Writing Assignment - First Chapter of 'If Only You Knew'

After a late champagne lunch and a series of emotional goodbyes, it was all over. As a blast of warm air hit me on the way out, I pictured Bridget Jones storming out on Daniel Cleaver to RESPECT by Aretha Franklin, and wished I could have made a more memorable exit. Except that my boss was female. And hadn’t cheated on me with a skinny American. But a well-timed exit theme tune might have been nice.

As I steered my way through the crowds towards Shepherds Bush station I took in my surroundings for the last time. In the metropolis of London it’s far too easy to get swept along with the agitated commuters and miss the quirks that the city has to offer. As the station came into view, so did the distinctive red, orange and green Rastafarian hat of Bob Marley. Well, not actually Bob Marley, but an uncanny look alike who has happily played his flute outside the station for the past four years, despite the fact that the case at his feet remains empty. I returned his boyish grin and reached into my bag for my purse when my mobile started ringing.

“Hello, Annabel Rose speaking.”

“Hi darling, it’s me.”

“Mum, you’re still calling on private number.”

“Well I don’t have time to faf around with all these settings. I should have never let your father choose it for me. Apparently I can take videos with it. What on earth would I want to take a video of?” I can’t help grinning at the thought of dad trying to teach my technology un-savvy mother the wonders of Bluetooth.

“I’m just about to go down to the tube, Mum. Is everything ok?”

“Oh yes, fine. I just wanted to know how your last day went. Isn’t Paul picking you up?”

“No, his conference ran over so we’re meeting for dinner. But today was lovely. It’s going to be strange not having the girls around.”

“I’m sorry darling, I’ve drawn a blank. Remind me when you start at Live?”

“Wednesday. Mum I’m sorry but I really have to go, I’ll ring you later.”

“Ok sweetie, send my love to Paul.” I returned my phone to the comfort of my Chloe bag and looked up to realise that I had been standing directly in front of the station’s turnstiles. Avoiding a poignant glare from the robust station attendant, I grabbed my ticket from my coat pocket, rammed it into the slot and trotted hastily towards the escalator. I loved riding escalators as a child. In fact, I remember being hauled aside by the security guard at Notting Hill Gate once for trying to run up one the wrong way. But now, between the handrails which move that second faster than the step, and the posters that remind you of all the broadways shows you still haven’t had time to see, I would much sooner walk. On the up side, it does give me that extra minute to study the subtly expensive ring on my left hand.

As I neared the bottom of the escalator, I beamed in the knowledge that when I turned the corner, I would be able to once again admire the beautiful arches and lines of the words which filled me with pride: “Paul Bellamont, A Dangerous Obsession”. Aside from being slightly eccentric, Paul was everything I wanted in a man. As a bestselling novelist he had his share of fortune and fame, but it was his passion that I admired most. Our engagement itself had been a whirlwind one; a chance meeting in a taxi queue followed by a date at the most prestigious jazz club in London. Then two months, three bouquets sent to my office and a weekend in Venice later, he proposed. Given his past extravagancies, I should have seen it coming. But on my 26th birthday he knelt beside me in a room filled with everyone I loved, and I was dumbstruck. In fact, a good thirty seconds passed before I could give a reply. I suppose I had convinced myself it was all too good to be true…

Mid-thought, I realised that the tube was approaching and quickly claimed my position at the very end of the platform, trying not to wince as the carriage screeched to a stop. The doors jumped open directly in front of me - not by accident, I might add - four years of tube riding teaches a girl a thing or two. Now this is the fun part.

I find that where one sits on the tube can determine the extent to which your evening might be free of PMS induced outbursts. Pick the wrong train at the wrong time and you can easily find yourself cringing beneath the armpit of an over-worked stock broker. But today, as I perched on a seat opposite a smartly dressed male and glanced at the toned arms that flexed beneath his shirt, I decided that this particular evening would be smooth sailing. I have always been a strong believer in window shopping, be it a beautiful man or that damn pair of Jimmy Choo’s which I still couldn’t afford. But that was all about to change - the shoes, I mean, not the man.

Four years at Prime had equipped me with a valuable insight into the world of brand experience, but it was time to move on. There was a time when I had enjoyed marketing strictly female brands. Whether perfume or pantyliners, I knew the target market better than I knew myself. But after our third Tampax promotion, I decided that I needed something more challenging and applied for a higher and infinitely better paid post as an Account Planner at Live.

A sense of pride crept up on me and I found myself smiling, which I quickly discovered was being reflected by the muscular blonde stranger opposite me. Hoping that something impossibly intelligent or witty would fall out of it, I opened my mouth to speak. But at that same moment the train lurched, screeched and plunged the stranger’s elusive smile into darkness.