1.

Flat-fronted, side pockets—heavy drop. Color—bold. Cordings of Piccadilly. Filipo had turned him onto them. He stood in front of the chrome-edged mirror, running his fingertips along the channelled lines that fell vertically and uniformly down the trousers. The brushed cotton ridges beneath his touch were close enough to justify velvet. Definitely quality.

He turned to the dresser for his keys and phone. Still, he couldn’t escape what they were. Corduroys. And corduroys he’d always imagined were the uniform of middle-aged schoolteachers—bearded ones. He paused, questioning whether they were the right choice for tonight.

He was nearly at the door. He returned to the mirror. Mr. Mathews came into his head. Geography. And now so did Walshy—history. Maybe he wasn’t wearing them right. Or maybe his first instinct had been correct. The denim. Or the flannels with the Oxfords. Not the cords. Not with the brogues. He couldn’t remember now why that match had ever seemed a good idea.

He shot out his arm; the cuff didn’t quite clear the watch face. Again. He should have left ten minutes ago. “Fuck,” he said, kicking off one brogue. “This.” The second was harder.

Mickey Rourke’s smile came into his head, mocking. He went to the wardrobe for the denim or the flannels; his fingers would decide. In the mirror, he caught himself trouserless in an overcoat.

Rourke was the man. Before he’d decided to become a freak. For a while, the coolest man on earth.

The flannels were too soft. The denim was rougher, with an edge. He went for those. 9½ Weeks. No time to waste thinking about what to wear, just a wardrobe of sameness and repetition: navy full-length cashmere overcoats; black crew-neck sweaters; dark grey slacks; black, handmade lace-up Oxfords.

Ready. Leave. Now.

Leonard said the words into the room. Why had he bought into the corduroy idea so readily? Redford? Newman? All jackets.

He was on the stairs now. It didn’t matter.

Outside hit him all at once. Fine drizzle, wet pavements, yellow headlights, everything moving toward him, not with him.

He slipped a hand into his coat pocket, his fingers finding the small, compact shape. He could easily take one out and do so naturally: unwrap the cellophane, light up. He decided against it—Vanessa, mainly—though the wet conditions and the short walk to the station supplied the kind of self-assured reasoning De Niro would have adopted in Heat.

“This is this,” he said, just loudly enough to hear himself.

It was a good line. He said it again, repeating it until the traffic slowed enough for him to weave through and cross. On the other side, the station in view, he realised he was quoting The Deer Hunter, not Heat.

He grimaced, trying to recall a line that properly belonged. He couldn’t. It didn’t matter. The Deer Hunter was good enough. He said it again.

On the Tube, it was her hair, then her shoulders, then her shoulders with her hair. How had he even scored someone like her?

The train pulled into Earl’s Court. The doors slid open; people got off, nobody boarded. When they closed again, he widened his posture, as if acknowledging that the empty carriage was now his. Some people sat like this in rush hour. Selfish bastards. He widened his legs further, almost in caricature. The denim resisted. He looked down at them and wondered how his life might have panned out if they were a few inches longer. He winced. Or shorter.

At Baron’s Court, he decided what he had would have to be enough.

A man wearing a fur coat—almost certainly eyeliner—got on and sat one seat removed, then placed his rucksack on the dividing seat between them. Part of the rucksack’s structure was now in contact with Leonard’s arm. He could feel it, not subtly—definitely, even through an overcoat. Leonard shot him a look, then turned his gaze to the bank of unoccupied seats opposite. Nothing registered.

Why sit here, he thought. And what sort of man goes out wearing a fur coat and—he looked again—red satin trousers. That made him think of the corduroys. They were red too, now in a pile somewhere. Could they be resurrected? Perhaps if worn low on the hip. Or high, ankle and sock exposed. Or really high, with a lace-up boot. That could work. They’d just need shortening.

