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At the office I find an old CD drive in the cupboard, so I plug it into my computer and listen to Sadiqua’s CD. Obviously I’m hoping that it’ll blow me away and that I’ve discovered a star. Sadly, it’s just two girls singing a Rihanna song and then dissolving into giggles. But I decide I’ll still do what I can with it, and I’ll definitely try to raise money for her community center.
I don’t have any specific plans, or even ideas really, and I’m certainly not planning to bring it up with anyone. But then, on my way out that evening, when I see Alex waiting for the same lift as me, I find myself panicking for things to say. It’s gone 9:00 P.M.—I had a stack of stuff to catch up on—and I didn’t expect to see anyone. Let alone him.
I haven’t seen him since the carousel yesterday, but of course he’s crossed my mind about ninety-five thousand times. As I approach, I can feel the blood moving to my face and a horrible awkwardness rising up my throat. How are you supposed to talk to an attractive man you think you might have a thing for, anyway? I’ve lost every natural instinct I ever had. My face feels frozen. My hands feel flappy. As for eye contact, forget it. I have no idea what the appropriate level of eye contact is right now.
“Hi,” he says, smiling, as I reach the lift doors. “You’re working late.”
“Hi.” I smile back. “I had some stuff to do.” And I know the onus isn’t on me to continue the conversation, but as I mentioned, I’m panicking. So before I can stop myself, I blurt out: “I’ve got a really great cause I’d like to put forward as the company charity.”
This isn’t strictly true. I don’t know it’s a great cause—I only have Sadiqua’s word for it. But right now I need a topic of conversation.
“Oh yes?” says Alex, looking interested.
“It’s a community center near where I live. In Catford. It does breakfast clubs, that kind of thing, but it’s closing down. Cuts, you know…” I pull the leaflet out of my bag and hand it to him. “This is it.”
“Good for you,” says Alex, scanning the leaflet. “Well, we’ll consider it for next year. Or did you want to organize some kind of fundraiser meanwhile? What did you have in mind?”
The lift doors open and we both step in and of course now my mind is totally blank. Fundraiser. Fundraiser. Cupcake sale? No.
“Like, something that’s a challenge?” I say, grasping at straws. “So you feel you get something out of it as well as raising money? Like the marathon. But not the marathon,” I add hastily.
“Something hard, but not the marathon,” says Alex thoughtfully as we exit the lift into the empty, dimly lit lobby. “I’ll tell you the hardest thing in the world: that fucking skiing exercise. My personal trainer made me do it last night. Bastard,” he adds, so venomously I want to giggle.
“What skiing exercise?” I say, because I’ve never done any skiing exercises. Or any skiing, for that matter.
“The one where you sit against the wall. Torture. You know the one.” He looks at me. “You don’t?”
He goes over to a big empty wall, screen-printed with COOPER CLEMMOW in lots of different fonts, and takes up a position sitting against the wall, his thighs parallel to the floor.
“Doesn’t look so hard,” I say, just to wind him up.
“Are you joking? Have you tried it?”
“OK.” I grin. “Challenge accepted.”
I take up a similar position, a couple of yards away from him, and for a while there’s silence. The two of us are concentrating on the task in hand. I have pretty strong thighs—years of riding—but I can already feel them start to burn. Before long they’re really quite painful, but I’m not going to give in, I’m not going to…
“Tough, aren’t you?” says Alex, in a kind of gasp.
“Oh, what, this is the exercise?” I manage. “This is supposed to be difficult? I thought we were just warming up.”
“Ha-ha, ha-ha, very funny…” Alex is quite pink in the face. “OK, you win. I’m out.”
He slithers to the floor, just as my own thighs start feeling like they might spontaneously combust. I force myself to stay put for three more seconds, then collapse.
“Don’t tell me you could have kept going for another half hour,” says Alex.
“I could have kept going for another half hour,” I say at once, and Alex laughs. He looks over at me and there’s a flicker of…something in his eye. The same something I saw before. The you-and-me something.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. It’s one of those still little silences that you get when you’re adjusting your position in a conversation, maybe striking out in a new direction….But again I’m the one who panics, who brings things back to safety.
“I’m not sure how popular that’ll be as a fundraiser,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Well, it’s easier than a marathon,” says Alex.
“You say that—” I break off and peer out of the glass doors as a flash of red catches my eye. “Wait a minute. What on earth is that?”
The flash of red has turned into a streak. It’s red and white. A cluster of red and white…I stare disbelievingly. Are those Santa hats?
“What the hell—” Alex has followed my gaze and breaks into amazed laughter. “What is that?”
We give each other a brief look, then simultaneously make for the door. Alex swipes us out with his card and we both hurry into the crisp evening, gasping like kids at the sight before us.
About two hundred Santas on bikes are filling the street. Some are flashing red and white lights, some are tooting horns, and from somewhere is blasting Mariah Carey. It’s like a great big traveling Santa party.
“This is insane,” says Alex, still laughing.
“Join in!” calls a guy in a Santa hat, seeing us gawping. “Collect a bike and a hat! Join in!” He beckons invitingly. “Don’t be scared, be a Santa!” Alex and I stare at him, then at each other again.
“Come on,” says Alex, and we dash across the road to where people are collecting bikes from the hire point opposite.
“Twenty pounds to ride, Santa hat included,” a girl is shouting, waving a bucket at all the onlookers. “Join in! All for Great Ormond Street Hospital!”
“We have to do this,” says Alex. “Why would we not put on Santa hats and ride bikes round London? Are you free?” He meets my eyes, and again I feel a little fillip in my stomach.
“Yes, I’m free. Let’s do it!” I can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it. All around us, people are joining the Santa throng and singing along to Mariah. I see a pair of Santas riding a tandem, and one guy has pitched up on a penny-farthing.
This is why I moved to London, I find myself thinking, with a swell of glee. This is it.
“I’m paying for both of us,” adds Alex firmly. “I haven’t done enough for charity recently, and your altruism shames me.” He puts a fifty-pound note into the bucket before I can stop him and collects a bike, which he passes to me.
“Here’s your Santa hat.” The girl with the bucket holds out a hat with a light-up bobble and pops it on my head. I wheel my bike into place and look over at Alex, who’s wearing a light-up hat too. Stars are flashing all around the white rim of his, making him look endearingly angelic.
“Thanks,” I say, nodding my head at the bucket. “You shouldn’t have, but thanks.”
“You’re very welcome.” He smiles disarmingly.
I want to say something else—something witty—but there’s no time, because we’re moving. It’s ages since I’ve ridden a bike, but my feet find the rhythm instantly, and we’re off, down the road, a mass of pedaling Santas, with music and laughter fueling us along our way.
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