Day Tripper

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash

This story has been well received when read at open mic events and was praised by the fiction editor of The Baffler. Alas, it has yet to find a home in print. It’s a favourite of mine, so I hope you enjoy it.

I had to laugh when the grey-haired chap in mustard corduroys and cheese cloth shirt treated us to a good old fashioned harrumph. I’ve seen him poking his nose (ruddied by decades of nineteenth-hole snifters) in and out of the shops on Esher high street. My fellow passengers continued the theme with a tune-free chorus of sighs and tuts. The train’s decision to join the queue for the filthy platforms at Clapham Junction had not gone down well. A block of luxury apartments, tall and slim like a shoebox on its side, looked down on us and hinted at a world outside our carriage. Residents opting to take in the view from their windows or balconies would have been rewarded with a clear sight of the sardines on the train. The young woman opposite me focussed on her phone; and one seat behind, an old man could find nothing of interest in the newspaper abandoned by one who had got away. But the balconies were unpeopled, and with that the opportunity to take a sneaky peek at the lives of others receded.

Not that the balconies were empty: as a result of either a benevolent developer, or perhaps it was the work of a Residents Committee, each one was graced by a small box tree in a slate grey pot. Had the young woman and old man turned their heads skywards, they might have wondered about the dozens of journeys from car park or tube station to the ground floor of the building. How many of the shrubs would fit into the lift in one go, and would the residents have swept up the soil and leaves which the green-fingered tsunami would have left in its wake? Some, miffed at the annual service charge they had chosen to ignore when signing the paperwork, would have left the mess for the cleaners, whenever they were due. But the most curious thing of all, to this inquisitive traveller, was the dishevelled box in the corner balcony two floors from the top. This traveller noted that the shrub was brown and if not dead, was in considerable distress. There were no further traces of neglect on said balcony, at the back of which a collapsed clothes airer was waiting to be put to use. In other spaces, where the boxes appeared to flourish, unwanted furniture and expensive but forgotten bicycles pointed to the fact that for some, this was an alfresco utility room, where one might have expected, had this been another country, washing machines and overworked air conditioning units. In fact, were it not for that anomalous dead or dying bush, it would have been reasonable to assume, as I had done, that the shrubs were artificial.

The train pushed through a tunnel to a platform where a handful of customers took their leave. Twenty or thirty commuters stepped onboard; some scrambled for seats; and others stood their ground, consulting phones and gearing up for the competition at Waterloo. Amongst this new intake, no doubt congratulating himself on a well-chosen assemblage, walked Adonis. I watched him raise his exquisite nose beyond his carefully constructed barrier of gel and cologne. How criminal, I thought, that he should have been forced to share this rotten air. Why should one so utterly divine have to contend with the odour of biltong and barbecue flavoured crisps? What chance did the gentle, but insistent fragrance of this god stand against the whiff of stale coffee and flapjack? Was my Adonis aware – or did he care – that he was amongst mortals? He was good enough for a goddess, but wasted on this train. He floated through the carriage, turning heads as he passed. Defeated alpha males switched their attention to whatever was in front of them: anything to discourage comparison. Interested parties tried and failed not to look as his olive skin ghosted past. Breaths were taken, smiles formed and stomachs flipped. Chemicals flooded the air, which once released could not be put back. He stopped between the middle seats, giving his fellow travellers a chance to speculate on the colour of the eyes hidden behind his Aviators. Surely, under those plucked jet black brows – he had, of course, left sufficient space in between them – lived a pair of chestnut or chocolate or walnut eyes that could steal a heart or wreck a marriage with a wink. As the train kissed the buffers at the end of its trek from Devon, our carriage was filled with the sound of magazines and papers flapping in front of flushed faces.

No one presumed to stand in his way. The luggage scrum was postponed until he had assumed his position by the door, whereupon the usual combat ensued. For Adonis it was simply a case of waiting for the button to signal liberty. I feel sure he would have pressed it himself, but a pink-shirted vicar leaned forward and whispered ‘allow me’, as though this deity’s hand should not be sullied by the bacteria of earthly digits. The door sighed forward and then sideways, as if backing away to facilitate the exit of an honoured guest. His flip-flopped feet found the platform and as he glided towards the turnstiles as if blown upon the breath of angels, his reflection followed from window to window for the length of the carriage, and the next, and the next. Transfixed as I was by his indisputable allure, I was relieved to confirm that this once in a lifetime beauty was no Narcissus. One could not have blamed him for admiring such a likeness, but he walked on without pausing to check his outfit or his hair or indeed if he was being followed. Had he done so, he would have nodded in satisfaction at the three-quarter length and impossibly tight blue jeans from which his hairless shins and ankles emerged to dazzle those of us that had summoned the courage to look upon him. He ran a slow palm down the spotless white t-shirt that accentuated rather than constrained his biceps, and as he reached for the phone bursting from his rear pocket, his hand lingered for longer than was decent. At the end of the platform he ignored a nymph in a powder blue halter neck dress that on any other day would have taken centre stage. She had enough about her to deflect me from most quarries, but how often does an Adonis come along?

