I didn’t think she’d seen me. I shuffled deep into my sleeping bag and pulled the hood low. But no, I heard the clickitty clack of her high heels on the pavement getting closer, and then the early morning peace being shattered by the deafening silence when she reached me.
I felt vulnerable knowing she was standing there with the points of her Jimmy Choos within inches of my face.
‘Is that you, Charles? Is that really you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied pulling my hood up a fraction and looking up and seeing her serious face, her trim figure and expensive attire. ‘You look surprised.’
‘I’m flabbergasted, Charles.’
‘You shouldn’t be, Lucinda. I told you during dinner a month ago that I’d had enough of the rat race.’
‘This is ridiculous. Get up! We’re having breakfast at Brasserie Blanc.’
‘Leave me alone, Lucinda. I’m happy here.’
‘How on earth can you be happy, sleeping in a doorway in the street?’
‘I can see up your skirt for a start.’
‘Stop fooling about, Charles, and get up.’
‘You’re the type of person who’s driven me to this, Lucinda. I’ve given up earning money to satisfy the relentless advertising machine. Creams in fancy jars costing a fortune, flimsy blouses selling for a week’s minimum wage, the endless avalanche of fashion catalogues coming through the letterbox and the continuous flow of boxes through the front door like every day is Christmas, and then there’s discussions at dinner about what to wear on overseas holidays while others go to food banks. I’ve had enough.’
‘Stop wittering on, Charles. If you don’t get up, I’m going to kick you.’
She didn’t wait for an answer. She kicked my rucksack, pulled my sleeping bag open and tugged my clothes from under my head.
‘OK, OK, but I’m not having breakfast.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘I’m not!’ I shouted.
‘Give me one good reason,’ she said raising her handbag as a weapon.
‘Jennifer’s picking me up at twelve-thirty for an early lunch at the Ashmolean.’
H. E. Roffey