Step Back In Time

by Ali McNamara

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

How many lifetimes would you travel to find a love that lasts for ever?

When single career girl Jo-Jo steps onto a zebra crossing and gets hit by a car, she awakes to find herself in 1964. The fashion, the music, her job, even her romantic life: everything is different. And then it happens three more times, and Jo-Jo finds herself living a completely new life in the 1970s, 80s and 90s. The only people she can rely on are Harry and Ellie, two companions from 2013, and George, the owner of a second-hand record store.

If she's ever to return from her travels, Jo-Jo must work out why she's jumping through time like this. And if she does make it back, will her old life ever be the same again?

Step back in time with this fabulously fun and feed-good comedy of time travel and romance, from the author of From Notting Hill with Love . . . Actually

Release date: November 7, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

‘Watch it, love!’ the London taxi driver calls from his black cab as I dash across the busy road, weaving in and out of the congested lunchtime traffic, and into the nearest coffee shop to order my much-needed caffeine fix.

I should have waited and crossed at the pedestrian crossing, I know, but I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t got time to wait for some silly green man to start flashing. You encounter enough fully grown ones doing that when you’ve lived in London as long as I have.

London. Full of noise and people and traffic – lots and lots of traffic – but I adore it and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Of all the cities I’ve visited across the world it’s still my favourite, and I’ve been to a few. We travelled a lot when I was growing up. My father had a good job with an international banking firm, and my mother, the quintessential businessman’s wife, made it her duty to travel with him. My two sisters and I got used to travelling across the globe with them, so moving home and country every few years became second nature to us. But London, our original home, has always remained my favourite city to this day.

‘Skinny caramel latte for Jo-Jo!’ the barista calls, as I’m jolted from my trip down memory lane.

‘Yes, that’s me!’ I shout. Thanking him, I grab my coffee from the counter and dash out on to the King’s Road.

I love my coffee. Actually, I’d be lying if I said it’s only that; it’s probably more of an addiction. But when you live the kind of life I do, you need to be firing on all cylinders at all times of the day and night, and caffeine gives me that ability.

That’s another thing I love about London these days – you’re never more than a few steps away from a Starbucks, a Costa, a Nero’s, or many of the other fine coffee houses opening up every day. I sigh with pleasure at the thought of all that variety, and take another sip from my latte.

Striding briskly along the King’s Road I slip on my sunglasses while I continue to drink my coffee. I’m good at multi-tasking, always have been and I wouldn’t have got where I am today if I wasn’t. I smile proudly to myself as I think about exactly where that is: my own accountancy firm, with a small set of offices out in Ealing. It had taken long hours and many years of work – and occasionally kowtowing to the type of people you wouldn’t want to wipe your feet on, let alone make a cup of tea for. But I’d got there in the end and earned what I’d always wanted.

I’ve adored numbers since I was a child and have a very mathematical, logical brain. I take after my father in that. I much preferred science and maths lessons to English and history at school – I never had enough imagination to think up stories, and I could never see the point in dragging up the past. I much preferred to concentrate on the present, on what was going on in my life at that very moment. Black and white and clear-cut, that’s how I liked my subjects, and it’s just how I like my life to be today. No complications.

I don’t have time for those.

I turn my face up towards the bright afternoon sun and feel the rays immediately begin to warm my skin. I should really try and get out of the office more often. I’d noticed this morning when I was getting ready for work how pale I was starting to look, even for me. But it isn’t surprising considering how many hours I spend at my desk every day. Long work hours and a healthy outdoor glow aren’t usually the best of friends. So even though, as usual, I’m pushed for time today, it is a joy to walk through London on this gorgeous summer’s afternoon.

I’m on my way to return some yearly accounting books to a second-hand record shop. I make it a rule that we personally deliver accounts back to our clients if we can; it adds an individual touch to the business and makes us accountants seem more human and friendly to our clients. This was something I’d done regularly when I was a junior, but as I moved further up the hierarchy of the firm, eventually becoming a partner, and then sole owner of the business when my partner sadly passed away, my outings during the day have become rare. I’m lucky if I stop for lunch these days, let alone leave the office during work hours.

