Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

What am I supposed to do now? I have no legitimate reason to interrupt his reading. If I do, I’ll look like a complete idiot. A desperate idiot. I know I am, but he certainly doesn’t need to be aware of that yet.

I decide to wait until the train pulls up at Manor House before attempting round two. He’s bound to look up to see what stop we’re at and I’ll seize the moment then.

While he’s reading, I take the opportunity to study him properly. Sinking back into the soft, worn, dark-blue seats and inhaling the familiar scent of soot mixed with the unfamiliar fragrance of an earthy male perfume, I analyse everything I can. His forehead is furrowed slightly, which means he must be taking whatever he’s reading seriously. I glance at the jacket and am surprised to see that it’s the latest crime novel to have been turned into a movie. He doesn’t strike me as the contemporary crime fiction type; I thought he would be more into philosophy or history, but then, what do I know about him anyway? He’s wearing a dark grey coat and black leather shoes with what looks like suit trousers. So he must be going to work then. Phew. Imagine if he was a uni student – that would have been really embarrassing. His fingers are long and slender and I’m happy to see that his nails are short and neat.

As I continue to observe him and the tingly sensation that’s brewing in my gut spreads through me, I wonder why it is that Hamza doesn’t have the same effect on me. He’s a nice guy. He’s not bad-looking. I think he might be successful as well. Why can’t the chemicals and hormones in my body react to him in the same way they’re reacting to Mr Piccadilly Line right now? If Mr P had texted me the other day asking to meet up, I would have been out the door before you could say ‘Piccadilly’.

But that’s the thing, I guess. You can’t control who you’re attracted to. It’s not something you can think about, analyse, or persuade yourself into. Those feelings are completely disconnected from your brain. Attraction, I decide, is not like love, which can grow over time. There’s no logic, sense or explanation behind attraction. It’s either there, or it’s not.

The train slows down and I brace myself to meet Mr Piccadilly Line’s gaze again. And as I do, I have a brainwave. I know exactly how to find out if he’s Muslim.

‘Achoo!’ I fake sneeze, loud enough for him to notice and look up. I’m careful to cover my mouth daintily. ‘Alhamdulillah,’ I say, the customary Islamic phrase to use after a sneeze.

If he replies with the Arabic response ‘Yarhamukallah’ (which means ‘May Allah have mercy upon you’), I’ll know that he’s a Muslim. If he doesn’t? Well, there’s a chance he still is but said it in his head. Or didn’t want to say it. Or is too irreligious to know that’s what you’re supposed to respond with. OK, I see now that my plan is majorly flawed.

Mr P glances up at me for a split second, smiles the briefest of smiles, and continues reading. He doesn’t say a word and I’m none the wiser about his religious preferences. What is slowly becoming clear though, is that he has zero interest in me. Because if he did, surely he would have made a move by now?

Deflated, I wonder if I should admit defeat and let this one go. I’m practically throwing myself at him, yet he remains unresponsive. But I can’t, because of all the days for us to be on the same carriage, it’s happened today. When I’m right in the middle of my manhunt. That is a cosmic sign if I ever saw one.

I have two more stops – approximately four minutes – to make a move.

Taking a deep breath, I count to ten to calm my nerves and say a small prayer. It’s now or never.

‘Enjoying the book?’ I ask, my voice shaking slightly. It is at that precise moment that the train goes through a particularly noisy part of the track and my words are completely drowned out.

Mr Piccadilly Line looks up, puzzled.

‘Sorry, did you say something?’ he asks, looking straight at me. My smile falters and I feel a bit sick. Did I really disturb him to ask him about his book? There’s no way I can repeat that again.

‘Erm, I said, do you know where I can get off for Wood Green High Road?’ I lie weakly. I’m pretty sure my smile is beginning to look like a grimace now.

‘Er, Wood Green?’

‘Yes, Wood Green High Road.’ I repeat.

‘No, I meant, you get off at Wood Green.’ His expression is completely deadpan and I feel like throwing up.

‘Oh! Right, of course. I wasn’t sure if that was the best stop. You know, like how Arsenal isn’t really Arsenal. Anymore.’ I swallow nervously and look down. This really isn’t how I expected our first conversation to go.

‘Well, Wood Green is still very much Wood Green,’ he says wryly, raising an eyebrow.

What the hell did you expect?an annoying voice whispers in my ear. A deep conversation about the meaning of life and a proposal by the time you reached Oakwood?

‘Just shut up,’ I hiss at the annoying voice in my head, turning red.

‘Excuse me?’ Mr Piccadilly Line is looking taken aback. ‘Did you tell me to shut up?’

‘Of course not! I wasn’t talking to you!’ I exclaim, barely able to get the words out. I need to get off this train. Now. This is not going according to plan. The entire plan was stupid anyway.

The train pulls into Turnpike Lane. Praise the Lord! I jump up and hurriedly stuff my arms into my coat.

‘OK, this is my stop!’ I manage to say, grabbing my bag and my Thermos. ‘See you around!’ I look at Mr P one last time and I wish I didn’t. He looks part-bewildered, part-annoyed, and still looks bloody good while doing so. Idiot! I hate his pathetic guts.

‘I thought you wanted to go to Wood Green?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

Oh, for God’s sake! What is his problem? Can’t he see that I need to get as far away from him as possible before I make myself look like an even bigger weirdo?

‘I didn’t say that, you must have misheard. Bye!’

Before he can say anything else to incriminate me, the doors open and I leg it off the train without looking back.