When Anita Met Charles

Anita Harris had finally had enough.

Her shirt stuck to her skin as she uselessly flapped her hand around her face. It had been stupidly hot all day and she was still suffering. Did she smell? God, she hoped she didn’t. Her nose twitched as she inhaled deeply but any scent of hers was masked by the overwhelming mix of dust, engine oil and musk that was the London underground.

She bloody hated commuting; hated John for pressuring her into accepting a job that she had never wanted. John. Her skin still rippled with anger when she thought of the lying, cheating bastard. She scowled at the tracks, her brow furrowing and her body temperature only increasing as she remembered him and the mess he had left her in. She wondered if he was still hiding out in the Lake District whilst she worked overtime to pay the rent on their flat.

It had crossed her mind to downsize but Anita couldn’t bare the thought of returning to communal living like she had in her university days. She had barely been able to cope with John’s dirty dinner plates and socks strewn across the bathroom floor. It would be good now he was gone. Life would be better. Besides, it was perfectly normal to be single at her age, right?

She wondered if she kept telling herself that, would she eventually start to believe it?

Wind swept across the platform as the Central Line eastbound train approached. Anita momentarily closed her eyes as the cool air washed over her. She could not wait to shower. Leaves crashed around her feet as she stepped onto the empty carriage and settled in a seat at the end of the row. Working overtime meant she missed rush hour, a small blessing she appreciated now that there were no sweaty bodies pressed against her. Oh, how she wished it were socially acceptable to have her bag take up a seat so she never felt someone else’s sweat drip down her arm again. She cringed at the memory.

Anita fumbled in her bag for the headphones she kept for these late night journeys as the doors to the tube began to close before they were jammed open again as a young man in a dark jacket stepped through. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She hated the people who were impatient enough to storm through rather than wait. John had been one of those people.

John.

John.

John.

Her brows furrowed as she stuffed the headphones into her ears and turned the volume up to the loudest it would go. Irritation bubbled inside her as the man took a long glance down the empty length of the carriage before taking the seat opposite her. Seriously? She bit back her scowl as he kicked his legs out so far that she was forced to push her own up against the base of the seat. Her appeared thoughtless as he relaxed, arms spread wide across the blue and red seats.

Music poured through her ears as the train pulled out of the station. She tried her best to ignore the man but more often than not, she found his penetrating blue eyes boring into her. Discomfort bit at her. Did she actually smell? Or had she gotten pen on her face? Her scowl grew heavier as the train hurtled through stations.

Marble Arch.

Bond Street.

Oxford Circus.

He made no effort to move. If anything, he seemed to be moving closer and closer to her until the hardness of his kneecap knocked into hers. She ignored it. Blamed it on the rattling of the train. Until it happened again. Her eyes narrowed but she kept her gaze firmly averted from his. She knew better than to entertain men in the dark. Instead, she kept her attention laser focused on the graffiti that adorned the off-white walls of the train.

NW 4 EVER painted in a neon green.

FCK BORIS written in midnight black.

RIP CADET tagged in sapphire blue and outlined in white.

There was nothing quite like the colours of London. Anita’s lips tugged in a small smile. She both loved and hated the city. Loved that she would never live anywhere quite like it, hated that it was John who had bought her here. She felt another scowl building. Would she ever stop thinking of him? It didn’t help that for the third time, the strange man knocked his knee into hers. Anita had had enough. She ripped her headphones out and threw her hands up in the air.

“Can I help you with something?” She spat as her hands that had fallen to her thighs formed fists.

He smiled. Smiled. Did she sound like she was joking? She might have stood at a measly five feet but she carried a very capable bottle of pepper spray in her bag. Her arms crossed over her chest as she continued to glare.

His gaze penetrated her own before he threw back his head and laughed. “I just thought I was being friendly.”

Friendly. In London? It was only possible that he could be Northern but she heard no accent encasing his words. She had learned oh so quickly that there was no such thing as ‘being friendly’ amongst commuters. It was a dog eat dog world and she secretly loved it.

“If you wanted to be friendly,” Anita growled as she thrust out her legs in a bid to regain her own space. “You should learn that this space is communal. Not just for you.”

He chuckled once more as he surveyed her from head to foot no doubt taking in her sticky white shirt, grey tailored trousers and ugly, chunky commuter trainers. Anita felt heat warm her cheeks. He was somewhat attractive up close with intense blue eyes, brown hair that stuck out of his woolen hat and a crooked smile. John was handsomer. She winced at the thought.