In his peripheral vision, a phone screen, small silhouetted figures dancing, if it could be called that. The sound registered before the next station did. YouTube. Unbelievable. He slowly pressed his elbow into the body of the rucksack until he felt sure the pressure could be felt on the fur coat’s arm. The volume went up. He thought about leaning over and saying do you mind. Or taking out his own phone and playing something even louder. Or just getting up and changing carriages. Instead, he slipped a hand into his overcoat pocket, fingers curving around the box of Monte Cristo Puritos.

Hammersmith.

A beige padded jacket, boarded—not attractive, maybe in her forties, possibly a mum. She chose a seat opposite, space on either side—zero hesitation. He shot the fur coat a look. See. Still nothing. What was he playing anyway—some kind of hybrid rap–reggae? Leonard angled toward the woman, half-expecting support. Her eyes were down. He sighed, just loud enough to be heard. 

Maybe the fur coat would get off at the next stop. Or the carriage would fill, and someone very overweight would sit between them, forcing him to move the bag, regret his seat. He looked opposite again and took her in properly. M&S, lifted by an expensive scarf. Richmond. The fur coat could be Richmond too, but the satin trousers suggested he might just be visiting. Vanessa was Richmond, absolutely—but for entirely different reasons.

The train slowed, then stopped. Above the padded jacket, an advert for city breaks: a happy couple holding hands, the Eiffel Tower behind them. The woman wore jeans. The train started to move.

He’d never seen anyone look as good in jeans as Vanessa. A little more speed. Tonight would be the first time she’d see him in denim. He pictured her noticing. She’d let him know if she approved. With her, everything was immediate. A look, a gesture, a syllable of her voice—enough to pull him out of whatever he was in. Who had ever done that?

He’d had conquests, some serious. All of them are safe.

This wasn’t.

A few stops more. Nobody is getting on or off. The District Line. Not exactly a bullet train. That made him think of Pitt. He couldn’t really carry a film. Maybe Fight Club or Seven. Even then, not exactly seminal. Pitt was better in passing—cropping up unexpectedly. Was that Brad? Nothing more. 

The padded jacket was now taking a call, arranging to meet someone called Sarah at All Bar One. Fifteen minutes. Jennifer might join later. On Monday, she’d waited in all day for a workman—could Sarah believe that—twice. Then the call dropped. Good. Nearly there—she’d likely be waiting. Only the sound of the train now, and his neighbour’s music. At least he didn’t need to listen to the jacket’s call. She glanced up suddenly and caught his smirk. He lowered his eyes as the train jolted. 

Pitt again. He didn’t hate him. But he’d take DiCaprio over him any day. Redford, without question—he’d had to compensate. Vanessa and Pitt? It didn’t feel strange. She could easily be on Brad’s arm. Maybe not her cup of tea. She’d told him on their first date that she wasn’t attracted to pretty boys. Then, before he could settle into it, she’d said she’d simply had enough of them. Enough of them. What did that mean? He tried to imagine having his fill of beauty and couldn’t. He loved it.

Then again, he didn’t love Pitt.

The train pulled into Richmond. Padded Jacket was up first, already at the door. The fur coat stayed put, absorbed in YouTube, as if whatever was waiting for him here couldn’t compete with what he was doing now.

Padded Jacket had positioned herself exactly at the seam. Leonard imagined getting off and calling out twat—just loud enough for the fur coat to hear it, just unclear enough to leave room for doubt. A cough, maybe. A mutter. Something deniable.

But the timing was wrong. He needed to be at the seam, already moving, already gone. With her there, nothing could be done.

2.

“Oh, Marcus, honestly. Please don’t.”

The line went quiet, though she knew he was still there. Ferdinand, who had been sitting through the call, shifted. She raised a hand to him—two minutes, or keep quiet, it wasn’t clear.

“I’ll come over,” Marcus said at last.

“No. You can’t. I mean—I’m going out. I won’t be here.”

Silence again. She checked her watch.

“When then?” Marcus said. His voice had softened. Become usable.

She held a finger up to Ferdinand.

“Tomorrow. I promise. I mean—I’ll call you tomorrow. Gotta go.”

She ended the call.

For a second, there was nothing. Then her phone pinged.

