inside her office. Lately, I get the feeling Kate wishes she hadn’t either.
‘They’re just so bloody. . . agghh! These people! These rich, privileged arseholes trying to nit-pick over every tiny detail of their divorce because god forbid their soon-to-be ex-spouse gets custody of the integrated dishwasher or the silver corn-on-the-cob forks. I mean, who the fuck even owns corn-on-the-cob forks? Arseholes, that’s who.’
My attention turns from the bushy-faced man towards the end of the road, where the streets are packed with people who keep normal working hours, heading to places which are undoubtedly warmer than this bloody car. We’re pretty close to Camden and right now I’d give anything to be sat in the Blues Kitchen with some St Louis ribs and a beer, instead of contemplating what pre-packed sandwich meal deal I’ll get when we inevitably stop at motorway services because Kate will have been mainlining coffee all day.
A loud, sharp rap on the passenger window nearly gives me a heart attack.
‘Open up, it’s freezing out here!’
I lean across and unlock the door, as a flustered-looking Kate climbs into the passenger seat.
‘God, I’m so sorry, honey!’ she exclaims, throwing her work bag into the back seat. ‘I got stuck with a client that Baroness Botox decided would be more comfortable with me instead of Julian because we come from the same part of the world. But we don’t.Well, not unless Newcastle has suddenly become part of the Peak District, and no one’s told me.’
Her freckled face is flushed as she kicks off her shoes and throws them into the back to join her work bag. I can’t imagine what it’s like having to walk around in those all day. Like trying to balance on very small, pointy stilts.
She leans back into her seat and sighs as I turn on the engine. ‘It’s colder in here than it is outside,’ she remarks. ‘You should have kept the car running.’
‘For an hour?’ I reply frowning. ‘You know how temperamental Kiki is. She’d have lost the will to live before we hit the motorway.’
‘Well, I did suggest taking my Mini,’ she replies, her eyes darting upwards in disapproval. She finds car naming ridiculous. ‘I just had it serviced last week.’
‘Yes, but it also has the boot capacity of a pencil case,’ I respond, fiddling with the heater control. ‘You’d be lucky to get two overnight bags in there, never mind the mountains of gifts you’ve bought for—’
‘Let’s just go, shall we? We’re late as it is.’
I bite my tongue as I put on my seatbelt, indicate and move off. I know she’s stressed at work right now but honestly, sometimes she can be a complete pain in the—
‘Ed! Watch out!’
I slam on the brakes as a cyclist appears from nowhere, narrowly missing my car. Mouthing obscenities at me, he rides off, while I give him a commonly recognised one-fingered gesture.
‘Didn’t you see him? Bloody hell, Ed, be more careful.’
‘Me?’ I reply, in astonishment. ‘That was his fault. It’s a one-way street.’
I exhale loudly and pull away again, just as a fox decides to dart across the road in front of us, disappearing into the nearbypublic square garden.
‘For the love of god!’ I exclaim. ‘I’m going to have a heart attack before we even get to the end of the street.’
Kate laughs and puts her hand on my knee, which soothes me a little. ‘Third time lucky?’ she asks.
I nod and move off again, checking every blind spot twice. Part of me wants to get out and check the sky for rogue parachuters.
‘All good with directions?’ Kate asks, as we reach the end of the road in one piece. I nod, pointing to my iPhone in the storage compartment beside me. While Kate’s Mini has a touchscreen display with a built-in satnav, and as much as she relies on it, I do not need a robotic voice directing me on a journey to the Peaks that I’ve done more times than I can count.
As we head down Euston Road, I hear Kate tut at her phone, her thumbs typing at warp speed.
