elastic band round the envelopes and handing them to him. ‘They’re all off on a trip tomorrow, so of course everything has to be done, like, five minutes ago and everyone’s being foul to each other and pretending that their things are way more important than anyone else’s things and of course shit rolls downhill and guess who’s at the bottom?’ She stopped for breath and pushed some hair out of her eyes. ‘See – they’ve got me at it now. I never get stressed. Never. I don’t do stressed. It’s not in my genes. I tell you, I cannot wait until today’s over and they’re all on that plane halfway to Mauritius. Tomorrow is going to be sooo mellow.’
She loaded up his trolley with squidgy packages and slippery bags of clothes as she talked. ‘Are you going back down to the post room now?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You know,’ she said, glancing across the room at a clock on the wall, ‘I might just come down with you. They’re waiting for something from Miu Miu and apparently if it doesn’t get here in the next ten minutes then the entire population of the world is going to get a terrible disease and die – apparently. I might as well just sit in dispatch and wait for it. Get me out of this hell hole for a bit.’
They stepped into the lift and stared at the doors, awkwardly, until Daisy broke the silence. ‘So,’ she said, ‘where do you live?’
‘Finchley,’ he said.
‘Finchley? Where’s that? Is that north?’
‘Yes. North of Hampstead. South of Barnet.’
‘Is it nice there?’
‘Yeah. It’s OK. I live in a nice house, so it’s good. What about you? Where do you live?’
‘Wandsworth,’ she said. ‘Just off the common. Nice area. Crappy house.’
‘Why – what’s wrong with it?’
‘Oh, it belongs to my sister’s boyfriend and it’s just tiny, you know, a little tiny weeny cottage with teeny tiny rooms. The kitchen is about as big as this lift. But I shouldn’t really complain. It’s nice of them to let me live with them and at least I’ve got somewhere to live, you know.’
Con nodded and thought about telling her, but decided not to. Maybe she’d feel sorry for him. Or, even worse, maybe she’d think it was really cool that he’d once spent a fortnight sleeping in a shop doorway in Wood Green. Maybe she would suddenly see him as a novelty, someone she could brag about to her posh friends and her sisters with the silly flower names; oh, my new friend, Con, so tragic, used to be homeless, you know, slept on a piece of cardboard and got washed in a public toilet.
The lift flumped to the basement floor and the doors slid open. Daisy helped Con manoeuvre his trolley through the doors.
‘So, who do you live with in your really nice house? Friends? A girlfriend?’
Con felt a surge of excitement then. It was the way she said it: ‘A girlfriend?’ She was fishing; she wanted to know if he was single. And suddenly Con felt everything in his head shift along a bit to make room for this new possibility – the possibility that this girl from another place, from a world of ponies and Caribbean family holidays and parties where boys wore tuxedos might actually want to be with him, a boy from Tottenham, who’d been brought up by his grandmother in a second-floor council flat.
‘No,’ he said encouragingly, ‘no girlfriend. I live with my mum.’
‘Oh, you’re still at home?’
‘No. I mean – she lives with me. In my place.’
‘You share a place with your mum?’
‘Yes. But not just my mum. Loads of us.’
‘What – like a commune?’
He smiled. A girl like Daisy would like the idea of a commune. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘a bit. This poet bloke owns it and rents out rooms.’
‘Wow – a poet.’
‘Yeah. He’s a bit strange, kind of like a recluse, but he’s a good bloke. And the house is massive. All sorts of people have lived there. Artists and singers and actors and stuff. It’s a really cool place.’
The boys in the post room all glanced
She loaded up his trolley with squidgy packages and slippery bags of clothes as she talked. ‘Are you going back down to the post room now?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You know,’ she said, glancing across the room at a clock on the wall, ‘I might just come down with you. They’re waiting for something from Miu Miu and apparently if it doesn’t get here in the next ten minutes then the entire population of the world is going to get a terrible disease and die – apparently. I might as well just sit in dispatch and wait for it. Get me out of this hell hole for a bit.’
They stepped into the lift and stared at the doors, awkwardly, until Daisy broke the silence. ‘So,’ she said, ‘where do you live?’
‘Finchley,’ he said.
‘Finchley? Where’s that? Is that north?’
‘Yes. North of Hampstead. South of Barnet.’
‘Is it nice there?’
‘Yeah. It’s OK. I live in a nice house, so it’s good. What about you? Where do you live?’
‘Wandsworth,’ she said. ‘Just off the common. Nice area. Crappy house.’
‘Why – what’s wrong with it?’
‘Oh, it belongs to my sister’s boyfriend and it’s just tiny, you know, a little tiny weeny cottage with teeny tiny rooms. The kitchen is about as big as this lift. But I shouldn’t really complain. It’s nice of them to let me live with them and at least I’ve got somewhere to live, you know.’
Con nodded and thought about telling her, but decided not to. Maybe she’d feel sorry for him. Or, even worse, maybe she’d think it was really cool that he’d once spent a fortnight sleeping in a shop doorway in Wood Green. Maybe she would suddenly see him as a novelty, someone she could brag about to her posh friends and her sisters with the silly flower names; oh, my new friend, Con, so tragic, used to be homeless, you know, slept on a piece of cardboard and got washed in a public toilet.
The lift flumped to the basement floor and the doors slid open. Daisy helped Con manoeuvre his trolley through the doors.
‘So, who do you live with in your really nice house? Friends? A girlfriend?’
Con felt a surge of excitement then. It was the way she said it: ‘A girlfriend?’ She was fishing; she wanted to know if he was single. And suddenly Con felt everything in his head shift along a bit to make room for this new possibility – the possibility that this girl from another place, from a world of ponies and Caribbean family holidays and parties where boys wore tuxedos might actually want to be with him, a boy from Tottenham, who’d been brought up by his grandmother in a second-floor council flat.
‘No,’ he said encouragingly, ‘no girlfriend. I live with my mum.’
‘Oh, you’re still at home?’
‘No. I mean – she lives with me. In my place.’
‘You share a place with your mum?’
‘Yes. But not just my mum. Loads of us.’
‘What – like a commune?’
He smiled. A girl like Daisy would like the idea of a commune. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘a bit. This poet bloke owns it and rents out rooms.’
‘Wow – a poet.’
‘Yeah. He’s a bit strange, kind of like a recluse, but he’s a good bloke. And the house is massive. All sorts of people have lived there. Artists and singers and actors and stuff. It’s a really cool place.’
The boys in the post room all glanced
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