She looked down at Ferdinand as if to apologise, but the sound had already pulled her eyes away. She glanced at the screen, expression unreadable, and set the phone back on the counter.

It pinged again.

This time, she didn’t pick it up.

Ferdinand watched her not pick it up.

He could sing and dance and act—enough for his portfolio to say so. Minor television roles. Commercials. Now theatre: a principal role in a fringe production.

The phone sounded again. Then almost immediately again.

She didn’t look.

She’d invited him here to talk through possible opportunities. It wasn’t unheard of. It wasn’t standard either. He was trying to sit the way he had been sitting. He couldn’t quite work out what kind of meeting this was.

Since he’d last seen her, he’d braided his hair into cornrows. When she’d opened the door, she’d erupted, told him she loved it, the beading. She’d asked if she could touch it. He’d dipped his head.

Now he was aware of the narrowness of her waist, the way her line extended and then tapered.

“Thank you. Sorry,” she said, stepping closer. “About that call.”

He shifted.

“You’re so talented,” she said. “Your showreel. It’s brilliant.”

“Do you think—”

The phone sounded. A different tone.

He checked his own without meaning to.

“Not mine,” he said. “Must be you.”

The sound repeated.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s my other phone.” She pressed her lips together. “Do you mind if I check?”

He shook his head. He didn’t mind. The fact that she’d asked made it feel like something given.

“Honestly—if you do, please say so.”

“No. No, I mean—yes. Yes.” He nodded. “Go ahead.”

He thought about adding something else.

He thought about standing.

“I won’t be long,” she wrinkled her face and did something with her lips. 

He found he couldn’t quite meet her gaze, or decide whether he should leave or stay. His hand went to his own phone, and he began scrolling through old messages.

She came back a few minutes later and didn’t look at him. Her fixed smile was directed entirely at the phone in her hands. And her thumbs. He’d never seen anything like it—the speed, the dexterity, a blur. He knew she was aware of him watching. When she finished, she placed the phone down on the counter, beside the first, and only then turned back toward him.

He felt like something had been switched back on.

“So you’ve got two phones?” he said, slipping his own back into his pocket. “Busy lady.”

She smiled. “Actually, Mister, I’ve got three.”

“Three?” He repeated it a little too loudly, then checked himself.

“I know. I know. I should really get one of those multi-SIM phones. Or just have one number.” She said it as if it were something she’d been meaning to sort out for years.

He felt himself settle a little, as though steadied by the topic.

“I don’t really understand anything about phones or SIMs,” she said. It wasn’t true.

“That’s not a problem—my brother—”

Too much. He felt it as he said it.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she said. “Is he talented like you? Does he act?”

He was committed now. “He works in a phone shop,” he said. “Vodafone.”

She let it sit.

Then: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” His eyes widened.

“Can we meet again?” A pause. “Would you mind?”

“Yeah. Wow. Sure.” He ran a hand through his cornrows.

“That’s amazing.” She stepped closer, opening her arms slightly, as though to offer a hug.

He was still deciding whether he was meant to stand when a phone began ringing in another room. A mobile.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, already turning away. “Call me. I have to take this.”

3.

Leonard tried to think of some cool depiction of a man waiting to meet a woman at a tube station. Perhaps that was too specific. The drama was the waiting itself, and the possibility that she might not show. Or that she eventually would.

No scene came to mind. The only waiting he could recall in films was for bombs about to explode, juries about to decide, babies about to be delivered. Momentous things. Waiting that announced itself as significant, as if it could only exist cinematically as a prelude to life and death.

This felt as urgent as any of those, but no Pacino or Brando came to mind, fingers raked through hair as time slipped. He raised his own hand instead. A single copy of the Evening Standard sat in the rack. He could take it. When she arrived, she’d find him absorbed—somewhere else. That could reverse the situation.

They’d slept together on the third date. The act had felt closer to anxiety than abandon. He’d drifted, then woken to find her gone. Her absence had been filled with her presence—that was what he remembered.

