“Where are you now?” I asked.
“Still on the train. We’ve got another couple of hours at least. God, I’m going to have to explain this to Mum and Catherine when I get there. Wish me luck.”
A window came free and I scrambled over to the counter, telling the cashier what it was I wanted in a garbled mix of English and French.
“Si, I’ll speak to you later.”
“I’ve got your suitcase, okay, so don’t worry about that. It’ll be waiting for you at the hotel.”
“And tell Catherine I’ll be there, whatever it takes.”
I then became one of those people I had literally just vilified, beginning a frantic search for my credit card, pulling things out of my bag, lobbing my phone and my book and a handful of coins on the counter. I felt all jittery, like when I’d drunk more than one espresso on the trot. Why wasn’t it in the zipped section of the bag where I’d put it? After a bit more rummaging I found the card for the joint account, which Si had instructed me was to be used only for bills and household emergencies. It must have fallen out of my purse at some point in Venice, and since this was clearly a matter of urgency, I handed it to the cashier without hesitation. Si would understand. I watched her punch digits into the card machine, doing a double take when I realized it was going to cost me 180 euros.
“Is that the cheapest ticket?” I asked, gutted that a one-way train journey could cost that much.
“It is, madame,” she said, looking down her nose at me. Admittedly, I doubted I was looking my best, all sweaty and grubby and dripping all over her counter.
“I’ll take one,” I said, having very little choice. If this was what it took to get everything back on track, then it would be worth every penny.
“Your card is declined, madame,” said the cashier a few moments later, looking up from her screen.
I gripped the counter. “What? It can’t be.”
“It is,” she said, apparently about to lose the minuscule amount of patience she’d had with me to begin with.
I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh out loud at the ridiculous run of bad luck I’d had all morning. Nothing had gone right, literally nothing, and now this, at the final hurdle, when there’d been a chance I could have made it to the wedding and everything would have been all right again. With the cashier staring me down, I returned to searching the depths of my bag like a maniac. Just as I’d been about to tip the whole thing on the floor in a last-ditch attempt to find my credit card, I slid it out from under a travel-sized packet of wipes and handed it over. With shaking hands I tapped in my pin number, willing it to work. I had no idea what I was going to do if it didn’t.
“Voilà, madame,” said the cashier, looking ever so slightly put out, as though she’d wanted the small triumph of denying me a ticket.
I thanked her anyway, stuffed everything back into my bag, slung it over my shoulder and ran. Platform 19, she’d said, which was, of course, right down at the other end of the concourse. I wondered if there was something weird happening in the universe, some planet in retrograde that might explain why over the past twenty-four hours I’d done nothing but run frantically around stations and nearly miss trains. Upping my pace, I simultaneously raked around for my phone, wanting to check the time. As I ran, my hand swiped back and forth, checking every corner of my bag, up and down, under things, between pages, everywhere. I couldn’t find it. I swallowed hard, slowing down; this couldn’t be happening, not now, not after everything. I had an awful thought: Had I picked it up again, after I’d emptied everything out at the ticket office? I couldn’t think, my brain had gone all fuzzy. Had I, in my panic to catch the train, left my phone on the counter?
I whirled round, looking for a clock, running over to the nearest departures board: 7:16. I had four minutes.
I sprinted back in the direction of the ticket office. If I didn’t have my phone, then Si wouldn’t be able to get hold of me and I didn’t want him to worry or—more to the point—think me incapable of looking after myself. I charged past the queue, waltzing right to the front this time, explaining to the irate-looking security officers, one of whom had held out his hand to stop me, that I had left my phone on counter number 11 and that I wasn’t pushing in, just checking. He reluctantly let me through and, ignoring the shouts of protest from somebody in the queue, I ran over to the desk I’d been at a few moments before. The cashier was serving someone else now, a middle-aged businessman who unsurprisingly gave me a weird look as I scanned the counter, then flung myself to the ground, crawling around next to his feet to see if it had fallen on the floor.
