Of course this is the night that one of the local muggers decides to do his thing down Belsize Avenue. Despite the fact that there are people around and it’s still only ten o’clock, my big red tote acts as a beacon he is powerless to resist. I’m making light of it. Actually it was the scariest, most shocking thing that has ever happened to me.
It must have only been two minutes since I said goodbye to Adam. I could still see the main road behind me if I turned around. I hear footsteps but I take no notice because there’s a couple up ahead, a woman beyond them. A pair of cars pass me. People on their way home for an early night.
The rest is a bit of a blur. The footsteps break into a run. My tote – which is over one shoulder and tucked under my arm – suddenly moves as if it has a life of its own. I go flying in the other direction. It’s over in a second and I’m left lying on the pavement with my face in a bit of stray grass, surrounded by miscellaneous items that have escaped the bag as it arced through the air, attached to a strange man’s hand.
I think I scream as it’s happening. I hear some kind of noise that sounds like a hysterical pig anyway, and I assume that’s me and not him. I doubt ‘shouting to draw attention to yourself’ is in his MO. I don’t even think about running after him. He’s way off in the distance and I am too busy lying on the ground.
I haul myself up into a sitting position. The couple have turned around and are now scrabbling about to pick up my stray possessions.
‘Are you OK?’ he says as he hands me a screwed-up reusable shopping bag that I’m not even sure is mine. His girlfriend – young, maybe early twenties and teetering on huge platforms – sits down next to me and rubs my arm.
‘Fine, I think.’
‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’ Girlfriend says.
‘Not so as I can tell,’ I say, and then I burst into tears.
‘Oh God, you poor thing,’ she says and she rubs my arm a bit harder. ‘You’ve got a cut on the side of your face.’ She points it out and I feel its raspy edges.
‘We could probably give the police a description,’ Boyfriend – also early twenties, off-the-peg suit – says. ‘A bit of one, anyway. Young bloke. White.’
That’ll nail him, I think. ‘It’s probably not worth it, but thanks.’
I scrabble to my feet as Boyfriend hands me a roll of Mentos and my Oyster card.
‘Do you live near here?’ Girlfriend says. She’s having as much difficulty getting to her feet as I did, platform shoes sliding out from underneath her like a fawn on ice.
‘Right there,’ I say, pointing up ahead. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll be fine.’
‘Oh no, we’ll walk you,’ she says. ‘Won’t we, Ryan?’
‘Of course. Oh wait, did he take your keys?’
Thankfully my keys and phone are in the pocket of my coat, a habit I’ve had for years since I left a previous handbag on a train once. I try to do a mental inventory of what swag the robber must now be salivating over. My wallet. Only about fifteen pounds thankfully, but my bank cards. I’ll have to cancel them when I get in. Umbrella, jumper, used tissues, lip gloss. I think there may be a clean pair of knickers in there somewhere, so that’ll be nice for him. Marks & Spencer. Size 12. A notebook I’ve never used. ‘No, I have them.’
‘Do you want us to call anyone?’ Girlfriend says as we stumble up the road.
‘No, thank you. You’ve been really kind.’
They take me right to the door. Wait while I go inside. I feel like giving them both a hug they’ve been so sweet, but I restrain myself. Once I have shut the door, waving to them as they doggedly stand there until they know I’m safely inside, I run up to my flat, fling my arms round Ron and sob into his fur.
I’m feeling horribly alone. It’s not that I’m scared the mugger is going to somehow find out where I live and come and have a look to see if I have anything else worth having (hold on … I mentally scan through my missing possessions again for anything that might have my address on it. Nothing). It’s more that I feel vulnerable and stupid and like I never want to go outside again.
I don’t want to phone Michelle. She’ll be with Patrick. Bea, of course, is out of the question. The only other person is Adam. He’s probably on the tube, wending his way back to Clapham, but I try him anyway.
He answers almost immediately. ‘I’m still sitting on the platform. Are you sure you really have trains this far north?’
‘I got mugged,’ I stammer and, of course, he laughs because he assumes I’m joking.