Even though I shouldn’t, I stop to browse in one or two shop windows as I walk along the road. They’re all trying to tempt customers in with goods guaranteed to make their summer that little bit better, and an outfit in the window of the Peter Jones’ department store in particular catches my eye. The mannequin is wearing a dark navy French Connection leather jacket, white T-shirt, red Ted Baker jeans and matching bright red Miu Miu pumps. I really like the whole outfit, but it’s not at all what I’d normally wear. It’s completely impractical for work, and that’s what most of my wardrobe consists of these days – work-based clothes, mainly suits in practical, neutral shades suitable for an accountant. When would I wear bright red trousers? I rarely have time to go out and socialise. When I get home at night I’m either too tired, or still too busy with paperwork to go out dressed like that.

So I use the glass of the window to straighten my charcoal grey jacket, and smooth some stray pieces of hair back into the low ponytail at the back of my head. Then I leave the window and the outfit for someone much more deserving, with a much more exciting life than me.

My iPhone rings in my bag. It’s Ellie, my PA.

‘Hello, Ellie, problems?’

‘Yo, Jo-Jo.’ Then she giggles at me. ‘Ha! Yo Jo-Jo, funny, that is.’

I roll my eyes. Ellie has only been with us since the beginning of the year – this is her first job since she moved to London from Liverpool. But she came with excellent references and what she lacks in etiquette she certainly makes up for in efficiency and, I have to admit, bags of personality.

‘Ellie, is there a problem at the office?’

‘Err, no. I was just ringing to tell you your mam phoned again and could you call her back. She was pretty insistent I pass the message on immediately, this being the fourth time she’s called, ’n all.’

I sigh. My mother is very old-fashioned and still won’t call me on my mobile number. ‘I don’t trust the things, Jo-Jo,’ she says. ‘It just isn’t right carrying a phone around in your handbag.’

‘It’ll be about their party again,’ I tell Ellie. ‘She’s still harassing me about it. I almost missed a family party once because of work and now my mother doesn’t trust that I’ll show up for anything.’

I’d been really late to my father’s sixtieth birthday celebration because a meeting with a new client had run on much longer than expected. But what nobody knew was that that particular meeting was fundamental to me becoming a partner in the firm at such a young age. It was incredibly important. But no one other than me seemed to appreciate that. Certainly not my mother – she hadn’t spoken to me for a fortnight afterwards. But even now, I still felt bad about spoiling their night…

‘Just agree to go, then,’ Ellie suggests. ‘A fancy dress party – that sounds awesome. My folks would never do something like that for their anniversary.’

‘It may sound like great fun to you, but it’s hell on earth to me, Ellie. I hate dressing up. Why can’t my parents just hold a civilised drinks party for their fortieth wedding anniversary like normal people of their age?’

‘Aw, Jo-Jo, I think it’s fab that your parents are still partying. I bet they were right goers in their time, eh?’

I cringe at the thought of my parents being called ‘goers’. But Ellie’s right; from the stories I’ve heard they were quite, er… free-spirited when they first met.

‘I’m not sure I’d describe them as goers, Ellie, but they were very passionate about their music.’

And I should know. My sisters and I have had to live with their Beatles obsession all our lives. My older sisters were christened Paula and Georgina after Paul McCartney and George Harrison, and I was expected to be a boy (because of the way my mother was carrying me, apparently) and was going to be called John, after John Lennon, of course. But within minutes of my birth that swiftly had to be adjusted to Jo-Jo, for obvious reasons. But I’m still stuck with Lennon as my middle name. Something I never reveal to anyone! I’m just glad they stopped at three children – I didn’t fancy having another sibling called Starr, or heaven forbid, Ringo.

‘Is that why the party has a music theme?’ Ellie asks. ‘Your mam was telling me all about it on the phone. Oh, wow, think of all the costumes you could wear for that!’

I screw up my face. The thought of dressing up as some has-been pop star makes me feel physically ill; it’s just not my thing at all. But Ellie, unaware of my torment, continues.

‘If it was me, I’d go as Rihanna, or Lady Gaga, or even Madonna.’

‘Madonna?’ I ask in amusement. ‘Isn’t she a bit before your time, Ellie?’ In theory, she was a bit before my time too, but Ellie, at twenty, makes me feel much older than my twenty-nine years.

‘No, Madge is retro these days. Retro is cool, Jo-Jo, don’t you know?’

I lost touch with what was cool many years ago. In fact, I’m not sure I was ever in touch with it.

‘If you say so, Ellie. Look, much as I’d like to stay and chat with you about how to be cool, I have to get these accounts back to George at the record shop.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry. Say hi to George for me, won’t you, and be sure to call your mam as soon as you’re done!’

