pouting at the blemish she’d have to wear on herself all day now, she chastised herself for not being more sophisticated – she’d never seen Meghan bloody Markle covered in her breakfast.
Nadia pulled out her phone and texted her best friend Emma, wanting a bit of Monday-morning cheerleading.
Morning! Do you want to go see that new Bradley Cooper film this week? I need something in the diary to be excited about …
She sat and waited for her friend’s reply. It was hot on the train, even this early, and a tiny bead of sweat had formed at the nape of her neck. She could smell BO, and instantly worried it was coming from her.
Nadia tried to surreptitiously turn her head and pretend-cough, bringing her shoulder up to her mouth and her nostrils closer to her armpits. She smelled of antiperspirant. She’d read about the link between deodorant and breast cancer and tried using a crystal as a natural alternative for three weeks a few summers ago, but Emma had pulled her aside and told her in no uncertain terms that it was ineffective. Today, she was 100 per cent aluminium – and sweat-free – in cucumber and green tea Dove.
Relieved, she looked around for the culprit, clocking a group of tourists arguing over a map, a nanny with three blonde children, and a cute man reading a paper by the doors who didn’t look unlike the model in the new John Lewis adverts. Her gaze finally landed on the damp patches under the armpits of the guy stood right in front of her, his crotch almost in her eye. Gross. The morning commute was like being on Noah’s Ark – wild animals cooped up, unnaturally close, a smorgasbord of odours akin to Saturday afternoon in Sports Direct.
She waited for her stop, staring idly around the carriage, trying not to inhale. She glanced lazily back at the man by the doors – the one with the newspaper. Just my type, she couldn’t help but think, enjoying the way his tailored trousers danced close enough to his thighs to make her cheeks blush. Her phone buzzed. She pulled her gaze away to look at Emma’s text, and forgot about him.
Daniel
Daniel Weissman couldn’t believe it. As they’d pulled up at Angel she’d skidded around the corner and he’d held his breath as he’d held the door, like a Taylor Swift lyric about an innocuous beginning and a happy ending and love that was always meant to be. Not that Daniel meant to sound soft that way. He just got weird and jittery and soppy when he thought about her. She had that effect on him. Daniel found it hard not to let his imagination get carried away.
He tried to catch sight of her from his position by the doors – she’d snaked around to the middle of the carriage. He could just about make out the top of her head. She always had hair that was messy, but not like she didn’t care about herself. It was messy like she’d just come from a big adventure, or the beach. It probably had a name, but Daniel didn’t know it. He just knew that she was very much his type. It was so embarrassing, but in the sponsorship advert in between every ad break for The Lust Villa, there was a girl who looked just like her, and if Daniel hadn’t seen her in a while even that – a bloody advert! – could make him nostalgic and thoughtful. It was shameful, really.
The Lust Villa was Daniel’s summer reality TV fix, full of romance and seduction and laughing. Daniel acted like it bugged him that the TV had to be on at 9 p.m. every evening for the show, but he was always in the living room at 8.58 p.m., as if by accident, just settling down to his cup of tea in the big armchair with the best view of the widescreen. His flatmate Lorenzo pretended that he didn’t notice the coincidence, and they happily watched it together every night. Neither said it out loud – and nobody would guess it from Lorenzo’s behaviour – but they were both looking for somebody to settle down with and it was quite informative watching what women liked and didn’t like via a daily show that featured genuine relationships. Daniel used it as a way to get his confidence up, taking notes and learning lessons; last night, the bloke that was obviously there as a bit of an underdog had finally found his match, and now here Daniel was in this moment, today. He didn’t want to be the underdog in his own life. That show made him feel like he owed it to himself to at least try with this woman. Just to see.
Daniel couldn’t help but admire the serendipity of the morning. What were the chances she’d stagger right past him on the morning the advert got published? They’d only been on the same train at the same time on a handful of occasions, including today. He forced himself to breathe deeply. He’d done it – sent off the Missed Connection – to maybe, hopefully, finally get her attention, but he was suddenly terrified she’d know it was him. What if she laughed in his face and called him a loser? A dreamer? What if she told everyone at work – her work, or his work – how he was pathetic, and had dared to think he was good enough for her? Maybe she’d go viral on Twitter, or post his picture on her Instagram. On the one hand, he knew she was too nice to ever be so awful, but on the other, the tiniest voice in the back of his mind told him that’s exactly what would happen. He shook his head to try and rid himself of the thought. Love was sending him crazy. Or was it that he was crazy in love?
‘Mate, this isn’t love,’ Lorenzo had told him, not even taking his eyes off the telly to issue his damning verdict. ‘You just wanna bang her.’
Daniel did not just want to ‘bang her’. That wasn’t it at all. He probably shouldn’t stare at her silently and from afar, though. That was a bit weird. It was just – well … The politics of hitting on a woman seemingly out of the blue were so blurred and loaded. He could hardly approach her cold, like some train psychopath she’d have to shake by ‘pretending’ they were at her stop and then slipping out and onto a different carriage. But he also knew that if any blokes in his life told him they were trying to seduce a woman they’d never directly spoken to by putting an advert in the paper and then staring at her stealthily somewhere beyond Moorgate, he’d gently suggest that it probably wasn’t the most ethically sound plan. He was trying to be romantic, whilst also saving face. He hoped he’d got the balance right.
In his head, the fantasy went like this: she’d read the paper and see his note and look up immediately and he’d be right there, by the doors, like he said, and they’d make eye contact and she’d smile coyly and he’d go, simply, ‘Hello’. It would be the beginning of the rest of their lives, that ‘Hello’. Like in a movie. And in that movie there wouldn’t be five Spanish tourists in between them, crowded around in a circle, looking at a map, an indistinguishable babble punctuated occasionally by the mispronunciation of ‘Leicester Square’. Fuck. Where was she? Oh god, this was awful.
The train pulled into London Bridge and, after finally locating her as she steamed ahead through the crowds and towards the exit, the moment he thought might happen disappeared before his eyes. There was no bolt of lightning. No world slowing as their eyes met, not so much as a question but as an answer. She had barely acknowledged him when he held the doors and helped her get on the train – she’d been in a rush, and distracted, and her ‘thank you’ was more of a breathy ‘ta!’ as she passed by. As he tried to keep pace with her, Daniel realized he was disappointed in himself, and in the situation. He’d imagined this for weeks, and now … nothing.
She suddenly stopped in the middle of the departing commuters to read her phone, but it wasn’t like he could slow down as well, let alone stand beside her, could he? So he kept walking and then waited by the exit. He wasn’t sure what for. Just to see her, probably. To see her on the day he’d put himself out there, to remind himself it was real, that she was real, even if it hadn’t gone to plan.
Later, when Daniel told Lorenzo how the morning had played out, he’d miss out this part – the part where he waited for her. What was he doing? He wasn’t going to actually go up and talk
