I was not going to Dalston.
I was going home to Parsons Green with a half-eaten chicken shop bag and a heel that had started to list to the left around Vauxhall. Different night. Different postcode. Different man, if we are being precise, which I am trying very hard to be.
He still asked.
Thursday, for context
Thursday was not even meant to be a night. I said that out loud to Sophie before I left the flat. “I am only going for one.” She did that face she does when she is already writing the I-told-you-so in her head. Mia was already in a taxi. I put on the black dress that photographs well in bad lighting and told myself I would be back before the last Overground felt like a threat.
We started in a bar off Kingsland Road that pretends it is still 2019. Then someone’s friend knew a door. Then I was in a kitchen that was not a kitchen so much as a corridor with a fridge. Then I was in a doorway arguing with an intercom that did not work. Then I was in a bedroom with a view of a Tesco Metro and a boy called Jamie who makes films, or says he does, which in London is the same thing.
I ordered the Uber from his hall at something stupid like 5:10. The sky was already doing that grey rehearsal for morning. I had my shoes in my hand. He offered me a hoodie. I said no because I did not want to do the hoodie walk of shame on the number 38 later. I sat in the back of a white Toyota and watched Dalston slide past like it owed me money.
I did not clock the driver. That is the point. I was busy being a person who had just had a good night and was pretending it was not going to become content.
He clocked me.
Saturday, which is when it got rude
Saturday was a birthday in Soho that turned into a second birthday in a basement that turned into me standing on Shaftesbury Avenue wondering why my bank app was being dramatic. I booked a car. Rating 4.96. Quiet. Fine.
I got in. Said hello. Gave the destination. Put my head back and tried to look like a woman who had her life in order, which is difficult when your eyeliner has migrated and you smell faintly of someone else’s cologne.
We were on the Embankment before he spoke properly.
“You were in Dalston last week,” he said. Not a question. A statement. The way a barman says it when you walk in on a Tuesday and he already knows your drink.
I laughed because that is what I do when I am buying time. “Was I?”
He nodded at the mirror. “Same building. The one with the broken buzzer. I waited ages.”
Right. So we are doing this.
I said I was not going back there tonight. He said fair enough. Then, because the universe has a sense of humour I do not remember requesting, he asked if I wanted him to take the same route “just in case.”
Just in case of what, exactly. In case I had a sudden change of heart at Lambeth Bridge and decided Jamie-who-makes-films was the answer after all?
I said Parsons Green, please. He said no problem. We did not talk for a bit. The city did that thing it does after midnight where it looks cheaper and more honest at the same time.
The part that sat wrong
It was not dangerous. I need to say that before Sophie reads this and starts a lecture. He was not leaning over. He did not ask for a number. He did not do the “you live alone, right” routine I have heard other girls describe. He was just… familiar. Like I had become a regular at a place I did not know I was frequenting.
That is the bit I cannot shake.
I spend a stupid amount of energy trying to be seen. That is the job, innit. Photos. Captions. Being in the right doorway at the right hour so that somebody, somewhere, thinks Chelsea Munroe is happening. I want the eyes. I have always wanted the eyes. Being nobody is the thing that actually scares me, and I will admit that here because it is 2am in my head even though it is not 2am on the clock.
But I did not want to be seen by the infrastructure.
There is a difference between a story landing and a man who drives for a living filing you under a postcode. Last Thursday, Dalston, girl in the black dress, shoes off, 5am. This Saturday, Soho, same girl, different postcode, still not going home first.
He has a version of me now. It is short and a bit messy and it lives in his night. He will tell someone. Of course he will. Drivers talk. They have the best gossip in this city and nobody treats them like they do. “You will never guess who I had in the back twice in eight days.” That is a story with a pint attached. I would tell it. I am telling it.
What I actually said
I tipped him. Properly. Not the cowardly 10 percent. I tipped like a person who wanted the interaction to end on a civil note and also like a person who knows this man could pick me out of a line-up of Saturday nights.
At the door I said thanks. He said, “See you later.”
See you later.
Not goodnight. Not take care. See you later, as if the next chapter was already in the app.
I stood on our step for a second with the chicken shop bag and thought about going back inside the car to say something sharp. I did not. Sharp would have made it a scene. I am not above a scene. I just did not have the legs for one.
Sophie, obviously
Sophie was still up. She is always still up when I come in after one, sitting on the worktop with tea like a Victorian ghost who got a job in PR.
“You look like you have a story,” she said.
I told her the Uber knew Dalston. She put the mug down. Mia came out of her room in a face mask and said “that is actually so funny” which is Mia for I am thrilled this is not my problem.
Sophie did the responsible paragraph. Be careful. Maybe do not go back to the same block two weeks running. Maybe tell someone where you are. I love her. I also wanted to put her tea in the sink.
I said the driver was fine. I said the problem was not him. The problem was the pattern. She said that is still a problem. I said I know. Then I ate cold chips over the sink because I am classy like that.
Mia asked if Jamie was good. I said he was fine, which in this flat means I will not be texting first. She asked if I would go back. I said no. Then I thought about the hoodie I refused and felt briefly stupid. Then I remembered the broken buzzer and felt less stupid.
The bit I will not put in the caption
I checked the trip history after I showered. Thursday, 05:14, Dalston to Parsons Green. Saturday, 01:38, Soho to Parsons Green. Different drivers, I had assumed. Same one. I had not even looked at the name on Saturday. I just tapped accept like a girl who thinks the night is a series of unconnected rooms.
They are connected. That is the joke. London pretends it is huge until it folds in on itself and a man who has never been in your kitchen knows which intercom does not work.
I wanted to be famous. I still do. I want a table that does not require a surname at the door and a photographer who already knows which side I prefer. I did not want to be a recurring extra in someone else’s shift.
There is a version of this story where I am delighted. Look, I am memorable. Look, I have a route. Look, even the cars know me. That version is very me, on a good day, with better lighting.
Tonight I just sat on the edge of the bath and redid my lipstick for no one, because that is the habit, and thought: if the Uber knows my name, who else has started keeping a file?
Anyway. I still tipped him.
He will tell someone. Let him. I will tell it first.
