JESS

Monday, 11 January 2016

I smell his bad breath a second or two before I feel his hand on my arse. That's the weird thing about public transport gropers, they always seem to have personal hygiene issues.

'What's your problem?' I shout, as I spin around to face him. Immediately, the crowd of people jostling around the ticket barriers parts. The one thing commuters hate even more than delays is a confrontation.

The guy with the dodgy breath and wandering hand obviously hadn't expected this. He looks to either side, desperate to pass the buck.

'Nope, it's definitely you, middle-aged man in the shiny grey suit. Get off on touching women's arses, do you?'

He shuffles his feet and looks at the ground then pushes his way towards the ticket barrier.

'That's it, you run along to work. I bet the women at your office can't wait to see you. Keep your mucky hands to yourself next time, OK?'

I glance behind to see Sadie looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

'What?' I say. 'He got off lightly if you ask me.'

There is now a clear path in front of me to the ticket barrier. I go straight through and wait for Sadie on the other side.

A young guy with dark hair stops in front of me. 'Nice takedown,' he says with a smile. 'Do you want me to go after him for you?'

He is wearing a plum-coloured jacket over a white T-shirt, like he's come in for dress-down Friday on a Monday by mistake.

'What I really want is for all members of the male species to go to hell and stop bothering me.'

The smile falls off his lips. 'Point taken,' he says, before walking off.

'What did you do that for?' asks Sadie, staring at me. 'He was only trying to be nice.'

'Yeah, well, it's difficult to tell sometimes.'

Sadie shakes her head. 'I don't get you. Is this national bite-someone's-head-off day or something?'

'PMT and hunger, always a bad combination. Come on, I need food.'

Breakfast (I hate the word 'brunch' so I refuse to call it that, even when it is after ten thirty) for me consists of a huge blueberry muffin (that I hope will count as one of my five a day) and a can of Tango (that possibly counts as another). Mum used to tell me that the day would come when I wouldn't be able to eat and drink all that crap without looking as if I did. I'd taken it as a green light to have as much of it as possible while I could still get away with it.

I hear footsteps approaching as I stand waiting to pay. Sadie gives me a nudge. I look up. The guy who'd offered to go after the groper is standing there, bunch of flowers in hand. Actually, it isn't a bunch; it's a proper bouquet. Handtied, I think they call it, not that I've ever seen a machine tie flowers.

'An apology for earlier,' he says. 'On behalf of the male species. To show we're not all complete jerks.'

All conversation in the queue stops. I am aware my cheeks are turning the same colour as the roses in the bouquet.

'Thanks,' I say, taking them from him. 'You didn't have to do that.'

'I know, but I wanted to. I also want to ask you out to dinner but I'm not sure if that would be risking a massive public bawl-out so I've left my business card in there with the flowers. Call me if you'd like to take up the invite. And thanks for brightening my morning.'

He turns and walks away, one of those supremely confident walks that stops just short of being a full-blown swagger.

'I hate you,' says Sadie. 'I have no idea why I chose someone who strangers give flowers to as a best friend.'

'You didn't choose me,' I reply. 'I chose you, remember? Mainly because you had the best pencil case in reception.'

'Well, whatever. I still hate you. You don't even have to try. You wear a puffer jacket, leggings and DMs and you still get a gorgeous stranger asking you out.'

'I might not call him,' I say, lowering my voice, aware other people in the queue are listening.

'Then you're a bigger mug than I thought.'

'Well, I'm certainly not going to do it straight away.'

'Playing hard to get, are you?'

'No. I'm just starving and I'm not going to do anything until I've stuffed this blueberry muffin down my gob.'

Sadie smiles at me and looks down at the flowers. As well as the roses there are lilies and loads of other things I don't even know the names of. 'They must have cost him a packet,' she remarks.

'Shame he didn't know I'd have been happy with a blueberry muffin then,' I reply. She laughs. I hold the flowers a little tighter, despite myself.

Leeds city centre is its usual Monday morning self: grey, drizzly and slightly the worse for wear from the weekend. Someone presses a copy of a free magazine into my hand as I stand at the crossing. I take it, not because I want to read it but because I feel for anyone who has to get up at the crack of dawn to force magazines into the hands of grumpy commuters. I roll it up and wedge it into the side pocket of my backpack as I cross the road. The woman in front of me has her right arm turned out and a bulging tote bag hanging from it. I resist the temptation to tell her she looks like a Barbie doll that has had its arm twisted the wrong way by a little boy. I am convinced that if the female species carries on like this, baby girls will eventually be born with their right arms protruding at this weird angle, ready for the midwives to hang tote bags on them.

Sadie follows my gaze and smiles knowingly at me. We are both fully paid-up members of the backpack brigade.

'I wonder if they'll do something for Bowie at work,' Sadie says. 'Put Labyrinth and Absolute Beginners on, maybe.'

'Yeah,' I say. 'I bet a lot of people would come if they did.'

I decide not to tell Sadie, who has spent most of the train journey talking about David Bowie, that, actually, I am already fed up with it all. Every time I look at Facebook it's full of people posting tributes to him, all doing that RIP crap as if they'd actually known him, actually suffered some deep personal loss. Never stopping to think about what that must feel like to someone who had genuinely lost a loved one. The most important person in their life, even.

We turn off the road into the comparative warmth of the shopping centre. Someone had the bright idea of not putting any sides on the building, so people have to sit at the tables outside the restaurants with their coats and scarves on in winter, even though they are technically inside.

I follow Sadie up the escalator. The cinema is on the 'leisure' floor, with all the restaurants. It's a trendy independent one with squishy sofas and pizzas served in your seats. That's how I justify working there (well, that and the fact that I don't have to start work before 11 a.m., even on an early shift). I could never work at a multiplex. It would be like letting the Dementors suck out your soul.

Nina, who's on a rare outing as duty manager, is on the front desk. She looks down at my flowers and raises an eyebrow.

'I hope you're not thinking of starting a Bowie shrine here.'

'It's nothing to do with him. I was given them, actually.'

'What for?'

'Telling a guy he was an arsehole.'

'Very funny.'

'No, really,' I reply. 'Only the arsehole wasn't the guy who gave them to me.'

Nina shakes her head and sighs. 'So, basically, you bought yourself some flowers on the way into work to make it look like someone gave them to you.'

'Actually,' says Sadie, jumping in before I have the...