Page 15 of The Last Train Home
It’s a full three hours before I receive a reply. Fine, I’ll come, she says and follows it with a colon, a dash and a bracket. I turn my phone to the side. Is that supposed to be a smiley face?
Chapter 11
Abbie
In the pub Tom and I spend all night talking. His colleagues come along and they’re funny. He’s telling me about how his work buddy Sean opted out, choosing instead to spend time with a few of his old workmates across town.
‘He’s all right. He sort of makes my days there slightly more bearable,’ Tom says.
I wish I’d brought someone from work now, but my closest friend, Gary, had a date, and all the others in my office are quite a bit older than me. When I touted the idea of accompanying a bunch of bankers out to drinks and a City club, I’m not sure I sold it all too well. Natasha pencilled it into her diary and then pencilled right over the top of it with a client dinner. She still said I could stay at hers after, though, as it sounds like it’ll be a late one, which meant I had to do an emergency run to Next earlier today for new knickers to wear tomorrow morning, as I couldn’t remember if I’d left any clean ones at Natasha’s or not. A shame she didn’t come, because she was the only one up for the clubbing bit. She’s up for almost any sort of night out. Her schedule is exhausting. I wonder if she and Tom might be quite a good fit? And then Iremove that thought from my head immediately, as thinking of Natasha and Tom together makes me feel tense.
Tom looks at me as we talk, while I answer his question about my job.
‘What kind of shops do you write about?’ he asks, somewhat bemused.
‘All sorts,’ I say. ‘It’s a retail magazine, so if you’re a retailer, in the magazine you go. This week I’m writing an article about Christmas windows.’
‘It’s October,’ he says in a flat voice.
I laugh. ‘I know. We start planning the main Christmas features in July. This is a pretty late one for us.’
‘How did you get that gig?’ he asks.
‘I just applied,’ I say. ‘Went through a graduate trainee scheme.’
‘It can’t have been that easy,’ he says. ‘Isn’t being a journalist one of those jobs that everyone wants to do, that hardly anyone gets a shot at and that everyone thinks is glamorous and fun?’
I nod along. I think he’s right. It always raises a few add-on questions at parties, when people ask what I do for a living and I tell them. I usually leave out the bit about it paying peanuts. But I tell Tom and he delves deeper.
‘Really? How many peanuts?’ he asks. ‘Actually, you don’t have to answer that.’
I hesitate and then, ‘Fifteen peanuts.’
‘Thousand? Fifteen thousand peanuts?’ he gasps. ‘You’re joking. I had no idea it paid so appallingly,’ he states. ‘How on earth does Boris Johnson swan about town living it large?’ he questions.
‘I think it might be something to do with inherited wealth, in addition to editingThe Spectator. Plus, I don’t think his basicsalary is fifteen thousand,’ I say as we’re propping up the bar and I’m about to order. Buying a round for nine people is going to cripple my finances, and I see Tom wince on my behalf as I pay. I’m going to have to make my own lunches with scraps from home for the next few weeks, if I carry on like this.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘The next twelve rounds are on me.’
I laugh.
‘So what do you want to do – you know … long-term?’ he asks.
‘Is this a job interview?’
‘Of course not.’ He sips his pint. ‘But you’ve been there a while, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. Doubt about where this conversation is heading enters my mind.
‘And you like it?’
‘I love it,’ I enthuse. ‘I’m having the best time. It doesn’t really feel like work.’
‘Lucky you. That’s all right then,’ he says.
‘ShouldI want more?’ I ask, although I don’t know why I’m asking Tom.
‘Doyou want more?’ he questions.
