Talk to Me by Jules Wake Page A

back in the playground.
    ‘Emily, at this moment I couldn’t care. I just want to go home. Swallow half a dozen Anadin and wallow in a bath. Coming?’
    Casting a look of loathing at the piles of papers spread across her desk, she scooped them all up and dumped them in her pending tray. Then, leaning down, she gathered up a selection of files from the floor and shoved them in, too. I watched horrified, hands twitching. Talk about disorganised – no wonder she was stressed.
    ‘I shouldn’t but … I can speak to Miranda’s agent in the morning. You wouldn’t believe the stuff Miranda wants. Do you know—’
    ‘I’m going, now.’
    ‘All right. All right.’ Suddenly she looked at her watch. ‘Shit, I forgot. Daniel’s coming. He phoned earlier. He’s got a meeting first thing so he’s staying over tonight.’ She pulled a face. ‘I could do without it. I’m not cooking.’
    Cooking? Emily! That would be the day. She liked being taken to restaurants and was very old-fashioned when it came to splitting the bill.
    ‘He’ll have to make do with a takeaway. I’ve got a bit of a headache. Not that I need to worry on that score.’ She snorted. ‘I can’t remember the last time we had sex.’
    And she thought she had problems. I wasn’t sure my body still knew what sex was.
    I tuned her out as we left the building. Every other word was Miranda.
    Tottenham Court Road was heavy going, thick with bus queues and dawdling tourists blocking the crowded pavements. I wound ruthlessly in and around the throng of people and Emily had to jog to keep up with me, which was deliberate. If she was concentrating on breathing she’d have to stop talking.
    I was halted mid-stride by a sudden, sharp tug on my jacket as Emily grabbed my arm and pointed to the other side of the busy road.
    ‘What?’ I snapped. All I wanted to do was get home.
    Her mouth was moving but the words were incoherent. The wall of red double-decker buses made it difficult to see what she was pointing to.
    ‘Did you see him?’ she exclaimed.
    ‘Who?’ I asked impatiently. It was impossible to pick out anyone with so many pedestrians waltzing between the bumpers of the stationary traffic.
    Emily was always spotting famous people. Last month it had been Elton John in Starbucks, wearing a fluorescent jacket and hobnail boots. She wouldn’t believe it wasn’t him until he left the coffee shop, put on his hard hat and walked onto the building site next door.
    Just outside the entrance to a tube station was a bad place to stop, especially in rush hour. A few choice words were hissed at us as people jostled past.
    Emily frowned, rubbing her forehead. ‘He’s gone now.’
    ‘Who?’ I asked exasperated, starting down the steps, rubbing my hip, which had been jabbed by a briefcase.
    ‘Perhaps I’m imagining things. I thought it was him. Peter the emailer.’
    ‘You sure?’ I looked round, examining the people coming down the stairs behind us.
    ‘No, it was just a glimpse. Broken glasses mended with tape.’
    Goosebumps rose along the hairline around the back of my neck.
    I nudged Emily downwards, anxious to keep moving. ‘We’re in the way. Mind that pushchair. Here.’
    Shoving my bag into her hand, I went to the rescue of a tired looking woman who was trying to manoeuvre a buggy down the steps. I felt for her, she had a toddler to deal with and I had Emily!
    Once down on the platform, having said goodbye to my grateful new friend, Emily and I stood six deep waiting for our train.
    ‘I think I just imagined it.’ Emily laughed nervously. ‘I’ve got him on the brain.’ But we both took an unconscious step back from the platform edge, eyeing up other commuters.
    ‘Mm,’ I responded reassuringly.
    When the train arrived the flow of bodies inched into the carriage. The doors slid closed just as one last chap squeezed between the doors. His hand reached up to clutch his glasses. Through the heads crammed in the space between I could just see