Really, Ellie was far too informal for an employee. I’d have to speak with her when I got back.

‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

‘No time like the present!’ Ellie sings cheerily down the phone. ‘Ta-ta for now!’

‘Goodbye, Ellie,’ I say seriously, but I have to smile as I end the call. You just can’t be in a bad mood when Ellie’s around.

I continue down the road, past all the modern high street shops, until I come to an area of the King’s Road commonly known as World’s End. George, the owner of the shop I’m about to visit, once told me it was named after the pub I’m standing opposite now – the World’s End Distillery – while I wait to cross on a zebra crossing.

The pub is an odd-looking building, completely detached from the other shops and houses that line that side of the King’s Road. While they are all scrunched together in long terraces, it stands proudly isolated from the rest, like a king watching over his subjects. Even the shape of the building is regal, with its pointy apexes reminiscent of the spikes of a crown. I bet that building has seen some changes over the years, I think, as at last the traffic pulls to a stop so I can be allowed over the crossing.

I never get this type of pedestrian crossing. I can handle the pelican type with its red and green man. That’s easy, it’s self-explanatory what you do and when. But this zebra type with its flashing orange beacons always confuses me; when do you step out and what are the orange lights supposed to be doing before you’re allowed to cross?

But I have no time right now to worry about the rules of zebra crossings or I’ll be late. And I hate being late. I admonish myself for pausing to browse the shop windows as I did, but it was so enjoyable for once being out in the sunshine. Hurrying past Vivienne Westwood’s famous boutique, I see the huge clock on the front of her shop that runs backwards. What is the point of a clock going backwards? I wonder, stopping to look at it for a moment; life is about moving forward, not back. Then, a few more steps down the road and I’ve reached my destination – Groovy Records. I smile every time I read that name; George has owned this shop since the sixties, and back then that might have been a cool name for a record store, but now it just sounds dated and wrong. But, surprisingly, George is still keeping the shop running all these years later, and with a small profit again this year, as I’m about to tell him.

I open the door to the shop and, as always, a small bell rings over my head.

‘Hi, George,’ I say as I see him bending over behind his counter sorting through a box of old records.

He straightens himself up slowly and with care. ‘Jo-Jo,’ he says, looking surprised. ‘Golly, is it that time already?’ He looks at an old wooden mantle clock behind the desk. ‘Well, so it is, 2 p.m. on the dot. How are you, my girl?’

‘I’m good, thanks, George. I have your accounts.’ I hold up his battered old account book. ‘All present and correct, and I’m pleased to say you still turned over a profit again last year.’

George nods knowingly as if that was never in doubt. ‘Good, good,’ he says distractedly. ‘Now, have you time for a cup of tea, child?’

‘Of course I do,’ I say, smiling and quickly hiding my Starbucks cup behind my back. ‘You make the best cup of tea in London.’

George nods again in agreement. ‘That I do. Take a seat, I’ll be right back.’

I sit down on a wooden chair that stands in the corner of the shop and wait. Even though I’ve just downed a large cup of coffee, I wouldn’t want to disappoint George and so I’ll always take a cup of tea from him. I may barely have time to set foot outside the office these days, but this is one lot of accounts I always take the time to return myself. George loves nothing more than for someone to sit and take a cup of tea with him, so he can recall one or two of his many stories about the past.

As I look around the shop, the familiar rhythmical ticking of the clock behind the desk immediately begins to calm any panic I felt about being late. The shop never changes that much. It has always had the same décor for as long as I can remember. George always arranges his stock in exactly the same way, and he always keeps a vase of bright, cheery sunflowers on the counter next to his till. I glance up at the posters on the wall showing pop stars and rock bands through the ages. Classics icons such as the Rolling Stones, Michael Jackson and David Bowie take their place on the wall next to more modern artists like Take That, Madonna and Coldplay. George even has a One Direction poster up now, although I very much doubt he has much call for their music in here amongst the records, cassettes and the few CDs that he keeps in stock. Most kids these days download their music to their iPods and smartphones, don’t they?

Some music starts to play in the shop. Ah, what is it George is playing for me today? I wonder. He always likes to try and educate me about some old band or other when I’m here. But today I happen to know this tune. How could I not? It’s a Beatles track, ‘Hello Goodbye’.

