With thanks to members of Crisis for sharing their stories
I’m sitting in the windowless staffroom of Sandwich City eating the sandwich of the day (tuna melt). ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ by Shakin’ Stevens is crackling out of the ancient radio. It reminds me of the CD Mum used to play every year as her Christmas-present-wrapping soundtrack, singing along tunelessly, pausing every so often to swear at the Sellotape dispenser.
“Pete, can I have a word?” I ask.
Pete is my boss. He doesn’t like me very much.
He groans like I’ve just asked him to run a marathon on my behalf.
“Fine,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just make it quick, all right. I’ve got some calls to make.”
Pete’s always got ‘calls to make’.
“It’s about next week’s rota,” I say.
“What about it?” he asks, setting what smells like a Starbucks gingerbread latte down on the table.
Even though we get a hefty staff discount, Pete always goes elsewhere for his lunch. Today he has a brown paper bag from the burrito shop next door looped over his wrist.
“It’s just that I’ve only got one shift. Tomorrow. Then nothing until after Christmas.”
“Sorry,” he says, shrugging and sounding the exact opposite. “That’s the way it worked out.”
“It’s just that Angel has six shifts.”
“She’s been here longer than you,” he replies, sitting down opposite me and unwrapping his jumbo-sized burrito. Even though I’m officially a veggie, it smells incredible. “She gets priority.”
Nothing at all to do with the fact she has legs up to her armpits and insists on wearing an extrasmall Sandwich City polo shirt, her tits permanently straining against the thin cotton material.
“She started, like, two weeks before me,” I say. “And she’s always late.”
Pete glares at me, the bright yellow strip-lighting illuminating every single blackhead on his greasy nose.
Sometimes I wonder what might happen if I flirted a bit, giggled at his sexist jokes and let him ‘accidentally’ rub up against me behind the counter, the way Angel does. Would the rota look a bit different right now if I did?
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Lauren?” Pete asks, lowering his burrito. There’s a blob of sour cream on his chin, clinging to his pathetic attempt at a beard.
I have my usual fantasy of tearing off my apron and telling him to stick his shitty job before storming out in a blaze of glory. Only I know I won’t. Pete may be awful and the job may be crap, but I can’t risk losing it.
“Of course I’m not telling you how to do your job,” I say eventually. “I was just hoping for a few more shifts, that’s all.”
“You and everybody else,” he says, spraying rice and refried beans with every syllable. “You have no idea how stressful it is managing you lot. No idea at all.”
I take a deep breath. “Well, if anything comes up, I’m available.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “Was that all you wanted?” he asks.
I hesitate before nodding my head.
“Good,” he says, taking out his phone and tapping at the screen with the stylus he keeps permanently tucked behind his left ear. I sigh and shovel my sandwich wrapper and empty cup into the bin.
*
My mobile vibrates against my hip as I wash my hands in the loo. I dry them off and fish out my phone from my pocket. It’s an old-fashioned Nokia Milly donated after my phone got stolen.
Milly is my sort-of girlfriend. I say ‘sort of’ because she always acts a bit funny when I use the ‘g’ word – claims she doesn’t like labels. I met her online before I moved down here. She’s seventeen, like me, and studying hotel management at college. I smile when I see her name on the screen, but it quickly fades as I read her text.
Soz L, Mum’s got the lurgy so not going out any more :( Will u be ok finding somewhere else to kip? M xx
Milly’s mum doesn’t like me either. Ever since she walked in on us kissing and went ballistic, she won’t have me in the house. She was supposed to be out at a party tonight and Milly was going to sneak me in, then back out again in the morning while her mum slept off her inevitable hangover. I’ve been looking forward to it all week, every spare minute spent fantasizing about a night curled up in Milly’s squishy bed, her warm body pressed against mine.
I hesitate before tapping out a short reply.
No worries. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Another time? L xoxo
No reply.
*
My official job title at the Oxford Circus branch of Sandwich City is ‘Sandwich Artisan’. What a laugh. As if there’s any artistry involved in dolloping meatballs and slices of cheese on to a bit of bread.
