Christian walked briskly from the Tube station. It had taken him ages to get home. Covent Garden Underground station was probably the busiest in the world at this time of year. He’d queued for ages amid the throngs of Japanese, American and French tourists to get in one of the lifts, and then had endured his nose being pressed up against a million sweaty armpits as he chunked his way up to Holborn to change to the Central line.
He’d tried to get away earlier, but for once there had been a queue of people waiting to sample his talents. Typical. The one day he’d wanted to leave was the one day in months he’d had a constant stream of business. The tourist rush had finally and mercifully arrived, but Ali would be furious, and what was worse she’d think he didn’t care. Christian checked the money in his pocket. Perhaps this would go some way to appeasing her. And some serious appeasing was called for, he’d been such an uncaring bastard that morning. This was all a bit much for him to handle, but he’d been thinking about it all day, and he wanted to let Ali know that it would work out all right in the end. They would find a way to cope.
And he was going to get his act together. Now. Right now. She’d given up too much to be with him. There was no way he could let her down now when she needed him, and he’d let too many good things slip through his hands to risk Ali going the same way. He needed to get back on track and start trying to be a responsible citizen of planet Earth.
As a start, he’d phoned Sharon and told her it was over, which was a shame because she was sweet. She’d cried a lot, and he’d felt like a complete heel. There were always going to be plenty more fish in the sea, he just had to remind himself that from now on he was going to have to let them swim by unhooked.
And the children thing wasn’t the end of the world either. It would probably be years before he wanted them himself, and in the meantime he’d be more than happy to make do with Elliott and Thomas and Tanya, who would certainly keep his hands full. And when the time came, there’d be some way round it, surely. God knows what advances there would be in technology by then. They’d probably be able to nip down the road to Sainsbury’s and buy a couple.
Christian walked briskly along Notting Hill Gate, the sun warm on his back after the chill of the Underground. There was a newsagent’s at the corner of the road, and Christian darted inside. He was going to buy Ali some magazines and chocs, stuff to keep her mind occupied while she was recuperating. It was a nightmare having to leave her with Becs, but they needed the money and he’d talk to her more fully about it tonight, convince her of his point of view.
He scanned the shelves. She was probably a bit old for Cosmo, which Becs always had her nose in, a bit young for Women’s Weekly. God only knows what he should get. What experience did he have of women’s magazines? He tried to avoid anything that had the words “pregnancy” or “menopause” on the front, which was a bit of a tricky one. Best to steer a wide berth round bunions and breast-feeding too. Were women really interested in these things? After hopping up and down the row in agitated indecision, Christian alighted on Good Housekeeping, which according to the cover blurb featured nothing more politically sensitive than “Packing the Perfect Summer Picnic,” “Pickled Pink—Ten Ways To Preserve Your Onions with Red Wine” and “Could Your Carpet Be Harboring a Deadly Disease?” Other than being certain that their carpet would be harboring a deadly disease, there was surely nothing contentious there? Hurriedly, he snatched a copy from the shelves.
Chocs were just as much of a minefield. Milk Tray and Dairy Box were pensioners chocolates, Black Magic a dodgy choice if you didn’t know whether the intended recipient liked dark chocolate or not. A Terry’s chocolate orange was cheapskate and smacked of Christmas. Anything called Celebrations or Good News was definitely bad news if you’d had a row. Why couldn’t they categorize chocolates as minor tiff or major bust-up, then everyone would know where they stood. After much hum-ing and ah-ing, Christian settled on the relative safety and conservatism of a box of Quality Street—mainly because he liked those best himself, and if Ali didn’t feel up to eating them he would.
He was itching to get home now, but Mr. Akash wasn’t itching to serve him. Christian joined the growing queue of customers, all eager, it seemed, to chew the fat about their day’s business, and regretted at this moment that they had the only chatty newsagent in London at the end of their street.
Eventually it was his turn at the counter. “You’re looking very pukka, mate,” Mr. Akash said.
“I’m feeing pretty pukka,” Christian said with a smile and he bundled the Quality Street and Good Housekeeping magazine into his backpack and with a spring in his step set off to nurture and nurse the life out of Ali.