The next day, she left on a holiday she’d already planned. A text from the airport. No reference to the night. Just before her return, he left on a trip of his own. Now, almost two months later, they were meeting again. Richmond was her idea. It could just as easily have been forgotten. She’d cancelled the previous two—last-minute, evasive when it came to rescheduling.

The fur coat appeared suddenly, wired to his phone. Leonard watched him snap his head left, then right, before taking up position by the newspaper rack. So now it was the fur coat and him, waiting at the station exit. He couldn’t get to the newspaper without asking him to move.

The fur coat’s lips began to move. Leonard caught something like see you in a while, Dog, or see you soon, Dog.

Dog, really? 

His hand found the Puritos again—but she could arrive any moment. Or perhaps not at all.

Waiting, he thought. Did films capture this sort of thing? French ones, he thought. A man in a hat and trench coat, clutching a rolled-up newspaper, pacing a concourse. No—seated at a café table instead, face never revealed, only hands. An espresso is cooling. The dial of an antique watch. Hitchcockian music—minutes as seconds. 

Leonard stamped his feet as if they were cold. Something he’d felt before—and didn’t like—began to stir. He’d grown short with her on the phone the third time he’d tried to arrange this, had said something like if you’re too busy… She hadn’t let him finish. Not that he would have. She’d laughed, told him he was being silly, that she really did want to meet. Her laughter, her words, like syrup. She hadn’t promised anything outright, but being invited to Richmond—where she lived—felt like enough. 

A figure approached the station with purpose. Perhaps, finally. No. A man in a fur coat. Dog. 

Twenty past. He’d give her another five minutes. Ten at most. She’d been late before.

In the bedroom, Leonard’s name lit her screen. This phone was for family, close friends—people she’d known a long time and had decided to keep in touch with. The letters and digits illuminating the screen felt like an intrusion and, at the same time, as though they belonged there. It kept ringing—she wanted to shout at it, to tell it she wasn’t ready.

She’d given him this number. She’d taken the time to tag his name. That didn’t mean anything, she thought. Just a way of keeping track of who was calling.

“I’ll phone you. Yeah?” the braided boy called out.

She let him go without replying. The phone stopped ringing. Then silence. Then the sound of her front door gently being closed.

Leonard kept shifting on his feet—maybe it really was getting cold. No answer. Maybe she was about to arrive. Nobody was approaching—nobody who looked like her. He was alone now. Even the fur coat had gone. Gone with Dog.

Could he call again? Was that allowed?

No. Jim Carrey territory. Or worse. Ben Stiller.

She stood over the silenced phone and flicked her hair from her eyes. A missed-call notification now replaced his name. In a few moments, the screen would fade—and so would he. She didn’t doubt she could salvage it, even if she let him turn around and get back on his train. Something about him—not the usual—held her.

The small cigar was in his hand now, still unlit. He should have sent a text first. Why hadn’t he? Texts were easily missed; calls weren’t.

Hey, I’m at the station, you en route?

Simple. That would have worked. Text first, then the call. Now he had to backtrack.

What could he even say now? There really wasn’t anything except that I’ve left. Have a nice life. He imagined himself sending it. Pure Nicholson. Maybe he should.

He peeled back the cellophane. What if she’d had an accident—she’d been on her way, and something had happened. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Something softer, then. Hey, sorry I missed you, hope you’re ok?

Or nothing at all—back on the train. Deleting her number. Deleting tonight.

She looked down at the screen, waiting for something more. Nothing came.
She picked it up anyway and started composing.

“Hey you…”

4.

Her thumbs stopped. Flashes—brief flickers of recall—presented themselves.

Sitting next to him in the old Mercedes he drove. How he’d asked, casually, whether she knew anything about Nietzsche. God is dead, she’d replied. And how he’d spent an entire dinner talking about custom-made suits—and she hadn’t been bored.

Physically, when he forgot himself, he wasn’t bad-looking—perhaps a touch on the short side. He dressed well. He seemed intelligent—very. Her eyes furrowed. She hadn’t liked how pushy he’d been about meeting up tonight. But she’d felt something at the airport when she’d sent that text. Was it just her keeping another option in play?

