would barely cost you a thing. Then he could come up and you could do the whole theatre-galleries-restaurant business.’
I decide against challenging Ellen’s definition of ‘barely costing a thing’.
‘Do you do that? Does Jeff come to London?’
She waves a dismissive, and perfectly manicured, hand at the very idea.
‘Oh Christ, no. Jeff hates London. And I don’t want to do that shit anyway. Been there, done it. A weekend expedition for me is a walk to the pub at Zennor. Not fighting through Leicester Square. I’m talking about you, Lara. You get the buzz from the London thing. You guys lived here. From everything you’ve said about Sam, I think he’d enjoy a top-of-the-range London weekend with all the frills.’
‘You know what? He would.’ I think about it. Sam’s birthday is at the end of July. That is too far away: perhaps I could do it for Christmas instead. I imagine us looking at the lights in Oxford Street, skating at Somerset House, sheltering from the biting cold in a cinema. We could stay in a lovely hotel. I resolve to sort it out, at once. ‘Thanks, Ellen. Good idea. We could do it in December.’
A First Great Western woman strides into the waiting room and says, ‘Just about ready for boarding, ladies and gents.’ Ellen and I stand up and join the general shuffle for the door. We nod at a few familiar faces belonging to older men in suits, and I smile at a woman I have never seen before, a woman in her late thirties wearing a short skirt, a brightly patterned coat and a flower hairclip. She has to be a designer or a writer. Ellen says those are the people she likes to meet in the lounge car, the ones who keep the train interesting.
We get to board at 10.30, though the train does not leave until just before midnight. A train guard I have not met before, a young, earnest woman with a blond ponytail, shows us to our compartments, which are both in carriage F, five doors apart. I unpack just enough, putting my pyjamas on the end of the bed and the toiletries I cannot get from the pack of train freebies beside the flap that covers the sink, then take my handbag and head straight for the lounge car.
Ellen is, somehow, already there, sitting back in one of the luxuriously large chairs, flicking through the free newspaper. Two men in suits are at the next table, and more people are coming through.
‘I took the liberty of ordering our usuals. They’re not quite ready yet, but when they are, ours will be first off the block.’
I settle down opposite her. ‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ellen.’
‘You’re welcome. The first drink. The start of the weekend. I rarely drink in London. The train G and T is something special.’
‘Isn’t it? I drink most nights in London, now. I have to.’ I think of Olivia, of the arch war of words and behaviour that we have drifted into. We are bristling against one another constantly. I try to smooth things over every single day, and that inflames her more than anything else I could possibly do. Perhaps next week I will try to smooth things over by being more confrontational.
‘I know you do, darling.’
‘Evening, ladies.’
My heart leaps, and I pretend it hasn’t. Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I shift up slightly as Guy sits next to me.
I passed Guy in the corridor on my first journey to London, the night before my first day back at work; I first spoke to him when Ellen introduced us in the waiting room at Paddington that Friday. He is handsome in an unmissable, Clooney-ish way: he is one of those men who settle beautifully into middle age. He is also excellent company.
‘You’re late, matey,’ Ellen remarks. ‘We thought you’d stood us up.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Had to go to a work thing. Have you ordered? Bet you didn’t get me one. It was a leaving do. Champagne and all that shit, in some stupid wine bar at London Bridge. I was glad of the excuse to get away.’ He smiles at Ellen, then at me. ‘I would have
I decide against challenging Ellen’s definition of ‘barely costing a thing’.
‘Do you do that? Does Jeff come to London?’
She waves a dismissive, and perfectly manicured, hand at the very idea.
‘Oh Christ, no. Jeff hates London. And I don’t want to do that shit anyway. Been there, done it. A weekend expedition for me is a walk to the pub at Zennor. Not fighting through Leicester Square. I’m talking about you, Lara. You get the buzz from the London thing. You guys lived here. From everything you’ve said about Sam, I think he’d enjoy a top-of-the-range London weekend with all the frills.’
‘You know what? He would.’ I think about it. Sam’s birthday is at the end of July. That is too far away: perhaps I could do it for Christmas instead. I imagine us looking at the lights in Oxford Street, skating at Somerset House, sheltering from the biting cold in a cinema. We could stay in a lovely hotel. I resolve to sort it out, at once. ‘Thanks, Ellen. Good idea. We could do it in December.’
A First Great Western woman strides into the waiting room and says, ‘Just about ready for boarding, ladies and gents.’ Ellen and I stand up and join the general shuffle for the door. We nod at a few familiar faces belonging to older men in suits, and I smile at a woman I have never seen before, a woman in her late thirties wearing a short skirt, a brightly patterned coat and a flower hairclip. She has to be a designer or a writer. Ellen says those are the people she likes to meet in the lounge car, the ones who keep the train interesting.
We get to board at 10.30, though the train does not leave until just before midnight. A train guard I have not met before, a young, earnest woman with a blond ponytail, shows us to our compartments, which are both in carriage F, five doors apart. I unpack just enough, putting my pyjamas on the end of the bed and the toiletries I cannot get from the pack of train freebies beside the flap that covers the sink, then take my handbag and head straight for the lounge car.
Ellen is, somehow, already there, sitting back in one of the luxuriously large chairs, flicking through the free newspaper. Two men in suits are at the next table, and more people are coming through.
‘I took the liberty of ordering our usuals. They’re not quite ready yet, but when they are, ours will be first off the block.’
I settle down opposite her. ‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ellen.’
‘You’re welcome. The first drink. The start of the weekend. I rarely drink in London. The train G and T is something special.’
‘Isn’t it? I drink most nights in London, now. I have to.’ I think of Olivia, of the arch war of words and behaviour that we have drifted into. We are bristling against one another constantly. I try to smooth things over every single day, and that inflames her more than anything else I could possibly do. Perhaps next week I will try to smooth things over by being more confrontational.
‘I know you do, darling.’
‘Evening, ladies.’
My heart leaps, and I pretend it hasn’t. Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I shift up slightly as Guy sits next to me.
I passed Guy in the corridor on my first journey to London, the night before my first day back at work; I first spoke to him when Ellen introduced us in the waiting room at Paddington that Friday. He is handsome in an unmissable, Clooney-ish way: he is one of those men who settle beautifully into middle age. He is also excellent company.
‘You’re late, matey,’ Ellen remarks. ‘We thought you’d stood us up.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Had to go to a work thing. Have you ordered? Bet you didn’t get me one. It was a leaving do. Champagne and all that shit, in some stupid wine bar at London Bridge. I was glad of the excuse to get away.’ He smiles at Ellen, then at me. ‘I would have
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