Meet Me on Platform 3, page 5
Carla doesn’t pause for breath, she carries on, talking over the top of me.
‘I want long distance, I want a modern-day Brief Encounter, a different guy each week if you like.’
Ha ha! Brief encounters, I might not discard that idea after all. Except I was thinking more along the idea of a meet-cute followed by a departure, with not a lot in between. Apart from hope.
I think she is over-estimating my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Seriously. She is also mad. ‘Very modern day,’ I say drolly, shuddering inwardly at the thought of prostituting myself for the sake of a column where I will probably take the piss out of myself, and him. Whoever ‘him’ turns out to be. ‘Have you any idea of the state of most of the commuters on that train, Carla?’ Probably not. Carla lives in a posh city centre penthouse, courtesy of daddy. She’s probably never been on a train. Well, maybe the Orient Express, but that doesn’t count.
‘Whatever.’
‘And I thought I was supposed to do “Confessions of”?’
‘I suppose it could be “Confession of a Long-distance Commuter”, but “Love Train” is sexier, and “all aboard” suggests...’ She’s almost forgotten me as she doodles ideas on a sheet of paper.
‘Sex?’ I am not climbing all over a man I don’t know just to improve her bloody stats. Or my job prospects.
She ignores me, again, but dials up the sarcasm, so I know she heard. ‘Try. Even you should be able to flirt. Your column has got a bit boring. Okay, if you want me to be honest –’ I don’t ‘– it’s bloody pedestrian. Nobody wants to hear about your cat.’
‘I do not write about my cat!’ I splutter. ‘I haven’t even got a—’ I swear, I have never ever written about a cat, real or invented. I am not a crazy cat lady. Just a bit crazy.
‘Oh whatever.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story’ could be her motto. ‘You know what I mean. People want hope –’ at least we are on the same page there ‘– love, happiness, not office gossip shit and the same old boring tat. Give them some sex, Millie –’ different page ‘– or at least the possibility of it! Right, I’ve got a meeting, tighten up this piece and we’ll put it out on Thursday as normal and see how it performs. Are you sure you can’t track this guy down?’
I glare.
‘Please yourself, I’m sure there are loads of hot guys on your way to Blackpool or Leeds or wherever it is you come from.’ To Carla, it doesn’t matter if it’s Lancashire, Yorkshire or flaming Scotland. It’s just ‘north’. You’d think that actually having the north in ‘Northumberland’ would make it easier, wouldn’t you?
I’m also not sure if she’s being sarcastic or has this movie-style fantasy image of handsome surgeons and actors travelling the tracks. Huh.
‘Hexham.’
‘Fine. I suppose there must be rugby players? Or hunky farming types? But not Jeremy Clarkson or that Cable, Karl, tractor-boy one, whatever he’s called.’
‘Caleb,’ cuts in Zoe.
‘He’s in the Cotswolds,’ I say.
‘Thank fuck for small mercies.’
I decide not to get into that. ‘Could I have a private chat, Carla?’ Now could be the perfect time to grab the opportunity to broach the subject of altering my lifestyle. Of spending a little bit more time with my mother. In whichever county Carla would like to place her. ‘When he, er, caught me, I kind of wasn’t concentrating because I’d just come back from Mum’s and I was thinking about my moth—’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You really do fuck up a lot, don’t you?’
I don’t. Not really, no more than the average person (I don’t think), but for the sake of work I do. It’s how I make my living. Maybe Carla thinks the ‘me’ I write about is more real than the ‘me’ she sees in the office each day. She’s not at all bothered about employing the real me.
Okay, please don’t judge me. But I do make a living out of other people’s cock-ups, as well as my own, of course. I’m not nasty, just observational.
People want to see that others make a mess of stuff, that their lives aren’t perfect, don’t they? And I do it quite a bit. Cock up. Which is why when I first started working for bitchy boss Carla, she suggested I turn my ‘mishaps’ into a weekly column alongside a blog. Well, what she actually did was stare at me for ages then say, ‘You are actually quite funny in a fuck-up kind of way, aren’t you?’ She’d tapped her teeth with her pen, then pronounced, ‘I want a kind of slummy mummy without the kids. Liz Jones without the angst, but with more booze –’ she paused ‘– and food.’
