Page 1 of The Meet Queue-t

Chapter One

Ifyouhadaskedme a month ago what I’d be doing on the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday, I would probably have said eating takeaway in my pyjamas while watching reruns ofLove Island. Or maybe having a cheeky pint at my local pubbeforeheading home to eat takeaway in my pyjamas. While watchingLove Island.

And yes, that’s not very exciting. Iknow. Honestly, I do. Birthdays are made for wild parties and strippers and—no, wait, I’m thinking of hen parties. Totally different.

But twenty-four is an intermediary year. I’m not twenty-five, which feels like a tipping point on the imaginary scale, and I’m not twenty-one, or even twenty-two, which Taylor Swift made an Important Year.

(Not that twenty-two was a great time for me, unless you count the year I failed my degree and moved back home to work in my granny’s bakery as a win. Which, for the record, I do not.)

Anyway, my point is, I had no grand plans for my birthday, and I was fine with it. Eating Chinese on the sofa while looking at impossibly hot people trapped in a villa together was more than a good enough way towelcome my mid-twenties. And after losing someone important to you, big milestones lose their glamour. It’s just another reminder of the time that passes without them. So staying in and doing nothing sounded great to me.

But just over a week ago, Queen Elizabeth II died, and so did my chance of a quiet birthday. You see, Mum loved the Queen. And when the opportunity to see her coffin to pay our respects came about, I knew I needed to do this. Because if Mum were here (as in, with us in the material plane), she would want to be here (as in part of this queue).

So nowI’mhere. Stepping into her shoes. I thought it would be cathartic in a way, like saying goodbye to Mum all over again, but instead I’m shuffling forward at a speed a slug would find insulting. It’s 9:42 p.m., and at the rate we’re moving, I have no expectations of reaching Westminster Hall before morning.

Happy birthday to me.

I rub my gritty eyes as we pass a screen that tells me I have another twelve hours of estimated wait time ahead of me.

Fantastic.

That’s what you get for finishing a full day’s work and getting the train straight down to London. At the time, I had all sorts of grand ideas in my head about grief and cultural phenomenons, but now I just wish I’d brought my slippers.

Ooh, a takeaway would go down a treat round about now, too.

Other people seem way more prepared than I am, carrying backpacks filled with yummy snacks and thermoses sending steam spiralling towards the streetlamps. It’s only when I got here that I realisedjustwhat I’d signed myself up for.

At least I should have plenty of time to contemplate my mistakes.

Deep joy.

My stomach rumbles. My veins protest the caffeine drought. One espresso at dawn isnotenough to sustain a human in this capitalist world. I’m practically suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Not to exaggerate, but if I don’t get a coffee before tomorrow morning, Iwilldie.

Behind me, a woman shushes a young child—seven?—who is probably going to make tonight hell. He’s tired and whingy, clearly distressed about the lack of places to sit and the infuriating pace of the queue.

Me too, kid.

His mother has her hair pinned in a messy bun, coat sliding half off her shoulders as she stares at her phone and attempts to ignore her spawn. I turn away, glancing at the couple standing directly ahead of me instead. Unlike the grumping child, they seem oblivious to the painfully slow movement all around them. In fact, they seem oblivious to everything but each other.

Once, I wanted that. A marriage so filled with adoration that we couldn’t get enough of each other. Vomit-inducing love.

Now, I think I’d rather take the vomit. At least that way, you’re not worried that the vomit will cheat onyou and gaslight you about it. If anything, youwantthe vomit gone.

Huh, maybe there are more similarities here than I thought.

I turn, away from the nauseating proof that love still exists, to the man beside me. When he joined, he already had his Kindle in his hand, and for the twenty minutes we’ve been here, he’s been reading like his life depends on it. For all I know, maybe it does. If it’s an Olympic sport, he would definitely have a chance of getting gold.

Once again, the queue grinds to a halt, this time under a streetlamp. The kid complains at his exhausted mother, but I take the opportunity to examine my companion more closely. At a guess, I’d say he’s in his late twenties or early thirties, with black-rimmed glasses that slide down his nose periodically and a well-fitted black turtleneck under a grey coat. He’s cute, in a nerdy way. In a ‘I would bang my professor’ kind of way.

Then he looks up.

And holy shit, his eyes—a deep brown framed by long dark lashes—send him straight from nerdy-cute to hot. Embarrassed, I look away, but not before we make eye contact. Meaning he knows I’ve been watching him.

Fantastic.

I let the breeze from the Thames cool my flaming cheeks as I pretend the river is the most exciting thing in the world. Ten seconds pass with excruciating slowness, and once I think enough time has elapsed, I risk another glance at him.

He’s still staring at me, brows drawing together. We make eye-contact again. This night couldofficiallynot be going any worse.

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