Taking a Selfie

Taking a Selfie

She jogged up the steps on to Charing Cross Bridge feeling pleased with herself. The last step took her by surprise. The heavy early spring shower had left the flag stones greasy. She had to grab the rail to stop herself from falling and send her bags skittering along the floor. She took a deep breath made sure she’d got tight hold of them and stepped on to the bridge. She was heading up stream, against the flow. She dodged commuters heading for trains or drinks or possibly both; slipped round sauntering couples hand in hand and pressed herself up against the rails for a gaggle of jabbering exchange students to flock past.

She stopped next to an arching pylon, turning to finds the view she’d imagined. The sky was darkening turning in steps from ice blue to azure, iris and then indigo. The first pinprinks of starlight were competing with the neon and sulphur that rose up from the streetlights and buildings. To her left The Millennium Wheel glowed violet and cerise. She followed the curve of the Thames to Westminster Bridge, a dark series of arches over the river, the Houses of Parliament set back receding into grey until spot lights slowly came to life and Big Ben, its pale, yellow moon face glowing; (she caught a smile; she’d correct the cousins, telling them that it was not the name of the tower but the bell and she would have the ultimate trump card, she’d been there). To her right Nelson’s Column rose into the night and now there were cars. The traffic along the Embankment had picked up, cars lights on heading for home;, long, dark sleek ones, with the world reflected in their tinted windows, turning towards town. Down from the road the party boats blinked into life, water slapping their sides as one of the big river buses ploughed past sending ripples . Behind her a train rattled and clacked passed and she was brought back to the bridge.

The people slowed the roll in ripples past her.  She’d carefully placed her bags on the pavement when she’d stopped to take in the view. Now Ma’s cautionary words were there, and she dragged the bags back. She made sure they’re pinned between her feet so no pinch-thieves can run off with her treasures. (She knew they were of questionable value but they came in the right kind of bags, ones which showed where she’d been; capacious string bags in corporate colours with florid crests and fluid writing. There’d be squeals of delight from the cousins when she presented them, the whole family gathered. Ma would blush and Pa would do that harrumphing thing he did to show disdain, but secretly she knew he’d be impressed. Afterwards he’d come and kiss her cheek and squeeze her hand. He didn’t need to say more.)

She dug into her handbag rummaging for the phone. She was pleased to see the theatre ticket for tonight’s performance of Les Miserables was there. She checked every time she needed something, afraid that it might have escaped. She was excited about it, even though she felt it wasn’t as good a value as the ticket seller had suggested. She’d been wary; his charm was the wrong side of oily. But Ma had said she must go and see a show, pressing the extra money into her hand as they’d kissed at the departure gate, and so she’d let the crisp notes go.

She found the phone and selected the camera. Inadvertently she pressed video and then spent a few seconds jabbing madly to get it back to the setting she wanted. She was already thinking about what she’d put as she updated her Facebook status that night. She’d spent an evening showing Ma and Pa how it access it. They’d made the right kind of noises but she wasn’t convinced that they understood the intricacies of it all, but the cousins would show them, she was sure. She pushed down a sliver of disappointment; she’d hoped they’d comment, leave messages saying how wonderful it all looked and that she must be having a good time. But there had been nothing so far. She told herself that it didn’t mean they weren’t thinking about her.

The wind picked up making her shiver making her grateful that she’d bought her scarf and hat. There was a snatch of music. Somewhere on the bridge there was a drummer beating out a rhythm. She looked over the rail watching the Thames’s swirls and loops as it ran beneath the bridge, flowing with the syncopated beat. A tug chugged past sending discordant ripples across the surface. The wind turned and the drumming became a saxophone whose syncopated notes wrapped themselves round the stanchions and wires suspending the bridge. Someone was selling roasted chestnuts close by, a warm, sweet aroma that clung to her and made her shiver again. She looked up at the big wheel watching the capsules. For a moment she was convinced they were motionless. She liked the thought of being suspended and isolated, able to observe the world from her own protected kingdom. It reminded her of the tree house Pa had built her where she could watch the village go by without anyone noticing her.

She felt the tide of melancholy rising. She stamped her foot hard making a passing couple jump and an take a wider path round her and her bags. She’d made the decision to come. She’d chosen to do it on her own. The other ticket could have been used but she’d insisted. She wanted to assert her independence, to show she wasn’t defeated, lost. She could live her life. The anger burst the melancholy, set her right. She wasn’t here to think about home. She wanted to show them she was having a good time.

She closed her eyes and scrunched her face up, lifted the camera and counted to three, smiled, opened her eyes, checked the view and clicked.

She frowned at the result.  She’d blinked at wrong moment, the angle she’d held the camera at made her nose look big and some boy in the background had stuck two thumbs up.  She deleted it. No-one need see it. If only other things were so easy to put in the trash.

A cut glass laugh rose from one of the moored boats below. A series of coloured lights blinked into life as a couple swirled on to the open deck, smooth jazz following their steps. He was in black tie, she in an bright red evening gown that swept to the floor. They span round the empty deck, her hair trailing as the breeze tugged at them. The band inside slid to a halt and they dipped long and low. He paused letting her dangle in his arms, the woman laughing as he brought her upright, brushing her lips as he did so. Faces appeared at the double doors from the main cabin and the couple were beckoned back inside. As they ducked back inside the man pulled the women close fleetingly and she rested her head on his shoulder and then they were absorbed back into the boat.

She stood silently. It took a moment for her to drop her hand from her face. She bit the inside of her lip hard and sighed. There was a moment when it could all come crashing down, but she wasn’t going to let that happen. She was the strong one, courageous. He, he was nothing, the fact he’d left. She stopped herself. She wasn’t going to let that happen. It would be too easy. Yes, she’d come without him as an act of defiance, to show them all that she was not waiting around for him or any man. She blinked hard preventing the sting of tears becoming a real. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, brushed the hair from her face and raised the phone. She composed her face, smiled and clicked. She had a show to get to.