parade of shops in the street below looked as busy as ever. Rachel had a reputation for exaggerating, but she wouldn’t lie about Joanie being in hospital.
‘Do you think that might have been what got your boy?’ the producer asked.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Rachel that Simon hadn’t been her boy, not really, but Stevie merely said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘If you can get here for seven, I’ll get Precious to go over the briefings with you, and you can go on at eight.’
‘I look like shit.’
‘We’ll all look like shit by then. I’m covering for Brian, and then doing my own gig tonight. Put your trust in make-up, darling. You’ll look a million dollars by the time you go on.’ Now that everything had been settled, the producer was back to her usual brisk self. ‘I’ll email you the product line-up so you’re not entirely in the dark when you arrive. We’ve got some top-notch stuff.’
Rachel always described their merchandise as ‘top-notch stuff’. Joanie, whose father and grandfather had worked the markets, called it swag.
Stevie asked, ‘Which hospital is Joanie in?’
‘I’m not sure, hang on.’ Rachel had a muffled exchange with someone and then came back on the line. ‘St Thomas’s. She’s in intensive care, but I’d keep away if I were you. This thing seems to be catching and we can’t afford to lose another presenter.’
‘You forget I’ve already had it.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re immune. My cousin Charlotte thought she was immune. Look where it got her.’
Nine
Rachel had spoken as if London was in meltdown, but the Jubilee line showed no sign of crisis. The carriage was full and Stevie was forced to stand, her body just one of many sardined together, hurtling through the depths. Perhaps the trains were brightly lit to take people’s minds off how dark the tunnels outside really were. The Underground carriage’s fluorescence drained the passengers’ complexions of any lustre. The dark skin of the business-suited man beside her had turned grey, and the woman leaning against the pole by the door had taken on a jaded sheen that reminded Stevie of the print of Tretchikoff’s green lady that had hung in her grandmother’s hallway.
Stevie felt the weight of the city above her and wondered how deep beneath the ground she was. West Hampstead . . . Finchley Road . . . Swiss Cottage . . . St John’s Wood . . . The automated announcer declared the stations in her machine-plummy voice, not bothering to warn them to mind the gap . Londoners didn’t dwell on the people who had died on the Underground: the navvies sacrificed to its construction, the suicides and careless drunks crushed against the tracks, the terrorist bombings, Jean Charles de Menezes murdered by police marksmen. They walked past the memorial to those who had died in the King’s Cross fire without a glance, because to remember too often would be crippling. Londoners were the blood of the city and the city went on, regardless of the Black Death, the Great Fire, the Blitz, and terrorist bombings. It was only occasionally, when the train stopped between stations, that passengers caught each other’s eye and wondered if their luck had run out.
Simon’s laptop was in a satchel slung across Stevie’s body. The weight of it pulled at her shoulder blade. The carriage shuddered to a halt and an elderly man’s hand grazed her right breast. He gave her a half smile that might have been an apology or an invitation. Stevie’s foot tensed with the urge to stamp on his toes but she merely shifted her bag to her other side, making a barrier between them.
Stevie thought she could scent the lingering smell of her illness beneath the blend of body odours and rubber that permeated the carriage. A droplet of sweat slid down her spine and she hoped her shirt wouldn’t cling to it. She noticed an ex-member of the Cabinet further down the train. Cartoonists had made a feature of his
‘Do you think that might have been what got your boy?’ the producer asked.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Rachel that Simon hadn’t been her boy, not really, but Stevie merely said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘If you can get here for seven, I’ll get Precious to go over the briefings with you, and you can go on at eight.’
‘I look like shit.’
‘We’ll all look like shit by then. I’m covering for Brian, and then doing my own gig tonight. Put your trust in make-up, darling. You’ll look a million dollars by the time you go on.’ Now that everything had been settled, the producer was back to her usual brisk self. ‘I’ll email you the product line-up so you’re not entirely in the dark when you arrive. We’ve got some top-notch stuff.’
Rachel always described their merchandise as ‘top-notch stuff’. Joanie, whose father and grandfather had worked the markets, called it swag.
Stevie asked, ‘Which hospital is Joanie in?’
‘I’m not sure, hang on.’ Rachel had a muffled exchange with someone and then came back on the line. ‘St Thomas’s. She’s in intensive care, but I’d keep away if I were you. This thing seems to be catching and we can’t afford to lose another presenter.’
‘You forget I’ve already had it.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re immune. My cousin Charlotte thought she was immune. Look where it got her.’
Nine
Rachel had spoken as if London was in meltdown, but the Jubilee line showed no sign of crisis. The carriage was full and Stevie was forced to stand, her body just one of many sardined together, hurtling through the depths. Perhaps the trains were brightly lit to take people’s minds off how dark the tunnels outside really were. The Underground carriage’s fluorescence drained the passengers’ complexions of any lustre. The dark skin of the business-suited man beside her had turned grey, and the woman leaning against the pole by the door had taken on a jaded sheen that reminded Stevie of the print of Tretchikoff’s green lady that had hung in her grandmother’s hallway.
Stevie felt the weight of the city above her and wondered how deep beneath the ground she was. West Hampstead . . . Finchley Road . . . Swiss Cottage . . . St John’s Wood . . . The automated announcer declared the stations in her machine-plummy voice, not bothering to warn them to mind the gap . Londoners didn’t dwell on the people who had died on the Underground: the navvies sacrificed to its construction, the suicides and careless drunks crushed against the tracks, the terrorist bombings, Jean Charles de Menezes murdered by police marksmen. They walked past the memorial to those who had died in the King’s Cross fire without a glance, because to remember too often would be crippling. Londoners were the blood of the city and the city went on, regardless of the Black Death, the Great Fire, the Blitz, and terrorist bombings. It was only occasionally, when the train stopped between stations, that passengers caught each other’s eye and wondered if their luck had run out.
Simon’s laptop was in a satchel slung across Stevie’s body. The weight of it pulled at her shoulder blade. The carriage shuddered to a halt and an elderly man’s hand grazed her right breast. He gave her a half smile that might have been an apology or an invitation. Stevie’s foot tensed with the urge to stamp on his toes but she merely shifted her bag to her other side, making a barrier between them.
Stevie thought she could scent the lingering smell of her illness beneath the blend of body odours and rubber that permeated the carriage. A droplet of sweat slid down her spine and she hoped her shirt wouldn’t cling to it. She noticed an ex-member of the Cabinet further down the train. Cartoonists had made a feature of his
Similar Books
