Page 12 of The Last Train Home
‘It smells better than it tastes.’
I light the cigarette, thinking about this. ‘I suppose it does.’
But it doesn’t stop her reaching for it, removing it from between my fingers and lifting it to her lips. I’m far too entranced by this move. Back in the flat, it felt so normal to share a cigarette with a girl I’d dragged off a mangled train. Here now, in front of my office, it feels oddly even more intimate than before.
She hands it back, gives me a look of concern. ‘Have you talked to anyone about it?’
I shake my head. ‘Have you?’
‘Sort of … to my parents and my best friend. I’m not really sure what to say that doesn’t make me sound mad. I think it’s more the darkness of it all that’s affecting me. The literal darkness. It’s so strange – being unconscious throughout most of it. Everything’s so … black. It’s so uncontrollable, anyway. But everything is uncontrollable when you’ve blacked out. I could have been trampled on, I could have been … Oh, I don’t know. And then there’s thewhat if.’
‘The “what if”?’ I say, inhaling a long, deep drag on the cigarette. I watch her closely.
‘What if I hadn’t got on that particular train, what if I hadn’t dashed through the doors in time, what if you hadn’t been there to get me out, what if …’
‘You’re torturing yourself with that, are you? After everything you went through – don’t do that to yourself as well.’
‘I hate that I’d passed out, that I couldn’t help someone else.’
‘You were better off passed out, trust me,’ I say quietly.
Silence. Then she prompts me. ‘You were awake throughout the whole thing. You must have seen—’
I know what’s coming next. She’s going to ask me what I saw. I can’t talk about it, so I cut her off quickly before she can ask me any more questions. ‘I should go back in,’ I say, offering her the rest of the cigarette.
She looks at it for a second, takes it. ‘Thanks.’
Before I go I say, ‘Do you want to meet for coffee or lunch or something one day?’ I’m reluctant to finish things here.
She thinks about it. ‘Yeah. That would be nice actually. Text me when you’re free.’
When I get back to my desk she’s not across the road at hers yet; instead she’s finishing my cigarette and talking to some of her workmates. I turn back and stare at my screen, willing my presentation to finish itself.
Chapter 9
Abbie
Over the past few days since I met Tom outside our offices for a cigarette, it’s taken every ounce of effort I have not to look out of the window at him across the courtyard all day. I never knew he was right there. I’ve never really had the urge to scan the windows to see other anonymous faces and wonder what they’re doing. I’m usually so engrossed in my work, wading through retail data or deconstructing the non-news buried inside fluffy press releases. But now I know that he’s there, my eyes are forever pulled in his direction and I have to fight so hard to stay focused on what I’m doing, which is sort of annoying me because I’m really busy today. I’ve let too much pile up, even though my boss is still being gentle, allowing me to go slowly, to extend my deadlines – which I don’t want because I don’t want to let the side down.
Tom and I are meeting for lunch today in a little Italian café round the corner. It was his suggestion and he offered to meet me outside our offices, so we can walk across together. I wonder now if this might be a little bit strange: Tom and I, hanging out. In ordinary circumstances I’d never be friends with someone like Tom, but I think that’s because Iimmediately judged the kind of man he must be, from his suit and his job title. That’s especially unfair of me because he’s obviously so much more than that. And, more importantly, he rescued me.
We wave our greetings at each other from across the courtyard and meet in the middle. He looks good, a neat blue suit and dark-brown brogues. I’ve ditched my usual jeans and T-shirt ensemble and put a dress on today because the temperature’s gone back to end-of-summer levels again.
I didn’t think he’d notice my outfit really, but as we order paninis and coffees and sit on bar stools at the high tables in the back to await our food, he says, ‘Nice dress.’
It’s too short for these bar stools. I think he’s spotted that too. He’s making an effort only to look into my eyes while we talk. I try not to laugh. ‘Thanks.’
Small talk is easier in here with him than it was in the courtyard because I knew some of my workmates had come outside and I felt watched, being, as I was, on the wrong side of the street. We often joked about Tom’s building and the far more corporate people who work inside it, but I’ve heard they have an amazing subsidised canteen and their own coffee shop, so I think the joke is on us.
Tom takes his jacket off, rolls up his shirtsleeves and I look away from his forearms and into his blue eyes with the same level of concentration he’s so far shown me. He tucks into his panini without a care that I’m watching him. I’m a bit more delicate, but melted cheese is still going everywhere.
‘Your cut looks better,’ he says, reaching up as if to touch it, then acknowledging that his fingers are a bit greasy from the food, he retreats. ‘It looks orange, though,’ he says.
‘It’s foundation,’ I say. ‘I’m covering it up. It’s been a week and it’s not healing as well as I’d like.’
‘Don’t cover it up,’ he says and diffuses the command with a smile. ‘It looks like you’ve taken that bit of you to a tanning salon and forgotten the rest.’
My mouth drops open. I’ve decided the man who heroically rescued me from the train is actually a bit forthright – or maybe he’s just rude. I tell him this and Tom laughs loudly. ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.’
