Page 45 of The Last Train Home
‘I love you too,’ I say. And I mean it. The endorphins rushing through me are off the chart. I am the happiest man alive.
I get a taxi back to Samantha’s house and leave her and our beautiful baby to sleep in the hospital. I’ll be back to pick them up tomorrow. I live at Samantha’s house now, although she insists I call it ‘our house’, which I don’t seem to be able to remember to do. I could hardly carry on living in my flat, by myself, while my girlfriend has my baby. When I closed the door for the last time and handed my keys to the rental agent, it felt so strange. I’d lived there for five years. But that chapter of my life has ended – single Tom who can’t get his shit together has gone. He’s been replaced by this guy who lives in a three-bed town house in Islington with his girlfriend and his new baby. I like this version of Tom. This version of Tom has got his life together. Finally.
Chapter 31
Abbie
The wordsI’m a father! I’m so happy and in love with him! The baby is amazing!appear on my phone the next morning. It’s Saturday and I’m waking up with an enormous hangover. Natasha should also be in bed nursing a headache, given the amount we both drank, but I heard the front door bang as she went downstairs to use the gym in our building, so it can’t be too bad. I don’t use the gym. I cycle a billion miles a week instead.
I read the message again and smile. Tom’s happy. And I’m happy for him. I sit up in bed and reply:Congratulations! How are you all doing? How’s Samantha? How’s the baby? Have you picked a name?
We don’t have a name yet!I laugh because he’s using exclamation marks on every sentence. I can feel his excitement.
You’ll find a name soon. I’m so happy for you.
Thanks! I’ve even given up smoking!
Good move. You’re going to be a great dad, I tell him.
Let’s hope so! No going back now!
I put the phone down as I curl back up, to sleep away the rest of my hangover.
No, Tom. There’s no going back now.
Chapter 32
Abbie
September 2006
‘Singapore?’ I stop what I’m doing and stare at Sean. It’s a Saturday afternoon and we’re curled up on his sofa together, both of us with our laptops, me with a Word document open and him with Excel. The TV’s showing some sort of travel programme on low in the background, which is probably why he’s started talking about Asia. ‘Singapore?’ I ask again.
He laughs. ‘Yeah, what do you think?’
I blink. ‘What do I think about Singapore?’
‘About moving there,’ he says. ‘Just for a while.’
I sit back against the sofa. I’d been writing up an article and he caught me mid-flow. I should really have finished this at work yesterday, but I’ve got so much on and it’s filtered into my weekend, and now Sean’s talking to me about moving. To Singapore.
‘I’ve been looking at jobs,’ he continues.
‘In Singapore?’ I repeat. If there was a game where you had to say the word ‘Singapore’ over and over again, I’d be winning.
‘Yeah. It’s either there or Dubai, I’ve decided.’
‘You’ve decided?’
‘If we want this tax-free lifestyle where we can bank a load of cash and live like kings … yeah, pretty much Dubai or Singapore. There’s a few other places, but I think they’re the best for my job prospects.’
‘Right,’ I say. We’d talked about this in passing a few weeks ago – our hopes and dreams, and our travel bucket lists – and I’ll admit it did get me thinking, and possibly looking up foreign climes on the internet, but Sean’s obviously being a bit more urgent about it than I imagined.
And when I don’t say anything else, because I feel a bit blindsided, Sean continues, ‘So what do you think? Do you hate the idea?’
‘Are you being serious?’ I ask uncertainly.
‘Of course,’ he laughs.
