Page 18 of The Last Train Home
‘Are you going to grind on me, like we’re at a conference?’ I ask in my most teasingly seductive voice.
He laughs so hard and then says, ‘Obviously.’
He gets closer and this has the potential to be something so very sexy, but I watch Tom as we dance together, putting his best super-serious backing-dancer face on as he moves and I think,This is what I need. After the last few weeks, this is exactly what I need. Dancing like this with Tom has made meforget. And then I realise I’ve remembered everything again, and it suddenly sobers me up.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, his hands on my shoulders so he can look at me. He’s noticed that I’ve stopped taking our dancing very seriously.
‘I think I’m just hungry.’ And then a bit more truthfully, ‘I’m feeling a bit light-headed.’
‘You want to get some food in here or are you done with this place?’
I look around at the girls in high heels and the men in suits. Rihanna’s stopped singing and instead we’re being treated to Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’. I do love this one, but the music, the darkness, the beat, the heat … ‘I think I’m done. But you don’t have to come with me.’
‘Of course I do,’ he says. ‘Besides, I’m starving too. Let’s find somewhere to grab some emergency dinner.’
I nod, smile gratefully. I didn’t actually want to go on my own, but I would never have asked Tom to leave. He seemed so at ease. He appears to have slotted back into his normal life after everything. But maybe this isn’t Tom’s normal life. I don’t actually know.
We say goodbye to everyone, and Tom drops some money onto the table to help pay for the oversized bottle of vodka that he barely touched. His friends give him a look that indicates he’s scored with me. Tom misses it, but I don’t. Has Tom scored with me? DoIwant to score withTom? I ponder this as I pull my backpack over one shoulder and find that Tom’s hand has slotted into mine so naturally, leading me from the club. I hold his hand and wonder what it means. Holding hands is so innocent and yet … not.
Outside, the night is surprisingly warm for this time of year. It’ll be winter soon, but autumn’s mellow heat is still trying its best to cling to the season. Above us a few clouds scud slowly across the night sky.
‘It’s later than I thought it was,’ Tom says, looking up. It’s never quite dark enough in London to see stars. Far above us somewhere the stars are twinkling, unseen down here, but I know they’re there, reminding me there are greater things in this universe; greater things than what’s been happening to me, to Tom, to us.
Around us the buildings are lit up twenty-four hours a day, shining lights on empty desks; cranes assembling skyscrapers sputter red lights on and off, on and off, to tell helicopters to steer clear. Somewhere between the club and St Paul’s Tom lets go of my hand and the welcoming lights of a McDonald’s glow from across the road.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll buy you some dinner. I think it’s the only thing open.’
‘You do know how to treat a girl,’ I say as we enter the glaring brightness and step forward to place our order.
‘I would take you to The Ivy, but you posh-shamed me, remember?’ he teases, tilting his head up to look at the menu. ‘So now we’re in here, so I can prove to you I’m a man of the people. What do you normally have?’
‘I have the same thing every time,’ I confess. ‘A Cheeseburger Happy Meal with a milkshake. The portion size just works for me.’
‘What’s a Happy Meal?’ he asks, looking at the menu.
‘Is this a trick question?’
He turns to me. ‘No.’
‘It’s a kids’ meal. It comes with a toy.’
‘I’ve never had one,’ he says.
I think of his confession that he never really lived with his parents as a child. When it’s our turn, I step forward. ‘Two Cheeseburger Happy Meals, please, with strawberry milkshakes.’
‘Are you having two?’ he asks with a look of mock-horror.
‘They’re not both for me,’ I protest. ‘You’re about to have your first Happy Meal.’ Then I remember they’re for kids. ‘And a portion of chicken nuggets and an extra pack of fries, please,’ I tell the server. Then I turn to Tom. ‘You’re a big, strapping man and they are quite small portions actually, so we might need some top-up supplies.’
‘Big, strapping man?’ he repeats and his eyebrows lift. ‘I can’t work out if that’s a compliment.’
‘I think it is,’ I say. ‘I meant it as one. Although I’ve never quite understood what the word “strapping” means.’
He smiles. ‘You’re a journalist. Shouldn’t you know?’
‘Not really a word I use much when writing about shops.’
‘I’m not sure either, actually,’ he says as I find my gaze drawn towards his eyes. This is one of the least sexy conversations I’ve ever had, in one of the least sexy locations, and yet there is something strangely intoxicating about the whole thing. I wonder if Tom has recognised it too, because his look mirrors mine.