At that time, I was newly appointed and keen to make the right impression (i.e. desperate) so jumped on this with total enthusiasm. I can do food; I can do booze. I was convinced it couldn’t be that difficult.
It can be tough to be intentionally hilarious all the time though. I mean, it’s just not normal to keep a diary of fuck-ups so you don’t accidentally re-use them, is it? My notebook reads like this:
Skirt in knickers at awards ceremony,
Top on back to front when interviewing famous rock star that I accidentally bumped into in wine bar while both of us very pissed, he insisted on taking it off just so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Though he did forget to put it back on the right way round
Driving wrong way up motorway for lots of miles on way to wedding, where I was supposed to be bridesmaid. I mean, how was I supposed to know that when she said St Ives she meant some tiddly village near Cambridge that nobody from my part of the world would ever have heard of, and not the real St Ives in Cornwall that I’d gone to as a kid? The one with a beach.
Sending BF text meant for BFF calling him a selfish dick. Yeah, that one didn’t go down well, and him reading about it on my blog the next day went down even less well. But the reader responses were brilliant. And he was a dick, we’d outgrown our relationship about a week after it had started – but neither of us could be bothered to admit we were romantic failures. Who on earth convinced blokes that sticking their tongues inside ears during sex would make a girl orgasmic? (That made the blog as well – He threatened me with an injunction, at the same time as asking if I could give him a plug on my blog and asking for the key to his place back.)
We’d started with ‘Yorkshire girl in the City’ (Northumberland was considered too much of a mouthful, and I’d had that temporary job in Yorkshire after uni so she thought it was close enough). As I had recently transplanted, Carla thought I’d be a novelty, as well as publicly fulfilling the requirement to consider northerners as real people (I do realise that this could be why she employed me). Then we moved on to ‘Confessions of a Single Girl in the City’ (the Yorkshire bit had backfired on her when there was a regional uproar about her taking the piss out of everybody who wasn’t from the south, and confessional stuff did hit all the commercial boxes, and I worked really, really hard to prove even without the northern angle I was still worth keeping on). From there we went on to ‘Confessions of a Bad Girlfriend’, ‘Confessions of a Girl Who Can’t Say No’. You get the drift?
Anyhow people love reading about my (slightly dramatized) cock-ups, and how I always manage to survive and dig myself out of the holes.
Well, they did. Things have kind of stalled a bit lately. Carla is right (though I hate to admit it), the ‘office gossip shit’ has got a bit boring. So, what am I on now? Confessions of a randy commuter?
‘And Millie?’ Carla stops me in my tracks as I’m trying to escape. ‘Make it funny. Right? Not farcical, relatable.’ I get her gimlet stare.
‘Cool. Sure. Got it.’ I mutter the last bit under my breath as I head back to my own desk. Funny, ha ha.
‘And.’ I freeze, and then when she doesn’t carry on talking, I turn to look at her. ‘Make them root for you, Millie.’ Her tone has softened, and if I didn’t know her better, I’d say she’d gone a bit dreamy. ‘Why can’t a meet-cute lead to love?’
Why not indeed?
‘Well, it can, exactly!’ It could, yes, with a guy like him! But, oh my God, that’s the last thing I need right now. I don’t need all the complications of a real, you know, full-on relationship on top of everything else. My head would explode.
It really might be better if I don’t find him again, have to make it all up, and avoid the risk of things getting too hot to handle.
‘Unlikely of course.’ She’s gone back to her normal brisk self. ‘But we can all dream, and you’re supposed to be a journalist, so make it happen!’ She’s off before I can think of a reply.
It is only when I sit down again that I realise she’s totally blanked me about having a chat.
Alongside my decision to write about the sexual attractiveness of random strangers in train stations, I decided that I definitely need to spend more time with Mum. I need to actually act on the random comment I’d made to her about being there for her.
