Any taller and Victoria would have stood out, but in a bad way. As it was, she was uncommonly tall. Well above average, at the very least. Would probably have been even taller had her mother married the Australian doctor rather than her Dad. But still, undeniably tall. It was the first thing you noticed about her. Couldn’t help it, really. And she lit up her surroundings like a neon tube.

Hannah perched on the sagging back of the sofa, her face slack in a sexless pout, and watched the tall girl through the smeary window and thought maybe she was a giant. Or a princess. Or both: a giant princess; a Princess Giant. Her own mother described herself as “petite”, and was currently kneeling on the bathroom floor, intermittently hurling violently into the toilet bowl. She didn’t own any shoes like those carrying the Princess along.

The man was still upstairs, Hannah supposed. He might have left already, but she would probably have heard him go. You had to slam the door.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the sun shone and the roses were out in their thousands. Literally, thousands of them. You couldn’t count them even if you tried. Jesus.

Morden. Doleful, mournful Morden. The end of the line, they call it, and they aren’t often wrong. It’s one of the peculiarly disheartening things about the Northern Line – various ends but no identifiable beginnings. And a great big middle where people appear and disappear as written in that particular chapter of their lives and sometimes leave their mark in various more or less memorable ways, but generally speaking nothing of Earth-shaking import comes to pass.

Victoria Natalya White (Victoria for her conception, a honeymoon child, aboard the Orient Express – her father had wanted Venezia, but was eventually driven to compromise; Natalya reflected her mother’s love of all things Russian) didn’t care about the roses. She was a bitch. By the same token, she never really paid much attention to the vast and lumbering Northern Line either; to her it was an unpalatable means to an equally unpalatable end, a non-organic, matter-of-fact hole in the ground that linked sleep and work. It didn’t wind nor weave nor meander nor even thread its way, it just went.

Even more so, she gave not the slightest thought as to how her being impacted on the shambling grey accidentalness of Morden. It simply wasn’t something she had the time or the inclination to consider. She didn’t live in Morden anyway: she lived in West Wimbledon, it was just that this was the ideal place from which to descend into the transport system: no changes required, she could always find a seat, and it afforded her a significant 40 minutes of time on her own before the circus began.

Today she was late. She was often late, and it was beginning to cause her a problem. Alistair had spoken to her a number of times about it, and it was starting to irritate her. It had been irritating him for quite a while, which explained why he had been speaking to her about it. Alistair was a twat. She could hardly be expected to roll up bang on time every day of every week. That’s exactly the sort of ignorance you’d expect from someone who lives in the provinces. Still, he wouldn’t be part of her particular struggle for much longer, if all went as expected. She’d put a lot of effort into preparing the ground for her next move, and when it paid off, the likes of him and his insignificant predictability would be a long-gone memory.

Onward along Poplar Road South strode the striking and wonderful Victoria, fully four inches higher than when she had woken. Magnificently indifferent to the suburban architectural lassitude all around her, oblivious to the identikit daily struggles of the unconsidered inhabitants, she covered the sterile ground as efficiently as she could. A bit of luck with the Tube now and she’d make it near enough on time and no need for the usual embarrassing ritual. That would be a great help, especially today.

Crown Lane and its civic grandiloquence. This was it. This was Morden in all its finery.

Christ, Alistair was so very boring. Always obsessing about pointless details: a few minutes here and there, what she was wearing, his “right” ways of addressing colleagues and clients. So incredibly old-fashioned and repressed and complacent. She was quite capable of making her own rules in her own business relationships. She couldn’t be expected to remember everybody’s names. There was enough to worry about with the people who were on the radar, who were part of the plan. That’s life, Alistair – one has to prioritise and compromise at all junctures: whether it’s deciding which client to bump, which relationships to nurture, which hen night to attend. Sometimes the decisions weren’t easy and she would sacrifice short-term return for a longer-term advantage. But not too long-term – she didn’t mind playing the long game within reason, but she didn’t have limitless time. At 27 she was in her prime, but that wouldn’t last forever. How long did she have? 10 years? Maybe until she was 40 if she looked after herself. No problems on that front for now, but you can’t take your eye off the ball at any point.

 

OK, here we go. Tube. Start the countdown. Just a case of getting a seat, that way you can avoid being manhandled by a complete stranger, and just settle in for the ride. Beep. Which side? She really needs the first train if she’s to avoid Alistair’s whining, but she must have a seat. Platform 4 looks good. It’s next out and still plenty of space. There’s an end seat. Perfect. That means a maximum of only one neighbour of questionable hygiene and residual alcohol content to worry about.

This was where Victoria’s next world began. She stood at the threshold and consciously stretched out and straightened up at hips and neck – another quarter inch made all the difference where she was going. A random suited man barged carelessly past. There’s plenty of room for both of them; what’s his problem? He’s looking a bit careless in general, like he hasn’t changed or shaved in a while, and not very steady on his feet. But that is, or would once have been, an expensive suit. Now he’s shambling downwards towards Platform 4, but like he’s not noticed the last few seats. Probably hasn’t even thought that far ahead. She can make it there before him. Nice and easy down the stairs. Nice and cool. She can catch him and pass him on the platform and get in there, no sweat. Just lengthen that stride a bit once she’s down, and a little jump on, two more steps and she’s in. Piece of piss. She’s on the flat, but which way to get past? Left side would be a bit of a squeeze. And he’s kind of veering that way now anyway. She can pass on the right – it’s further but safer, more natural. Just a couple of strides and her nose will be in front. She can move in and take the best line then. What’s he doing now? He’s starting to slew to the right, but she’s already committed. He’s pushing her too wide – she’s going to look ridiculous if she goes back to the left now, but she’ll have no choice soon. This is insane. Come on, just a little shimmy up onto the train and nobody will notice. So what if she loses a modicum of dignity – she’ll never see these people again. ‘Although,’ she thinks, ‘I bet some of them recognise me; I’m here at the same time every day and am quite recognisable. I wonder how many of them actually do……..’ To make a fool of herself now could be quite degrading. No, bugger it, who cares what they think – I bet they’re not even looking anyway. She’s going for it, take off on the next footfall.

Fuck it! Too late. From nowhere, her rival has taken a decisive lurch forward, skipped up into the carriage himself, one giant stride, a half turn and he’s landed in that seat while she’s still in mid-air. How did he do that? He must have woken up just in time. No! That’s not possible! She was just gearing up to slip past. No!

Victoria caught herself, just before anybody else did, glaring open-mouthed at the unworthy adversary who had cheated her out of her prize. She imperceptibly stamped her feet, dusted the discomfiture from herself and looked about for stroppy alternatives. The train was about to leave and there was no time to find another carriage. On the opposite bank were three empty seats and she took the middle one. She yanked out her magazine and settled as best she could. Through the closing doors, Eddie Watkins, 19-stone erstwhile publican of the parish, now rusticated to an off licence in Finchley after the locally infamous scandal, wheezed aboard, mopped his glistening brow, looked about himself and chose an empty spot next to a tidy blonde. Victoria didn’t want to look up but couldn’t stop herself. Why her? Why today? Opposite and at the end of the row, she swore she could make out the flickering of an arch grin playing on the hateful face of the bastard who stole her rightful seat. Another shit day had started shit once more.