here, remember me?” She's almost as funny as me, I always thought I got funny from my Dad. Strange.
TC: “Hello Mum, everything OK?” I’m going to regret asking that aren’t I?
EC: “its cold out, wrap-up” she's not wrong.
TC: “You too, love you, I promise to come see you when I’m not so busy” I put my phone away a little guilty for not seeing her this weekend, but that’s the effect Mum's have on you isn’t it?
Note to self, remember the old proverb: 'he declares himself guilty, who justifies himself before accusation'.
EC: “You never come and see me” feel better now?
TC: “I will soon, I promise” don’t I say that every week?
I open my book, I can't wait to find out what Dirk Pitt is up to trying to raise the Titanic, bound to be in some sort of pickle, and as the adventure unfolds I am transported.
Far too soon, my train pulls in, and I disembark the carriage into a busy concourse. I catch the feint whiff of a familiar scent that stirred my insides, and see in the distance the man that is in my thoughts. I don't want him there, I am happy as I am, but I can't shift the feeling, and he is very attractive. I will meet him face to face this afternoon, not just the reconnaissance mission Pete took me on when I told her about the interview. She has contacts at the venue, naturally, and got VIP passes to the event, the launch of Milk&Honey, of course. “Just turn up and have a look at who you'll be working with, what's the down side?” (He could see me!). She pleads, “And open bar.” As if that clinches it, which of course it does, well a girl's got to drink. So she drags me to a pretentious wine bar in the City all clean white walls neon and champagne cocktails, smelling of a heady mixture of strong colognes and perfumes. I hated it. ...and don't get me started on the DJ either, bloody hell.
But over by the bar is Daniel Pearce. Pete had done her homework, he is very handsome. I have already downed a JD just to have the nerve to come into this bright clean homogenised environment, I hate these places. I down a glass of cranberry without ice as quickly as I can, I don't like cold drinks or champagne, leave Pete chatting to a gorgeous Hispanic girl, apparently called Steffi, and head home. Pete says he's too skinny, but she likes girls so what does she know? Lean and muscly about 6ft3, with a tight arse, young Elvis hair with shaved sides, a scull ring, wearing black skinny suit trousers and winkle picker boots. A tight suit jacket with skinny lapels, a white shirt with a tiny curved shirt collar and very skinny black tie, half sleeve tattoos on each arm, I saw a picture of him I a trade magazine. And the palest grey/green eyes I had ever seen. He has an elegant walk, and all the women, and some of the men, can't help staring, he has such a beautiful uncommonly breath-taking face. Right now, I watch him slide into the back seat of his car that was waiting for him, he briefly looks over and I fancy to myself it is me he is looking at. I feel immediately self-conscious and lower my head feeling stupid. He disappears off in the black shiny car, and the faintest scent of him lingers in the air for a moment or two.
TC: “You're right as always” she is.
PF: “You're only now realising this?” Don't push it though.
TC: “No one likes a show-off” is that really true?
PF: “Later xx” she's a woman of many words, I appreciate that.
The City of London is so beautiful, the architecture, the vibe, a sunny day, cold as autumn should be and very bright its almost blinding as it reflects off the pale surfaces of the old marble. I jump onto the tube and put my head back in my book and my ears back to work sending the invigorating sounds of Depeche Mode directly into the part of my brain that appreciates it, the bit in the middle.
I work in a very busy, creatively uninspiring design room. I am my own energy, and I operate in my own little denim bubble, which people find either amusing because I’m completely focused, or frustrating because they can't pop the surface and get in. But that's the