*

On the other side of the barriers, the nymph veered right towards a beau clasping a bouquet. Adonis aimed left, racking up likes as he strolled across the concourse. I kept pace, trailing him closer than I might have dared on another occasion, but even with eyes in the back of his heavenly head, I doubt he would have paid attention to a day tripper in her favourite sunhat. Not for the first time, I wrestled with the paradox that is middle-aged invisibility. If asked – fat chance! – I would explain that I had come to London for an afternoon promenade along the South Bank, and as we reached the side of the Royal Festival Hall, I judged I was giving a convincing impression of sticking to my plan. He stopped in front of a napkin dropped by a man pushing a stroller. The harassed dad turned as though expecting Adonis to hand him the unclean tissue which had almost touched the slender toe upon which – I can’t believe I had missed it – he was wearing a Celtic gold band. In my shock at spotting the toe ring I had to tack right to avoid treading on his heels and I took refuge in the shadow of a pop-up rum shack. Adonis said not a word, but smiled at the feckless father who had dropped to his knees the moment he had realised he was in the presence of a Divine Being. As the apologetic pop stretched out a shaking hand to collect his litter, I took advantage of my first opportunity for a full-frontal inspection.

Despite the stiff breeze, his boxy quiff was immovable and reminiscent of a coastal bluff upon which I had once picnicked. His forehead was unbothered by worry or lines of any kind and his lips pouted as if to mimic the slight upturn of his nose. His neck was long, but not too long, and his shoulders – don’t get me started – seemed never to end. His arms and legs pulsed in the heat and while I was floundering in the sunshine, it was clear to me that here was a specimen never known to perspire. He climbed the steps to the Golden Jubilee Bridge. I hesitated. I had pledged to keep to the south side of the Thames, but how could I resist the thrill of his company? He ignored the musician who had heaved a full drum kit onto the bridge and whose jazzy syncopations had drawn a crowd with backs turned to St. Paul’s. I don’t know whether the drummer missed a beat, but his eyes followed Adonis and he nodded at me as I pushed through his people. We took the back entrance into Charing Cross and for a dreadful moment I thought he was going to board another train; but the gathering under the information boards parted to let him pass and I cursed my heels in my struggle to keep pace. We emerged into the light and onto The Strand. At a crossing, while waiting for three red buses to roll by, he removed his glasses and blew on the lenses. I was too far away to leap forward for a glimpse of his eyes, and the glasses were back where they belonged by the time he crossed into Trafalgar Square.

Adonis drifted through the cacophonous plaza as I pushed through crowds of selfie takers. He stopped to observe a duo of weathered entertainers ringed by tourists two or three deep. The men bounced around the circle, stirring up the spectators like triple jumpers. Both were topless and wore tracksuit bottoms gathered below their knees. Loud music from a speaker in a shopping trolley suggested that we were about to witness a display of breakdancing; and if they were able to match the frenzy into which they had whipped their congregation, this might be something to behold. One of them squeezed through a group gathered under a Japanese flag and stretched out a palm towards the departing Adonis who lifted his left hand for a high five without breaking his step. The entertainer screamed in triumph and backflipped into the centre of the circle. I will never know whether this moment of contact elevated the performance to a celestial level, as Adonis was disappearing into a throng outside the National Portrait Gallery. I swooned at the prospect of this beautiful creature wandering amongst the paintings I had spent so many hours admiring; but he walked on towards Pall Mall and turned right onto Haymarket.