George appears from the back carrying two mugs of tea; he passes me one with Choose Life emblazoned across it. ‘I’ll give you the modern one,’ he explains. ‘I’ll just take my good old Abbey Road mug.’

‘Modern?’ I ask, examining the motto. ‘What’s choose life?’

George shakes his head. ‘Jo-Jo, you must know Wham – George Michael’s old band? Everyone was wearing T-shirts with this slogan on when they were around.’

‘George, Wham were about in the eighties, I’m hardly going to remember what people were wearing then, am I? I wasn’t born until 1983.’

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ George nods. ‘The eighties seem like only yesterday to me.’

And just as he says that, the music changes to another Beatles classic, ‘Yesterday’.

‘Hey, how did you do that, George?’ I laugh. ‘You timed it perfectly.’

George lifts his head and listens to the track. ‘Another great,’ he says. ‘You know who this is playing, of course?’

‘Yes, I can never mistake the Beatles – I had their songs played constantly to me from the time I was born until the time I left home.’

‘Of course. You’ve mentioned before that your parents were Beatles fans.’ George pulls another chair up beside mine. ‘Great band – I miss them.’

‘You knew the Beatles?’ I exclaim, astonished. ‘I’m no great fan of theirs, but that’s really cool.’

‘Not exactly knew. They were customers from time to time – in their early days, when they first moved to London.’

‘Wow!’

‘This shop has seen a lot of customers over the years.’ George looks fondly around the four walls of posters. ‘I’m not sure what will happen to it when I’m gone.’

‘Don’t be silly, George, you’ve got years in you yet,’ I say lightly. ‘Don’t you have anyone to leave this place to?’ I ask as an afterthought. ‘No family?’

George shakes his head. ‘There’s family, but they’re not interested in music the way I am. I’m sure they’ll just sell it.’

I know George must be well into his seventies. I can’t bear the thought of this shop closing down when he’s gone. It’s his life’s work.

‘We’ll need to find someone to run it for you then, won’t we? Someone who shares your love of music.’

‘I can’t tempt you, then?’ George asks, smiling.

‘Definitely not! I know nothing about music. Never have done, never want to.’

‘But why? That’s quite unusual for someone of your age, surely?’

‘Blame my parents – I guess I just got put off having it drummed into me when I was young, no pun intended,’ I grin. ‘You always hate what your parents like, don’t you? It’s one of life’s unwritten rules.’

George thinks about this. ‘But music is one of the few things that can bring people together, Jo-Jo, whether it’s through their love of it, or their taste in a particular band. Music unites the world.’

I hadn’t expected George to be quite so poetic. ‘I guess you could be right.’

‘I know I’m right,’ George says without hesitation. ‘Think about all the couples that have a special song, one tune that they regard as theirs. You always remember the music you walk down the aisle to, or you break up with a boyfriend or girlfriend to, and the first time you… well, you know,’ George says, raising his white eyebrows at me.

‘George!’ I tease, smiling now. ‘I’m shocked.’

‘Ah, don’t be,’ George says with a wave of his hand. ‘I was young once, you know? People say it’s love that makes the world go round, but it’s not, it’s music.’

‘Maybe it’s a bit of both,’ I say. ‘Not that I need to worry about that right now.’

‘Still no Mr Right?’ George asks sympathetically. ‘There wasn’t the last time you were in either, if I remember rightly?’

‘Definitely no Mr Right. Not that I’m looking, mind. I’m far too busy for all that sort of nonsense.’

George looks at me disapprovingly. ‘A pretty girl like you with no beau on her arm, criminal that is.’

‘I hardly think so. And now you sound like my mother; she’s always telling me I need to find someone before it’s too late. How can it be too late, George? I turn thirty this year, not sixty, for goodness’ sake. I’ve still got plenty of time.’

‘But don’t you get lonely?’ George asks. ‘Every time I see you you’re rushing here and there for your work, but you don’t seem to do anything else as far as I can tell. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to share things with at the end of a hard day.’

I think about this. ‘No, I don’t think I’m lonely; I quite like my own company. When you’ve grown up with two older sisters to bicker and fight with, it’s wonderful to have a peaceful house to yourself to chill out in.’

