Page 26 of Take a Moment

‘Definitely not.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘This is my mess. I’ll clear it up.’

‘If you’re sure.’ John gives me a hug and a fatherly kiss on the cheek, then heads out of the restaurant.

As I watch yet another member of my family vacate the restaurant, I feel a reassuring hand on my arm.

‘Sorry that’s how it turned out.’ Sasha gazes at me sadly with her big blue eyes.

‘It was never going to go well.’ I shrug. ‘She doesn’t understand my position at all. It shows me that I was absolutely right to exclude her from this decision. Well intended but false promises would be all I’d get from her.’

‘So, what next?’

‘No idea. But we should probably get out of here.’ I reach up and signal to the perplexed waiter.

Chapter 10

One month later, I’m wandering around my empty Glasgow apartment, doing my final checks, my footsteps echoing loudly through the empty high-ceilinged rooms. The home I shared with Dom, once so warm and inviting, now cold and vacant; reminiscent of how my life here has become.

‘That’s us ready to go, love,’ one of the removals men calls out to me.

‘OK, thanks.’ I join him in the hallway. ‘You have the key for my new place, right?’

‘Sure do.’ He jangles a set of keys in his pocket.

‘Great. And thanks again for agreeing to set up the furniture for me, it’ll be good to be able to move straight in tomorrow.’

‘No problem. All the best now.’

I see him out, then finish my checks before locking up for the final time and heading into the city centre for my train.

On entering the concourse of Glasgow Central Station, my senses are immediately engulfed by garbled train announcements, guards whistling, the smell of diesel, and people rushing to catch their trains. For some, this is an essential passage from A to B. For me, it oozes vibrancy and opportunity. Not just because of my brand-new start, but because this is the type of living I love: bustling, active, energetic.

Making my way across to the huge departure boards, I zone in on the illuminated timetable declaring the final destination of Birmingham, and I’m pleased to see that my train is on time. I feed my ticket into the machine and the paddle-shaped barriers snap open, allowing me onto the platform.

On locating my train and carriage, I’m about to board when an unexpected wave of emotion rushes over me. All of a sudden, my chest feels like it’s filled with cement, and my breathing becomes shallow as I fight the lump in my throat. Reaching up, I dab at the corners of my eyes, realising there are tears forming. Tears that I refuse to let come. What the hell is wrong with me? This is something I want to do, that I’m looking forward to.

But is it? A voice creeps into my head. The same one that visited me briefly in hospital. I only ‘want’ to do this because I’ve been left with no other choice. What I really wanted to do was get married, be Dom’s life partner in crime, continue my kickass career – and maybe have a couple of mischievous but amazing kids. Am I actually kidding myself? Is this the textbook denial my sister described?

‘You getting on board, love?’ The train guard shocks me out of my self-doubt. ‘The train’s about to go.’

Time to decide. Is this really the future I want and need? Can I really do this alone? Or am I doing it for no reason other than being fiercely independent and stubborn? Perhaps more like my mother – who, along with my sister, has refused to have anything to do with me since I told her I was moving – than I thought.

I tune back in to the buzz of the station, to everything that it represents for me, and my answer is clear. This is not me – I don’t ruminate and second-guess myself. I find solutions and I get things done. It might not be the future I would have chosen, but it’s the best one for me now – and I’m going to damn well make the most of it. Decision made, I push the button to open the carriage door and climb on board.

By the time I’ve settled into my spacious first-class seat (a little indulgent perhaps, but it’s not like I up and move hundreds of miles away every day) and engrossed myself in a gritty crime novel, my floundering on the platform back at Glasgow Central is long forgotten. The beautiful Scottish countryside flashes past me outside the window, accentuated by the early autumn sunshine. The contrast between the racing images of the outdoors and the quiet calm of the carriage adds an extra layer of relaxation to my experience.

I’ve chosen a two-seater table so I can enjoy a real sense of comfort, which is enhanced by the seat opposite me not being reserved until Oxenholme in the Lake District. Checking the journey on my phone, I’m pleased to note that I have nearly two hours of not having to share the space with a stranger.

About twenty minutes into my journey, the train crew begin serving food and refreshments. They gradually make their way up the carriage towards me.

‘Tea or coffee?’ a man with a Yorkshire accent, armed with two large metal jugs, asks me.

‘Coffee, please.’

‘Right you are.’ He serves me at record speed, then moves to the next table.

I add milk to my drink and give it a stir, before enjoying a satisfying slurp. It’s not the best coffee I’ve had, but it tastes good because of what it represents: my return to freedom, independence and a fulfilling career. I return to my reading but within minutes I’m interrupted again as my lunch is served and the drinks cart arrives at my spot. The woman in charge of it is very cheery, with a thick accent from somewhere in Europe. I smile warmly at her as she jokes animatedly with the people across the aisle from me.

Having an advance nosey at what’s available, I see a range of soft and alcoholic drinks on her trolley. My eyes land on the miniature spirits, conjuring up memories of many enjoyable holidays (with both Dom and Sasha), where these Lilliputian bottles have been a symbol of celebration on board our outbound flights. A clear marker for the beginning of endless sunshine, exotic landscapes and architectural delights.

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