We Aren't Going out

Chapter 1

This is one of the few times I'm grateful for the unwritten rule of silence on the tube. At 6pm on a Friday night, stuffed between a fairly large man reeking of subway and an edgy girl who looks like she could model for Vogue, I really don't want to be asked why I have coffee stains down my shirt and puffy eyes from crying. I fumble around attempting to put my ear plugs in and connect them to my cracked phone. I start the repetitive cycle of turning on my data, playing a song on Spotify and turning it off only to turn it back on again for the next one. 'Spotify premium' and 'unlimited data' aren't my lifestyle choices due to a lack of money and an abundance of stubbornness with the belief that I'm perfectly fine without them.

Suddenly I feel it- eyes on me, like a lion watching their prey. A tall, brooding man is a mere metre from me, being half blocked by Subway Man who's now tucked into a bag of crisps. The man is attractive- not Subway Man, although I shouldn't really make mean judgements, he has... potential- no, tall guy. I check out his chiselled jawline, crisp light blue shirt and Italian leather shoes. He has a tan which looks like he just had a short weekend trip to the south of France and I'm jealous. Our eyes meet and I instantly know he'll do whatever he must to get his own way. The carriage halts and Subway Man has no clue of the beauty that it about to take place. As soon as the woman has finished gathering her bags, Tall Guy and I both lurch for the same seat. He may look like a big shot in business, but I've had a shit day and that seat is its last chance of redemption. Due to my look of a slightly deranged barista and his look of a milder Christian Grey, she decides to use the doors on his side to exit. Her shuffle past slows him down and I plant my bum into the seat just as the train starts, causing me to drop my phone. Ear buds yanked out and phone broken beyond repair, I settle knowing my chances of being mugged have just dropped considerably.

The long walk home from the train station always seems worse in winter and I groan thinking about today's events. If only our biggest bloody client hadn't walked out of that room without looking, if only I hadn't been carrying a tray of 8 coffees and if only my boss hadn't been waiting to fire me so he could employ his bloody nephew who didn't even have a degree in business! I considered for the millionth time whether to contact my parents but thought better of it, I know they'd gladly tell me to come home but it just seems like I would've given up on making something of myself. I moved to London when I landed a fairly low down job in a consultancy firm, under the impression I would be promoted to a more managerial role once I'd been there a year. I was 21 and one of the few graduates from my course to get a job offer straight out of university. The firm was just starting out, but went bankrupt a year later and I was left jobless. From there it was a mad scramble to find cheaper accommodation and a job, landing me in what the Telegraph might describe as a "rough area", with a full time job as an assistant and another part-time job as a bar tender at the dingy pub at the top of the street.

This is depressing. The bar, which is has a layout not dissimilar from the Queen Vic in EastEnders, has three customers- two regulars mulling drunkly over their beers on separate tables and a fairly youngish man sitting at the bar. I approach the young one, now I've officially started my shift.
"Anything else I can get you?" I ask politely.
To my utter surprise he answers politely (a rarity in my experience) with a slight slur to his voice that he was just fine and thank you. He seems alright and I ask him about his day out of nothing but boredom curiosity.
"You know what- awful. And it's this- THIS" he replies gesturing at me, "the constant questioning by the press, fans and journalists. I mean it's bad enough having to listen to my own mother hark on about how badly she wants grandchildren let alone anyone else. Ooh Jamie, how's Hope. Ooh Jamie, I heard you had a romantic weekend away with her. Ooh Jamie why was she wearing an engagement ring. I mean I've got about as much clue as you mate- you're the bloody journalist you figure it out."
Urgh not another delusional drunk. I should get a pay rise with the amount of rubbish I have to hear coming out of some people's mouths.
"AND THEN the reporters are asking whether I should retire soon. I mean give it a rest I'm only bloody 26. Is that old for a footballer? Is it?" he rants all fired up. I get the feeling he has been storing this up for a while.
I realise he's asking me a question.
"Er, um, I guess not?" I reply flummoxed and confused.
He continues, seeming to agree with me and I stare at him. His eyebrows are a little unkept but in a good way and his face is quite dirty; I'm horrified to spot some dried blood on his chin. His stubble seems to be inspired by Danny Dyer and I can tell it wasn't intentional.  His anger towards "the media" is growing and, amidst his wild hand gestures, his grey hood flops back revealing a tangled mess of unkempt, dark-brown hair. His skin is quite pale and ill-looking, making me slightly pity him as he obviously isn't having the best of times. I tune back into what he's ranting about now and make 'hmm' noises in the correct places. He settles and soon we're having a fairly alright conversation. We chat about my shitty, tiny, box room that can just fit a single bed and a wardrobe in and its extortionate rent. Every now and then the conversation is interrupted by a new customer, one of which is an old man in a unicorn onesie, and we gossip about why we think they're here. I feel sorry for Jamie though and hope he finds a place for shelter tonight, although I complain about my room with the disgusting shared kitchen with less than a metre squared of floor space, it's a hell of a lot better than being homeless.

It's closing time and Jamie is trying to convince me to marry him, or fake marry him, or something. I think I agree to get him off my back, it's not as if he'll remember this in the morning. To be honest my head is spinning from exhaustion and I can't quite process what's being said. It's 2am and I'm very ready to sleep. I lock up and I'm glad to see he can walk in a straight line after I convinced him to get lemonades for the last 3 hours so he'd be sober when he went on his way. I would've paid for him had I had any money myself, but he seemed to have enough. As I stumbled my way back home in the dark, I silently hope he does well for himself. Unless he comes in tomorrow, we'll probably never cross paths again, as I will be getting kicked out when my landlord comes to collect the weekly rent (cash of course), which I don't have as I had to pay the dry cleaning bill for that stupid client's stupid suit. And without a place to stay, I have no clue how I am supposed to get to my second job (now only job).