The only way out is to stay in.

That was one of the many slogans which featured on the Latino man’s collection of t-shirts. He also smelt of bergamot. But crucially for Abbie Spalding, and unlike many other commuters, he wore headphones as he scrolled through social media for the duration of their journey. A suitable neighbour who allowed her to focus.

But that day, he didn’t get on the bus.

As the bus drove away from the stop, a handful of people shuffled towards Abbie, clinging to the bus’s strap handles like visitors to a tree-top adventure park. She shifted her bag to occupy the empty seat next to her and looked at the padded seat as though her eyes were suddenly impaired.

Forget your eyes, love, she scolded herself. It’s your brain that’s the problem.

Why was she so unsettled by the absence of a random stranger? Their relationship merely consisted of polite smiles and courteous greetings. No unrequited love. No pending meet-cute. No accidental brushing of their hands as they pressed the stop button. He was her constant. Okay, an attractive constant, but more importantly, a constant.

She pulled a bundle of printed sheets and a red pen out of her bag. A script about an attractive red-head with a fringe, dimples and an unhealthy obsession with a Latino man is working for a narcissist. She re-read her previous notes.

Very funny, guys. Can we maybe come up with some characters or tropes that are not based on me and my pathetic life?

Before she could add further notes, her phone vibrated.

Devil (+44 …567)

Abbey, pick me up a latte would you? – 08:31

Apologies – 08:31

I won’t make the writer’s room meeting – 08:32

You run it. I trust your judgement – 08:32

She guffawed. Five years and the so-called producer still couldn’t spell ABBIE’S name correctly. He also couldn’t say sorry either. Ever. ‘Apologies’ came easier. He would miss yet another meeting. But he deserved her loyalty. He had done enough for Abbie. In fact, she somehow welcomed his typical behaviour. Comfortable. No change. Normality.

Before she could put her phone back in her bag, it rang.

‘DEBBIE’ CALLING . . .

‘Morning, Abs,’ said Debbie, sombrely. ‘How are you feeling? That gin didn’t agree with me last night, love.’

Abbie chuckled. ‘You mean that it didn’t agree with you this morning. Last night you and “that gin” appeared to be getting on rather well. As always. Consider yourself fortunate. I would kill you for changing Doug’s contact in my phone last night if you weren’t so fragile right now.’

‘What does he expect with a name like “D. Veale”? You yourself even called him “the devil” last night.’

‘Context, Debs. Context. I actually said, “Better the devil you know” . . .’

Abbie thought back to their loud, gin-infused conversation last night. Always the same. A back and forth of who was more guilty for Abbie’s current life always resulted in Debbie urging Abbie to leave the studio. Despite being a junior producer, Abbie ran it all. From building and tracking the schedule to coordinating the creative, editing and sound departments. Abbie Spalding, the unofficial hub of action.

‘And it’s all my fault,’ Debbie had shouted over the live band.

‘No. If I had more guts to leave or if I wasn’t picked over you when the merge happened,’ cried Abbie, ‘I’d be elsewhere right now!’

Doug’s well-worn mantra to all those who he had rescued from the merge was the same expression embroidered on one of her bus-neighbour’s t-shirts, The only way out is to stay in.

The bus driver slammed on his breaks and hit the horn, bringing Abbie back to the phone call.

‘Listen,’ continued Debbie, quietly on the other end of the phone, ‘I may have done more than change your boss’s name on your phone. To be forewarned is forearmed.’

‘Debs, what have you done?’

‘I love you. Just remember that–’

‘Debs, seriously.’

‘Okay. I may have put you forward for a job at Fuera.’

Debbie’s up-and-coming artsy studio. The competition.

Before Abbie could fully process her friend’s words, an alert appeared on the screen.

‘DEVIL’ CALLING . . .

‘I’ll call you back – and then I’ll kill you,’ said Abbie as she clicked to answer the new call.

‘Abbie,’ said Doug, ‘why have I just received a message from Fuera saying that I’ve lost the best asset I never knew I had? Do you know anything about this?’

* * *

‘Sorry, Doug. Someone put my name forward for a job there–’

‘You?’ He sniggered. ‘Pointless. Am I right, or am I right? You’ve not forgotten what I did for you five years ago. I rescued you.’

Abbie thought back to another slogan on one of her bus-neighbour’s t-shirts, A slave is only rescued when he is set free.

Amen.

She looked again at the empty seat. Had her bus-neighbour also found freedom? Maybe he too had been enslaved?

‘And, just out of interest, Doug,’ she said, ‘how can you be so sure I won’t ever leave?’

‘You might. But you won’t go to Fuera.’

‘Why not?’ she said.

‘You don’t know, do you? Your friend, Debbie, begged me to retain you five years ago.’

‘And?’

‘And that would mean she was free to take the only spot at the time at Fuera. Do you get it now? She didn’t want you to get the job that she wanted. I’m guessing it was her who got you this job there now. Guilty conscience, I guess. I wouldn’t know much about that . . . By the way, change that latte for a macchiato . . .’

* * *

Doug was still talking as Abbie reached her stop. What rooted her to her seat as the doors opened? The knowledge that now she now knew the reason for her so-called friend’s guilt? Or was it gratitude? She had been pushed to make a change. The familiar passengers left the bus.

Without her.

The bus doors slam shut.

Doug’s voice on the other end of the phone was now merely a quiet echo. And then she smelt it. Bergamot.

Her bus-neighbour had boarded the bus. No slogan this time. And no headphones. With widened blue eyes, he looked towards Abbie’s seat and smiled.

‘May I?’

‘Sorry, of course!’ she said. Still holding the phone, Abbie moved her bag on top of the script.

The attractive Latino held out his hand. ‘I’m Mark.’

‘Abbie,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘One second, Mark.’ She raised the phone to her ear. ‘Apologies, Doug,’ she said into the phone before glancing at the closed doors. ‘You were right. The only way out is to stay in.’