“Sorry. You must think I’m very strange,” the man said. “I don’t usually accost young women on the bus and tell them I like their hair, I promise.”
“It’s fine. I needed a compliment today, so thank you.”
“Bad day?”
“You could say that.”
“I’m happy to listen if that would help?” He ran a hand over his own hair, which was bright white and stuck out at all sorts of unruly angles from his head. “People often tell me their problems, especially on the night bus. Once they’ve had a few drinks, complete strangers confess all sorts. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve heard on here.”
For a brief second, Libby considered pouring her miserable story out to this stranger, but where to even begin? “That’s a kind offer but I’m okay, thanks.”
The man nodded and turned to look out of his window, and Libby returned to hers. The bus wound its way behind Tate Britain and along toward Parliament Square. It was busy thismorning, crowds of tourists queueing to get into Westminster Abbey, a small huddle of protesters with placards outside the Houses of Parliament being monitored by some bored-looking police officers. Libby checked her phone; it was two fifteen, and according to Google Maps she should be at her sister’s house around three.
The thought made Libby shudder. When she’d turned up at her parents’ house late last night, still numb with shock, she had assumed they’d let her stay with them for a few days while she worked out what to do. But this morning, over a strained breakfast at which her father could barely look at her, Libby’s mum had announced that she’d called Rebecca, who had offered Libby her spare bedroom. This had struck Libby as odd, given the two of them weren’t exactly close, but when she’d tried to argue, her mum had brushed her protests aside. And so here she was a few hours later, on an unfamiliar bus in an unfamiliar city, with her life packed into two ancient bags.
“Excuse me.” The old man from across the aisle was looking at her again.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to be nosy, but I couldn’t help noticing that. Are you an artist?”
Libby looked to where he was pointing and saw an old, battered sketch pad stuffed in a side pocket of her backpack. She hadn’t even realized it was there; that showed how long it was since she’d used this bag.
“I’m afraid not. That’s from years ago when I was at school.”
“Did you draw back then?”
“I did, but I haven’t done anything artistic in a long time.”
“And why is that?”
Libby opened her mouth to answer and then stopped. Whywas she about to tell her life story to a complete stranger? The old man was right; there was clearly something about him that made people spill their secrets.
“I haven’t had time” was all she said.
“Nonsense, there’s always time to draw. You could sketch me now if you like?”
“Thanks, but I think my drawing days are long gone.”
The bus pulled up outside Downing Street and more passengers boarded, their voices a jumble of languages under Libby’s feet.
“It’s never too late to start drawing again, you know,” the man said. “Did you study art at school?”
“Yes, and I wanted to go to art college but...” There she went again, about to spill out her guts to him. “I did medicine at university instead.”
“Medicine? Lordy, you don’t strike me as the doctoring sort. No, I wouldn’t trust you with my dickey hips for one minute.”
Libby looked up in surprise, but the man winked at her.
“I’m only joking. I’m sure you’re a wonderful doctor.”
“Actually, you’re right. I’m not the doctoring sort. I hated medical school and left before I could do damage to anyone’s dickey hips.”
The man chuckled and Libby smiled despite herself.
“So, what do you do now, then, if not medicine or drawing?”
She didn’t reply, unsure what to say. Up until twenty-four hours ago Libby had worked for Simon, doing the accounts and admin for his gardening firm. But now who the hell knew?
