She grimaced. ‘I’m tarted up for a work do later. You still in TV?’
‘Um, yes. Still at the coal face . . .’ I mumbled, desperately trying to recall when we’d met. She’d used my maiden name, so it must have been a very long time ago. Had we worked on a show together? I’d moved about three feet further from the case, but we were still in the blast area, even if I used her as a shield. ‘How about you?’
‘Same old, same old. I really must move on, but life gets in the way, kids get in the way . . . Have YOU got any little ones?’ She put her head on one side, as if she could read my offspring in the lines under my eyes. I often don’t mention my kids, because talking about twins always provokes strong reactions from people, inevitably leading to long-winded conversations along the lines of double-trouble, two-for-the-price-of-one, was it IVF, etc. And I didn’t have time right now, what with the imminent threat.
‘Not that I’m aware of!’ I floundered. Denying my own progeny. That definitely destabilized my karma. Now I had two reasons to get away: the bomb, and this woman. Infuriatingly, the train had stopped just outside the station, waiting for a platform. I wondered if I could prise open the doors and pick my way along the track.
‘Well, there’s still time. Mind you, none of us are getting any younger. And you could get hit by a bus tomorrow!’ The stranger tittered merrily and thumped me on the arm.
As if I didn’t dwell on that every single day. I already felt like I’d been hit by a bus that morning. The train lurched as it started up again and – horror – the case lurched with it. For a second, it stood unsupported, then toppled to the floor with a crash. I sank with it, one arm over my face, moaning loudly as I anticipated the blow. Finally, it had happened, the thing I’d dreaded and brooded over for so long. It was almost a relief. Blown to smithereens, fears and to-do lists and guest lists obliterated forever . . .
There was no explosion. I remained crouched on the floor of the carriage as the train inched alongside the platform, wondering how to extricate myself from this situation. My forgotten friend gaped down at me in astonishment as I feebly pretended to have something in my shoe, taking it off and shaking a non-existent stone out of it, wishing a sudden detonation would put me out of my misery.
When the train finally stopped, I got to my feet, brushing off my clothes, trying to retain a modicum of dignity.
‘Anyway, this is me! Lovely to see you again!’
The strange woman stared at me strangely. Although there wasn’t a bomb, I’d basically let off some sort of incendiary device and was now poleaxed by the toxic fug of embarrassment, so it was a good job we’d arrived in Bristol. The doors opened and I jumped off the train, giving thanks to Hermes, protector of travellers. The woman got off as well, giving me a puzzled, tentative wave, and I waved back, watching her go, fuelled by a sense of freedom, and Vicodin. I still couldn’t remember who she was, but it was unlikely I’d ever see her again. As commuters surged around me, I turned around, felt a sharp jab at the base of my skull, and everything went black.
3
You’re statistically more likely to be killed by falling furniture than by a bomb, but I’d hazard a guess there’s more chance of you getting blown up than being felled by a businessman’s briefcase on a station platform. He was looking at his watch as he got off the train, and the corner connected with my head at a very precise and unlikely point. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost consciousnesses at all were it not for the pills, which had already left me fuzzy and disoriented – horseshoe nail territory again. As I lay there, all I could see marching across my eyelids were those letters. Letters in no particular order, or maybe they were, but I didn’t want to make sense of them. Like the sliding doors, it was easier to jump out than face what was there.
When I came to, I was still on the platform, my legs propped up on the offending briefcase, a jacket under my sore head.
Obviously, my overwhelming emotion was mortification. All these people having their day derailed, late for work because of me. Maybe they thought I was drunk. I felt quite drunk, thanks to drugs and head injuries and something else that I couldn’t quite explain.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, rearing up. Various hands pressed me back down. ‘Truly, I feel absolutely fine.’ Taking care to enunciate clearly, not give any evidence of inebriation, I tried to get up again, and this time no one stopped me. They all got out their phones, apart from the businessman.
‘Thank God,’ he said, picking up his case and jacket. ‘I’m a lawyer,’ he added, shaking the jacket and frowning at the bloodstain.
‘Oh, lovely,’ I replied, still feeling dizzy. ‘So’s my husband.’
He paled and began to back away. ‘Intellectual property,’ I qualified, to reassure. He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the crowds. Hit and run. He could have at least said sorry. Maybe I should have said sorry first, to prompt him. Maybe it was really rude, not offering to dry-clean the jacket. My face began to burn as I considered the faux pas, simultaneously feeling the strange urge to follow him into the hordes and punch him. Another train creaked alongside the platform.
Figuring I’d already diced with death, so was safe to continue my journey, I boarded a bus outside the station, trying not to look at anything. Maybe it was like the tree falling in the forest – if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t there. As we rumbled along Redcliffe Way, the dizziness receded and was replaced by a vague, out-of-place feeling, like an aura before a migraine. I stared at page 48, not taking anything in. Just dots, join-the-dots, forming a picture I couldn’t quite piece together.
Lurching off the bus at Broad Quay, I tried to hold steady, looking up at the blue sky, the waving green trees, orienting myself. Get it together, Clover. I had the sense of things unravelling and in flux, taking in new atoms, cells shifting and regenerating with every shaky breath. Something big was happening, something that I couldn’t put my finger on but felt with every fibre. The blue sky. The green trees. The black box. The blue box, the black trees, the green sky. Everything on its axis.
