On the Tube home, Rose checked her work email. It stopped her thinking about how little space there was between the edge of the Tube and the tunnel. This was a reality that had never stopped bothering her, no matter how many times she’d taken the Tube. There was always something suffocating about it that made her feel like she had to try harder to find the air she needed.
Most of the emails were from Minnie. The subjects, as usual, were all in caps. Thankfully, none of them were addressed only to her, which meant they could wait until the morning.
GUEST LIST//VIPS UPDATES//OLIVER CONTACTS????
DO WE STILL CARE ABOUT SHANIA TWAIN?
ANYONE SEEN THE SKIMMED MILK?
These aggressive epithets were interspersed with pitches from celebrity publicists about up and coming ‘talent’ they wanted to get along to Firehouse events. Most people were reality TV stars. The words ‘dynamic’, ‘innovative’, ‘fresh’ and ‘young’ were repeated at least twice in all of the subject lines.
There was still no reply from @cosmoclara, though, which was really the only email Rose had been hoping to see when she opened her phone. That and anything along the lines of ‘FREEBIE ROOM NEEDS EMPTYING’ in it. The freebie room was a small, empty office that had become a dumping ground for miscellaneous unwanted items that had either been sent to editors or left over from photoshoots. You’d be just as likely to find a four-pack of toilet roll as an Yves Saint Laurent handbag. Hence why, unlike the beauty cupboard, it usually stayed locked. But every so often the room became overwhelmed with items. Even if you hadn’t seen the email, you’d know it had gone out purely by looking at the state of Firehouse’s stairwell: a cacophonous herd of stilettos furiously clacking on marble floors. It was heartening to see that no matter how much prestige the editors at Firehouse obtained, nobody was immune to the excitement of free stuff.
The Tube stopped without warning in between the next two stations. Rose looked around to see if anyone else in the carriage had noticed. There was an older man sleeping in one seat and a couple, also basically on one seat, snuggling together. They hadn’t flinched. Rose shuffled in her seat, looking at her phone screen and trying to ignore her racing heart. The Tube would move soon, she repeated to herself. The Tube would move soon.
She opened WhatsApp and tapped on Luce’s name.
Hey honey. Sorry I missed you last night. You okay? It would send when she next had Wi-Fi. Rose closed her eyes and tried to picture something to calm her down. An empty beach. It was always a beach. There was a vast bank of white sand and crystal-clear turquoise ocean before her. She took a deep breath and the Tube shuddered forward. She connected to Wi-Fi at the next stop. Luce’s reply was instant:
Yeah I’m all right thanks, not really sleeping but have been chatting to a really hot vegan butcher from Tottenham I found on Hinge.
Sounds like a catfish.
He’s 6' 5''!
What happened to the Squirt Gun/Beatle?
We tried to have phone sex last night and it was pretty hot until he started calling me ‘mummy’ in a baby voice.
Luce hadn’t been single for longer than a month since Rose had known her. She would break up with someone, usually after a few years together, and go home for a while. Then she’d be back on the apps and have a few one-night stands with tall bearded men who live in east London or petite brunette women that describe themselves as ‘creatives’. Then there’d be a comedown period where she’d tip into solipsism and have at least two existential crises. Finally, there would be the self-love phase, aka a commitment to being single fuelled by Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood songs. And then a month or so later, Luce would be in another relationship.
Come home soon xx, Rose replied, stepping off the Tube at Clapham Common. Halfway up the escalator she saw a poster for Milo Jax’s tour. Then she saw another. They were lining the entire wall. His face stretching itself into different expressions with a list of dates below. The next few gigs were all over Europe. Then he’d venture to the US before heading to Mexico, Singapore, Thailand, Japan and Australia. Some of the posters featured quotes from journalists. Many featured five small stars, too. ‘THE POP STAR OF THE CENTURY’ – Rolling Stone, read one.
Rose’s chest tightened as she approached the top of the escalator. She clenched her fists as she tried to take a breath. The inhalation began but it didn’t go deep enough. Rose put one hand on her chest and the other on the moving escalator handrail. She tried again. When she couldn’t draw breath, she started to panic. She kept trying, gasping, inhaling. A sound came out of her mouth but not one loud enough to alert anyone to what was happening. Something pushed her forward and everything went dark.
