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  The train pulled into London Bridge and, after finally locating her as she steamed ahead through the crowds and towards the exit, the moment he thought might happen disappeared before his eyes. There was no bolt of lightning. No world slowing as their eyes met, not so much as a question but as an answer. She had barely acknowledged him when he held the doors and helped her get on the train – she’d been in a rush, and distracted, and her ‘thank you’ was more of a breathy ‘ta!’ as she passed by. As he tried to keep pace with her, Daniel realized he was disappointed in himself, and in the situation. He’d imagined this for weeks, and now … nothing.

  She suddenly stopped in the middle of the departing commuters to read her phone, but it wasn’t like he could slow down as well, let alone stand beside her, could he? So he kept walking and then waited by the exit. He wasn’t sure what for. Just to see her, probably. To see her on the day he’d put himself out there, to remind himself it was real, that she was real, even if it hadn’t gone to plan.

  Later, when Daniel told Lorenzo how the morning had played out, he’d miss out this part – the part where he waited for her. What was he doing? He wasn’t going to actually go up and talk to her. Again, she had a right to exist without him bothering her. He shook his head. Come on mate, get a grip, he told himself. He headed towards his office, his heart beating loudly and rapidly and disruptively in his chest.

  He’d screwed it up.

  He was gutted.

  She hadn’t seen it.

  What a wasted gesture.

  You bloody idiot, he muttered to himself, unaware that seeing the advert was exactly what was holding Nadia up back on the platform.

  3

  Nadia

  Nads, not being funny but don’t you think this sounds like it could be you?!

  Nadia tapped on the photo Emma had sent through and waited for it to download, simultaneously bumping through the commuters heaving in the opposite direction to her.

  The photo was a close-up of that morning’s paper, specifically the Missed Connections section – the bit where Londoners wrote in about their commute crush and left hints about their identity in the hopes of landing a date with a stranger they’d seen on the bus or tube. Nadia and Emma were obsessed with Missed Connections. It was a mix of horror and awe – the same kind of compulsion that drove their love of reality TV.

  The mating rituals of the sexes were a constant source of fascination for them both. Before she got the restaurant review column – a superb job for any best friend to have, since Nadia was frequently her plus-one – Emma used to be the dating columnist at one of the weekly women’s mags, but most of her material was crowd-sourced from after-work drinks with Nadia and sometimes Nadia’s work best friend, Gaby.

  Romance and lust and sex and relationships were of endless interest for them all, and ever since they’d known each other, bad dates were almost worth it in order to have an outrageous story to share the next day. They’d had four-fingers-in-his-bum guy, and the divorced chap who’d disclosed on their first date that his wife had left him because he ‘couldn’t satisfy her – you know, sexually’. There’d been ‘Actually-I’m-in-an-open-marriage-my-wife-just-doesn’t-know-it’ man, and also the one who picked at the eczema behind his ear and proceeded to eat it in between mouthfuls of his pint.

  Emma once accidentally had three dates with a man Gaby had previously dated – Gaby had dumped him because he refused to wear a condom, and Emma found that out only after she’d dumped him for … refusing to wear a condom. For some reason all three of them had dated more than a handful of men called James, who ended up being referred to by number: James One, James Six, James Nine. The most memorable bloke was Period Pete, a friend of a friend who liked performing oral sex on menstruating women, and who the three collectively decided must have an undiagnosed iron deficiency.

  Nadia, Gaby and Emma had talked about them all, trying to understand the puzzle of men-kind. Well, except for the one who said he’d be too busy to have a girlfriend ‘for the next five years, at least’, who Nadia had simply never texted back again. He was a riddle not worth trying to solve. She didn’t want a man she had to teach kindness to.

  Nadia wondered if it would change if any of them ever got married – if they’d stop telling each other everything about their sex and love lives. She hoped not. She hoped that even in marriage or after fifty years with her hypothetical guy that there would still be romance and mystery and tension that she’d want to gossip over with her girlfriends. She’d heard on an Esther Perel podcast that that was important. For a woman who historically hadn’t been very good at it, Nadia spent a lot of time researching love.

