anything. We could kiss properly at this point, but just as I think it might be about to happen, I pull away.
‘Good night,’ I say quickly.
He laughs quietly and steps back. ‘Night, Lara. Sleep tight.’
It’s chemicals, I tell myself as I lie on my back and feel the train bumping me westwards. It’s pheromones and things like that. It’s nothing else. I am married and so is he, and these things will happen from time to time. You just have to be aware of it and make sure everything is under control.
By the time I drift off to sleep, it’s nearly time to wake up again and pretend that it never happened.
chapter six
It is one of those clear Cornish mornings, and as I step off the train on to the platform, a breeze stings my face and lifts up every strand of my hair. I had no energy to do anything but run my fingers through it this morning.
I look around, half expecting Sam to be here, even though I told him to stay at home and put the coffee on. My head is swimming with stale alcohol, and my morning world is disconcertingly blurry around the edges. I know I look terrible, with lank hair and no make-up, and yesterday’s work clothes on because they were the nearest.
I nearly kissed Guy last night. I look back at the stationary train, wanting to see his face at a window, but there is no one. Other people are getting off here, most of them with work-style bags, a few with holiday suitcases. I want to ask every single one of them about their lives, to see who else is messing things up quite as badly as this.
The grey-black stone of the buildings at Truro station is lit up by the autumn sunlight, so much so that even they are verging on the dazzling. I smile at the tiny station, liking the fact that it is Cornwall’s major transport hub at the same time as being a fraction the size of Paddington or any other London station. It is barely as big as a Tube station: it consists of two and a half platforms, two bridges, a small ticket hall, an inept barrier system and the inevitable branch of the Pumpkin café.
The Falmouth train is leaving at 7.14, in eight minutes’ time. I turn and walk up to the small platform, Platform 1, concentrating on banishing my nausea, preparing myself to go home and be the wife Sam deserves. I should have put some proper clothes on. On the next train I will at least sort out my hair and try to apply some foundation.
The sleeper train pulls away, heading yet further west. I look again, but there is still no Guy.
Nothing happened between us. It was just a moment, or an evening of moments, that culminated in nothing. It is fine.
Falmouth Docks station, at the end of the line, is right below our house. I look up as my little train, carrying just me and, as far as I can see, two other people – a woman from the night train and a young man who got on at Penryn – approaches the station. Sam is not there. I wanted him to be in the conservatory, waving, with breakfast on the go.
As I step down, I gasp as he rushes up and clasps me tightly to him. I can hardly breathe, so I try to push him away, laughing.
‘Hi, Sam,’ I say, hoping I do not smell of train booze. He smells wholesome: he has clearly just showered and shaved. I make myself savour his familiarity and dependability. I am lucky to have this man here, waiting for me.
‘Oh, Lara.’ He nuzzles my hair. ‘You’re back, honey. Now we can live for a few days. The sun’s shining for you.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, grinning up at him. ‘I’m back. Come on.’ I look up at the house, ugly and dependable, and I am happy to be back. I am. ‘Is there some coffee with my name on it up there?’ I ask.
‘Yes! There is! There’s coffee with the word “Lara” running through it like a stick of rock. You can’t read it, because it’s written in coffee, but it’s there all right.’
‘Wonderful! Let me at it.’
He looks almost imperceptibly disappointed in me already. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Come on then. Let’s get you
‘Good night,’ I say quickly.
He laughs quietly and steps back. ‘Night, Lara. Sleep tight.’
It’s chemicals, I tell myself as I lie on my back and feel the train bumping me westwards. It’s pheromones and things like that. It’s nothing else. I am married and so is he, and these things will happen from time to time. You just have to be aware of it and make sure everything is under control.
By the time I drift off to sleep, it’s nearly time to wake up again and pretend that it never happened.
chapter six
It is one of those clear Cornish mornings, and as I step off the train on to the platform, a breeze stings my face and lifts up every strand of my hair. I had no energy to do anything but run my fingers through it this morning.
I look around, half expecting Sam to be here, even though I told him to stay at home and put the coffee on. My head is swimming with stale alcohol, and my morning world is disconcertingly blurry around the edges. I know I look terrible, with lank hair and no make-up, and yesterday’s work clothes on because they were the nearest.
I nearly kissed Guy last night. I look back at the stationary train, wanting to see his face at a window, but there is no one. Other people are getting off here, most of them with work-style bags, a few with holiday suitcases. I want to ask every single one of them about their lives, to see who else is messing things up quite as badly as this.
The grey-black stone of the buildings at Truro station is lit up by the autumn sunlight, so much so that even they are verging on the dazzling. I smile at the tiny station, liking the fact that it is Cornwall’s major transport hub at the same time as being a fraction the size of Paddington or any other London station. It is barely as big as a Tube station: it consists of two and a half platforms, two bridges, a small ticket hall, an inept barrier system and the inevitable branch of the Pumpkin café.
The Falmouth train is leaving at 7.14, in eight minutes’ time. I turn and walk up to the small platform, Platform 1, concentrating on banishing my nausea, preparing myself to go home and be the wife Sam deserves. I should have put some proper clothes on. On the next train I will at least sort out my hair and try to apply some foundation.
The sleeper train pulls away, heading yet further west. I look again, but there is still no Guy.
Nothing happened between us. It was just a moment, or an evening of moments, that culminated in nothing. It is fine.
Falmouth Docks station, at the end of the line, is right below our house. I look up as my little train, carrying just me and, as far as I can see, two other people – a woman from the night train and a young man who got on at Penryn – approaches the station. Sam is not there. I wanted him to be in the conservatory, waving, with breakfast on the go.
As I step down, I gasp as he rushes up and clasps me tightly to him. I can hardly breathe, so I try to push him away, laughing.
‘Hi, Sam,’ I say, hoping I do not smell of train booze. He smells wholesome: he has clearly just showered and shaved. I make myself savour his familiarity and dependability. I am lucky to have this man here, waiting for me.
‘Oh, Lara.’ He nuzzles my hair. ‘You’re back, honey. Now we can live for a few days. The sun’s shining for you.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, grinning up at him. ‘I’m back. Come on.’ I look up at the house, ugly and dependable, and I am happy to be back. I am. ‘Is there some coffee with my name on it up there?’ I ask.
‘Yes! There is! There’s coffee with the word “Lara” running through it like a stick of rock. You can’t read it, because it’s written in coffee, but it’s there all right.’
‘Wonderful! Let me at it.’
He looks almost imperceptibly disappointed in me already. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Come on then. Let’s get you
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