Page 27 of The Key to My Heart

‘Why are you always here?’ tumbles out of my mouth and Tom looks blankly at me.

‘W-what? Why am I—’

‘Here? Why are you always here? I mean, I’m not even here all that often really, myself, not compared to, like, a commuter or something and whenever I am, you seem to be too, and I … I’m just asking you, what are you actually doing here? Again?’

Tom looks over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a film crew from a prank show, hiding behind a shop window display, ready to burst out and say, ‘You’ve been punked, my man!’ and oh, how we’d thenlaugh.

‘Natalie, this is … this is London. This isa train station—’

‘I know what it is,’ I say, my voice wobbling, ‘but what I’m asking is why? Do you … Is this you?’ I grab at the piece of piano music and he looks at me like I might as well be talking to him in a language largely only understood on Saturn. I lose my grip on it and it drifts to the floor, like an overgrown feather. ‘Shit …’

Tom slowly bends to the floor and picks it up, before placing it back on the piano, in the stand, but he stays crouched, so he’s level with me, here, on the stool.

‘I’m here because my studio, where I work, is two tube stops along. I’m working on something for an exhibition at the moment, around here. And my mum – she works here. In the station. And I drop in on her a lot. Keep an eye on her.’

I blink. ‘Okay,’ I sniff. ‘Work. Family. Good answer.’ Jesus, this poor bloke. Everything I stuffed down atbrunch, after that bloody open mic night, has just been aimed and directed at poor Tom. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

Tom gives a small smile – a tiny upwards curl, just a shadow.

‘Your mum works here?’

‘Yeah, she works in the coffee place. Upstairs.’

‘Goode’s?’ What feels like a brick falls from my heart to my stomach. ‘Shauna?’

His blue eyes narrow, a bristle of dark lashes, then he nods reluctantly. ‘Yeah?’

‘You’re … you’re her— Oh my God, are you one of the twins?’

He laughs then, a deep chuckle. ‘That’s me.’

‘Laurie andThomas.’

He laughs again. ‘Yeah, she’s the only human being on earth who calls meThomas.And, what, you know her? That’s … wild.’

‘I’m a regular customer. She’s … I love your mum.’

Tom gives a slow, easy smile. ‘Snap,’ he says.

A group of teenagers thunder past us on the tiles, roaring with laughter, as another of them trails behind. ‘Eh, wait, yeah?’ he shouts after his friends, and when I look down, he’s only wearing one trainer. He hobbles off after them.

‘And look,’ says Tom, gently. ‘I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m not responsible for – whatever this is.’ His blue eyes flick to the sheet music. ‘Plus, looks too clever for me. I was just gonna say a big boring hi. Very uncreative, very run-of-the-mill. Good tune, though. Retro.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, looking at him, crouched, down here with me. Handsome, kind eyes. And clearly clueless when it comes to having something to do with this weird, wonderful, batshit charade. ‘Honestly, I am, I’m just—’

‘Tired,’ he offers.

‘God – do I look tired?’ I feel relieved, really, that he has at least seen meoncelooking decent and behaving at least half normal. The last time he saw me I was sopping wet and trying to hide my face behind a pair of glasses, and today – today I’ve presented to him, a madwoman.

He shrugs a shoulder, a cock towards his ear.

‘Great. Thanks.’

Tom chuckles. ‘Well, you’re allowed to say this stuff to someone who declared they really, really don’t fancy you whatsoever in front of a crowd of Avocado Clashers, right? Me. Vince Vaughn. We don’t stand a chance.’

Despite myself, despite how shit and hollow and like an empty vessel of a human I feel, I laugh. ‘Plus, I did just speak to you like shit in a train station,’ I add, ‘and before you go to work and seeyour mum.’

‘Exactly.’

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