“Excuse me,” I said to the cashier, jumping up, waving my arms around semaphore-style. “Excuse me, but did I leave my phone here a minute ago?”
She shook her head, the tiniest of smug smiles fluttering across her face. Great, I’d just proved to her that I was indeed the dimwit she’d thought I was. I put my hand over my mouth, telling myself to keep a clear head. If I wanted to catch the train, I had to forget about my phone and run. It was more important that I made it to Amsterdam, whatever the cost. Phones could be replaced, but Catherine would never have another wedding day. So I ran, out of the ticket office and back across the concourse, toward the platform, my breath ragged, my ticket clutched in my hot, damp hand. I was halfway to Platform 19 when out of nowhere and as if in slow motion, a huge black bag slid across the floor in front of me. I reacted pretty quickly, I had to say, flailing my arms around, trying to slow myself down, digging the balls of my feet into the ground, but it was no good, I couldn’t stop or even swerve in time to avoid it. I flew forward, the floor of the station zooming toward me at such alarming speed that I reckoned I was going to knock myself out. I put out my hands to save myself and landed sprawled on my side, twisting my ankle in the process.
I lay there for a second or two, breathless and somewhat dazed, before everything came back into focus and I became aware of legs all around me, of painted toenails in sandals and the bottoms of jeans, of an announcement about a train to Lille and a searing pain in my ankle.
When I blinked and looked up, someone was standing over me, a man, wearing a black leather jacket. I couldn’t believe it. Or actually, I could, because with the day I was having it just had to be the arsehole French guy from the train, didn’t it? I might have guessed he’d be selfish enough to chuck his stuff about all over the place.
“Je peux vous aider?” he said, breathing heavily as he held out his hand, which I ignored.
“No, you can’t,” I said, knowing I had to get up, had to keep on running. I tried to stand, but more pain shot through my ankle, so I used my other leg to push myself up, grabbing at his bag for leverage.
“Can you walk on it?” asked the French guy, already backing off. He was catching the same train I was, presumably, and obviously had no intention of hanging around to check whether or not I was okay.
“Just go,” I snapped at him, bending to gather up the contents of my bag, which had scattered all over the floor.
“I can call somebody to assist you,” he said, looking wildly around, scooping up my book and a pack of tissues and shoving them at me.
“What I need is to catch this train,” I said, snatching them out of his hands. The platform looked even farther away than before and I could hardly sprint at full speed now, could I? Running wasn’t my forte at the best of times. “Go and get your train. Seriously,” I told him. Why was he still standing there, staring, being of no use to anyone whatsoever?
“If you are sure?” he said, hauling his bag onto his shoulder.
“There’s no point both of us missing it, is there?” I said, starting to hobble toward the platform.
He fell into step beside me, rubbing his hand over his mouth.
“Go!” I said, massively pissed off. I didn’t want him blaming me if he didn’t catch his precious train.
He went to walk off, looking
back over his shoulder as though he was unsure what to do and then finally breaking into a run and accelerating so fast that he was out of sight within seconds.
I pushed on, attempting a painful half run because there was always a chance the train would be delayed. Someone might have pressed the emergency alarm, for example. There could be a minor signaling problem that would temporarily hold things up. Just as I neared the end of the concourse and veered left onto Platform 19, a whistle blew and the train—my train—began to move, slinking casually out of the station as though it hadn’t just added yet another terrible layer to this hellhole of a day. I leaned on a luggage trolley for support, trying to regulate my breath, taking the weight off my ankle. And then I saw him, the French guy, striding toward me, his monstrosity of a bag thrown over his shoulder, the train snaking into the distance behind him.
“So,” he said, slamming his bag on the floor.
I put my hands on my hips, squaring up to him. “How did you manage to miss it?”
“I was here,” he said, throwing his arms about. “One minute before, at 7:19. But they had closed the doors early and that imbécile,” he said, scowling over his shoulder at a guard, “would not open them again.”
“Right,” I said, too fed up to even pretend to care.
