Page 36 of Slow Burn Summer

“Blimey,” the guy next to her said. “What sort of books do you write?”

“Love stories,” she said. It didn’t feel too difficult to say, because the abandoned manuscripts she’d recovered from her old home were romances.

“And you’re going on Glynn Weston’s show today? They better hurry this bloody train up, then,” someone said.

On that, the train manager stuck her head in. “Sorry, guys,” she said, shrugging. “It’s just one of those things, it happens. We’ll get another update soon, hang in there.”

She backed out as quickly as she’d arrived, non-message delivered.

Kate excused herself to the loo, locking herself in and calling Liv.

“Liv, help! The sodding train has stopped five minutes outside of the station, God knows why, something wrong on the lineis all they’re saying. Can you google it? I don’t know why I’m even asking that, sorry—I know you’re busy with the cake from hell. I’m on the train with an entire carriage full of soccer supporters who’ve all had a three-course breakfast of beer, beer, and beer, and I swear I’m a whisker away from having one myself! Oh God, Liv, what if I’m late? You can’t be late for live radio! What will Glynn say? And shitting Nora, what will Fiona say? This is a total disaster. I’m going to be fired for sure.”

It was only when she stopped to draw breath that she realized she wasn’t speaking to her sister at all, just voicemail, which informed her she’d run out of space for her message and she needed to start again. She hung up without bothering and sat on the loo with her head in her hands, listening to the stupid recorded train message about not flushing your hopes and dreams down the toilet with your tampons and loo paper. She tried not to let it register, dreading the thought of it tumbling out of her head on live radio, if she ever made it there on time.

“Another twenty minutes,” her beer neighbor informed her as soon as she returned to her seat. “We might be able to reclaim our ticket costs if it goes on much longer, though, so cross your fingers.”

Kate slid into her seat and tried to work out what to do, because she was now running frighteningly close to the wire. All of her built-in extra time had evaporated, and at this rate she might even be a no-show.

She messaged Rachel on the number she’d saved just in case, and then spent the next eight minutes obsessively checking to see if she’d replied. Nothing. It was Sunday morning; if the girl had any sense she’d still be in bed. Or more likely at hot yoga. Either way, she wasn’t answering her phone. Liv was making her awful cake for her mother-in-law’s birthday and Charlie was still stateside. She reread her emails from Rachel, suddenly remembering mention ofa contact at the radio station. She had a number!Thank everything,she thought, clicking on the number and then screwing up the nerve to talk to whoever answered it. She pressed the mobile to her ear, sticking one finger in her other ear, and waited.

“Hello?”

“Umm, hi, I’m Kate Darrowby, is this the right number to speak to someone from Glynn Weston’s show? Only I’m due on there this morning as a guest and I’m so sorry, but my train has stopped. Just stopped! I should still make it as long as we get moving in the next few minutes, but I thought I ought to warn you, just in case.”

“Okay, Kate, don’t panic,” the guy on the other end said, soothing and serene. “I’m Glynn’s producer. I can juggle things around a little this end, just do what you can and keep me up to speed so we can stay fluid, okay? Call me back in fifteen with an update.”

Kate hung up and slumped in her seat.

“Will they wait for you?” one of her new table friends asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “If we get moving soon, they might?”

“Sure you don’t want that beer?”

She shook her head and leaned her forehead against the window, miserable. How could she still be sitting just ten minutes from home? Why had she relied on Sunday trains? Why couldn’t she just get out and get a bloody cab? It was ridiculous. She did the math again. She was due at the radio station by ten-thirty, and it was already half past nine. She closed her eyes and wished Charlie wasn’t so far away—he’d know what to do. She thought back to their conversation after her photo shoot. What was it he’d said? Be Kate Darrowby. Buy the outfit, walk the walk, inhabit the skin of the character. Okay. So maybe the question wasn’t what should Kate Elliott do, it was what would Kate Darrowby do?

Kate Darrowby would look for the silver lining, she’d be storing this up as a scene for her next novel. Opening her eyes, she looked down at the expensive denim dress she’d bought for the interview and mentally slid herself into her alter ego’s shoes. Looking up again, she spread her hands wide and forced a laugh.

“Guys, I need a really big favor…”

—

Finally, at just before teno’clock, the train lumbered into action to a collective cheer from all the hot-and-bothered passengers, most of their journeys sweetened by the thought of a free ride thanks to being able to claim their tickets back. Not Kate’s, though; she’d been regularly updating Glynn’s show producer, who’d started to consider the idea of rescheduling if she completely missed the slot. The soccer fans ushered her out of the doors in front of them as soon as they pulled into the station, yelling “You can do this, Kate!” as she ran along the platform as fast as her too-high sandals would permit, waving her notes over her head as a thank-you to her now fully invested new friends. Hurling herself into a taxi, she collapsed on the back seat, breathing as if she was about to give birth. She knew there wasn’t a prayer she’d make it for the allotted time, but the producer had said he would see what could be done. Anything was better than nothing.

“Where to, love?”

She took a deep breath. “The News Building, please, London Bridge.”

The driver nodded and pulled into the traffic.

“How long does it take to get there?” she said, just as a “send latest update” text appeared on her phone from Glynn’s producer.

“About twenty-five minutes, I’d say? Busy this morning, a fun run’s closed half the bloody roads.”

“Oh no,” Kate groaned, sinking into the seat.

“All right, love? Still want to go?”

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