I loved my job, and had enjoyed writing for as long as I could remember. At first, working for the fashion side of a women’s magazine was a dream come true but now I was approaching my thirties, I was beginning to wonder how long I wanted to write about knee-high boots and designer look-a-likes that wouldn’t break the bank. Anna knew I was getting itchy feet and didn’t want to lose me. Before I knew it, I was in her office, with an offer to interview a doctor who relaxed off-shift by smoking weed.
“What are you waiting for, Stace?” A hand slipped through my arm and I felt a yank towards Piccadilly station. “You left five minutes ago to ensure you wouldn’t be late.” Vanessa, another journalist and regular de-briefing-on-life buddy, walked me towards the tube.
“I was sorting the barnet out.” I pointed to my hair as we huddled under my umbrella. “Rain is my nemesis.”
“You don’t want to miss him, do you? Frizz will be the least of your problems if he’s already left work tonight.” I closed my umbrella as we reached the safety of the station. “Don’t forget. Piccadilly to Central. Five stops. Twenty minutes. Go.”
“How long have you been using the tube to be such an expert?” I replied, cocking my head. Vanessa laughed. “Text you later. Much later. Maybe it will be early, like six in the morning as I start the walk of shame.”
My raised left eyebrow made her smile. “It’s about time you got some!” She laughed. “Jesus, you haven’t seen him in days. What’s wrong with the man?”
“He’s busy. Stocks don’t sort themselves, you know,” I replied as I held out my hands.
“I know, I know. Where would the London Stock Exchange be without him?” She turned me by my shoulders and pushed me towards the Piccadilly line escalator.
“He’s a very important financial analyst.”
“Which means?” Van shouted.
“He analyses…things. Numbers. Stocks.” I walked backwards, facing her as she laughed. “He’s the main cog in a very big machine!”
“You’re nuts! See you tomorrow.”
I waved as I disappeared down the escalator, listening for the heavy sounds of the next tube train pulling into the station. I loved the thrill of London, always had. The fast pace of life and the ability to have an adventure at any time of the day or night was exhilarating. I’d lost myself in the exciting lights of the West End, found myself on the eclectic streets of Camden, and fallen in love with the culture of Soho.
Unfortunately, living the London life to its fullest had its limits. My credit card took a beating and when my best friend, Skye, opened a café in Brighton, where you could drink coffee and play old-school board games, I left my overpriced flat, AKA glorified bedsit, and moved in with her. I had to admit; the commute was a killer at times. One hour on the train from Brighton to London at six a.m. was not for the fainthearted. Dodgy smells, weird overheard conversations, and quirky travelers made it an interesting journey. But it meant I got the best of both worlds. Busy city life during the week and serene beach walks with my best friend at the weekends.
Bliss. My life was bliss.
The platform was busy. Rush hour was treading through, and as the wind gathered speed with the next tube arrival, I let it take my hair with it. I squashed into the carriage—an elbow in one rib, a laptop bag grinding into my left knee. Smoothing my hair down with my free hand, I held onto the handrail above as I thought about tonight’s plans with my boyfriend of…ooh, about twelve weeks, Tim.
Tim and I met through my boss, Anna. She was holding an early Christmas party in October—far too busy to actually do it at Christmas—and threw us together over canapes and Buck’s Fizz. She said he was “nice” and “reliable” and as I was approaching thirty, that wasn’t to be sniffed at. I laughed at what I thought was her trademark sarcasm but realised she was absolutely right about him five seconds after we were introduced.
Tim described himself as a financial analyst and proceeded to talk about the crunching numbers, fast-paced anxiety, living the dream, and the joy of driving a Lamborghini…on and on. It was like a strange game of tennis. He batted between extreme positivity of a lifestyle he thought I should be impressed with and the depths of despair when he said he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. I remembered feeling the frown lines appear across my forehead the more he talked. Such a shame, to be living such a fast pace, and although I’d only just met him, I felt intrigued by his story.
The next day, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him again because I could see the editorial storyboard mockup with the headline, “London’s Power Hungry: The Truth,” or because I genuinely liked his sad little face.
Twelve weeks later—I was still none the wiser.
People interested me. Stories held my attention. I found opportunities for article ideas in every corner of my life. The mundane train commutes, lunch in Piccadilly square, Saturday morning rush hour at Skye’s café, and North Laine Sunday