There’s four of us behind the counter today – Angel on the till, Tao, Stacey and I constructing the sandwiches. They’re all students and either living at home or in ramshackle house shares. As far as I’m aware, they assume the same of me.
“Any joy with Pete?” Stacey asks as I pull on a fresh pair of plastic gloves and slide into the gap beside her.
“What do you think?”
She screws up her face in sympathy.
“If it’s any consolation, I only have two shifts,” she says. “And I haven’t finished my Christmas shopping yet. I’m going to be soooooo skint come January.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmur.
“You coming tonight?” she asks.
She’s talking about the Sandwich City Christmas ‘do’ – a meal at Pizza Express followed by drinks in Tiger Tiger; all Angel’s choice from what I can gather.
I shake my head.
Stacey’s face falls. “Why not?”
“Can’t. Got to babysit.”
“Who for?”
“My neighbour’s kid. I agreed to it ages ago. I thought I mentioned it.”
The lies trip off my tongue almost too easily.
“Guys,” she announces to the others. “Have you heard this? Lauren’s ditching us tonight to babysit!”
“What?” Angel says, pouting. “But I’ve booked the table for eighteen.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t turn it down. The money’s really good.”
“How good?” Tao asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Nice one,” he says, raising his hand for a high five.
Here at Sandwich City, we’re all on between four and six quid per hour, depending on our age, although I wouldn’t be surprised to find out Angel gets more. As the youngest member of staff, I’m at the very bottom of the pay scale.
“Jesus,” Stacey says. “I thought you lived in Harrow, not bloody Chelsea.”
I shrug. “Last Saturday before Christmas, innit. They must be feeling generous.”
“In that case, why are you moaning on about your shifts?” Angel asks. “You’re gonna be loaded come tomorrow.”
She can talk. I know for a fact her dad pays her whopper of a phone bill and gives her pocket money on top of what she earns here.
“It’s just a one-off,” I mutter, regretting making my imaginary hourly rate so high.
There’s a sudden flurry of customers. By the time there’s another lull, the conversation has moved on to the X Factor final and I’m glad.
*
“You sure you can’t come out for one?” Stacey asks at the end of our shift.
Before the meal, everyone is congregating in All Bar One on Regent Street.
“Best not,” I say. “I said I’d be round there by seven.”
We’re crammed into the tiny locker room just off the staff room getting changed out of our T-shirts and polyester trousers. Angel has just poured herself into a skintight minidress, which will probably guarantee her any shift she wants for the foreseeable future. Stacey is sniffing at her hair and frowning.
“God, I’m sick of smelling like this place,” she says, sighing and spritzing it with perfume.
I shove my uniform in my locker and pull on the puffa jacket Milly lent me. It’s not really my style and a bit too short on the sleeves, but it’s about a hundred times warmer than the coat I had before.
“You off, then?” Stacey asks, watching me zip it up to my chin.
“Yeah,” I say, heaving my backpack on to my shoulders.
She cocks her head to one side. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says. “What the hell do you keep in that thing? It always looks like it weighs a ton.”
“Just stuff,” I say, my voice wobbling slightly.
“What kind of stuff? Bowling balls?”
I hesitate.
“Stace is on to something,” Angel chimes in, pausing from her false eyelash application. “You look like a teenage mutant ninja turtle with that thing on your back.”
I laugh. It’s a hollow laugh though, one with no destination.
They’re both still looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
“It’s just my gym kit and that,” I say. I glance up at the clock to avoid making eye contact with either of them. “Shit, I’d better get off,” I stammer. “Have fun tonight, yeah.”
I slip out of the door with my head down before they can say anything else.
*
It’s cold outside, my breath forming a little white cloud every time I exhale. I’ve walked maybe twenty metres when I realize I’ve left my gloves at the bottom of my locker. I debate going back to get them before remembering the expressions on Stacey and Angel’s faces as they speculated over the contents of my overstuffed backpack. I shove my hands deep in my pockets instead and hope I won’t regret my decision later.