  The image Emma had photographed cleared into vision and Nadia saw that it said:

  To the devastatingly cute blonde girl on the Northern line with the black designer handbag and coffee stains on her dress – you get on at Angel, on the 7.30, always at the end nearest the escalator, and always in a hurry. I’m the guy who’s standing near the doors of your carriage, hoping today’s a day you haven’t overslept. Drink some time?

  Nadia stopped walking, causing a woman behind her to side-step and mutter, ‘Oh, for god’s sake.’

  She reread the note.

  The devastatingly cute blonde girl on the Northern line with the black designer handbag and coffee stains on her dress. She spun around to look back at the train she’d just disembarked. It had already left. She dropped her hand to run a finger over the brown mark on her dress. She looked at her handbag. She WhatsApped Emma back.

  !!!!!!!!! she typed with one hand.

  And then, Um … I mean, lol but maybe?!

  After a beat she thought better of it: I mean, the chances are slim, right?

  She mulled it over some more. She and Emma weren’t even sure that Missed Connections was real. It made her initial reaction seem increasingly off the mark. Nadia and Emma didn’t care one way or the other – if it was real or made up by the weekly intern at the paper as a creative writing exercise – it was the fantasy of a stranger searching for somebody they felt a fleeting connection to that was fun. It was like Savage Garden knowing they loved you before they met you.

  It was romantic, in a you’re-a-blank-canvas-I-can-project-my-hopes-and-dreams-on sort of way.

  In a fantasies-don’t-have-problems-so-this-is-better-than- real-life way.

  An our-love-will-be-different way.

  Missed Connections felt full of more romance than messing around on Bumble did. Although, any time either of them doubted that sort of love existed, the other would bring up Tim, Emma’s brother. He’d gone out to Chicago for a couple of weeks for work and used a dating app to meet a local who could show him around, maybe even partake in a fling. Through that app Tim had met Deena, and legend had it that when Deena went to the loo Tim pulled out his phone, deleted the app, and within three months had transferred out there to live with her. They’d got married that spring. Miracles do happen, Tim had said in his speech. I searched the whole world for you, and there you were, waiting for me in downtown Chicago, in a restaurant window seat.

  Emma texted: Question: are you sporting a coffee stain this morning, and did you get the 7.30? It’s Monday, so I presume yes.

  Nadia replied with a snap of her outfit from above – the splodge of butter-laden coffee clearly visible – very obviously on her way to work.

  But, Nadia thought … surely there were a million women on the Northern line spilling coffee and carrying fancy bags that family members had sourced at discounted designer outlets. And nobody ever did things on time – not in London. Loads of cute blondes – devastatingly cute blondes – probably missed their intended train all the time. And yeah, she’d never really thought about how she instinctively always turned left at the bottom of Angel’s escalator and walked towards the end of the track there, but that was something she did. Who else did? Hundreds, surely. Thousands? It was the longest tube escalator in London, after all. It could hold a lot of people.

  Right then, Emma
sent back, love heart emojis before and after her text, I think we’ve got some investigating to do, don’t you?

  I’m dying, Nadia wrote back. It’s totally not me. I’m grateful to all the other women out there who can’t take a coffee cup on a train without spilling it, though. Makes me feel better about myself, lol.

  Could be you, though … Emma said.

  Nadia considered it. I mean, there’s like a 2 per cent chance, she typed. And then: If that.

  Then it hit her: the man by the train doors, reading the paper. There’d been a man there! Was that him? Men must stand by the door and read the paper all the time, what with being male and commuting and picking up a newspaper on the way being statistically quite high. Nadia looked around the station, to see if she recognized anyone as the man she’d been near. She couldn’t even remember what he’d looked like. Blonde? No. Brunette? Definitely handsome. Oh god.

  A weird feeling of hope that it was her came over Nadia, whilst she simultaneously realized that hoping for that was kind of non-feminist too. She didn’t have to wait to be chosen by a mystery man to date and be happy. Did she?