I caught up with him at the Theatre Royal, where he had paused under the portico to examine a poster advertising a production of Tartuffe. Applauding his taste from behind a column, I imagined a conversation in which I informed him in all seriousness that a person can see Tartuffe two, maybe three times at most and this French language version might not be the best introduction to Molière. But it wasn’t to be, and he pivoted left onto Jermyn Street. Two young men dressing the window of an Italian shirt shop put their faces to the glass as he tiptoed past. As I reached their unfinished display one of them ran into the street to catch another glimpse of my boy. He passed so close that he unseated my hat, but I couldn’t blame him: Adonis was almost out of sight and he had to have another look. I jammed the hat onto my head and was just in time to see the flip flops take the steps into Waterstone’s. He was reading a bulky paperback under the gaze of two clucking booksellers when I entered the store. As I stumbled to the table beyond him, I inhaled and committed to memory the odour of his cologne. Perhaps, if I lurked long enough amongst the concessions in Selfridges, I would be able to identify the scent in question and take a little of Adonis home in a bottle.

I had been in this store many times, although not for some months. Several of my adventures had begun on this very floor; and one had ended with an embarrassing apology in the Manager’s office. Adonis put down his paperback and allowed himself a glance at the mirror atop a display of reading glasses, before exiting via the main doors. We were now on Piccadilly and not a million miles from certain old haunts from a previous life. The hallowed art deco halls of what had once been my favourite bar and grill occluded my thoughts and I missed a step or two, but I was close enough to witness him entering a small bar down a sunlit side street. I watched the entrance from one of the pavement tables next to a parasol which had been folded away the night before. I kept watch for ten minutes, but nobody came out of the bar. Reaching to the floor for my bag, I froze as two sublime tootsies and a familiar gold ring appeared next to my hand. I leaned back in my chair and steadied my beating heart: he stood not a metre away, minus the Aviators and with a crisp white apron tied around his miniscule waist. I had not expected to get so close so soon.

‘I like your hat,’ he said.

‘Hmm,’ I replied, as my hands fluttered around the bonnet.

‘Have we met?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t think so. Although I’m sometimes mistaken...’

‘Something to drink?’

‘Wine,’ I replied. ‘Red. No. Gin and tonic. Slimline.’

‘Any particular...’

‘You choose. Something refreshing. It’s awfully hot.’

‘It certainly is,’ he said. ‘I’ve walked all the way from Waterloo and I’m regretting it.’

‘You can’t tell,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t know.’

He looked into my eyes and smiled.

‘Where are my manners?’ he said, moving towards me. No, no, no! This was not supposed to be a kiss-on-both-cheeks kind of exchange. That’s not how it works. But he reached behind me and turned a crank to unfurl the umbrella. He disappeared inside and I took my notebook from my bag. I could sketch his eyes or I could try to find the words to describe them. I stuffed the book under my thigh when he returned with my drink. He placed a coaster before me and lowered a balloon glass from the tray. Blueberries, strawberries and raspberries jostled for space amongst four huge cubes of ice. He poured the tonic from a height and presented me with a small bowl of olives. He inclined his head towards my thigh.

‘Are you a writer? I love books.’

‘I know,’ I replied.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, I’m not a writer.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I just wondered, with the notebook...’

‘I like to jot down my thoughts. Some memories.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In London? To make some memories.’

‘In a way. I’m sightseeing. I like to wander.’

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘It can be.’

‘I like to walk.’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘You said you’d walked from Waterloo, in this heat. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t like to walk. Where do you like to walk?’

‘Enjoy your drink,’ he said, and with another spine-melting smile he returned to the bar.

I’m never sure how long is long enough, so I took a while over my drink. When I was ready for another I scraped my chair back and forth. He stood at the threshold, framed like a heartthrob in a movie poster, and I thought of Kim Novak standing in a doorway in Vertigo. I waved my glass in the air to get his attention. He honoured me with a thumbs-up. A couple had settled at the next table by the time he brought out my gin, without a fresh bowl of olives. He removed my empty with an efficiency that felt like a slight and turned to the interlopers as if greeting old friends. My disappointment at not being able to continue our conversation was compounded by the fact that they were indeed known to each other; on the plus side, I was able to listen in on their conversation without fear of arousing suspicion. And so I learned that Adonis was actually Alex, presumably Alexander, and undoubtedly Great. He was still enjoying the job, although weekends were a stretch. He was on a half shift today, after which he was meeting someone named Chloe – not so great – who was finishing work at around the same time and coming over to see if they could sort things out – possibly great. As no specific time was mentioned, I was forced to estimate the length of a half shift at four hours. This gave me more than enough time to finish my drink, leave a large gratuity, make my way to Oxford Street for a change of clothes and then return to resume my sightseeing.

