Page 14 of Love at First Sight

He likes that I’m terrified.

‘What about that, eh?’ he says, looking down, and yup. There it is. His erect penis is exposed through the gap left by the open zip of his shorts.

‘Oh my god!’ I squeal, standing up but still hemmed in by the window.

‘Yeah,’ he says, proud of himself, and I push past him, as hard as I can, legging it down the stairs of the bus, and falling down the last three steps because of my heels. I land on my arse at the bottom, a big gash down the front of my shin.

‘You all right, love?’ somebody says, but I’m too busy yelling, ‘Stop the bus please! STOP THE BUS!’

The driver angrily roars, ‘I can’t stop until a designated spot!’

‘Stop the bus, please!’ I shout, and my voice quivers pathetically.He might follow me, I think, looking back to the stairs to see if the freak is there. He’s not.

The bus lumbers to a stop at a red light, and I seize my chance. I press the button above the door, the fire exit one you’re not supposed to ever touch, and I narrowly miss getting mowed down by a cyclist as I leap from bus to pavement, where I go over on my ankle again. I grip a lamp post in agony, and the light turns green so the bus pulls away. I watch it go. I can’t see the guy, up there on the top deck. He’s gone. It’s over.

‘Ouch,’ I say to nobody, hobbling over to a bench to inspect my ankle.

When a well-dressed man in a suit and tie approaches me to ask if I’m okay, I shout at him.

‘Fuck off!’ I say, terrified he might be about to get his dick out, too.

‘All right, all right,’ he says, holding up his hands. ‘Jesus, I was just trying to be kind.’

The people at the nearest bus stop all look over, and I must come across as drunk and combative, stumbling and yelling and crying. Yup. Tears stream down my face. I just wanted a night out, an adventure. But no. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it? It shouldn’t be this difficult to be a woman, out in the world, having a nice time and maybe even finding somebody special? I’m trying my best, I really am. Why do so many other people get to be happy with their person and for me it’s totally elusive.

I think of Cal, how magical that was out of nowhere. It was unexpected, and I need to see him again. I can’tnottry to find him. I can’t sit on my butt and wish for things to be different. I must take action!

I’ve been lying to myself. I don’t want Leo, or anyone else. I want Cal. I justdo. Last Sunday was perfect, and I want to believe I deserve perfection. I want to find him.

I send a text to India:Let’s do the Whole Foods posters.

She replies immediately:Yesssssssssss!!!!! You won’t regret this!

5

Another week begins.

My alarm goes off at 6 a.m. Monday to Friday, come rain or shine. I work every weekday for Ali, with weekend cover when her filming schedule requires it. It’s all been a bit different since the divorce last year – Thom has his own nanny, so when Henry stays with him in Clerkenwell I get to take a day off. He’s an actor too, so it can be a bit of a mess with two ever-changing schedules, but we figure it out. It works somehow. And luckily the pish-posh of hours hasn’t affected my pay. I’m salaried, with nothing deducted if Henry is away, but extra cash if I do overtime. As it should be, I say. It does mean I always have to be available and flexible, which has pissed on my plans more than once, let me tell you. Can’t fault it for all the extra time off I get, though.

I try to give myself forty-five minutes to slide into the day, washing my face and brushing my teeth, putting on a bit of make-up, stretching, making coffee in a takeaway flask to drink as I walk the fifteen minutes to Ali and Henry’s house. I live in a million-pound Victorian terrace too … it’s just that I’m in the basement. In what is essentially a bedsit. After Craig left and we sold our one-bedflat it’s all I could afford, but honestly, it’s fine for what it is: I’ve got my bed, and the flat is painted in exactly the shades of blue and green that I like. I’ve got a little kitchen and a cosy set of armchairs and some plants. Even so, I sometimes feel like the troll under the bridge, with the bridge being the three floors above me occupied by a professional couple who are younger than me but can afford to own four times the amount of square footage. India and I call it couple privilege: house deposits, taxis home, rooms on holiday … they’re all half the price for couples. The singles tax is real.

(I’m not bitter.)

(…)

I slip out into the cool air of the morning, and set a mental intention to have a fantastic day, as per the affirmation rules. I like being up this early, getting out and about. That’s something else Oprah says: get into the fresh air, engage with the world, regulate your nervous system with some sunlight. Even when I’m not working I have to get up and go for a walk first thing. It’s better than any coffee.

When I reach Ali’s, I let myself in. It’s a smart house on a smart street, inhabited by minor celebs and experts in their field. Next door on one side is an ex-DJ from Radio 1, on the other side one of the writers for a BBC sitcom that’s made it to three series. Ali’s house is beautiful brick with glossy black paint and huge bushes sprouting bright pink flowers. She has a black and white tiled entryway outside, in proper Victorian tile, and opening her front door is like stepping into a hug. That’s the only way Ican explain it. Her house is decorated to perfection. The first hallway has fabric wallpaper (fabric! wallpaper!) in a deep purply-pink, and the baseboards and cornicing are a rich red gloss. She has gold puddle-shaped mirrors and humongous Tiffany lampshades. The result is dramatic and moody and gorgeous. Off from the hallway you can either open a heavy wooden door on the left, to go through to the stairs, playroom and downstairs loo. Or, you can do what I do and carry on towards the cloakroom, a sleek set of wardrobes complete with lights that turn on automatically when you open the door. I hang up my jacket, slip off my shoes, and pad through to the open-plan kitchen/living area, a creamy white and taupe area so big it could fit about ten of my bedsits and still have room to spare. Perhaps this is a comment on the smallness of my own lodgings more than the grandness of Ali’s.

Ali is at the kitchen island, dishevelled blonde hair falling around her shoulders like she’s a goddess, silk nightrobe draped over her tiny frame and tiny matching silk PJs in a way I can only describe asartful. She’s got dark roots that manage to come off as playful and laidback, rather than like she can’t afford another trip to the West London hairdresser she adores. You know in movies you scoff at the screen when a woman gets up in the middle of the night to, say, check for intruders, and she looks like she’s ready to go to a ball rather than having just been dragged from a cave with mascara under her eyes and no bra? Well, that woman is based on Ali O’Hara. She looksperfect even at this hour, in this state. Big white teeth, full lips, perfect eyebrows … celebs really are a different breed.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ she says to me sleepily, wrapping elegant fingers in gel-varnished pale pink around a mug of steaming coffee.

‘Morning, everyone,’ I reply, heading for Henry, who is sat at the breakfast bar with a bowl of cereal, watching his iPad.

‘It’s aSpidey and His Amazing Friendsmorning, is it?’ I ask, noting the cartoon he’s watching. He gets thirty minutes iPad time a day, and that’s it. He nearly always uses it wisely.

‘Mmmmm,’ he says, distracted by the antics on-screen. Ali laughs.

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