I don’t need to be in the city every day to do my job, I can work at home one or two days a week. My childhood home.
This does not have to affect my career.
Well, actually it could. Which makes it hard enough to broach different working hours because I’m really torn about whether it could work or not, but Carla makes it impossible. Short of locking her in her office, five minutes alone together when I actually get to talk and she listens is practically impossible.
Maybe I should just email her?
I dither for a moment, hands over my keyboard. Then grab my mobile. I will message Dale because whilst he can be a dick, I can rely on him for an unemotional response to whether my request is reasonable, and how I can broach it short of handcuffing Carla to her desk.
I’d rather chat face-to-face when I see him, like we always did when we first knew each other, but I don’t know when I will next see him. Our diaries seem to have got out of sync, and the last time I saw him it was more of an executive meeting than a mates’ night out, because one of his bosses had invited him to dinner, and dinner in Dale’s world is a euphemism for ‘promotion interview’. He needed a plus-one to show he is steady, reliable and not afraid of commitment. Ha ha.
Anyway, he might have some suggestions about how to tackle this; he’s used to dealing with uber-busy people like Carla.
Hi stranger! Mum needs me, but not sure how to broach subject of working from home more with Carla. Any suggestions? Millie S x
I have to put my name; in case he’s forgotten which Millie I am. It’s not that I think he’s playing the field and has many female best friends, more that he’s not playing at all.
I hit send, then jump as my phone rings. It is Dale. This is not like him at all. He must have some very strong views on this subject which emojis and three-letter acronyms just won’t cover.
‘What do you mean, your mother needs you? Is she ill?’ There’s a taut edge to his voice. Dale doesn’t like ill health. He’s the first out of the door if there’s the slightest hint he might be needed to look after somebody. He actually went away for the weekend last time I had flu and asked him if he could warm some soup up for me, and left me a list of ‘tip-top takeaways that delivered’.
‘No, I think she’s just struggling since Dad…’ I can’t say it. ‘If I could spend more time with her, you know work from there the odd day.’
‘Work from there? The north?’ He sounds horrified, as though I’ve suggested working from Mars, or the Moon. I think he’s been watching too much Game of Thrones. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘To keep her company, to er, change plugs?’ I don’t tend to change plugs for myself – I’d rather buy a new appliance. But you know what I mean.
‘I’m not being harsh, Millie, but it’s her life. You’ve got here. She won’t thank you for throwing your career away.’
‘But I’m not throwing anything away, lots of people work from home. Hybrid working is the future!’ I read this somewhere. I’m not one hundred per cent sure about the idea of never being in the office, because I do like people (and how could I write what I do without them?) and sometimes you do need face-to-face meetings, but I do buy into the ‘happiness breeds productivity’ angle.
He sighs. ‘Not successful, dynamic people in this industry. Not when you’re an unknown. You need to be in their faces. Present!’
‘You can’t say that, Dale!’ I’m not sure what is annoying me the most, being classed as an unknown, or the sweeping statement that successful people have to be in an office. ‘That’s rubbish these days.’
‘And what happens when she dies?’ He carries on with his one-sided conversation, ignoring me. ‘Which she will, and you’ll be stuck in the back of beyond, no career, nothing.’
I think I have misjudged this. I am talking to completely the wrong person. ‘You do know they have high-speed broadband and Aldi north of Birmingham now? Peaky Blinders isn’t a documentary.’
‘You know exactly where I’m coming from.’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘Oh, and while I’ve got you on—’ as though I’m the unavailable one! ‘—I know it’s tiresome, but can you come to Edinburgh with me the weekend after next? I’d completely forgotten but my sister is getting hitched and if I go on my own, I’ll have to put up with all the comments.’
Edinburgh? I love Edinburgh! Maybe I could combine it with a visit to see Mum? I could even take her! We could pop in and see Lou. It’s not that far and…
Shit. What the hell am I doing? Why am I even thinking about going with him?
‘No.’
‘Sorry?’
