His wife was silent; she’d given up, it was pointless trying to explain.
Rob grabbed Meagan behind her neck and rammed her head into the bedroom wall.
Oliver Simmonds shared an apartment in Chelsea with his long-term girlfriend who’d recently decided she wanted more.
‘It’s not you, Oliver; it’s me. You’re the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever met, and you deserve better.’ She wanted to remain friends, stay in touch, call over, share the occasional glass of wine. Why the hell would he want that? Claire had packed her belongings, kissed Oliver’s forehead and left, just like that.
For the rest of the day, he never left his bed. He was numb, completely distraught and unable to function.
It was Saturday morning. Oliver had just taken a shower and, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he stood looking through the window over Chelsea Harbour. The Thames was so tranquil as the sun reflected on the calm water. Chelsea Bridge was packed with people walking back and forth. In the distance, he saw the Shard, towering over the London skyline.
The apartment was quiet, only the dull sound of the radio in the background and the occasional footsteps from the apartment next door. Oliver felt safe here. He worked in Mayfair as a PA for a high-class law firm. He had no aspirations to be a lawyer himself; he was a simple guy who preferred a stress-free, easy lifestyle.
The apartment was rented. He only moved in because his ex – Oliver hated that word, but that’s what she was – had decided she wanted the best apartment, the largest bed, the best view. Now he’d have to move. Somewhere cheaper, the ground floor, out of town.
He popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and filled the kettle with water.
His mobile phone sounded from the side unit, alerting him to a text. Oliver picked up the phone and opened the message.
I’ll do it.
He held the phone closer to his face; his body trembled with excitement as he read the message for a second and third time. He thought about what to write back, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic. He tapped the buttons and started to write, hovering his forefinger over the menu, deleting, tapping again.
Are you sure?
A moment later, another message.
Yes.
He smiled, digesting what had just happened, unable to believe the message he’d received. It was a pinch-yourself moment, and suddenly you’re awake, lying in bed, realising it was a dream which has changed your mood.
But this was real. It was happening, and Oliver couldn’t wait.
3
Three months earlier
Oliver was a man of routine; bed at 10.30pm with the radio playing in the background. He’d read for thirty minutes, no more. His alarm clock sounded every weekday morning at 6.53am. It was plugged into the socket to the right side of his bed; he slept on the left, a light sheet covering his large frame. The window was cracked open as the fresh air helped clear his mind, so he could sleep better. The London traffic wasn’t a problem on the fourth floor.
He jabbed the snooze button once, then jumped up and got ready for work.
A queue had already formed going into the station and swept along Gloucester Road ending at the junction of Cromwell Road.
On the platform Oliver stood momentarily, taking in the crowd. He saw morose faces pushing, shoving, charging forward, seemingly unaffected, like cattle being placed in a pen. He watched the doors being forced shut, packing everyone together.
It was something he’d never get used to; these were the same people who probably holidayed in the Mediterranean, walking along the beach, their loved ones in tow, feeling the warmth of the sand as their feet sunk a little further into the hot grains, strolling, enjoying the heat, the early morning solitude, wallowing in the space and relaxation.
Oliver wondered how they adapted. How could people honestly live like this? Every morning of their working lives, struggling to get to the place that helped pay their bills, mortgage, rent, food.
He sighed deeply, joining the back of the queue, watching as people tapped their phones, smirking to themselves, texting messages to people they’d probably just left.
A woman in front of him slowly shuffled forward liking Instagram posts on her screen, pressing the heart emoji to let them know she approved of their picture. Oliver could smell her perfume as his body was forced against her by a couple nudging from behind. She’d opened a WhatsApp video and was giggling to herself.
Oliver glared at the monitor. The next train would be here in two minutes. He looked left, seeing the lights of the last train disappear through the tunnel. A crowd formed behind him, pushing, barging, oblivious to personal space. He turned, edging to the side, his face pressed into the back of a guy’s jacket. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to knock against you.’
The guy looked towards Oliver; he didn’t answer. Instead, he gazed along the row of people, waving to a work colleague.
Oliver waited impatiently, thinking about Claire. It was just over a week ago that she’d left, walked out of his life, planting a kiss on his forehead and heading out the door. So casual, so cold.
He tried to forget about her, move on with his life, but everything made him think about Claire. They’d travelled to work together, meeting afterwards for a drink before going back to the apartment and curling up on the sofa to watch the latest boxset.
Through the tunnel at the far end of the platform, Oliver could see the lights coming towards him. He pushed forward, catching his leg on a bag and barging hard into the woman in front. She hardly flinched, turning to offer a smile.
‘I’m so sorry, are you okay?’ Oliver asked.
As she looked at him, Oliver noticed her split lip as if she’d been punched hard in the mouth. He wanted to ask her about it, feeling he needed to know what had happened, to make sure she was okay. He knew he couldn’t: that would seem nosey, and besides, she’d probably tell him to piss off.
‘I’m fine, really, don’t worry,’ she answered.
Oliver immediately noticed her expression; pitiful, desperate, her face unfocused and blank as if she’d been suddenly dropped into the moment and was unsure how to react in public.
He found himself raising his voice with the noise of the train. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been pushed from pillar to post. I don’t know how I’m still in one piece; the crowds get worse, people are so rude. I’m Oliver by the way.’ He offered his hand.
The doors opened, and the lady disappeared into the mass of people.
‘Sorry, excuse me. Thanks.’
The doors shut, Oliver squeezed into a gap, grasping the rail above. As the train pulled off, he watched the frustrated faces; a young guy in a smart grey suit, puffing air from his cheeks, flicking a look at his wristwatch and placing his briefcase beside his feet.
Music blared from the earphones of a woman next to him who was bouncing her head in time to the loud beat. To his left, an elderly guy was flicking pages from an oversized newspaper, struggling to fold it backwards, obstructing Oliver’s view. He glanced at a story over his shoulder and got a nasty look in return as the guy turned the pages away from him.
Again, he thought about Claire. They’d do this journey every morning, commuting to work; he’d never noticed how hectic it was while she was by his side.
The train came to a halt; people started pushing through the doors. More commuters got into the carriage, causing Oliver to grip the bar above tighter, determined not to move. He suddenly spotted the lady with the split lip, around ten feet from where he stood. She looked towards him. Oliver was certain she smiled, though he couldn’t be sure. Play it cool, Oliver, don’t act like a love-struck teenager and make a fool of yourself, mate. Smile back, be subtle, friendly. Oliver lifted his arm and waved, knocking the pages from moody-paper-man next to him.