*

Store detectives will tell you that there is no such thing as a typical shoplifter; psychologists, on the other hand, point to our tendency to inherent prejudice; and journalists like to report on profiling. Whatever. What I know for sure is that in certain retail outlets in Central London, a well-dressed middle-aged thief can go about her business unnoticed. My therapist has her own theories about why I steal and God knows she is paid enough to come up with them; but I favour the principle of Occam’s razor and explain, when asked, that I do it because I can. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t – at least I don’t think I would – and the only action you need to take to stop me stealing, dear Mr. Shopkeeper, is to acknowledge my presence.

I don’t like to swap hats, but Alex had said how he liked mine and there was a danger he would remember it. The security guard tipped his cap at me as I left ______’s in striped black leggings, matching vest, silver bomber jacket and white running shoes. A duffle bag and baseball cap completed the new look which, according to a magazine I read while waiting for my colour to set, is called Athleisure. With my sunhat, purse and keys transferred to the new bag, I skipped along Oxford Street where there are windows galore for anyone wishing to admire their reflection. Several opportunities for sightseeing presented themselves, and for an hour I enjoyed the company of a gentleman of my vintage – a change is as good as a rest – whose creaseless chinos and up-collared polo shirt spoke of a certain type. He visited a watch shop where he had to be buzzed in and a shirt maker to the royal household before nipping into an ancient restaurant where I had once endured an afternoon of Guinness and oysters with some girlfriends. I swallowed half a stout at the far end of the bar, but there was no time for seafood which in any case I now know to avoid.

From the end of the street I saw that the umbrellas had been left up, despite the fact that the bar and its terrace were now in full shade. All of the tables were occupied and for half an hour I watched Alexander work his magic. It was clear that some of the clientèle were regulars and in ecstatic thrall to his charisma. The rest, at first dazzled by the glow which surrounded him, soon fell into line. Like the buskers in Trafalgar Square, he held his patrons in a heightened state of anticipation. And what were they waiting for? A performance? A skit? A sketch? A dance? No: they were all preparing for a moment in his presence; for his full and unbridled attention; and an opportunity, I daresay, for a close-up of those eyes. From my vantage point behind a streetlight, I saw that although the smile didn’t slip, the eyes never settled for too long on one face, as though rationed out of charity. I was fishing in the duffle for my water bottle when a young woman sauntered past. She charted a course down the middle of the road as though the pavement was for lesser beings and took a seat at a table which became free the very moment she reached it. Like a certain liner unable to avoid a certain glacier, I realised that this had to be Chloe. Alexander, minus his apron, joined her at the table and kissed both of her porcelain cheeks. His eyes were once again resting behind the Aviators, but I could see that in Chloe’s case there was no limit to his time and attention. I was itching to remind them about the something they needed to sort out, but was too far away – and who am I kidding? – to break the fourth wall.

Following couples is not my thing, but I make exceptions. As a rule I like to recalibrate for an hour or so before returning to the station and to life in Esher; but I had to know whether Alex and Chloe lived together. They held hands all the way to Waterloo and separated only to pass through the turnstile. On the train they took a table seat and sat opposite one other, feet locked together. At Clapham Junction, they turned right onto the high street past the shoe box with the dead shrub. They stopped at a Londis and I know I shouldn’t have followed them in, but what do they say? I’d come this far. The store was long and narrow, with a central display stand and aisles on either side. At the back, above the noodles and pasta, a convex mirror allowed me to witness their conversation from behind the tinned soup.

‘Potatoes, milk and lottery. Anything else?’

‘You know what else.’

‘Aw, come on Chloe. Not when you’re with me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not fourteen.’

‘It’s embarrassing. I’ll get some...’

‘Your choice, but if you think you’re coming near me without...’

I have long been able to read the intent behind any hand that grips my shoulder. Depending on the energy put into the squeeze, it can be anything from a How Do You Do to a Please Come With Me. The shopkeeper seized my bag, and as we tussled, my sunhat dropped to the floor and with it, the Cream of Chicken and tomato puree that I had wrapped within. As I scrambled on the grubby vinyl, the ringed toe of my dreams appeared next to the soup and my sunhat. I managed to grab my bag, but I’ll miss that hat. He shouted something as I ran out of the shop, but I couldn’t make it out above the horrible words the shopkeeper used. He was too lazy to chase after me. I’ve outrun fitter and angrier.

I watched them disappear through a door on a street of chaotic terraced housing and after I had counted to three thousand I put a lipstick cross on the wheelie bin by their gate. I’ll leave it a bit longer than usual before I return.