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“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I repeat. “Seriously, I can’t wait.”
“Fantastic.” She fumbles through her pockets. “Sorry, honey, I seem to have forgotten my ID card. Could you let me in please?”
Smiling wanly, I buzz her through the partition and watch her vanish into the elevator.
As soon as she’s gone, my shoulders sag and I release a pent-up sigh.This is going to be a complete and utter nightmare. Why the hell did I say yes? Am I some sort of masochist?
Privately, I console myself with the hope that I can always make up an excuse nearer the time to get out of it. Perhaps say I’ve had an emergency or something. I hate to let Jill down, especially as she’s so lovely, but I feel I have no choice. She must have seen the presents as a sign that I wish to take our acquaintance further and hook up outside of work. Sadly, the thought of Saturday disturbs me so much I’m forced to sit down and have a glass of water. I’m completely panicking and know I won’t have peace of mind until it’s over. One way or another, I must find a way out of it. I have no intention of sacrificing my weekend to spend a night in the company of drunken strangers.
At quarter past five, I pull on my coat, say goodbye to Mark and step out into the dark street. The fog has cleared but the wind is still as harsh as ever. Steeling myself, I turn onto the main road and begin marching in the direction of Regent Street. Hamley’s, the world famous toy shop, is twenty minutes from my office and the time passes quickly as I stride through hoards of late-night shoppers and tourists of every nationality. Even though it’s still only November, I start to get a Christmassy feeling.
My heart soars as the bright lights of Hamley’s finally come into view. The window display is calling out to me, making silent promises.
Being here always makes me feel young again.
Excitedly, I enter the store and cast my eyes over dozens of colourful shelves jam-packed with gadgets and toys from every manufacturer imaginable. The place is absolutely teeming with people, and the queue for the checkouts stretches all the way around the shop. Undeterred, I head straight for the back shelves. I know exactly what I’m looking for. The only question is do they have it in stock?
For the past few months, I’ve been collecting Disney’s limited edition designer dolls. So far, I’ve bought six, but I still need to get Ariel and Prince Eric to complete my collection. Squinting at the upper shelves, I spy a row of shiny blue boxes withThe Little Mermaidlogo on the front. I catch my breath. At a hundred quid apiece, they’re certainly not cheap, but I simply have to have them.
Hurriedly, I move toward the display and attempt to pull down one of the boxes, but I’m too short to reach it. Helplessly, I beckon a young sales-assistant. “Hey, could you please get me down one of those dolls?”
“No problem. I’ll get a stepladder.”
Moments later, the boy returns from the stockroom looking a bit peeved. Forcing a smile, he wheels across the ladder and props it against the shelf to quickly fulfil his errand. As he hands me down a box, my face falls. “Oh. I’m sorry to be a pain, but could you get me another one? This one’s got a huge dent in it.”
“No problem.” I detect a note of annoyance in his voice, but I’m not fazed. There’s no way I’m paying one-hundred pounds for damaged goods. I like my dolls to be in pristine condition, and that includes the packaging. Stomping his feet, the boy climbs back up the ladder and selects me a different box. “Is this one okay?” he huffs.
“Yes, that’s lovely. Thanks so much for your help.”
Wiping his brow, he inquires if there’s anything else he can do for me. I say no, so he leads me round the shop to the back of the queue for the checkout, telling me he’s left my dolls behind the counter. Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the front of the queue, paying for my purchase by debit card.
As my receipt pumps through the till, the checkout girl gushes, “These new dolls are so awesome.”
“Oh, yes,” I enthuse; pleased I’ve found a kindred spirit. “The Little Mermaidis one of my all-time favourite movies.”
“Mine, too! Ariel is so cool. When I was a kid, I wanted to be just like her, and I wanted to marry Eric.”
“So did I! Oh, my God, that’s exactly how I felt.”
There’s a short pause as the girl rips off my receipt and plops it in a Mickey Mouse gift bag. As she hands me my purchase, she adds, “So is this an early Christmas present for your daughter?”
“My daughter?” For a second, I’m confused, and then I laugh shrilly. “Oh, no. The dolls are for me, actually. I-I don’t have any kids.”
She frowns and then works her face into a smile. “Not to worry. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun regardless.” Glancing beyond me, she calls out for the next customer. I’m duly dismissed. Mortified, I leave the shop and head straight for the Tube station. I was planning to pick up a cheeseburger from McDonald’s but I seem to have lost my appetite.
When I enter the Underground, I find a large crowd gathered at the ticket barriers, indicating delays to all lines,again. Grimacing, I pace around for a while, trying to shake off my embarrassment from earlier. Then finally, things start moving. I swipe my Oyster card and slowly follow the procession of disgruntled commuters through the ticket barriers. As I descend the escalator, I pass a poster for a theatre show calledGhost Stories. It looks interesting, and I make a mental note to check out ticket prices on the Internet. I haven’t been to the theatre in ages, and this show is definitely one for the to-do list.
As I take my place on the crowded platform, I feel a headache coming and spend most of the journey clutching my temples. Before I know it, I’m back at Victoria and switching to the Overground to get a fast train to Clapham Junction. By six-thirty, I’ve arrived back in South London. Hurriedly, I head through the subway that leads to the southeast exit.
As I pass a newspaper stand, I catch a glimpse of the cigarettes display and feel a sudden urge to stop. My resolve is weakening and I’m torn in two. For short, agonizing moments, I wrestle with my conscience, deliberating what to do. Finally, I give into temptation.Just one more smoke. One more and that’s it. I can always quit tomorrow.
I flash a sheepish grin at the shopkeeper. “Ten Marlboro Lights, please. Oh, and a box of matches.”
After I’ve paid for them, I’m filled with deep self-loathing, but I simply cannot help myself. Smoking has become such a part of my daily routine, such a part of what keeps me stable, I’d feel lost without it.
The moon is high in the sky as I stroll down St John’s Hill in the direction of my house. Puffing on a cigarette, with the wind blowing through my hair, I feel a bit better about things. Okay, I’ve broken my vow to quit smoking, but things will be different tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll be stronger.
Five minutes later, I turn into a quiet residential street filled with rows of three-and-four-bedroomed semis. I stop outside the one with the blue door and a messy front garden and fumble for my house keys. It’s nothing special to look at, just a three-bedroom semi like all the others, but to me it’s a castle. My shelter from the storm.The centre of my existence.
