5

Obviously, I’ve never played hooky before. Never thrown a sickie, had a duvet day, or even stretched out my lunch hour. I don’t even take my lunch hour; it feels like an imposition. Years ago, I took two days off when I had proper flu, dragged myself into work before I was well, and as a result developed a lung infection. My GP grudgingly gave me antibiotics and I struggled on, hacking my way through meetings, discreetly coughing phlegm into a tissue. Red Eye gives its employees twenty days’ holiday a year, plus a day for every year you’ve worked there, but they cap that at five extra days, so I have twenty-five holiday days, which HR keep tabs on like soldiers patrolling Guantánamo. The last day off I booked was to take Grizelda, our cat, to the vet – it’s near a Co-op, so I treated myself to a browse and bought some AA batteries.

What to do with this blessed, beautiful day? The exhibition, obviously, but time stretches ahead invitingly, loaded with possibility. I want delicious food, and delicious free time, and delicious me-time. I want to stare at art, and a beautiful dress in a shop window, and the blue sky, and I want to move slowly, like I’m wading through glue. I want to breathe, and not think, and feel, but not too much. I want to stop. I want to just be.

There will be no picking up groceries, or collecting dry-cleaning, or going to the post office or queueing at the pharmacy. I want to do nothing, and then something gently illuminating, and then nothing again, and then rest. I want to be left alone, maybe see someone I love, briefly, and then be on my own again, just blinking and being. I want that taxi I see ahead, because it can take me someplace else, and I can sit watching the world go by, not engaging in any of it. As I step forwards holding out my hand, the driver sees me and nods, slowing and swerving to the kerbside. I smile and salute him, ready to begin my adventure. Off we go, into the unknow—

I’m shoved aside abruptly, as two smartly dressed men barge past, one of them opening the door while the other barks at the driver: ‘Victoria Square.’ I blink, but not in a good way. This has happened to me before; in fact, last week, a group of office workers hijacked my hailing and I was left standing at the roadside, speechless, stock-still and drenched in pavement juice as another taxi sped past ignoring me. What to do in this situation? Old Clover would retreat in defeat but New Clover’s pulsing atoms push her forward. Having missed my opportunity to wrestle for the cab on the kerb, I hop in after them.

‘I said to Samsy, you got lucky scalping some before earnings . . .’

‘Feed those gift horses, get reloaded, baby, it’s bang time!’

Fnarr fnarr, etc. They’re both dressed in well-cut grey suits, that kind of expensive floppy material that drapes nicely. Turnbull & Asser shirts dry-cleaned by their secretaries, ties that will be loosened during long lunches, along with their tongues. So busy with their business, it takes them a while to clock me, but when they do, their double-takes are pleasingly – well, double. They’re like a FTSE Tweedledum and Tweedledee. And I’m their monstrous crow.

‘What on earth . . .?’

I hold out my hand to the one who spoke, which he stares at as if it’s an alien cadaver on a slab. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Pleased is obviously an overshoot, but one must maintain niceties, particularly with such dapper gentlemen.

The other one (Dee) shakes his head. ‘What are you doing here?’

My eyes rove around the cab. ‘I’m hitching a ride.’

‘But it’s our taxi!’

‘Well, no, technically, it’s his taxi.’ I indicate the driver.

‘But we . . .’ Dum trails off, confused.

‘Yes,’ I appreciate their predicament. ‘You were about to say you flagged it, but you didn’t, did you? I did. You appropriated my hailing. Normally, I would overlook it, but today is not a normal day, and also, I just happen to be going to Clifton myself. So, we’ll go together.’

Dee’s eyes widen in alarm. ‘I . . . we can’t!’

‘Why not?’

‘We don’t know each other!’ He produces this triumphantly, as if that will be the end of the matter. It won’t be, though. Not today.

I settle myself more comfortably, shifting my bag off my shoulder. ‘You’re quite right. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Clover Hendry, and I work in television as an executive producer. No, you probably haven’t watched anything I’ve made. I have two children, twins aged sixteen, and a husband – he’s a lawyer who could probably sue you for assaulting me on that pavement. Your turn.’

Dum begins to fumble in his pocket, as Dee gets on his phone, maybe to offload some shares before the world order collapses entirely. ‘This is really not on. I don’t see how . . .’ He looks up at the driver. ‘Hey, can you stop, so that she can get out?’

I get out my own phone, to google the gallery. ‘That’s a shame, when we’re just getting to know each other. Anyway, I’m not getting out. You guys can get out if you like.’

‘We’re not getting out. It’s our taxi.’

‘We’ve already established it’s his taxi, and my hailing.’

‘We’re not getting out.’

‘Well, then, we’ll have a lovely cosy journey together, won’t we. Tell me about yourselves. I bet you’ve had all sorts of banking adventures.’

Dum and Dee hastily call a board meeting, conferring in vexed whispers as I do my research. The art gallery is near a club I’m a member of, not because I want to be, but because Vince paid for me to join so we could have meetings there to look cool. Avon House is the poshest members’ club in Bristol, with a rooftop pool, two restaurants and numerous luxurious lounges. I’m sure no one really cares about sitting next to a swimming pool to chat about access-primetime opportunities – it doesn’t really aid the process – but Vince loves schmoozing people in bars, so more often than not I’ve found myself perched on a sunlounger, earnestly pitching an unlikely celebrity journey to a disinterested commissioner, ducking every time a wasp flies past. Now though, I’m thinking I could idle away some time, maybe even have a swim, wash off the blood. Why not?