  But – also – in The New Routine to Change Her Life, Nadia was supposed to believe that luck was on her side. And if luck really was on her side, maybe this was for her, and maybe this guy wouldn’t be an insecure loser. Awful Ben, her last boyfriend, had had a weird fragile masculinity – he was emotionally manipulative and made her think she was in the wrong until he’d undone her confidence. And he did do that – he did undo her confidence. It had really bruised her, because for the six months they dated she almost came to believe there was something wrong with her. She still didn’t understand why somebody would do that: say they’d fallen in love with you and then decide to hate everything that made them say that in first place. She was only just starting to feel like herself again.

  Nadia shuddered at the bad memories. She thought about Awful Ben every day still, but when she did she always thanked the heavens that she was now out of that dire situation. She couldn’t believe what she’d let herself put up with. Occasionally she set her web browser to private and typed in his Instagram handle to check he was still as much of a difficult, pretentious arse as ever. He always was.

  But now, months after their break-up, Nadia was equal parts bruised and in need of an emotional palette cleanser. A romantic sorbet. Somebody new to think about. A man to be a bit nice to her would do, as if that didn’t place the bar too low. Perhaps her own newspaper ad would read, Wanted, man: must actually seem to like me.

  Oh, who was she kidding? Her advert would say: Wanted: man with strong sense of self, capable of having a laugh, healthy relationship with mother. Must love romance, reality television, and be ready to champion and cheerlead as a partner through life, in exchange for exactly the same. Also must understand the importance of cunnilingus and pizza – though not at same time. I cum first, pizza comes second.

  Was she expecting too much? She thought of Tim and Deena. Surely she could have that too.

  2 per cent is higher than 0 per cent, typed back Emma. So, game on.

  Nadia laughed as she finally made her way to the escalator, emerging in the early-morning summer sun at the top. Whatever you say, she typed back. And to herself she thought, But I daren’t be too hopeful.

  ‘Emma has already texted me,’ Gaby said, catching Nadia as she headed down to the lobby for an 11 a.m. break. The coffee cart in their lobby served an amazing dark espresso blend. ‘And I reckon it’s you as well.’

  Nadia was astonished.

  ‘Ohmygod. Worst thing I ever did was introduce you two to each other,’ she replied, laughing, before saying to the guy behind the counter, ‘double-shot espresso topped up with hot water, please.’

  Gaby pulled a face. ‘What happened to a full-fat cappuccino as a political statement?’

  ‘I’m pivoting. I did one of those bulletproof coffees this morning, to see if it keeps my blood sugar regulated and also, have you seen this acne on my jawline? It’s a menace. I think it might be too much milk – like, apparently milk is just cow hormones not meant for people – so I’m giving up for a bit. These little fuckers hurt, you know.

  Nadia craned to see her own reflection in the glass of the skyscraper they worked in. Having acne made her really self-conscious. When she was in the middle of a flare-up she tended to dress in darker colours, as if she didn’t want to be noticed. She needed a permanent filter to follow her around – it didn’t look half as bad when she was on Instagram Stories and could use the crown filter to smooth everything out. She’d try anything to get rid of the angry red boils under the skin of her jaw, including sacrificing her daily cappuccinos.

  ‘So,’ she went on, ‘I’m experimenting.’

  Nadia thanked the barista and the pair walked from the lobby coffee stand to the lifts of RAINFOREST, home to two thousand Research and Development employees for a worldwide delivery service for everything from books to toilet cleaner to marble-top tables. This was where Nadia did her artificial intelligence work. Gaby was her work BFF. They’d met at the summer party two years ago and hit it off talking about AI and its role in a Good Future or Bad Future: what if they accidentally developed technology that turned on them, like in a horror movie? Gaby worked on what was called ‘cloud computing’ for the company, their biggest revenue-generator, selling pay-as-you-go data storage to everyone from start-ups to MI6. Nadia didn’t really understand it, but she knew Gaby was about thirty times cleverer than her, and scared half the people in her part of the office.