She dropped the phone, the unfinished text still on the screen, and sat.

Maybe if he’d been a complete ass. Or full of himself. But he wasn’t arrogant or confident in the way many of the men she knew were. Yet he was sure. Those men had something obvious—looks, money, talent. Sometimes all of it. He seemed fallible, vulnerable—flawed—and somehow drew his assurance from that.

Another phone pinged from the lounge—probably Marcus again. Or Koby. Marcus was persistent; Koby had become heavy. Six missed calls on Tuesday alone, followed by two voicemails she hadn’t listened to. She’d been with both: Marcus first, four years; then Koby, a year. There’d been a brief overlap. Neither of them knew. She’d met Marcus again after the break, as friends, and stayed the night. In the morning, he told her he was still in love with her—that he always would be. She’d said she didn’t know and left.

A few weeks later, it was her birthday. She was thirty-four. At the party, she met Leonard.

She’d reserved rooms at a private members’ club in Hanover Square, where she’d once worked. The guest list was deliberate. No exes. No awkward crossings. Just old university friends, colleagues, talent—and a few long-time admirers.

Pierre—whom she’d almost forgotten—fell under several headings. They’d met in their early twenties at UCL. Within weeks, he’d declared his feelings for her, something she could usually deflect, but his seriousness had left her little room to manoeuvre. He’d pleaded, producing an almost forensic rationale—instances, gestures—proof, in his mind, that her behaviour could only mean she felt the same way.

He was a strange man, but a long-standing friend. He would have to be invited. When she called, he jumped at it. Predictably, slipping back into a repurposed brother role, he’d asked whether she was still single—or at least finished with that knob, Koby. I want you to meet someone, he’d insisted. You’re made for each other.

She resisted, then relented—just enough to get him off the phone.

Ringing came from the living room. She got up to answer it, thinking she should really assign different ringtones to her devices—then that it would make more sense to assign them to people. The ringing stopped. She could still put her coat on, call him from the street, and be there in ten. She checked the time: almost nine-thirty. Thirty minutes late—that wasn’t unreasonable. If she showered, did her hair, and changed, she’d struggle to get there before eleven. She might prefer that. He wouldn’t wait. She wouldn’t want him to.

Maybe cancelling was the better option.

The phone in the lounge started again. She let it ring.

She sat back on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone with the half-composed text. Really, she couldn’t decide—it felt no different from tossing a coin. Pierre had been stranger than usual at her party. He’d crept up behind her while she was dancing; she’d felt hands at her waist. Happy birthday, darling. He’d swivelled her and made her dance with him. She’d asked where the mystery man was. He’s at the bar, darling—go on. She’d laughed and said she wouldn’t. If he wanted to come over and say hello, that would be fine.

She remembered the waiting—how he hadn’t come over straight away. She’d gone back to the table, glancing toward the bar, trying to guess which one he might be. When he finally arrived, he looked awkward, not at all what she’d expected. He introduced himself by shaking her hand and apologised for the way the introduction had been arranged. She asked why it had taken him so long. He said, simply, that he’d felt embarrassed and hadn’t wanted to impose. She told him that it was sweet—that it wasn’t an imposition at all. 

They must have talked for a while, though she couldn’t recall any of it now. Whatever passed between them was enough for her to give him her main number. He called two days later and suggested the coming Saturday, which happened to suit her—an event she’d planned to attend had fallen through.

She leaned back from the edge of the bed and let herself sink into the mattress, the phone resting screen-down on her chest. Above her, the ceiling fan—bought because it reminded her of the ones in Sri Lanka, her father’s real home.

He came and went during her childhood. She hadn’t really known him until she was five or six. Then something changed, and he came to live with them. She didn’t remember much of that time, or of the life before it in Ireland—only fragments, later filled in by her mother.

Snapshots: driving onto a ship; her first day at school; being told they were going to live together in London. At the new school, girls brushed her hair. Boys grew quiet, sometimes stared. She reached to the bedside table and switched the fan on. Its broad wooden blades began to circle. She followed the motion. This is my girl, she heard her father say. She saw her uncles too—dark like him, smiling, laughing, speaking in a language she didn’t know.

