Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning back, ignoring the way the tails of my velvet frock coat flap like dodo wings.
“Cool coat, bro.”
“Lost your horse and cart?”
“Fucking carriage,” I say, mostly ignoring the hoodie-wearing brigade in favor of stalking over to a London transport worker.
“Have you—” Heavy breathing. I need to get back to the gym. “Have you seen a woman in a green coat? Dark hair.” I ruffle my hand through my own hair as though the fella needs a hint.
The man straightens and leans his elbow on the top of his sweeping brush. “Green coat,” he ponders. “Green coat . . . I think I see one fine lady taking the escalator southbound,” he says with a vague sort of wave.
“Great. Thanks.” I swing away.
“Wait!”
I swing back again.
“It was northbound, I think. Maybe the Central Line.”
“Thanks. Again.” I make for the ticket barrier as I reach for my wallet. “Fuck. Shit!” I pat my chest and my back pockets, my skin turning clammy in that instant. It was in my hand when I shoved the snacks into Mila’s arms. I must’ve left it with her.
I become aware of a terse tsk. A sigh. Then a huff. I’m holding up a line of commuters. I know it’s no good appealing to them. London commuters are intolerant at the best of times.
“There are other barriers,” I mutter, moving to the side. I consider hopping over the thing once this lot is through, but then I remember the videos of a man with his nut sack caught in the barrier after trying to jump it not so long ago. “Fuck it.” I slip in behind a bloke tapping his card, hustling him through the barrier faster than he’d planned on.
He huffs, all aggravated bluster.
“It’s for a good cause,” I call over my shoulder as I dodge past, heading for the northbound escalator.
“What a fuckin’ liberty,” the man shouts. “That’s theft, that is!”
“From Transport for London, not you,” I mutter, taking the escalator two steps at a time.
A fool’s errand.
This time, the words take up more space in my head as I remember how this place resembles a rabbit warren. She could be anywhere.
Off the escalator, I turn right onto the first platform. Empty. Which means the train just left. Fuck! Undeterred—because what choice do I have? I know she’s here somewhere. She has to be—I race along the platform. Back out again into the tiled warren of corridors, the stupid satin sash flapping in my face. Another escalator, the treads two at a time again. I dodge left, then right, sweeping the corridors to check the platforms as I pass them.
“Watch it, numpty!”
I murmur an apology, my thoughts on the southbound platforms next. Up the stairs, my thighs screaming now. Along the corridor and down again.
“What’s your hurry?” someone shouts.
“I’m looking for a woman in green,” I call back.
“Aren’t we all!”
A laugh. One I don’t stop for.
“Green coat? I saw someone.”
I stop and pivot on the sole of my shoe to find a pair of girls a little way in front of me. They’re probably in their early twenties. Puffer jackets and Ugg boots, hairstyles from the 1970s—the flipped-bangs one that seems all the rage now. “You saw . . . what?” Who.
“Lo.” One girl clutches the other one’s arm. “He might be a stalker,” she whispers.
“I wouldn’t be much of a stalker dressed like this,” I say, plucking at the lapels of this stupid jacket. Sliding my hands through my sweaty hair.
“Not much of a Prince Charming either,” she says with a disdainful look.
“Farther along. Heading for platform 3,” the other girl says.
And I’m off again, another burst of energy, another burst of scuse mes and sorrys. Left onto the platform, one that’s pretty packed.
. . . the train approaching is . . .
I slow my pace at the announcement, working myself amid the mass of commuters, peering over their heads. Would I even see her here, that little teacup, among all these people?
. . . please stand back from the platform edge.
The train pulls in with a cacophony of squealing brakes as the warm updraft moves my coattails.
. . . Oxford Circus. Change here for . . .
People pile off as people pile on, the crowd beginning to thin.
My heart beginning to sink.
Until someone moves left, and I spy the back of a green coat!
“Ryan!” I bellow, my feet propelling me forward again. “Ryan!” Louder this time.
She disappears onto the train.
The alarm sounds.
The doors begin to close. I pivot left, making for the nearest.
She’s so close—she’s fucking here! So close until . . .
The doors meet before I can reach them.
“Ryan!” I bang on the thing with my fists, drawing lots of looks, but no recognition. She’s in a different carriage.
My heart drops to my boots as the train begins to move, then disappears from my view. Despondent, I collapse to a nearby bench, panting and out of breath. I press my elbows to my spread knees, all kinds of curses and mutterings flowing through my head. Until something kindles in my chest. A realization.