From The Heart Read Free

about what had happened. And, in fact, a couple of them had stopped when I fell and asked was I all right. I’d said yes, yes, fine, as dismissively as I could because of course I wasn’t all right, I was mortified. They hadn’t realised that my shoe was being pulverised beneath the train. They didn’t know that the only difference between my ankle and a football – well, quite frankly, there wasn’t much of a damn difference. And so they all disappeared out of the station and left me sniffing on the platform as my hair fell in lank foot-reviver tresses around my face.
    I couldn’t go to the bar now. I was late and I was a mess and I knew that some people might have been able to joke their way out of it but some people probably didn’t care that I’d had secret fantasies about a date with gorgeous Richard Clavin for absolutely months and that those dreams were now as shattered as my poor squashed shoe. And I couldn’t walk into a trendy bar with my face a mess, my hair still smelling of peppermint and athlete’s foot lotion, wearing one shoe and sporting a swollen ankle. Call me vain, but there you are. It clearly wasn’t Richard Clavin who was the fuckwit in this scenario.
    I got to my feet and hopped toward one of the bright-green benches. I didn’t know what to do. The shrill noise from my bag made me jump with fright. It was at that point that I realised that ‘fuckwit’ wasn’t even half appropriate enough a word for me. I did have my phone after all. I’d shoved it into the little side compartment in the bag. But I still didn’t have the card with everyone’s phone number on it. That was in my credit-card folder and I knew that the folder was very definitely in my other bag.
    I took out the phone and hit answer.
    ‘Where are you, Sadie?’ Richard Clavin asked loudly above the beat of a music mix. ‘This bar is crowded and you might be here but I can’t see you anywhere. And if you’re not here then you’re really, really late. And I don’t mind you being late but I do mind if you’ve decided to stand me up.’
    I hadn’t managed to get a word in edgeways even if I’d known what word to use.
    ‘Um, well, actually—’
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘Sort of,’ I said.
    ‘What?’ He wasn’t yelling now and I realised it was because he must have stepped out of the bar.
    ‘I had a bit of a disaster,’ I told him.
    ‘What sort of disaster?’
    What sort of disaster did I want to confess? That I’d been late and had a cold shower and put cream and then footspray in my hair? That I’d fallen off the train like a gawky teenager and lost my shoe? Or that there had been a crisis at the office and I’d had to stay to sort things out and I was sorry for not having phoned him before now because I’d been so very busy but I’d meant to call him immediately I’d got a moment. Which of those things would make Richard Clavin like me and ask me out again?
    ‘Just a disaster,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Where are you, Sadie?’ he asked.
    ‘Look, it doesn’t matter, I can’t see you tonight.’
    A train screeched into the station and drowned out my words. I thought about getting on it until I clicked that I hadn’t crossed the platform.
    ‘Are you on the train?’ demanded Richard.
    ‘Look, Richard, sorry. I’ll talk to you again.’
    I closed my phone and shoved it back into the bag. I wondered would he ring again but he didn’t. I buried my head in my hands. I was a hopeless, useless fool of a woman who wasn’t safe to be let out on her own. And who clearly wasn’t mature enough to go for sophisticated evenings with men like Richard Clavin.
    ‘Sadie?’
    This time I nearly jumped five metres into the air. Only the fact that I couldn’t actually move stopped me. I looked up.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ Richard Clavin was standing beside me, doubtless intrigued by my mascara-tracked cheeks, my bird’s-nest hair and my single-shoed state.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ I almost