scuffed shoes, her father’s words had come drifting back to her.
She’d watched him for a while, noting how his lips moved occasionally as his eyes traced the words on the page and when the bus had eventually arrived she’d sat at the very back and distracted herself with the shifting scenes outside the window, only once or twice allowing herself to search for a glimpse of him: the crease in his shirt collar . . . the curve of his jaw . . . that sticking-up tuft of hair on his crown that she imagined hardly ever lay flat.
The reader , as he had been labelled in her head, wasn’t there the next morning, or the next, but on the fourth day he was back, leaning in the same position against the bus shelter, this time with a different book in his hands. As the bus arrived, Lila had followed him up the aisle and slid into the empty seat beside him, glancing down at the book lying in his lap. He’d smiled a crooked smile and held the cover up for her to see. ‘Busted, sorry,’ she’d apologised, flushing pink.
‘No, I’m the same . . . always like to know what other people are reading.’
‘Is it any good?’ she’d asked, nodding her head in the direction of the hefty paperback with its shouty, gold-embossed title.
‘It’s OK. I borrowed it from a friend. To be honest,’ he’d said, ‘it’s not really my thing, but I hate not finishing a book once I’ve started it.’
‘Me too,’ she’d agreed. ‘That’s why I never bothered with War and Peace .’
‘Or Moby Dick .’
‘Or Anna Karenina .’
They’d smiled at one another and by the time the bus had crawled through rush hour and reached Holborn they’d broken all of London’s unspoken public transport rules and swapped names and phone numbers.
He was a design engineer, specialising in bridges. He’d told her all about it in the pub two nights later. His work took him all over the country but he was in London for a few more weeks, staying with friends in Crouch End while he inspected several constructions and drew up plans for a new design out near Stratford. ‘It’s all part of the plans to regenerate the area.’
She’d nodded and tried to decide if it sounded really interesting or really boring.
‘It’s not all hard hats and clipboards,’ he’d said, as if reading her mind. ‘The inspection stuff is OK, but what I really love is the design work. A bridge should never be boring, just a means of getting from A to B; it should be as appealing as the buildings surrounding it, as dynamic as the landscape it’s a part of.’
She’d nodded, but she’d only been half listening, her attention caught by the intensity of his brown eyes as he spoke about his work and the jagged white scar across his right cheek that disappeared into a laughter line when he smiled. She’d reached out to touch it with the tip of her finger.
‘My younger brother,’ he’d said smiling, ‘shot me with a pellet gun when I was eight. Siblings eh?’
She’d smiled. ‘I’m an only child.’
‘Well there you go, a lucky escape. I bet you carry a few less scars?’
Lila had shrugged. She knew she probably bore her own scars, in her own way. ‘I always wanted brothers and sisters,’ she’d confessed. ‘It can be lonely being an only child.’
He’d eyed her over his pint glass. ‘So what do you do, Lila?’
She’d told him that she was a designer too, of sorts. ‘Interiors, property renovation. I work for corporate clients, you know, upgrading office spaces, usually creative industries, media types .’ She said it with an affected drawl and they’d shared a grin. ‘But I take on the occasional private client too; sometimes a house or a flat.’
‘That sounds like fun.’ He’d smiled at her and a crackle of static had hung in the air between them.
They barely knew one another but as he’d walked her home much later, their bodies swaying drunkenly, he’d pushed her against the shuttered side of a newsagent and kissed her in the strobing
She’d watched him for a while, noting how his lips moved occasionally as his eyes traced the words on the page and when the bus had eventually arrived she’d sat at the very back and distracted herself with the shifting scenes outside the window, only once or twice allowing herself to search for a glimpse of him: the crease in his shirt collar . . . the curve of his jaw . . . that sticking-up tuft of hair on his crown that she imagined hardly ever lay flat.
The reader , as he had been labelled in her head, wasn’t there the next morning, or the next, but on the fourth day he was back, leaning in the same position against the bus shelter, this time with a different book in his hands. As the bus arrived, Lila had followed him up the aisle and slid into the empty seat beside him, glancing down at the book lying in his lap. He’d smiled a crooked smile and held the cover up for her to see. ‘Busted, sorry,’ she’d apologised, flushing pink.
‘No, I’m the same . . . always like to know what other people are reading.’
‘Is it any good?’ she’d asked, nodding her head in the direction of the hefty paperback with its shouty, gold-embossed title.
‘It’s OK. I borrowed it from a friend. To be honest,’ he’d said, ‘it’s not really my thing, but I hate not finishing a book once I’ve started it.’
‘Me too,’ she’d agreed. ‘That’s why I never bothered with War and Peace .’
‘Or Moby Dick .’
‘Or Anna Karenina .’
They’d smiled at one another and by the time the bus had crawled through rush hour and reached Holborn they’d broken all of London’s unspoken public transport rules and swapped names and phone numbers.
He was a design engineer, specialising in bridges. He’d told her all about it in the pub two nights later. His work took him all over the country but he was in London for a few more weeks, staying with friends in Crouch End while he inspected several constructions and drew up plans for a new design out near Stratford. ‘It’s all part of the plans to regenerate the area.’
She’d nodded and tried to decide if it sounded really interesting or really boring.
‘It’s not all hard hats and clipboards,’ he’d said, as if reading her mind. ‘The inspection stuff is OK, but what I really love is the design work. A bridge should never be boring, just a means of getting from A to B; it should be as appealing as the buildings surrounding it, as dynamic as the landscape it’s a part of.’
She’d nodded, but she’d only been half listening, her attention caught by the intensity of his brown eyes as he spoke about his work and the jagged white scar across his right cheek that disappeared into a laughter line when he smiled. She’d reached out to touch it with the tip of her finger.
‘My younger brother,’ he’d said smiling, ‘shot me with a pellet gun when I was eight. Siblings eh?’
She’d smiled. ‘I’m an only child.’
‘Well there you go, a lucky escape. I bet you carry a few less scars?’
Lila had shrugged. She knew she probably bore her own scars, in her own way. ‘I always wanted brothers and sisters,’ she’d confessed. ‘It can be lonely being an only child.’
He’d eyed her over his pint glass. ‘So what do you do, Lila?’
She’d told him that she was a designer too, of sorts. ‘Interiors, property renovation. I work for corporate clients, you know, upgrading office spaces, usually creative industries, media types .’ She said it with an affected drawl and they’d shared a grin. ‘But I take on the occasional private client too; sometimes a house or a flat.’
‘That sounds like fun.’ He’d smiled at her and a crackle of static had hung in the air between them.
They barely knew one another but as he’d walked her home much later, their bodies swaying drunkenly, he’d pushed her against the shuttered side of a newsagent and kissed her in the strobing
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