This is a Love Story Read Free Page A

like observing a pair of peacocks, clucking away pointlessly behind a glass screen, waiting to be put down and made into exotic handbags.
    ‘Homeless fella? I didn’t know we had one of those,’ Sandra squeaked, as if she was talking about a new franking machine or state of the art photocopier.
    ‘Yeeessss. He’s been hovering around for a couple of years now. Are you blind?’
    I walked away from them mid-chat; they barely even realised I had gone.
    But the situation bothers me again this morning as I walk through the rear entrance to our car park. I don’t drive, but the cut-through saves time and you have to come through the back if you want to take it.
    He is sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. He looks up as I approach, his face as sad as ever.
    ‘Excuse me,’ he calls out as I walk past, grimacing because I don’t want him to see me, but he always does.
    I stop in my tracks and find myself standing next to the bench, but looking straight ahead so as not to make eye contact.
    I should have just walked on, I tell myself.
    ‘Yes,’ I say feebly, regretting my actions.
    ‘Have you got any spare change?’ he asks, as always – like the answer will be any different this time.
    I say nothing and walk forward quickly, swipe my entry card to open the glass doors and step into the lift. I hear him mutter, ‘I just wanted to get myself a cup of tea,’ as I go.
    The lift to the third floor is small and often smells of PVA glue. I don’t know why this is. No one else seems to know, either.
    ‘Hello, gorgeous!’ says Lydia, the second I enter the office. She gently squeezes my left cheek, which she has done pretty much every day since I first set a shaky little Bambi foot into the office. I am glad to be distracted from the fact that I keep walking away from someone who clearly needs help.
    Lydia is the office co-ordinator. A very important-sounding title for someone who potters about and does all the annoying things no one else wants to do. I think she is capable of more, though.
    She has a wild shock of thick chocolate curls set against a freckled face and the most piercing green eyes I have seen outside the pages of a children’s storybook.
    She is all cuddles and warmth and exactly what you need when you start a new job. Although she is only three years older than me, she just took me under her wing.
    ‘Hey, Lyds, good weekend?’ I respond, making my way over to my desk with a big smile.
    Like a fairy, Lydia floats around me, whipping things out of my way. Before I know it my jacket is hanging neatly on the hatstand and my list of editorial tasks for the week is fanned in front of me in perfect order. I quietly wonder how many arms she has.
    ‘Bloody excellent, thanks, Si. You will never guess what happened on Friday night,’ she begins, a wicked smile on her face.
    I start to scan three scribbled Post-it notes on my desk. And no, I’m sure I will never be able to guess what happened on Friday night.
    I haven’t known Lydia for long, but she seems to have a social life which revolves around eight-inch heels, copious amounts of Jack Daniel’s, bribing DJs with cold hard cash to play eighties cheese, and then busting into kebab shops on the way home and making everyone inside laugh. These are just some of the tales I’ve heard.
    She leans in and whispers in my ear, despite the fact that I have made no effort to guess what happened on Friday night. It could be anything. She really is that random.
    ‘I got barred from that salsa club in Leicester Square,’ she says, before giggling and standing back up proudly, one hand on a curvaceous hip.
    How, I wonder, do you get barred from a salsa club? Violent clockwise turns? Stiletto rage? I offer no response but look at her with a raised eyebrow. I can’t wait to hear this one.
    ‘Well, basically, we had too much to drink before we got there, which wasn’t a good start, and I fell down the stairs that lead to the toilet. They thought I was really