Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 12

Leicester Square Station is a mad house on a Friday evening. Tourists congregate at every exit and consider their next move with the urgency of Zen monks while the rest of London tries to squeeze past them. It’s like blood pulsing through a clogged artery. I’m one of these Londoners struggling to keep tabs on a soaring temper as I’m jostled up the stairs. I’m too tired for this. I should be on the sofa watching bad telly with a mug of hot chocolate. My hangover keeps coming back in waves.

Only tourists and people from the suburbs go to Leicester Square, and now me. I’m coughed out onto the street and dodge the oncoming human traffic which is loaded with cameras and maps and leather bum-bags. Some people are dressed up for the evening, others are dressed up for the jungle in trousers boasting enough pockets to fit an arsenal of penknives. Why is that? Why do people wear survival gear to go on holidays as if they’re camping in the outback when really they’re staying in a three star hotel in Russell Square?

I see Elliott standing on the corner of the street, looking like an office escapee in his fitted grey suit, pink shirt, but no tie. The suit makes him look older and gives him that hard ‘city boy’ edge which he didn’t have in his battered, leather jacket. If I’d known we were meeting I would have worn something with a bit more character. In my dull outfit of black knee length skirt, white shirt, ballet bumps and pinned up hair I look like a waitress. If I’m going to make a name for myself, I can’t wear this anonymous civilian gear anymore. My hair should be painted bright pink leopard skin and I should have crystal encrusted cockroaches chained to my button holes.

When Elliott sees me his face relaxes into a smile and I feel myself blushing. He waves and my own smile grows. I can’t believe I’m going on a date with this gorgeous man, or how quickly it’s all happened.

For the next five minutes I’m like a salmon trying to swim against the current and then I burst through into his small corner of calm. He takes my hand and pulls me over and he’s a head above me and looking down with misty eyes. I’m expecting a peck on the cheek, but he goes straight for my lips. It’s so bold and sexy and I go from being nervous to feeling completely aroused. His hand caresses my cheek and I feel myself slipping out of present day Leicester Square to the days of stolen, hungry kisses at teenage parties.

He pulls back and there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.

‘Hello,’ I say, stupidly.

‘I think we’ve covered that,’ he says. He offers me his arm like an old fashioned gentleman, and I hold on. ‘Come on, we’ve just got time to grab a drink at the bar before the play starts.’

I’m buzzing with excitement as we manoeuvre through the crowds. My head, which felt so heavy on the tube, is now as light as a balloon and a little less swollen. I can’t believe we just kissed like that in the middle of the street. People must have thought were lovers who hadn’t seen each other in years!

We need to kiss again to make sure that did just happen. We’re bound to kiss again. I mean once you’ve kissed once, you can’t not kiss again can you?

I clutch my oversized handbag to my side as I squeeze passed a hoard of noisy Italian school children and it’s only then as I feel the strange lump in my side that I remember that I’m carrying a bunch of spray painted bananas. The panic comes quickly. What if someone at the theatre wants to check my bag? I’m going to look like a complete clown if they confiscate them in front of everybody.