TWO
There was a spot forming beneath Rose’s eyebrow. Inflamed, angry and globular but not quite ready to pop. Its bump had changed the shape of her brow line so that it looked like she was frowning. There was red elsewhere, too, like around her nostrils, where she often got blackheads, and on her chin. Places where you didn’t want your face to be red. Rose held her arm outstretched and looked at herself in more detail, her phone screen reflecting back all of her imperfections. She didn’t take a photograph; this was not something she wanted a record of. But lying there, back on her bed, phone in front of her, she just observed. It was 10.39 a.m. on Monday morning and she had taken the day off work again.
This time it wasn’t by choice. Rose would have much preferred to go back to work immediately and get on with plans for the launch. Falling behind would only mean things would pile up – and Oliver would delight in giving her extra work. Her GP had just given her a letter recommending two days off work following the panic attack – that’s what he’d called it. Rose had binned the letter and told Minnie she had a stomach bug.
When Rose had opened her eyes that Friday afternoon after seeing Lola, she was horizontal, the floor of Clapham Common station cooling the space on her back between her T-shirt and jeans. Two people in high-vis jackets hovered over her, asking questions and touching her wrists. Rose nodded to indicate that she was okay. Yes, she could hear them. No, she didn’t think she had a concussion. Yes, she felt a bit dizzy. Two fingers. Rose Martin. Rose Martin. Rose Martin. They hadn’t heard her the first or second time.
She turned sideways in an attempt to get up and watched as hordes of people emerged from the escalator and headed straight towards the exit without so much as even acknowledging the girl on the floor. Not one person met her gaze, not one came over to check she was okay.
After a few perfunctory obligations, like signing a form to say she wasn’t dying and would go and see a doctor, Rose was allowed to go home. One of the men in high-vis jackets asked if she’d like a lift and because of the way his eyes lingered over her body when he did this, she said ‘absolutely not’.
As for the panic attack, Rose couldn’t tell Lola, who would probably rush her straight to A&E and demand an MRI scan or something equally melodramatic. Luce didn’t need the extra stress – she’d explained in her last voice note that she still hadn’t been sleeping at all. And Rose didn’t need anyone else asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer, although the GP had made a good go of it.
Sitting unusually close together in a small, airless room at 8 a.m., he asked if Rose had had any difficult experiences recently. This man, Dr Smith, was new at the practice. She could tell by the way he carried himself, like an expelled bully who’d just arrived at his next school. He had an unpleasantly long salt-and-pepper beard and breath that smelt like whisky and chewing gum. One bristle appeared slightly yellow, which Rose suspected was egg yolk from his breakfast.
‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘It was nothing. I just feel a bit funny on the Tube sometimes.’
‘Why’s that then?’ He looked down at his clipboard. ‘Miss Martin, is it?’
‘I don’t like when it stops,’ said Rose, eyes fixed on the twiddling fingers in her lap.
‘Isn’t that what the Tube does?’
She looked up; he was smirking at her.
‘Look, I really don’t think I need to be here. Can I just leave now?’ Her forehead was starting to feel hot.
‘Of course. Here, take this.’
Dr Smith handed her a piece of paper with the words ‘Mindfulness Exercises’ at the top.
‘These are some breathing exercises you can try the next time you have a panic attack.’
She bristled at his use of ‘the next time’.
‘Thank you.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Martin.’
Attempting to shake the feeling that she needed to take a shower, Rose had walked home as quickly as she could and made herself a peppermint tea before getting into her still sheetless bed. She hated doctors, especially ones who ate with the entirety of their face. There was something animalistic about it. Milo had still not seen Rose’s message. He had, however, posted several Stories about his European tour that Rose had now watched so many times she’d inadvertently memorised the entirety of his schedule. The next night was in Budapest.
10.45 a.m. There was still so much day left ahead of her. And all she could do was stare at herself in the screen of her phone, going over all the potential reasons why Milo hadn’t read her message. And at that moment in time, all of them had to do with her face. The spot, the redness and also her nose. It had a distinct ridge in the centre. If you looked at it from a certain angle, it was a Disney villain nose. From other angles, it looked fine. Not pretty, exactly, but fine. It was the kind of nose celebrities would fix as soon as they arrived in LA.