“You’re as bitter as the lemon meringue pie I had for dessert!” He teased with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Is something the matter, dear?”

Dear. He was patronising her now. It wasn’t just anger directed at him she felt as her eyes narrowed. It was anger at John, at her boss at the paper who repeatedly called her ‘girlie’ and eyeballed her breasts whenever she wore her favourite v-neck jumper, anger at all men who liked to call her names and underestimate her.

“I’m not your dear,” Anita snarled. “And stop talking to me.”

His laugh vibrated across the carriage. She opened her mouth to rip into him once more before slamming it shut. She had reported on stories of women being killed for less and suddenly, the emptiness of the carriage was the only thing she could see as she surveyed the vast amount of vacant seats.

He must have seen her stare. His eyebrows flew up as he held his hands up in surrender. “Relax,” He drawled. “It’s all just a bit of fun, after all. When was the last time you had any fun?”

She should have felt scared but truthfully, her mind went blank. When was the last time she had truly had fun? She supposed that holiday she had taken with John to Malaga last year had been somewhat fun. Until it had ended in an argument that had left her with a tear induced headache and a sore throat. Maybe that party Hannah had thrown for her twenty-fifth? No. She had clung to the wall all night and drank so much wine she had been sick on the Northern Line platform on her way home. It seemed fun had been absent on her agenda for quite some time.

She must have been sporting one hell of a frown because the man before her sighed as he shook his head. “Sad. So sad.”

Pity.

It topped the list of things Anita hated.

“Shut up. I thought I told you to stop bloody talking to me anyway,” Anita huffed as she fumbled around with her headphones. Stupid things had managed to become all knotted up within the space of two minutes.

“What’s your name?”

Anita needed a strong drink. No. She could do with a holiday. Perhaps a permanent one at this rate.

She ignored him, fingers slipping over the thin white wires as the tangles only seemed to get worse. Frustrated, Anita threw them into her bag, fisting her hands into the soft polyester of her trousers.

“Did you forget it or something?” He asked with a tut.

Anita continued to ignore him but without the distraction of her headphones, it had become increasingly difficult. She focused instead on the grey tunnels outside the carriage window and the dim reflection of herself. Her hair looked a mess and she really needed to book an appointment with her eyebrow lady.

The man sighed. “Fine. I’ll go first. My name is Charles.”

She still didn’t care. Still didn’t know what angle this man was working. Should she be calling the police? Silly thought. They were underground still but his behaviour was as close to the definition of suspicious as Anita knew.

“Come on,” He goaded. “It’s not hard.”

“If I tell you, will you shut up?” She barked. She could feel a headache forming behind her eyes.

He nodded with a smirk that Anita struggled to trust but with forty minutes left in her journey and no idea when Charles would leave her alone, she sighed. “Anita.”

“Anita,” Charles sounded out, as if seeing how her name fit in his mouth. “Doesn’t really suit you. Reminds me of a nan.”

She snorted a laugh before she could stop herself, her hand flying over her mouth as embarrassment overwhelmed her. Jesus. This really was a new low for her.

Charles’ eyes widened in excitement as he laughed. “Wow. So you do have a sense of humour. Nice.”

Anita rolled her eyes as the speakers announced the train was pulling into Liverpool Street. Charles stared at her once more before he nodded and rose to his feet.

“It’s been nice meeting you, Anita,” He said with a soft smile that she thought made him look extremely handsome. “Have some fun, would you?”

She watched in stunned silence as he exited the train and disappeared onto the empty platform. Anita found herself involuntarily raising from the seat as she watched him go. She wondered if she’d dreamed the whole conversation, having finally lost her mind.

An odd sense of disappointment swarmed her as she settled back in her seat before her attention snagged on the lone black, leather notebook that sat in the middle of the chair Charles had just vacated. She grabbed it, feeling the buttery leather slide between her fingers as she stood as if to race after him but the doors to the carriage had already closed and the train began to pull away.

It felt wrong, truly, but excitement overwhelmed her as she fingered the milky white pages, wondering if she’d find a surname or contact number within the pages. Instead, she found page after page of reckless scribbles each titled with a task more absurd than the next.

Visit New Orleans.

Ride a motorcycle.

Perform a miracle.

A frown pulled at her lips. What was this? She reached the final page and a soft gasp left her lips as a thin piece of paper tumbled into her lap. Her fingers shook as she unraveled it and then all the blood that had been circulating her body stilled and her heart stopped beating.

Because in her had was a cheque for twenty-thousand pounds.

And written in the same reckless scroll as the notebook, was her name.

Anita Jane Harris.