  ‘And, anyway – can I tell you about The New Routine to Change My Life?’ Nadia hit the lift button. ‘Because, I dunno. I guess I feel finally purged of Awful Ben and want to switch my energy up or something. I feel like I just came out of mourning. Like literally, this weekend I got my mojo back.’ The lift arrived. ‘And today I’m trying to be deliberate about keeping it. I’m taking my wellbeing and mental health seriously, beginning now.’

  ‘That’s great!’

  ‘Thanks!’ The lift button flashed ‘0’ and the doors opened. The pair got in and Nadia hit the buttons for their respective floors.

  ‘You know, if you want to get some endorphins going to keep your high, what about coming to spin before work tomorrow?’

  Nadia rolled her eyes.

  ‘No!’ Gaby continued. ‘Don’t pull that face! It’s so good. It’s really dark in there and the instructor says positive affirmations and you get to scream because the music is so loud nobody can hear you.’

  Nadia shook her head, watching the lights of the different floors ping brightly as they passed through. Spinning was her worst nightmare. She’d done exactly one SoulCycle class when she went to LA for work and spent forty-five minutes on a bike next to Emily Ratajkowski, wondering how a woman so tiny could peddle so fast. She’d hated it.

  ‘Absolutely not. I don’t do morning workouts. I’m happy with my evening body pump class, back row, two left feet but doing my best. Only psychopaths work out before noon.’

  ‘Urgh. Fine. Also – we’re getting sidetracked.’

  ‘I’d hoped you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘It really does sound like you, you know.’

  Nadia raised her eyebrows, partly amused, partly sarcastic.

  ‘It does! Literally you are cute and blonde and chronically late and you spill stuff. And –’ Gaby suddenly seemed to connect some mental dots ‘– and today is the beginning of your New Routine to Change Your Life! So, energetically speaking, the exact day something like this would happen. It’s like the stars have aligned. Today would be a great day to fall in love.’

  ‘I can’t tell if you’re being earnest or teasing me.’

  ‘Both,’ Gaby deadpanned.

  Nadia rolled her eyes good-naturedly again, afraid to give herself away.

  ‘Emma says you might write an advert in response.’

  ‘I’m toying with it, yes. If I decide the advert is really meant for me. Which … I’m not sure. I half wan
t it to be. And I half think I’m insane for giving this more than two seconds’ thought.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who he could be? If it is for you? Is there a cute man on your train every day?’

  Nadia looked at her friend. ‘This is London! There are hundreds of cute men, everywhere, all the time. And then they open their mouths and become 200 per cent less cute because … men.’

  ‘Ever the optimist, I see.’

  ‘I’m just being realistic.’

  ‘Never met a woman protecting her heart who didn’t claim the same,’ said Gaby, smirking.

  Nadia said nothing, knowing full well that Gaby was right. She found herself doing that a lot: making sweeping statements that damned men to their lowest denominator, acting as if she didn’t need or want one. She was protecting herself, she supposed, at least out loud. Of course, her friend could see right through that. Because Nadia was, in the same breath as saying all men were pigs, hoping that this one, the Train Guy, wasn’t. Or, at the very least, that one guy, somewhere out there, wasn’t. All morning she’d been having little fantasies about the advert being for her, and seeing him on the train, and falling in lust and love somewhere on the Northern line between home and work. She wanted that for herself. She wanted it for herself so hungrily that it scared her a bit, truth be told.

  The lift arrived at Gaby’s floor, and like they did whenever they rode the lift together, Nadia stepped off with her to finish the conversation.

  ‘There is this one thing, though,’ Nadia said. Gaby turned and looked at her, willing her to go on. ‘Well. The thing my brain can’t understand is that if a guy sees me on the train every morning, why wouldn’t he just say hello?’

  Becky from admin walked by on her way to the photocopier, and Nadia interrupted herself to throw up a small wave and say, ‘Hey, Becky!’

  ‘Nice shoes!’ Becky said, as way of reply, disappearing around a corner.

  Nadia continued: ‘Why concoct some elaborate plot that involves a newspaper and relying on me – or, whoever, because it might not be me, like we’ve established – actually seeing it?’