It’s said that you must never make eye contact on the Tube. In fact, the only polite way to behave is to pick a piece of floor or wall and stare fixedly at that for the duration of your journey. Any movement of your head could be interpreted as an attempt at communication with others which will inevitably be spurned as it rightfully should. I assume that applies to stations as well. Keep your head down, make yourself as small as possible and do not acknowledge anyone else’s prescence until you are out in the blessed open air and can behave like a normal human being again. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no expert; I’m kind of a Tube virgin except for the obligatory trips to The Science Museum, Buckingham Palace and Oxford Street in my youth. Frankly, I hate the bloody thing but am forced to ride it to work every day where I am one of the bright young things at a corporation filled with hundreds of people just like me.

So, anyway, I’m at Stockwell station, going home to my grossly undersized flat for which I pay a grossly oversized price. It’s ten fifteen which I’m pissed off about because no-where in the glossy brochure did it say their version of nine-to-five is something more like five AM to nine PM, I’m wearing my new black suit and heels which I’m dangerously close to falling over in, I’m doing my thing of keeping my eyes glued to the floor and then suddenly I’m bumping into Miss Bryant. Here, on a Tuesday night at Stockwell is my old Geography teacher. For Christ’s sake. It’s me who recognises her first, halfway through my mumbled apology and stepping round her I see wispy dark hair and just a snatch of a face which makes me whip round on myself with a jolt of familiarity. And I break the cardinal rule- I make eye contact.

She takes just a second more before I see the slight widening of her eyes that lets me know she remembers me. Fair enough, really, because my hair is straighter, my shoes are higher, my eyebrows are thinner and my face is more made up than when she saw me last. How long now, four, five years? She, on the other hand looks exactly the same. Figures. She never changed one bit in seven years of school either.

We’re frozen, me and her, for a few moments just looking at each other. She smiles at me and it enters my mind that she might just move on walking. It also enters my mind that that would quite hurt me. But she doesn’t.

‘Isabel’

She says my name in the way she always did back in the day- a dose of affection laced with something slightly disapproving which makes her tone of voice totally unreadable. Still a smile has broken across her face which makes me hope that seeing me has not totally ruined her day.

‘Miss!’

Immediately I regret expressing a genuine happiness to have seen her again. Jesus, play it cool, I admonish myself, surprised even at myself exactly how glad I am to see her. She’s your geography teacher I remind myself sternly, not your long lost sister. There is no need to speak as though you’ve just inhaled a vat of helium.

While I am blushing at my complete social ineptitude and desperately fumbling for something cool and offhand to say she is scrutinising me, half smiling genuinely, half with something almost mocking but friendly. It takes a split second for me to realise that I desperately want her approval and another for me to think how pathetic I am.

‘You look so different.’

Okay, not exactly an obvious compliment but I take it as an invitation to start a conversation when really my brain is screaming now would be the perfect time to say ‘Yeah thanks, it’s late, so see ya around some time yeah?’

‘You don’t.’

Another little half smile.

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

I’m thinking she’s going to make an excuse and carry on walking any moment which simultaneously terrifies and relieves me. I don’t want her to go but at the same time I have a terrible feeling I’m going to make a prat out of myself in front of her. After I admit this fear to myself I wonder why I should care how I look in front of her but my tired mind really can’t understand why this desperate need for approval has resurfaced after spending approximately one minute with her.

She’s asking where I work I realise so I reel off the name with the standard flat tone of voice I use when anyone asks me that question.

‘And you like it there?’

Well, there’s a loaded question. Somehow I know she’s deduced that I’m not really that enamoured with my ‘big career’ but obviously venting my woes in the middle of a tube station is not the best plan. We’re not in an American sitcom after all. So I use my well worn weapon of choice- sarcasm.

‘Oh yeah, I mean I’ve got my own business cards. I’ve made it you know?’

She has the good grace to laugh. Again, the insane thoughts start rushing through my mind. Does she genuinely think I’m funny? Is she just taking pity on me? Does she even like me? Oh my God STOP. What in the hell is the matter with me? Maybe it would be best for my sanity to just say ‘bye’ and ‘nice to see you’ but I just can’t. I want to talk to her so much that it sort of frightens me.

‘Are you still at St Catherine’s?’ Okay, good, nice normal questions. You CAN be normal.

‘Yes I am.’

‘Has much changed?’

‘Yes and no. Sorry,’ she adds, having obviously caught on to my disappointment at her short answers, ‘but if we go down that road we’ll be here all night.’

So there it is. My perfect opportunity to escape from this exhausting conversation. Her polite smile is basically inviting me to say ‘well nice to see you again’ while obviously moving away towards home and normalcy. Unfortunately my brain isn’t connected to my mouth.

‘We could go for a coffee if you like.’

I am actually so stunned I said that that I feel my mouth fall open in shock.

Even more stunning is when she raises her eyes to meet mine again, smiles more maddeningly than ever before and says ‘Alright.’