A wave of disbelief and shock hits my eardrum. He is more taken aback by this than by the possibility of my moving north of Watford. Okay, I guess I can understand it. I’ve been too much of a pushover. I felt a bit indebted to Dale when I moved into his flat.
He’d shown me the fab, amazing side to the city, instead of the lonely, hard side that so many people had told me to expect. I’d not wanted to believe them, I’d been positive, it was what I wanted – but sometimes you can’t help letting the jitters in for a bit, can you? Without him I would have found it tough, so I felt a bit duty-bound when he asked the first time if I minded being his plus one to an event. And then it kind of escalated. Lots of events. But if I’m honest I’ve enjoyed it; it is nice to get out. I was a bit of a billy-no-mates in the early days and Dale goes to some cool places.
He’s not used to me saying no. But friendship works both ways, doesn’t it?
‘No, I can’t come, Dale. I’m busy. With my mother. Grabbing some time together before she dies.’ I end the call.
What on earth was I thinking, or more to the point not-thinking, when I’d contemplated crossing the line and nearly suggested we turn the idea of being together into being-together? He isn’t bothered about me not being in London for work, this isn’t about any imagined damage to my career, he’s bothered about not having me on tap for when he needs a plus one.
I shake unpleasant, self-centred Dale out of my head and stare at the blank page on my screen.
All men can’t be like him, can they? One day, when it’s the right time, surely there’s a chance I’ll bump into the guy for me.
Can a meet-cute really lead to love?
Chapter Five
Millie
Friday 11th March
‘Amelia!’
I’ve got one foot in the office, the other still in the lift, and freeze in panic, then shoot forward – practically into Carla’s arms – as the doors threaten to close around my ankle. Luckily, she is off at a fair clip before I actually cannon into her.
‘Come on, come on. What are you hanging about for?’
I scurry after her.
I was hanging about for two reasons—
She called me Amelia, I have learned from past experience that if anybody calls me Amelia – other than my mother, other (normally old) relatives and anybody working in an official capacity (including dentists and doctors) – then it is bad news. She is not about to give my teeth a polish and scale, or (heaven forbid) grab a speculum, and she does not share my DNA, so there’s a good chance she’s about to sack me. Or give me a bollocking for something. And,
She has been lying in wait for me, and I’m not late.
Carla reaches my desk before I do, perches on the edge and points at my chair. Surely she isn’t about to sack me, or give me a dressing-down in front of everybody else? Carla might be a total cow, but she is not stupid. Carla is hot on employees’ rights. Carla is not about to fuck up by humiliating me in public. Is she?
‘For fuck’s sake stop twitching, you’re making me edgy.’
I’m making her edgy? I sit down abruptly. On my hands. Nobody wants to make Carla edgier than she already is when she’s in this mood.
She folds her arms. Defensive. I feel ill.
‘You need to find that guy again.’
‘Wha—?’
She leans forward slightly and speaks more slowly, like she does to any juniors before declaring they are inept. ‘You. Need. To. Find. The. Guy. From. The. Train. Station.’
‘But I don’t know if…’
‘It has to be him.’ She has me fixed with her gimlet stare, but it doesn’t matter. Carla doesn’t actually scare me, unless she’s about to sack me, and I’ve just realised she isn’t. Phew.
I mean, being made redundant, and being sacked before I hit the big thirty was never part of my life plan.
‘You said I should please myself!’ I uncover my hands and fold my own arms. ‘I could find some other guy.’ Not that I am against hunting down train-guy, I just don’t think it’s possible.
Her eyebrow disappears under her fringe. Carla always knows best. Unfortunately, most of the time she actually does know best, so it’s very hard to make the case for doing things my way. My alternatives have to be foolproof, not vague ideas.
‘You said just find any guy, Carla. A series of guys. I was thinking about a variety of fall-on-top-of-them scenarios, then we could mark them out of ten on their response.’ I had spent all evening, and most of the night, wondering how I was going to come up with a series of posts about sex on a suburban train. Or even a TransPennine Express. I was still at the ‘very, very, vague ideas’ stage. Not good.