When I first arrived in London it was summer. Light evenings and leaves on the trees, an outbreak of freckles on my face and shoulders. Now it’s dark all the time and my face is permanently pale and waxy, starved of vitamin D, despite the blusher I apply from the tester pots in Boots when no one’s looking.
Oxford Street is predictably packed. I wander in and out of the stuffy shops, pretending to browse. I make a list of gift recipients in my head, assigning them presents I could never afford – one of those Nespresso coffee makers for Mum, a cashmere cardigan for Nan, a pair of Nike Free trainers for Milly.
A one-way ticket back to Australia for Craig.
As I drift around Debenhams, I become aware of a security guard on my tail. I zigzag across the shop floor, just to make sure I’m not imagining it, taking sharp corners at random. I glance over my shoulder. He’s a couple of metres behind me, murmuring into his walkie-talkie. For a few seconds we eyeball each other, waiting to see who will make the next move. I want to stay, go up to the toy department and pick out an imaginary present for my baby cousin, Noah, but the dickhead security guard has sucked all the fun out of my fictional shopping spree. I give him the finger and leave by the nearest exit.
I head east up Oxford Street, before taking a left on to Tottenham Court Road, where I spend an hour mooching around the big Paperchase. I love all that stuff – notepads and pens and pencil sharpeners and rubbers and things – always have. Under my bed at home there are two ice-cream tubs crammed full of rubbers I’ve collected over the years – interesting ones, though, shaped like different things. My favourite looks just like a slice of watermelon – even smells like one, too. When I was little I would just sit there and sniff it for hours on end. Mum used to laugh and call me her ‘little loony toon’. I wonder if they’re still there or whether they’ve been chucked out by now. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. Craig, I mean. I picture my old bedroom stripped of my furniture and stuff, replaced with his stupid weights bench and rowing machine.
I leave Paperchase and head south down Charing Cross Road until I reach Trafalgar Square. It’s packed full of tourists taking photos of the Christmas tree and listening to the carol singers gathered at its base. I weave among them, listening to their accents intermingling – Italian and Russian, Mandarin and American. I pop out on Piccadilly, near Fortnum and Mason. I’ve never been brave enough to go in before, intimidated by the doorman in his top hat and the fancy window displays. I enter gingerly, relieved to find it chaotic, stuffed with people searching for last-minute gifts. I head up the winding staircase to the Christmas department where I find a decoration I know Mum would just love – a turtle dove constructed from delicate white feathers. I let it dangle from my index finger as I check the price tag. Thirty quid. They must be taking the absolute piss. I notice the price of everything these days, quibbling over every last penny in my purse. Mum might even be proud if she knew.
The shops are starting to close. I head to M&M’s World because it’s open until midnight, watching as spoiled little kids fill up massive paper cups with sweets until they’re overflowing. I check my phone. Still nothing from Milly.
Dinner is a one pound slice of pizza from a kiosk near Leicester Square station. My fingers are so cold I almost drop it. I eat it in a shop doorway, savouring every cheesy bite, saving the crust for later, wrapping it in a napkin and sticking it in my pocket. I’m thirsty, eyeing up the cans of Coke in the fridge, but daren’t risk drinking anything at this stage in the night.
I walk back towards Oxford Street, dodging the tourists and clubbers. As I pass the darkened windows of Sandwich City, I picture my gloves sitting at the bottom of my locker. My fingers feel like icicles no matter how many times I point and flex them in my pockets. I expect they’re all in Tiger Tiger by now, drinking sugary cocktails and dancing, Pete grinding up against Angel’s round arse, his breath tickling her neck as he promises her a pay rise.
It’s nearly midnight. After a quick loo break in a busy pub, I station myself at the 25 bus stop round the side of John Lewis, stamping up and down to keep the blood in my toes circulating until the driver finishes his fag and starts the engine.