I arrived at Red Eye’s offices on King Street shortly after 9 a.m., stumbling into the meeting room mouthing apologies to Vincent, who rolled his eyes and carried on talking about daytime slots. Edging into my seat, I put up a hand to check the back of my neck. It came away sticky with blood, which I wiped on my trousers – regulation black, tailored, paired with a skimming, interesting-print blouse, the work uniform of every woman my age. I still felt odd, dislocated, like I wasn’t really there. Was it an out-of-body experience? Had I, in fact, died on the platform?
Contemplating this possibility, I began to feel hot, sweat pooling underneath the silk, threatening to soak through. I licked the beads off my upper lip, eyes darting around the room to see if anyone had noticed. But everyone was staring fixedly at the table as Vince droned on. Petroc, one of my fellow executive producers, was doodling, drawing caricatures of Mr Burns from The Simpsons. Vince’s nickname is Monty, not because of any physical similarity, but because he has a habit of drawling ‘H-excellent’ and steepling his fingers whenever a rival company suffers a ratings dive.
I loosened the bow at the neck of my blouse, using the tie to subtly fan myself. My face felt bright red, as red as the blood oozing at my nape. Surely that proved I was still alive? Surely the afterlife was not sitting in a meeting room with managing director Vincent Chapel, pronounced Shapelle, as he debated whether or not the 11.45 slot on BBC One was worth chasing? It was a hell of sorts, I supposed. When did I die? Was it on the platform, when I was knocked out, or before that? Maybe when I took the tablets, or when I snapped the laptop shut? What was the tiny nail that set it all off?
Time to undo another button. Were there enough vegetables in the fridge for Hazel’s curry tonight? Must buy naan bread on the way home, or the twins would moan. Could get it on my way to pick up the dry-cleaning. Cleaning. The compost bin needed washing out, must remember to bleach it later. And do a towel wash. Maybe I could make a list on my phone under the table. Christ, it was hot. Was the air con broken? I glanced around again, but everyone else looked perfectly comfortable, and I didn’t like to suggest we open a window. Resting my phone on my lap, I couldn’t remember what was on my mind. Was it a to-do list? What did I have to do? Sitting there, thumbs hovering over the screen, I found myself tapping ‘BIG BABY’. No idea what that meant.
The headache was creeping back, tingling at my left cheekbone – I cupped my hand against it, to push it away. The room began to whirl around me, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, a bit like being on a waltzer at the fairground. Or those days when you used to get given gas at the dentist before they banned it. I remember swinging away in the chair as a child, away with the fairies, gorgeous drugs making it all better. What was it? Entonox? Like gas and air for giving birth. When the twins were born, Robbie tried it, got carried away, and ended up high as a kite. High on gas, high on Vicodin; my sober husband was such a junkie. I giggled.
‘Something amusing you, Clover?’
Screwing up my eyes, I tried to focus on Vince at the end of the table. ‘No, sir.’
What was wrong with me? Everything felt weird, as if I might float away and hover above the table like a drone. It was still hot, but now I was accustomed, it was almost like being in a sauna. Quite comforting heat, really. Maybe I’d have a sleep, wake up when Vince had finished analysing the daytime schedule. I closed my eyes, slid my cupped hand to my chin, and used his nasal tones as a lullaby . . .
It’s possible I slept for a while, maybe a few minutes, or an hour – those meetings can last forever. When I resurfaced, Vince was still going.
‘What we need,’ he was saying. ‘Is someone famous and gay. Gay-mous. Ha ha!’
Opening one eye, I saw Flora, one of our assistant producers, wincing. Petroc’s pen had stilled, the nib resting on one of Mr Burns’ evil eyes.
‘Don’t be such a prick, Vince.’
Stifling a snort of laughter, I opened my other eye to see who had mouthed off so magnificently. Bitching about Vince behind his back is a common pastime, but saying it to his face is another matter. It took a while for me to appreciate that everyone was staring at me, and it appeared that, in fact, the words had come out of my mouth. And it seemed there were more on the way.
‘You can’t say that sort of thing. It’s inappropriate. Pack it in.’
My boss blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it again. Wow. I’d definitely died on the platform. Or before. This wasn’t happening. Maybe that meant I could enjoy it? I got to my feet.
‘No one has time for this, Vince. We had exactly the same meeting last week, and you said the same things. Petroc’s supposed to be prepping for his Astral1 catch-up, Flora’s casting, Elspeth’s completely overloaded, but you insist on having these unnecessary sit-downs so you can pontificate. Next time, do it in an email.’
My voice didn’t even sound like mine. Usually, I end every sentence on an uplift in case anyone disagrees with me, but these new tones were flat, direct, brooking no arguments. Petroc’s jaw was somewhere near the floor; Flora gazing at me, eyes wide; Elspeth, the finance director, nodding vigorously. Only Ian, the head of development, seemed oblivious, staring at his phone. He never really left the realm of Reddit. I gathered my own phone, and a pretty little succulent from the middle of the table. The script was right there in my head, and it seemed I had the starring role. Just a question of letting it happen.
‘We’ll go for the eleven forty-five slot, but we won’t do loads of work like last time because the budget’s minuscule and they’ll likely go in-house anyway. Ian can chuck them a proposal as we discussed, Elspeth can try to push up the tariff, and Flora can sound out a few agents. That’s it. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office.’
I only had a few seconds before Vince blew his top, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered. Nodding to Flora, I walked out, closing the door and leaning against it, taking a deep breath, discharging those atoms. From the meeting room I could hear shuffling and coughing, and then: ‘ANYONE WANT TO TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’
As the atoms churned, burned and reformed, they pushed me towards the startling realization that I really, really didn’t give a fuck.
