The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Show and Jezza’s Breakfast Hour . White, English, proud. The old-fashioned hosts of yesteryear. The staples of British television. But Tom and Nisha had stuck with it. They pushed through and now look at them. They had their loyal viewers who loved what they did and kept coming back every single morning. Even with the colour of her skin she’d been taken in as a British household name.
    They came back every morning to listen to Nisha talk about light-hearted news like fairs and fad diets and charity events. The important stuff.
    “Is anybody talking about it? Any chatter at all?” she asked Tom.
    “Not really,” he replied. She could hear the salt in his voice. “Maybe some people somewhere online are talking about how you had a stroke or something.”
    “A stroke? I’m twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake.”
    “I know, I know, but, there’s not much you can do with the weirdoes who hang around on the internet. Some of them are even claiming you had a vision.”
    “What?” she said, trying to chuckle at the idea. “A vision?”
    She noticed a group of teens up ahead, hooded smokers, looking over at her from the other side of the road. A small one on a bicycle with a lit cigarette poking out of his mouth. She picked up her pace.  
    “Yeah I know, right?” he said.
    An awkward moment passed between the two of them.
    “I had an idea for a guest,” she said, finally.
    “Go on.”
    “Dr Warwick Dalton.”
    “The space guy?” he said.
    “Yeah, he’s just started a new podcast. I figured it would be fun to get him on to talk about the future of the planet and all that.”
    “The future of the planet and all that?” he repeated her words slowly, as if spitting them through custard.  
    As Nisha passed the tribe of youths in hoods, she heard one of them say “Go back to your own fucking country you fucking Muslim.”  
    She walked on, ignoring it. For one, she wasn’t a Muslim; she was born English to Indian immigrants. And secondly, why would that matter? Still, she picked up the pace.
    “Well?” she said.
    “Yeah, we’ll look into it,” Tom said before putting the phone down.  
    As she neared her building she came to a crossroads. The road ahead — the straight road — led to home, to warm food, a bath, bed, fresh for tomorrow’s morning show. But to turn left … well, it could go a few ways.  
    She took a step forward, towards home, but then instantly pulled it back and whispered “one last time” to herself.
    The road going left took to her towards a different sort of familiarity. It took her towards a place she once called home, back when the apartment buildings didn’t reach so high. It took her to her husband’s flat.
    On the way, she stopped at an off-licence to buy a bottle of whatever rosé was on offer at the time. She’d normally buy something smaller, a beer or whatever, but she needed a large bottle today. She’d had a stroke, goddammit! She always had the small bottle of vodka hidden in her inside jacket pocket. It was a gift. Something she was supposed to drink after giving birth. A welcoming cheers. Nine months sober.  
    She pushed the thoughts of the bottle to the back of her mind and wiped her eyes as she rounded the corner towards the cinder-block of an apartment building. London life, tired, looking for some sort of reprieve from the hustle of the city, was all around her. Homeless people hiding from the rain and making huts out of cardboard boxes. People on phones with briefcases. More youths. All she was doing, she told herself, was offering some help in finding reprieve, solace, fun.  
    She reached the building. She looked up and could see his flat already. The place she used to call home. The balcony where she used to spend her evenings in the summer, practicing her yoga, and listening to Terry Rowling’s success tapes.  
    Without a second thought, she pushed in the code for the door and made her way in. Into the elevator, to the seventh floor. Flat number