The second the doors open, I fly for the back seat. Funny, when I was a little kid, I liked upstairs the best. Mum used to moan, try to persuade me to stay downstairs, but she’d always give in eventually. I’d sit at the very front where I could see everything, holding on to the bar like I was on a theme-park ride. When I first moved here, that’s where I sat, my eyes as round as saucers as we passed all the stuff I’d only ever seen on the telly – The Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, The Ritz – until the weather turned and I worked out the warmest spot was downstairs, above the engine. On cold nights like this, you have to move fast to stake your claim. Luckily fast is exactly what I am. I used to run the 100 metres for my school. Not good enough to train for the Olympics or anything like that, but the fastest in my year for a bit. I close my eyes for a second and imagine myself on the starting line at the county championships, strong and lean in my shorts and T-shirt. How long ago was that now? Two years? Three? I wish I could go back to that very moment, knowing what I know now. Maybe then I could change stuff, fix things. Stop Dad from running off to Spain. Stop Mum from meeting Craig. Not lose my temper the way I did. I have daydreams about it, full-on fantasies. Like, if I could have any superpower I wanted, that’s what I would pick. Not flying, or invisibility, or superhuman strength. I’d want to go back in time and make everything OK again.
A few regulars get on the bus with me – the Turkish guy with kind eyes, the Irish bloke who talks to himself, the skinny woman with orange hair dragging her scuffed pink suitcase on wheels. Apart from the Turkish guy, who gives me a nod, we all pretend not to recognize one another. The Irish bloke has a bottle of wine in his hand. Even four seats away, I can smell him.
“You’re a better man than you were yesterday,” he announces to no one in particular, raising the bottle as if making a toast.
A girl about my age, maybe a bit older, wobbles down the aisle in her high heels before plonking herself opposite me, in the seats I can’t sit in because travelling backwards makes me feel sick. She takes out her iPhone and jabs at the screen before lifting it to her ear, the dangly snowman earrings she’s wearing clanking against it.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she says in a babyish voice. “Yeah, I’m on the bus. I should get in just before one. You still OK to pick me up at the other end?”
Her dad must say ‘yes’ because she smiles and thanks him before hanging up.
I visualize him getting out of bed, pulling on a jumper over his pjyamas and padding downstairs to find his car keys. He’ll keep the engine running while he waits, so the car is nice and warm, maybe even bring a blanket for her to drape over her knees on the short drive home.
The girl glances up from her phone and for a split second our eyes lock as she takes in my pale face, the backpack on my knee. She looks away first, wrapping the chain-link handle of her handbag round her wrist, once, twice, three times. She doesn’t make a massive deal over it or anything but somehow that almost makes it worse. I want to tap her on the knee and tell her that a few months ago, I was just like her, that I wore dresses and heels and straightened my hair, too; that I used to have a nice, cosy home, just like her. I doubt she’d believe me though. Why should she?
A load of blokes dressed in Santa suits pile on at the next stop. They’re pissed, singing ‘Fairytale of New York’ at the tops of their voices. A couple of them clock the girl, breaking away from the rest of the group to chat her up. She seems to like it, answering their stupid questions and laughing when one of them asks if she’d like to sit on his lap. In my jeans and hoodie and Michelin Man jacket, I’m totally invisible to them. It’s weird, because I used to get chatted up all the time at home. Name a cheesy chat-up line and I bet you I’ve heard it at least ten times before.
The bus rumbles down Oxford Street, gradually filling up until it’s standing-room only. I stare out of the window as we weave our way out of the West End and through the city, past the Gherkin and St Paul’s cathedral, which always puts that song from Mary Poppins in my head – ‘Feed the Birds’ – before continuing east. The journey gets boring after that. The road to Ilford, where the bus terminates, is long and straight, populated by fried chicken shops and nondescript convenience stores. Given the choice I prefer to ride the number 9, which goes through Kensington, or the 11 through Chelsea, but on nights like this, it’s best to go for the longer routes to keep changes to a minimum. It means I can’t play my favourite game though, the one where I pick out the houses I like the look of and fantasize about getting off the bus and opening the front door with a magic key. I’ve become obsessed with houses, which is funny because I was never bothered before. Whenever Mum watched Kirsty and Phil on the telly I used to get up and leave the room. Now I get the attraction. Now I understand they’re more than just a loads of bricks with a roof plonked on top.
