The Pause Read Free Page A

at us but then realises that Chris has omitted the extra ‘a’s.
    â€˜What!’ I snap. They know to leave me alone to let me wallow in my pathetic, poetic misery on the days I don’t see her.
    Chris nods over to the far stairs, which Lisa has just wafted up. She sits down in a vacant two-seater but because we’re in the last seat we will be going backwards, so I can discreetly – or not so discreetly – gaze at her for the entire length of the journey, which is probably about one kilometre. Oh, lucky, lucky me.
    She takes a book out of her bag and finds her page.
    â€˜Snap,’ says Chris.
    â€˜What?’ I say, listening to but not looking at him.
    â€˜ To Kill a Mockingbird ?’ says Chris. ‘Man, if that’s not destiny sending you a message, then my nephew is a simian.’
    â€˜What the hell are you talking about?’ says Maaaate.
    â€˜A monkey’s uncle,’ I reply. Our gags often lose a little impact when we have to explain their meaning to Maaaate.
    â€˜Get in there,’ encourages Chris. ‘You’ll never have a better chance.’
    Although she’s at the far end of the carriage, we can see Lisa’s book cover and I know Chris is right. I don’t believe in that whole destiny crap any more than I believe that God has a tailored plan just for me – I mean, who the hell am I ? – but I’m prepared to suspend my principles when it suits me.
    â€˜Go on,’ says Chris. ‘Your fate awaits.’
    â€˜Shut up,’ I hiss at Chris but he’s enjoying himself too much.
    â€˜Don’t be a pussy all your life,’ chimes in Maaaate.
    â€˜Pussy? Me?’ That’s it. I have no choice. Maaaate’s at the bottom of our friendship pyramid and Chris is at the top. If I chicken out now, Maaaate and I will have to swap places and that would just suck.
    My heart starts pounding in my chest like a set of bongos as I get up. By the time I’m halfway down the aisle the train lurches out of the station and I have to do that weird walk where it lookslike you’re attempting to make your way forward in the face of a force ten gale. Very cool, Declan.
    There’s a Grosvenor Girls’ year eighter or something sitting diagonally opposite Lisa but the seat in front of her is vacant. They are both clearly aware of my presence, and as I’ve left my backpack with Chris and Maaaate, whose muffled catcalls and whistles are still reaching me from their seat (remind me to kill them later), it’s quite obvious why I’m here. I flop down opposite Lisa like it’s the sort of thing I do all the time.
    â€˜I hope that’s not an instruction manual.’ And there it is. The second worst pickup line in history. It’s so bad I’m half-expecting Lisa to put down her book, rear up and spit in my face, and the Grosvenor year eighter to join in. The fact that neither starts spitting at me like a pair of puff adders is testament to the social graces taught at both Smith Street Girls’ High and Grosvenor Girls’.
    â€˜Excuse me?’ says Lisa.
    â€˜Your book. To Kill a Mockingbird .’ And then rather than attempt to climb out of the hole I’ve just dug myself, I opt to dig even deeper. ‘It’s not some sort of weird ornithological genocide kit, is it? I mean, you’re not going to spend the afternoon wandering around the park poisoning the pigeons, are you?’
    And there it is at the corner of her mouth. It’s just a suggestion but there’s no mistaking it. It’s the beginning of a smile. The beginning of a relationship.
    â€˜It’s about racial prejudice in the Deep South of America.’
    I want to play with this a bit more but with only two stops to Lisa’s station, I have to make it count.
    â€˜So what was it with Harper Lee and birds?’
    Lisa gives me a quizzical look. ‘It’s not about birds …’
    â€˜To Kill a