Page 27 of The Last Train Home
‘Is itmyfault? Have I done something?’ I plead, shamefully hearing the desperation in my own voice. I’ve hit a new low. He doesn’t even answer. He’s looking at the floor. What did I do wrong? ‘I don’t understand what I’ve done.’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong. We need to … God, I can’t think. I need to deal with this when I’m sober.’
‘You need todeal with thiswhen you’resober?’ I repeat disbelievingly. ‘Are you joking? How can you talk to me like this. How can you do this to someone?’
He’s looking at his phone now, his eyes purposefully avoiding mine.
My heart is racing. I want to shake him. I want Tom to admit he’s an idiot, that he’s sorry. I want him to tell me what’s wrong. I want him to kiss me again. I want to punch his public-schoolboy middle-class face. I want him out of my sight for ever.
Through the red mist of anger I find my bra on the floor, turn my back to him and put it on, then my jeans and T-shirt go back on.
He turns away from me and puts his clothes back on with slow, laboured moves.
We neither of us say anything and then I’m gone, out of the door, my bag in one hand, my shoes in the other.
I’m not even crying. I’m too shocked. I’m angry and I stalk at speed round the corner out of sight of his window, leaning against the wall and pulling my shoes on. I flip open my phone and see it’s almost 5.30 a.m. At some point a new day started and, inside Tom’s flat, I didn’t even notice. I don’t know where to go. By the time I get home, I’ll have to turn round and come back to work again. I could head to Natasha’s, but she’s probably already up and in the gym, and I can’t sleep these days anyway.
Through the tears and anger and sadness I decide my only option is to go to work four hours early.
Chapter 16
Tom
I’m facing the wrong way when Abbie leaves. I only notice she’s not here any more when my front door shuts. It’s one of those fire doors that closes by itself painfully slowly, so by the time it clicks into place she’s long gone. But it’s this click that pulls me out of my thoughts. Why can’t she see that I’m in turmoil? Why has she run? I race to the window to see which way she went, but she’s fast when she wants to be and there’s no sign of her.
I’m dressed, thank God, so I grab my keys, phone, trainers and I just run for it. I don’t even close my front door. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Where has she gone? Is she going home? I head towards the river, in the direction of Blackfriars Tube, and then I remember she won’t get the Tube any more.
I stand by the Underground entrance, unsure of what to do. I dial her number and wait, holding my phone to my ear. It rings and rings. I dial again. The same thing happens. Where is she? What have I done?
I start walking back to my flat, ringing and ringing her. Every time the call ends, I redial. I need to speak to her. I needto tell her why I stopped. I need her to know why. ‘Pick up,’ I shout into the phone. A cabby with his window down at a set of red lights jumps in his seat and looks at me. He winds his window up. I’m the raving lunatic shouting in the street in the early hours of the morning.
I call again, but I get an annoying little triple beep. Abbie’s switched her phone off. I turn to the nearest wall, which happens to be one of the walls to my office building. I make a fist and punch it so hard, while yelling the word ‘Fuck!’ at the top of my voice over and over. I hear the crunching sound before I acknowledge the pain.
Back in my flat, I lie down on my bed and stare up into the glare of the light bulb, wondering how that all went so horrifically wrong. I was about to have sex with Abbie. I wanted to. God, did I want to. And so did she. And now it’s all gone wrong. And it’s my fault. Everything about this is my fault.
I really like her. I’m not sure I understood how fast that feeling had crept up on me. We’re friends, but not romantic friends. Flirty friends maybe? I’m so baffled about what’s going on here.
Abbie and I, the way we met … People don’t meet like this. People don’t get together like this. I’ve either blown our friendship or I’ve saved it. I strongly suspect it’s the former.
But I can’t lose Abbie. I’m going to need her as a friend more than ever now. I look again at my phone and at the message that flashed up in the heat of the moment, drawing my eye when I was trying to find a condom. That fucking message. That fucking message changed everything.
I look at my right hand, crushed, covered in blood, the agony of it refusing to subside. I’m pretty damned sure I’ve broken every single bone in it.
Chapter 17
Abbie
November 2005
I watch the ice in my drink fracture and crack as the cold water hits the cubes. The noise of it is strangely satisfying and comforting. Funny how two things made of the same material can be so different, so at odds with each other, and then melt together as one anyway.
I’m at a bar near Canary Wharf waiting for Natasha. Despite the fact the buildings are so close to each other here, there’s so much more space. Most of it is concrete or paving slabs, but the bars all have wide outdoor terraces, patio heaters and rugs in abundance so that it’s quite nice to sit here, my coat wrapped around me, finishing my mulled wine as I watch the lapping of the river a few feet away.
I pull out my little foundation compact and look at my reflection to see what’s going on with my head injury all these weeks later. The cut on my forehead has healed, but now there’s a white line where I know it’s forming a scar: a reminder of that day that I’ll always have. I put a bit of foundation over it and it looks a bit better. Not much. But it’s early days. It might go yet.
When Natasha eventually arrives, it’s with her usual exuberance. Nothing ever fazes her. If it had been her and Tom on that train, Natasha would have been the one carrying Tom out, regardless of whether he’d wanted to be saved or not.
‘Has Tom been messaging you?’ she asks after she’s ordered a bottle of champagne. She drinks it like it’s water. Her job is entertaining bankers and their wives. I don’t understand exactly what it entails, but she’s used to a certain level of expense account and seems to apply that to her own free time as well. She forgets that our salaries are wildly different. She’s also single and has barely any spare time. She’s lovely and pretty, so it’s only a matter of time before she finds someone, I’m sure. Then I’m stuffed, as she’ll probably never have any time for me.