At Whitechapel, a woman gets on with her tear-stained kid, his screams drowning out the singing Santas. Poor kid, it’s way past his bedtime, no wonder he’s howling like that. At Bow Road, a gang of teenage boys push and shove their way up the stairs, most of them not even bothering to swipe their Oyster cards. The driver turns a blind eye, clearly not in the mood for a confrontation. I wonder if they’re the ones who nicked my phone that time, back before I figured out it’s not smart to sit on the upper deck after dark. They certainly look the same, with their black hoodies, furtive eyes and scarves pulled up to obscure their faces. At Stratford someone is sick on the stairs, the acidy smell of their vomit hitting my nostrils in seconds. I purse my lips together and try to block it out, burying my nose in the top of my bag.
I’ve seen everything on the night bus. Fist fights, drug deals, sex, break-ups, make-ups, nosebleeds, bottles smashing, screaming rows, mass singalongs, even a woman’s waters breaking. And puke. So much puke.
The girl opposite me gets off at Woodgrange Park. I watch as she sprints towards the waiting car, its lights already on.
*
I wake up when my head hits the cold glass of the window with a soft thud.
Shit. I didn’t mean to doze off. It’s against my rules. No sleeping after dark.
I do a quick inventory, my heart beating fast as I check for my phone and wallet.
I haven’t had a proper sleep for a few days now. Milly lets me kip at hers during the day sometimes, while she’s at college and her mum’s at work. I have to stay upstairs though, in case the neighbours spot me through the windows and tell on us. Otherwise, if I’m not at Sandwich City, I’m stuck wandering the streets. I go for miles and miles sometimes, pounding the pavements until my feet are sore. It’s too cold to do anything else; I don’t have the luxury of standing still any more. No wonder I’ve got so skinny. God, I used to love it when my jeans felt too loose. I’d wear them low on my hips like a badge of honour. Now I long for a bit of meat on my bones and everything it stands for.
Peering out of the window, I realize we’re in Ilford. I check the time. 1.38 a.m. It feels later.
All change please, the automated voice says, robotic but sort of kind at the same time. I sometimes wonder who she is. An actress probably. I bet she got to sit in a cosy little recording studio somewhere, sipping tea between takes.
Reluctantly I stand up and brace myself for the ten minutes in the cold before I can climb back on again.
The Irish bloke refuses to get off. Sometimes they call the police. Tonight though, the driver clearly can’t be bothered, letting him finish his bottle of wine in the relative warmth of the stationary bus while the rest of us huddle under the shelter, not speaking. The pavement is covered with a sparkling layer of frost. I trace my toe in it, drawing a picture. It’s only when I’ve finished, I realize I’ve drawn a house.
*
An hour and a half later I’m back round the side of John Lewis. Déjà vu.
I secure a seat above the engine. It’s still warm from whoever was sitting in it last.
Someone gets on after me with what smells like a Maccy D’s, awakening the almost permanent hollow of hunger deep in my belly. I manage to identify the telltale brown bag, relieved when its owner takes it upstairs, out of sight. It reminds me of the pizza crust in my pocket. I unwrap it, nibbling on it like a squirrel, taking tiny bites to make it last.
On automatic, I check my phone, even though I know Milly probably went to bed hours ago. 3.32 a.m. I resist yawning, knowing one will only lead to another, and another.
I don’t notice her at first. I’m too busy watching a fight unfold on the pavement outside the big Primark near Tottenham Court Road station, the screams belonging to someone I assume must be one of their girlfriend’s, leaking through the open door.
“Lauren?” she says.
I look up.
Angel is advancing down the aisle towards me, immaculate as always, her bare legs seemingly immune to the cold.
Shit.
That’s when I remember that she lives in Stratford, right near Westfield. I curse my stupidity, my cheeks blazing as she sits down opposite me.
“I thought you were babysitting,” she says, taking in the backpack on my lap, the way my arms are wrapped around it like it’s the most precious thing on earth, the half-eaten pizza crust in my right hand.
“They cancelled,” I say. “Got the flu.”
“Where have you been, then?” she asks.
“I met up with a mate. Had a few drinks.”