‘We can’t do this.’ Dee is sweating. ‘You’ve got to get out. It’s not right.’

‘What? We’re not having an affair, just sharing a cab. It’s good for the planet, if you think about it.’

‘But . . .’ He pulls at his tie. ‘It’s weird.’

I sigh. ‘No, what’s weird is you two shoving me out of the way to muscle in on the taxi I waved down. Like you don’t give a shit about anyone. That’s weird. This is just . . . convenient.’

I hear what sounds like a snort of amusement from the driving seat behind me.

Dum intervenes. ‘We’re . . . whatever . . . sorry about that, OK? You’ve made your point. Could you just get out?’

There’s an exhibition viewing slot in an hour. Perfect. ‘If you’re sorry about that, then you acknowledge it was your mistake, therefore you should get out.’

‘You’re a psycho. Driver, stop. Make her get out, she’s insane.’

I chuckle as I book my ticket. ‘It’s not 1843; you can’t have me committed to Bedlam for being in the right. Just sit back and relax, we’ll be there in no time.’

The driver now feigns deafness, mercifully ignoring this nonsense, his eyes on the traffic. Dum and Dee sit back, brows creased, fingers drumming, their own axis shifted. This is a very beneficial little episode for them, and I’m glad we could have this chat. I wonder if Susie would be free to join me for a swim, and text her, suggesting a meet-up, as she’s working round here today.

My best friend Susie has a very interesting and flexible job, which I’m often envious of. She runs a company called SOjourn. They take rich people’s unoccupied houses and turn them into hotels for high-class house-sitters, who pay to stay there and keep burglars away. It’s like a private members’ club, but for property. As part of her job, Susie sources the houses and writes the copy for them: ‘This Canynge Square residence dazzles in its deep dive into grandeur. With a wine cellar and cinema room, you’ll be all sorted for entertainment!’ She travels to these amazing homes so that she can ‘get a feel’ for the place and convey its splendour. Once, she stayed in a sultan’s mansion in Hyde Park for free, so she could wax lyrical about his mega-basement – she tried to make me go with her, but I was worried he’d have CCTV and his security guards would come and cart me off. Now I regret it; I wonder if it’s still unoccupied and we could go and roll around in his subterranean playroom. She said he had an indoor fire pit like a Bond villain. Bristol is a rich hunting ground for SOjourn, with numerous elegant Georgian townhouses, spacious villas and converted warehouse apartments to choose from. Only an hour and a half by train from London, surrounded by stunning Somerset countryside, the city has a lovely waterfront, superb restaurants, independent shops and a bustling arts scene . . . I’ve read too many of Susie’s blurbs. She’s very good at her job.

‘Please get out,’ Dee is saying. He appears to have tears in his eyes. ‘I just can’t . . . have this . . . proximity.’

‘Take this.’ Dum holds out a twenty-pound note, his fingers shaking.

It’s like the opposite of prostitution – they’re paying me to go away, and we’re nearly at the club anyway.

‘Very well.’ I take the money and shoulder my bag. ‘But next time, remember your place in the queue. And don’t be such selfish bellends.’

This is all very liberating. I have no idea where it’s coming from, but it’s extremely useful to be able to tell it like it is, without worrying about the consequences. I should really phone our useless roofer, give him a piece of my mind. Both boys dip their heads, chastened; the driver stops, and I get out, giving him a thumbs up as I slam the door and wave them off. I bet they wear salmon-pink chinos at the weekend and go round to each other’s houses to have barbecues and eye up each other’s wives. Pair of planks.

As the cab pulls away, Dee or Dum, I really don’t know which, leans out the window and yells ‘Slapper!’ which is totally unoriginal and childish. So I yell ‘Wall Street wanker,’ with the appropriate accompanying hand gesture, shrugging as a passing pedestrian tuts in disapproval. Normally an altercation like this would leave me trembling, with weak legs and palpitations. But now I feel strangely energized by the encounter. This is going to be a great day.

I cut through Birdcage Walk, a lovely arboreal tunnel that leads to Clifton Hill, the curved branches shading me from the sun. Clifton is so chichi; I wish we could afford to live here but we’d have to be richer than Jeff Bezos. Or Oswald Phillips. Mind you, according to local legend, the highly desirable properties round these parts were likely built with the dubious profits of some very dodgy traders, so maybe we’re better off in our tumbledown Keynsham farmhouse which at least has a more innocent history. I tell myself that when I feel the urge to get on Rightmove.

Arriving at the club, I can see Susie down the road, getting distracted by estate agents’ windows. At nearly six foot, with a mane of ginger hair, pale freckled skin and black lashes she has dyed at a salon in Swindon called Glamour Puss, she’s the shire horse to my pit pony. With my mousy-brown locks and slightly sallow complexion, I always feel distinctly beige around her, but I have straighter teeth so it’s not all bad. We’re both around a 7, but if you put us together – the best bits – we’d be a 10. I mean, technically, we’d be a 14 but you can’t have a 14 out of 10, can you? Not unless you’re on WeRateDogs. The point is, together we kick ass.

When she finally reaches me, Susie puts her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Just fancied a swim.’

‘In there?’ She jerks her head towards the entrance. ‘I thought it was a knob magnet?’

‘It is, but the pool is nice.’