“What would you suggest, then?” she snapped. “That I wander round randomly sticking posters up wherever takes my fancy, with no plan or process?”
“Maybe. I mean, you’re putting up posters, not organizing a military occupation.”
Our life has become so organized and predictable... I miss spontaneity.
Libby snatched the map back off Dylan. “I like to have a plan. That way there are no unpleasant surprises.”
Dylan frowned. “Do you live your whole life like that?”
You used to be such fun, but things have grown stale... You’ve become boring, Libs.
Libby felt heat behind her eyes. Oh god, she was not going to cry in front of this awful man.
“If you don’t like the way I’m doing it, then you can piss off!”
Libby spun round so her back was to Dylan, which was easier said than done when she was wedged into a cramped bus seat. Biting her lip, she stared out of the window as London rumbled past. Dylan made no attempt to talk to her, which Libby was glad of. She’d planned for them to go all the way down to Clapham today, as that was stage one on her map. But as the bus crawled slowly through traffic, the thought of having to sit next to this rude, insensitive, long-legged monster for the next ninety minutes was too much. Libby leaned past Dylan, almost knocking him off the seat, and hit the stop button.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I’m getting off here.”
“But according to your spreadsheet, aren’t we meant to start at stage one, at the south end of the line?”
“Change of plan. We’re starting here instead.”
The bus stopped and Libby pushed past Dylan to get off. It was only when she stepped onto the pavement that she realized she had absolutely no idea where they were. She was aware of Dylan waiting behind her.
“This is Albany Street,” he said as if reading her mind. “I think it was about halfway through stage seven of your plan.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.” Libby reached into her rucksack and pulled out one of the yellow posters she’d made, plus a roll of Sellotape. Marching over to the bus shelter, she started to search for the end of the tape, the poster propped under her arm.
Dylan was standing back, watching her. “Need a hand?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine on my own.” Libby managed to find the end of the tape and ripped off a long strip, then held up the poster against the bus shelter with one hand and tried to attach the tape with the other. Unfortunately, the tape kept sticking to either the bus shelter or her hand, but never to the poster. Libby gritted her teeth and gave her hand a shake to dislodge the tape, and then winced as it got stuck in her hair.
“Here, let me.”
Dylan had suddenly moved in next to her. He leaned toward her face, and Libby stepped back, startled. But he just lifted his hand and gently removed the tape from her hair.
“How about I hold the poster in place and you attach it?” he said.
“Fine.” Libby’s voice came out as a squeak, and she coughed.
Dylan took the poster and held it up, then had to lower it when he realized he was holding it too high for Libby to reach. She pulled off a new strip of tape and stuck it along the side ofthe poster, but as she did, she somehow managed to stick down Dylan’s thumb too. He pried it free, and then Libby attached three more strips of tape to the sides of the poster, careful to avoid all contact with Dylan. When she’d finished, they both stepped back to read it.
HELP ME FIND THE GIRL ON THE 88 BUS
In 1962, I met a young woman on the 88 bus between Clapham and Oxford Circus.
She was in her late teens or early twenties at the time, had bright red hair, and was studying art.
I’ve spent the past sixty years trying to track her down to say thank you. Please help me find her!
E-mail [email protected] with any leads.
#girlonthe88bus
Libby smiled to herself. The bright yellow poster looked eye-catching; it was bound to get people’s attention.
