The Sleeper by Emily Barr Page A

preferred water and packets of biscuits in the waiting room with you two to champagne in a wine bar with my colleagues. You know that.’
    ‘I should hope you would.’ Ellen gets up and goes to add a third drink to the order. While she is gone, Guy turns to me, and I try not to enjoy his attention. We are sitting so close together that our thighs are almost touching, and I am acutely aware of the small distance between us. His hair is thick and dark, flecked with grey, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
    ‘How’s the week been?’ he asks. ‘Are you moving out of your sister’s yet?’
    ‘Thinking about it,’ I tell him. ‘Christ, that sounds pathetic, but it’s a step closer, and that’s as good as I can make it for today.’
    It is the oddest thing, but I can be myself with Guy and Ellen, on the train, in a way I cannot with anyone else and in any other location. If I knew them in any other context my guard would be up. Here, on this train, it is down. I would, and do, tell them anything. I consider telling Guy about my weird shiver on the station, but decide better of it.
    ‘Well, then it’s progress,’ he nods. He wriggles out of his suit jacket, slings it on the empty seat next to Ellen’s and rolls his sleeves up.
    ‘Barack Obama does that.’ I nod at his forearms, which, I notice, are muscular and hairy in just the right amount. I look away quickly, smiling to myself. This is the most harmless type of crush possible, considering that we are both safely married.
    ‘Barack Obama does what?’ He sounds mystified, as well he might.
    ‘He takes his jacket off and rolls his shirt sleeves up. It’s a nice look, that’s all. I like it when men do that.’
    ‘Seriously?’ He nods at his arms, leaning on the edge of the table. ‘This works for the ladies?’
    ‘For me it does.’
    ‘Cheers, Lara. Good to know these things. Not that I’m in any position, or have any inclination, to act on it.’
    Ellen comes back, followed by a lounge car attendant I recognise, who bears a tray carrying three gin and tonics.
    ‘Thanks, Sarah,’ says Guy, winking at her. ‘You’re a life saver.’
    ‘Welcome,’ says Sarah. ‘Plenty more where those came from.’
    ‘Good.’ I take one and stir it with its little plastic stick.
    ‘Cheers,’ says Ellen. We clunk plastic glasses, and I relax. The week is frantic. This weekend is, I hope, going to be less difficult than the last one was. The pressure, when Sam has been looking forward to my return relentlessly all week, can make us bicker without stopping, and last weekend we were both in tears by Sunday afternoon, the uncompromising separation looming, raising the stakes, making everything a million times worse.
    Three drinks later, Guy is leaning back in his seat yawning. His knee rests casually against mine.
    ‘Do you find,’ he says, looking first at Ellen and then, for longer, at me, ‘do you find that the weekends are almost as much hard work as the week sometimes? I mean, I get back Saturday morning, bloody fucking knackered, and then it’s all “Dad, do this. Guy, do this. Be fun. Be nice. Fix this. Go and buy this. Help with homework. You have no idea what it’s like being the one stuck at home all week, you’ve been in London, you can put the washing on for once …”’
    ‘Nope,’ Ellen says at once. ‘Jeff’s a farmer. You know that. Our day jobs couldn’t be more different. The farm doesn’t wind up for the whole weekend, though he makes that happen as much as he can because of our time together. I love the weekends. But then again, it’s just the two of us, so I was never really going to have the pressure. If I was someone’s mum, well, that would be an entirely different matter. Neither of us cares who does the laundry. It gets done, one way or another.’
    They both turn to me.
    ‘Mm.’ The gin, followed by wine, has relaxed me. ‘I find it hard,’ I admit, making an effort to direct my words towards Ellen, because Guy is