One way or another, a decision about tonight would have to be made. She could almost drift off here, under the fan. Instead, she sat up. The phone slipped to her side. She picked it up and opened the text.

She decided.

“Hey, you…”

5.

A kind of emptiness—no, not that. More a sense of being detuned, or of standing just outside something and needing to get in. She was the inside. Fuck it, he thought, placing the thin cigar between his lips. When had she become that? It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen her. It hadn’t been a case of laying eyes on her and being blown away. He hadn’t even thought about leagues. But there had been something in that first moment.

The lighter wasn’t in the side pocket. He checked the others. A vague recognition, a familiarity. Not that he knew her—he didn’t. Or that he’d seen her before—he hadn’t. Just something already there. He’d tried to place it, link her to something in his past: family, school, work, friend of a friend. He’d almost asked if they’d met before. Instead, an apology had come out.

He checked his watch again. Almost nine-thirty. How long would he give this? He already knew the answer. He saw himself back on the train—alone in an empty carriage, then alone in a full one. He found the lighter. Lighting it would buy him time. What kind of smoke would it be, though? 

She wouldn’t simply not turn up. She’d call. Or text, at the very least. He’d messaged her yesterday morning to confirm. Nothing all day. At eight she’d replied. No words. Just an X.

He placed the cigar back in the box. Now that he knew where the lighter was, he could light it anytime. It started to rain—not hard, a fine drizzle. He took a few steps back. No film scene came into his head. No actor. Just an idea about work tomorrow. He’d probably go in now.

Pierre had been at him for weeks. You should meet my friend Vanessa. You two should get together. I’ll introduce you. Leonard had told him he wasn’t into it—the setup. Pierre took offence and began defending his judgment, his ability to recognise beauty. Leonard told him to take it easy; he wasn’t questioning that. Pierre didn’t let it go. He kept saying his benchmark could be trusted. That Vanessa exceeded it. Later, at lunch, Leonard had nodded toward a woman he found attractive and asked if she qualified. No. Emphatic. Leonard said he thought she was attractive. Very. Pierre grimaced, baring all his teeth at once, and said something like: That’s why you should meet Vanessa.

He looked at his watch again. Nine thirty dead. Was it even working? The second time he’d seen her—without the noise, without the entourage—something had shifted. Understanding what she was pulled at him more than the need to know who she might be.

They were meant to meet at seven outside the Ritz, Green Park side. Then a short walk to Lorenzo’s. His idea. Something he imagined she would like, or be impressed by, or both. A few minutes after seven, he’d had a text saying she’d left her office and was on her way. He’d found a newspaper and waited. Now he was waiting again, but without anything this time that might call on his patience. At Lorenzo’s, he’d caught only glimpses. Nothing she’d told of herself had held weight—only volume. It was only in the silences that something had registered. The rain intensified. It began to splash up onto his Oxfords, but he didn’t care enough to move. He thought instead about whether knowing she wouldn’t come would be preferable to standing here now, not knowing anything.

Yet he did know something. Her skin. The press of her nails. Her breath on his shoulder. Her departure. 

This absence.

He should have told Pierre he wasn’t interested. Or refused to go over when he’d been standing quite content at the bar. At the very least, he should have registered something when she’d disappeared in the middle of the night. That was it.

This is this, came back into his head. He said it to himself a few times, but his heart wasn’t there.

He exhaled hard. Now he could feel his wrist—the one he wore his watch on. Was it ten—had he been standing here for nearly an hour? Perhaps it was still nine-thirty.

The rain was even heavier now. It forced him a few steps back. He remembered the paper. Access to it was free, but the guttering above was dropping straight into the rack. Did that always happen? Water was bouncing off the metal frame in beats. The timing, the sound, reminded him of the intro to Echoes. He waited for Gilmour’s solo. It came—intricate, precise. He let it play in his head and waited for the drums.

The rain doubled itself. Hammering onto cars and buses and people.

Louder than any phone that might ring.

Louder than one that didn’t.