George’s bright blue eyes regard me knowingly from behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. ‘Sometimes we think we know what we want, but we don’t actually know what we need until we find it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You just never know what fate will throw at you, Jo-Jo,’ he says mysteriously. ‘It has a funny way of showing us what we sometimes didn’t know for ourselves. For instance you never know when or where you might meet someone…’ George looks towards the shop door. And, as if by magic, it opens.

‘Hey, George!’ A young man wearing a sharp charcoal grey suit and a crisp white shirt strides confidently through the door. ‘Long time no see, buddy! Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he says apologetically when he sees me. ‘I didn’t know you had company.’

‘This is Jo-Jo McKenzie,’ George says, introducing me. ‘Jo-Jo, this is Harry – he’s one of my best customers.’

‘I sometimes think I’m your only customer,’ Harry says, a wide, relaxed smile spreading across his face. ‘I was quite concerned when I had to go away and work overseas for a few months. But I see I needn’t have worried, because you have two of us to keep you afloat!’

‘Oh, I’m not a customer,’ I explain. ‘I’m George’s accountant.’

‘Accountant?’ Harry puzzles. ‘Not possible. Accountants are boring middle-aged men. Not…’ he struggles.

‘Not what, Harry?’ George asks, a smile spreading across his own lips now. His eyes dart between us.

‘Well…’ Harry struggles. ‘Not people that… look like you, that’s all.’ He waves his hand in my general direction and pretends to look with great interest at a poster on the wall. Unfortunately it’s the One Direction poster, so he hastily turns his head back towards us. He smiles nervously.

‘It’s OK,’ I reply. ‘Sadly it happens a lot, even in this day and age – stereotyping.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t stereotyping you,’ he says hastily. ‘I’m a fairly modern chap when it comes to women and jobs, and you’re hardly masquerading as a brickie or a bare-knuckle wrestler, are you? Not that there would be anything wrong in that if you were,’ he adds hurriedly when he sees the look on my face. ‘I was just wondering if I knew you, that’s all? Have we met before?’

I wasn’t expecting this. ‘Erm, I don’t think so?’

‘It’s just… you look awfully familiar to me.’ Harry inspects me more closely. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

I consider Harry with more care now too. Not that I need to, really. He’s quite a good-looking chap with his chestnut brown hair and deep blue eyes, which are still looking down at me intently. ‘I don’t think so, I’m sure I’d have remembered if we had.’ To my horror, I suddenly realise that I’ve said this out loud, when I very definitely meant to keep it to myself.

Harry grins. ‘That sounds like a chat-up line.’

‘I can assure you it isn’t,’ I reply, furious with myself for blushing.

But Harry appears to be deep in thought. ‘You said you were an accountant… that rings a bell somewhere… let me think.’ The shop goes silent for a moment and we watch while Harry prowls around. I glance over at George, but he just shrugs.

‘I’ve got it!’ Harry suddenly exclaims, swivelling around to face us again. ‘Of course, that’s it. I know your father!’

‘How would you know Dad?’ I ask, intrigued by this revelation.

‘I went to his sixtieth birthday party,’ Harry explains. ‘The company I used to work for before I went out on my own did a lot of business with your father and I was one of the token industry guests that night. I seem to remember you were very late getting there that evening, weren’t you?’ He raises an accusing eyebrow at me.

‘Yes, well. It’s one of the very few times I’ve been late in my life, I can assure you,’ I reply haughtily. ‘Usually I’m a very good timekeeper. My time is very precious to me so I use what little I have wisely.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Harry says, appearing to nod in agreement, but I get the feeling he’s mocking me. ‘But that’s definitely the place I remember you from, that party.’ He smiles.

I think back to the party. No, I don’t remember Harry being there that night, but he obviously remembers me – how strange. I guess I wasn’t there that long, but even so…

‘Anyway,’ Harry announces, ‘don’t let me take up any more of your time. Which, as you kindly pointed out, is very precious to you. I’ve just popped in at George’s request to browse his stock again and have a little chat.’ He turns to George. ‘We’ll catch up in a bit, I’m in no hurry, I’ve got all day…’ He says this easily, but I’m pretty sure he’s aiming his comments at me. ‘Do continue with whatever you were doing before I rudely interrupted you.’ He smiles again, turns his back on us, and begins to thumb through a pile of seventies punk albums.

I look at George, who just grins at me.

‘So, George,’ I say, opening up his accounts book. ‘As I was telling you before we were interrupted a few moments ago, you’ve managed to turn over a healthy profit this year.’

