This is a Love Story Read Free

shops, the usual suspects with the occasional petite coffee shop sandwiched between them.
    I love it here.
    Cigarette smoke wafts in the soft spring air, mingling with the steam emanating from fresh bacon rolls on the plates in front of a couple sharing breakfast at a table I pass.
    I’m really pleased with my new job. It has taken two years of hard work and painful rejections to get this entry-level role at The Cube publishing house. Climbing the career ladder has been difficult for me, so I’ve had to be pretty creative to catch the eye of prospective employers. I wasn’t able to go to university, so I’ve had to ensure I’ve taught myself about things like web journalism, video and trying to keep my finger on the pulse in terms of social media. OK, it isn’t the Guardian or The Times , but it’s a good start and so far I have thoroughly enjoyed every second.
    The Cube is a media group which produces a range of unusual publications read by very niche audiences. Some of them cool, some not so cool. This means I am writing about a host of quirky subjects, ranging from what’s going on in the world of fishing (less fun) to testing fast cars (a lot more fun). Some of our publications are small and virtually unknown, others are read by thousands.
    This job is perfect for me as I love writing. I still can’t quite believe my luck. I weave in and out of the bodies around me in a strange kind of dance – ducking, diving and dodging. Schoolchildren swarm around and pensioners scuttle into shop doorways, newspapers tucked under armpits.
    Something in me thrives on the energy of London. Despite the infuriating nature of this lifestyle, I can’t imagine anywhere else I would want to be.
    Every day it’s the same: I come home, feet aching, eyes bloodshot, hair limp from a combination of the weather and the pollution, but I am inspired. As I lie in bed I can’t wait for the next morning so I can take it on all over again. Even if the first hour is pretty painful.
    After five minutes of dancing through the crowds I am close to my office, a small, modern installation down a busy side road. It is nestled between two restaurants, one Indian, one Italian. Their beautiful, garlicky aromas manage to waft into our air-conditioning system and I spend most of my time in the advanced stages of hunger. There is a small car park behind the office with a bench in the middle, and a homeless guy often sits there.
    He’s there right now, and as I realise I’m going to have to walk past him again, butterflies fill my tummy.
    I noticed him the very first day I arrived. It was hard not to as he called out to me from a small, hungry mouth, almost lost in the brown and black streaks on his weathered face.
    ‘Can you spare some change, love?’ he said, a look of hope in his eyes.
    I turned away and walked past him. I never quite know how to handle these situations, and I’ve got too much on my plate right now.
    He doesn’t look crazy, or on drugs, or any of those stereotypes. He smiles at me sometimes; I smile back. I don’t have the time to get involved. I know that’s bad.
    I’m scared of him, really, and the reality of his life. He has icy blue eyes, so icy they make me cold. I don’t like looking at them, so I turn away.
    The first time I met him, I asked one of the women in reception who he was.
    ‘Who are you talking about, love?’ came a high-pitched voice from a blonde, middle-aged character behind the desk.
    ‘You know, the guy sitting in our car park,’ I explained.
    ‘Hmm, I don’t think we’re expecting anyone today,’ she said, rifling through a tray of papers in front of her.
    Receptionist number two piped up, ‘Oh, Sandra, you know who it is. It’s Dancing Pete.’
    ‘Dancing who?’
    ‘You know, the homeless fellow who insists on sleeping out the back.’
    ‘Dancing? Why dancing? I’ve never seen him dance, for God’s sake!’
    By now the two ladies were in a frustratingly slow-moving conversation. It was