When I don’t join in he says, ‘Not really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m coming round.’
‘No! It’s fine. I’m not hurt. It was more of a bag snatch really, but he pushed me over …’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Be careful,’ I say as he ends the call, as if Belsize Park is now teeming with people who want to knock you about and steal your stuff.
Four minutes later the doorbell rings. I check that it really is Adam before I buzz him in.
‘Oh my God, you poor love,’ he says as soon as he sees me. ‘Are you really OK. Did you hit your head? Do you want me to clean that cut up?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. I’m just a bit wobbly. I didn’t expect you to come round, honestly.’
‘Have you got any brandy?’ he says, looking round my messy living room. ‘If you did have, would you know where to find it?’
‘No. I mean, no I don’t have any. I think there’s some vodka somewhere.’
I move a few things out of the way and find a nearly full bottle of vodka and an unopened whisky I bought once when I thought I should try to drink like a grown-up. Adam pours two glasses and hands me one.
‘Knock it back,’ he tells me authoritatively, and I suddenly feel like one of his pupils. I bet he’s a well-liked teacher. ‘It’ll be good for the shock.’
I do as I’m told. I still can’t stop shaking, though. Adam leads me over to the sofa and sits me down. He plonks himself next to me and puts his arms round me.
‘It’ll take a few minutes to work its magic,’ he says, so we sit there. Ron licks one of my hands helpfully.
After a few moments I calm down. And then I realize that I like this feeling, sitting here with Adam holding me. I feel safe.
God knows where that came from.
Adam insists on staying in the spare room. To be honest I’m grateful. I don’t want to be in the flat on my own. I feel uneasy there for the first time ever. Afraid of I don’t know what, but afraid nonetheless.
We sit there on the sofa for what seems like a long time. There’s no awkwardness. No subtext-loaded fingers rubbing my arm or stroking my hair. It’s like being held by a giant teddy bear, that’s the best way I can describe it.
When he finally lets me go and offers to help me find the phone numbers to cancel my bank cards I feel a bit self-conscious. This isn’t how our friendship is supposed to develop. We tease each other and joke around. He’s light relief. Although the truth is that I already don’t know what I’d do without him in my life.
While I explain what happened to three different people on the phone (‘Have you informed the police?’ ‘No, I don’t think there’s any point.’ ‘You need to inform the police.’) Adam makes up the spare bed.
‘Or would you rather I slept on the sofa so I’m right outside your door?’ he says when I end the third call and start googling the police non-emergency number.
‘No. Spare room is fine. I really appreciate it. Just knowing someone’s here …’ At that point I start to cry again. I haven’t cried this much since my childhood cat, Tilly, went missing. He turned up three days later, by the way, suspiciously fatter than when he’d left and wearing a pink collar with someone else’s phone number on it. He became an indoor cat after that.
‘Shit, sorry.’
‘Stop apologizing. If you didn’t break down a bit after someone basically attacked you in the street there would definitely be something wrong with you. I knew I should have walked you to the door.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’ll have to leave pretty early,’ he says as he steers me towards my room. ‘I need to go home and change. I can’t have my class thinking I’m doing the walk of shame.’
‘God, of course. I didn’t expect you to stay over at all.’
Later I lie in bed replaying the mugging in my head over and over again. I think about how Adam went out of his way to come back and look after me. That’s what friends are meant to do. Go the extra mile for each other. Wasn’t that why I had a duty to Michelle not to let her be taken in by a serial cheater?
When I get up after a fitful night’s sleep, there’s a note on the coffee table. ‘First time I’ve ever slept with a dog burping Winalot in my face all night. I like it. Hope you’re feeling better. Call you later xx.’
Ron pushes his nose against my leg. I lean down and rub his head. ‘You like him too then?’
Jesus! Do I like Adam? Is that what’s happening? With his potatoey face and his stupid jokes? No chance. I like my men with cheekbones and angles. I’m just feeling vulnerable is all. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I’m Whitney Houston falling for her bodyguard – it’s all about needing to feel protected.