George nods. ‘I never doubted I would,’ he says, standing up and stretching. ‘This shop’s been in business fifty years this year, and we’ve never turned in a loss in all that time.’

‘That’s pretty amazing,’ Harry says, turning around again. ‘Fifty years without a loss. How’d you manage that?’

I sigh, but George just taps the side of his nose. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr Hot-Shot Businessman?’

‘Ha, I’m hardly that,’ Harry says, sliding the record he’s holding back into the rack. ‘I struggle to make my accounts look as healthy as yours from week to week, let alone year to year.’

‘Maybe you should get Jo-Jo to take a look at them?’ George suggests. ‘She’s very good with numbers.’ He turns and winks at me so Harry can’t see.

Good grief, is that what this is about? Is he trying to set me up with this guy? Has George orchestrated this whole meeting today to get us to go on a date together? 

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Harry says, to my horror. ‘What about it, Jo-Jo? Shall we meet up some time and discuss my figures? And just for now, here’s a few to be going on with.’ And to my absolute disbelief he cheesily passes me a business card with his contact details on.

I stare down at it.

‘Er… I’m actually quite busy right now,’ I reply hastily. ‘But I can get one of my associates to give you a call if you like?’

I’m quite surprised when Harry looks disappointed.

‘Sure, yeah, that would be great. If you could.’ He turns and immediately goes back to his examination of a Sex Pistols album.

For a split second I quite feel sorry for him.

‘So, anyway,’ I say to George, ‘I think we’re probably finished now.’ I quickly finish off the last of my tea, suddenly desperate to make a swift exit. I don’t get chatted up very often – if that’s what just happened – and now I feel seriously awkward. ‘It’s been lovely to see you again, George, as always.’ I stand up.

‘Jo-Jo, do you have to go already?’ George asks, looking over at Harry who’s still thumbing through records.

‘I’m afraid so. I’ll try and call again soon, though.’ I put my mug down on the counter and turn to leave.

‘Nice meeting you, Jo-Jo,’ Harry says, turning his head to look at me.

‘Yes, likewise,’ I reply politely. ‘You never know, maybe we’ll meet in George’s shop again.’

‘Oh, I’m sure of it,’ Harry says, and I see him exchange a quick glance with George.

‘Right…’ I quickly make a move for the door before either of them has time to say anything else. ‘Goodbye, George,’ I call before I exit. ‘Look after yourself.’

‘Don’t you be worrying about me, Jo-Jo. I’m not the one that needs looking after any more,’ George says peculiarly. ‘Watch how you go, young lady. I’ve a feeling I’ll be seeing you sooner than you think.’

‘Perhaps,’ I smile. ‘Like I said, I’ll try.’

George simply nods, and finally I’m able to escape back outside on to the King’s Road.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk back along the pavement towards the crossing. I know George is getting on a bit, but he was behaving very strangely today. And as for trying to set me up with that guy Harry? What was he thinking?

I allow my thoughts to linger on Harry for a moment. Harry was very good-looking and his thick brown hair and sapphire blue eyes are certainly my type – if I actually have a type. I’ve always been a sucker for a pair of very blue eyes for as long as I can remember. But I certainly don’t want a relationship in my life right now. Relationships are always so complicated, and they take up so much time.

No. I shake my head, it isn’t going to happen. And anyway, what are the chances of me bumping into Harry again? About as likely as all this traffic coming to an immediate halt the minute I step on to the zebra crossing I’m about to arrive at.

As I stand at the edge of the same crossing I walked over earlier, waiting for the orange beacons to do their stuff, I suddenly feel a hand on my arm and I jump.

‘Sorry,’ Harry says as I turn towards the hand, ‘it’s just you left this back in George’s shop.’ He holds up my iPhone.

‘How on earth did I manage to do that?’

‘Perhaps you put it down with George’s accounts earlier?’ Harry suggests.

‘Yes… maybe.’ But I don’t remember taking it from my bag.

‘Anyway, you have it back now.’ He turns to leave.

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘it was good of you to chase after me.’

Harry turns back and I get a flash of just how blue his eyes are now in the bright afternoon sunshine. ‘Any time.’

I turn and look at the traffic. Is it ever going to stop for me?

‘How I asked you out before…’ Harry says, suddenly aware that any moment I’m going to step out on to the crossing and it’ll be too late. ‘That wasn’t really me. I’m just not very good at asking women out, especially att. . .