“You should have come to find us.”
“Not really dressed for it,” I say, indicating my jeans and trainers.
“Where you going now?” she asks.
“Where do you think? Home.”
“You do know this bus doesn’t go to Harrow, don’t you?” she says.
Harrow is where Milly lives. It was her address that allowed me to get the job at Sandwich City in the first place. I blink rapidly, my mind racing.
“Are you joking me?” I say. “I could have sworn it said Harrow on the display.”
My voice is shaky though. I’m trying too hard.
I’ve always been shit at acting. I never even got a speaking part in the nativity – I would be the innkeeper’s wife or one of at least a dozen mute angels, wandering aimlessly after Gabriel, wearing a halo made from silver tinsel on my head. I can’t deliver a line to save my life.
Angel is looking at me, I mean, really looking at me, her eyes flickering as she attempts to join the dots, panic swirling in my belly with every straight line she draws.
My arm shoots out to press the bell.
Ding, ding, ding!
I pull my backpack on to my shoulders and lurch down the aisle, pressing the bell again, like that’s going to make the bus reach the next stop any faster. Angel is calling my name, her heels clattering as she leaves her seat to come after me.
Shit, shit, shit.
I push the emergency door control.
“Oi!” the driver yells as the doors judder open.
I ignore him, leaping off the bus and sprinting down the nearest side street, my bag banging against my back as I run, lungs and calves on fire. Even though I know there’s no chance Angel could have followed me, I don’t dare stop running until I’m outside Bond Street tube station, panting hard.
I chuck myself on to the first bus I see, an N137 to Crystal Palace. The only seat left is on the top deck, right at the back. Slumped down low, I pull my hood up so all that’s visible of my face is my eyes and nose. The tears that flow are red hot with shame.
*
The following morning, I brush my teeth in the loos at McDonald’s, trying to ignore the curious glances of the woman washing her hands beside me.
I allowed myself to grab a bit of sleep on the bus earlier, waking up as we crossed Tower Bridge, the sun peeking over the horizon, making the River Thames glow a buttery yellow.
The girl looking back at me in the mirror has purplish half-moons under each eye, hair shiny with grease. I haven’t washed it since I was last at Milly’s and it shows. I yank the hood of my coat up to cover it.
*
I’m waiting outside the shop when Pete swaggers round the corner.
“You’re eager,” he says, fishing in his pocket for his keys, stale alcohol and chewing gum on his breath.
“My bus was early,” I say.
He shrugs, obviously uninterested.
Once inside, he disappears into the cupboard-sized room he calls his office, where the phone is ringing, while I go to the locker room and change into my uniform, tucking my greasy hair into my Sandwich City cap.
When I come out, Pete’s attacking the rota pinned to the corkboard on the staffroom wall with a rubber.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
My heart sinks to my shoes. She’s told Pete. He’s removing me from the rota altogether. Reporting me to Sandwich City headquarters for passing Milly’s address off as my own. I realize I’m shaking.
“Says she’s woken up with the flu,” Pete continues, frowning over his shoulder. “Which is funny because she seemed fine about eight hours ago.”
I nod, trying to process his words alongside my last sighting of a gleamingly healthy Angel on the number 25 bus.
“Not going to be in all week apparently,” he says. “Reckons I should give all her shifts to you.”
I swallow hard.
“Well?” he says. “Do you want them or not?”
“Yes,” I stutter. “Course I do.”
“She said something about some food she left in the fridge as well,” Pete adds, screwing up his face as he writes my name on the rota. “Says to have it, if you want it. Her stuff’s got her name on it apparently.”
I walk over to the fridge, crouching down to open the door. There’s a ready meal with Angel’s name printed on it in block capitals, plus a couple of yogurts, a packet of bagels, a smoothie, half a pack of blueberries. I stare at her name until the letters start to dance in front of my eyes, blurring behind a fresh film of tears.
“Since when did you two become so pally?” Pete asks, his voice thick with suspicion.
Since about 3.30 a.m. this morning, I answer silently, hugging the packet of bagels to my chest. I just didn’t realize it until now.