The man straightens and leans his elbow on the top of his sweeping brush. “Green coat,” he ponders. “Green coat ... I think I see onefinelady taking the escalator southbound,” he says with a vague sort of wave.
“Great. Thanks.” I swing away.
“Wait!”
I swing back again.
“It was northbound, I think. Maybe the Central Line.”
“Thanks. Again.” I make for the ticket barrier as I reach for my wallet. “Fuck. Shit!” I pat my chest and my back pockets, my skinturning clammy in that instant. It was in my hand when I shoved the snacks into Mila’s arms. I must’ve left it with her.
I become aware of a tersetsk. A sigh. Then a huff. I’m holding up a line of commuters. I know it’s no good appealing to them. London commuters are intolerant at the best of times.
“There are other barriers,” I mutter, moving to the side. I consider hopping over the thing once this lot is through, but then I remember the videos of a man with his nut sack caught in the barrier after trying to jump it not so long ago. “Fuck it.” I slip in behind a bloke tapping his card, hustling him through the barrier faster than he’d planned on.
He huffs, all aggravated bluster.
“It’s for a good cause,” I call over my shoulder as I dodge past, heading for the northbound escalator.
“What a fuckin’ liberty,” the man shouts. “That’s theft, that is!”
“From Transport for London, not you,” I mutter, taking the escalator two steps at a time.
A fool’s errand.
This time, the words take up more space in my head as I remember how this place resembles a rabbit warren. She could be anywhere.
Off the escalator, I turn right onto the first platform.Empty.Which means the train just left.Fuck!Undeterred—because what choice do I have? I know she’s here somewhere. She has to be—I race along the platform. Back out again into the tiled warren of corridors, the stupid satin sash flapping in my face. Another escalator, the treads two at a time again. I dodge left, then right, sweeping the corridors to check the platforms as I pass them.
“Watch it, numpty!”
I murmur an apology, my thoughts on the southbound platforms next. Up the stairs, my thighs screaming now. Along the corridor and down again.
“What’s your hurry?” someone shouts.
“I’m looking for a woman in green,” I call back.
“Aren’t we all!”
A laugh. One I don’t stop for.
“Green coat? I saw someone.”
I stop and pivot on the sole of my shoe to find a pair of girls a little way in front of me. They’re probably in their early twenties. Puffer jackets and Ugg boots, hairstyles from the 1970s—the flipped-bangs one that seems all the rage now. “You saw ... what?” Who.
“Lo.” One girl clutches the other one’s arm. “He might be a stalker,” she whispers.
“I wouldn’t be much of a stalker dressed like this,” I say, plucking at the lapels of this stupid jacket. Sliding my hands through my sweaty hair.
“Not much of a Prince Charming either,” she says with a disdainful look.
“Farther along. Heading for platform 3,” the other girl says.
And I’m off again, another burst of energy, another burst ofscuse mes andsorrys. Left onto the platform, one that’s pretty packed.
. . . the train approaching is . . .
I slow my pace at the announcement, working myself amid the mass of commuters, peering over their heads. Would I even see her here, that little teacup, among all these people?
