High Society by Matthew Tomlin

Richard had a headache; the kind that makes you grip your head in public. Maybe it was his body finally having enough of the smog that melded into the city air. Maybe it was the clammy brother of this air; the underground draft that signalled the arrival of the train. Regardless, Richard was half shoved into the capsule that opened up in front of him, the people around him having no concern for his creaseless grey suit and leather bound briefcase.

His hand seized up.

Glancing back to the platform while being herded into the corner of the carriage, Richard grimaced when his possession was absent from the place he had left it. Tax returns, board meeting minutes, contact details, company income charts, invoices… All gone. His job might be too. There was no better place to wallow in self-pity than the London underground. Pressed against strangers; two of which were blasting sounds Richard wouldn’t call music from headphones, and one who clearly needed much stronger deodorant. And a young woman that was staring at him.

Not in the mood to avert his gaze for just anyone, Richard stared her down.

“You dropped this?” She muttered, her soft voice nearly lost to the bass that thumped from the nearby headphones. From the tight space around her, she revealed a leather-bound suitcase. Richard was frozen for a few moments before an incredulous smile lit up his face. Awkwardly, and without breaking the woman’s gaze, he wrestled his arms free from their confinement. Only when his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle did he allow himself a sigh.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

The woman smiled in response. Something inside Richard clicked. Nothing more was exchanged between them except a few glances and the occasional grin. A final flash of those gentle blue eyes signalled her departure as she was washed away by the throng of Londoners rushing from the carriage.

Richard’s headache had subsided, but once his key slotted into the lock of his apartment, It started again.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just get a taxi.” A low, refined voice called as Richard entered his home. Lavishly designed though it was, none of it was to his tastes, but hers. “And our holiday’s been moved two days forward so we can attend Gillian’s 30th, I knew you wouldn’t mind. Four hundred and fifty pound cancellation fee is all.”

“Evening.” He grumbled, waltzing past the intricate glass coffee table that was too good to have coffee at. He pulled open the silver door of the fridge, letting the cool air soothe his head.

“Oh, and we were offered an investment into a solicitor’s firm, so I went ahead and booked a meeting for you. Tomorrow evening, 7’oclock sharp.” She sighed lightly, her sickly voice filling the room as she remained coiled up on the designer sofa.

“Good.” Richard replied. Taking a bottle of spring water, he sprawled himself over the breakfast bar, washing away the smog that clung in his throat.

“Don’t you want a cuddle, pet?”

Ooh, that high pitch. Unscrewed his sanity it did.

“No.”

“All I want it a minute with my man after such a hard day. I never get anything that I want.” She whined. She whined. And she whined.

Richard stood abruptly, striding across the room. As he came upon the coffee table, he raised his foot. Before his girlfriend could express her confusion, the sound of shattering glass set in. She shrieked, covering herself as the shards hurtled towards her. Once settled she glanced to see Richard’s leg, glistening red over his black trousers, standing in the middle of the coffee table.

“I’m going to hospital.” He said coldly, the adrenaline holding pain at bay.

“I-I’ll call Dr. Martin-“

“I’m going to hospital, now.”

To a hospital, to be treated like everyone else. Not to have priority, or to be swathed in luxury. Maybe the nurse would have blue eyes.