Chapter Twenty Six

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   I arrived at the BBC building in Portland Place London at around nine thirty, I gave my name at the desk and was given directions up to the fifth floor, where the radio one studios were based. I sat outside in a waiting area for a little while, tapping my fingers against the rough material of my Levi 501s. 

   “Lana?” James popped his head out from one of the corridors that branched off from the main reception. 

   “Hi,” I smiled, standing up and pushing back some of my blonde curls. 

   “How are you?” He grinned, coming over and giving me a hug. 

   “I’m good thanks,” I giggled. “You?” 

   “A little tired,” he confessed, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes sleepily. “I’m used to it though,” he shrugged. “Come on, I’m just gathering all my stuff together,” he ushered me into the hallway and down towards a quieter wing of the building. We had met at a premiere, where he was doing coverage for BBC Three. 

   “Was it a good show?” I wondered, “I wanted to listen, but I couldn’t get enough signal on the train up here,” I explained. 

   “Yeah, it was good,” he beamed down at me, flicking his long quiff out of his eyes.

   “What’s it like working at a radio station, is it fun?” I wondered, as I followed him through to a large office space. 

   “It is,” James replied, “it’s great for people who love talking all the time, mainly to themselves,” he laughed and took my arm, pulling me over to the back, where there was a coffee machine, a table and a few chairs hanging about. 

   “Okay,” he picked up a few bags and shrugged on a chunky coat, “come on then, Lana.” I held onto James’ hands and started to lead him towards the exit. 

   “Lots of people like you, you know,” he mentioned, as we traveled down in the quiet lift. 

   “What do you mean?” I pouted. 

   “Well, when you walk past, people stare,” he chuckled. “Do you not notice?” 

   “No, I don’t,” I frowned. “I’m not used to it, I guess,” I shrugged, lowering my gaze to the shiny, black floor. 

   “It’s cool, I just thought I’d mention it, do you mind?” He wondered. 

   “Sometimes, but I’m not used to being treated that way,” I explained, “like, I was always the awkward, ugly looking one out of my group, and so it’s unusual to be treated the way I am.” 

   “I can’t imagine you being the awkward, ugly one,” he confessed. 

   “It happened,” I assured him. “Where are we going? Coffee?” I suggested. 

   “Of course,” he grinned, “there’s a place not far from here, just round the block.” 

   “Okay,” I nodded, following him out onto the grey streets of London, the sky was bland and flat, and the whole skyline seemed sombre. The streets sometimes felt grotty, the air thick with pollution, but I liked the suffocation, the urban hubbub. We walked around the block until we came across a small Italian coffee place, with comfy looking sofas and traditional, Persian rugs. 

   “What do you want, I’ll get us drinks?” James asked. 

   “I’ll have a cappuccino please,” I grinned, “one sugar.” 

   “Great, grab a seat,” he gestured to the nearly empty cafe and went up to the till to order our drinks. I chose a table by the window, with two large, puffy looking chesterfields, made of dark red velvet. I shrugged off my tweed overcoat and hung my bag over the back of the chair, before sinking into the seat, closing my eyes and feeling the warmth begin to drown my skin. 

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