“I should have been on that train,” he said. “Now I will be late for something very urgent, very important to me.”
“Join the club,” I said.
“Well, perhaps if you had been looking where you were going,” he said, raking his annoying floppy fringe out of his eyes.
“I hope you’re not suggesting that any of this is my fault?” I said.
He looked at me. “You must take some responsibility, non?”
I did a mock double take. “Please do explain.”
He laughed.
“And don’t laugh at me.” I couldn’t stand these arrogant Parisians. Who did he think he was?
“You feel guilty,” he said, still chuckling to himself. “Admit it.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“What have I got to feel guilty about?”
He looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Hmm. Let me see . . . perhaps it is because you were running around like a crazy person in a busy train station. Falling over people’s things. Holding them up.”
My mouth actually hung open. He was unbelievable. “Well, I’m very sorry that I didn’t notice your massive bag, which for some reason you decided to fling right across my path.”
He made a huffing noise. “I put it down for one second only to search for my ticket. If you had opened your eyes, you would have noticed it right there in front of you.”
“I could have been seriously injured.”
“If it had not been my bag you’d fallen over, it would have been somebody else’s.”
I pressed my lips together. This was getting me nowhere. I should be finding out when the next train was, not standing around arguing with someone I would thankfully never have to see again.
“Right. Well, this was a delightful conversation, but I’m going to go now,” I said, shaking my head in an exaggerated way so that I could be sure he’d noticed. I felt a bit dizzy afterward, actually.
“Maybe you can slow down this time,” he said, bending to get something out of his bag.
“You know, you’re very rude,” I said to the top of his head. He didn’t even look up. I went to say something else and then checked myself: I didn’t need to get into it. Holding my head high, I turned and strode purposefully down the platform, which wasn’t easy with a limp.
“And you are very clumsy!” he called after me.
I clamped my hands to my sides to stop myself from giving him the finger. I couldn’t believe he was trying to shift the blame onto me; I could have broken my neck out there. When I reached the end of the platform, I glanced back to check he wasn’t following me. I’d had enough of his appalling attitude for one day. I needn’t have worried, he’d obviously forgotten about me already and was sitting on top of his bag scrolling manically through his phone. I tutted indignantly to myself and walked on, trying to stay positive. I still had ten hours to get to Amsterdam in time for the wedding—how hard could it be?
5
There was a pod of wooden benches underneath the escalator up to the Eurostar terminal and, lowering myself onto the last empty seat, I stuck my foot out and bent to examine it. I hoped it wasn’t going to swell—I’d never get my wedding shoes on then.
I was busy prodding the flesh around my ankle bone when a huge black bag—the huge black bag—dropped out of nowhere, landing with a bang on the floor next to me.
I looked up in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “It is okay, your foot?”
“Not sure why you’re pretending to care,” I said, feeling petulant. For some bizarre reason I was suddenly acting like a sulky teenager.
He knelt down on the ground in front of me and gently slipped off my ballet pump.
“What are you doing?” I asked, swiping my foot away, embarrassed.
“I am checking over your ankle,” he replied patiently, easing my foot back toward him and resting my heel on his thigh.
“Now who’s feeling guilty?” I said.
“It has not become red, that is good,” he said, peering down and ignoring my childish retort.
“What, are you a doctor or something?”
“No,” he said, giving me a condescending look. “I am not a doctor. But I do know a broken ankle when I see it.”
“Broken?” I said, shocked.
Surely it wasn’t that. How was I supposed to get to work every day on crutches? I’d never get up and down the escalators on the Tube.
“Does this hurt?” he asked, twisting it to the left.
“Yes.” I winced.
“And this?” He turned it the other way, more gently than I’d expected.
I took a deep breath in and then out. “A bit.”
He smoothed his thumb across my instep, over the place where my toes ended and my foot began.
“Yeah, you can stop now,” I said, finally succeeding in moving my foot away, aware that the teenage girl sitting next to me, who had previously been scrolling through her phone, suddenly looked very interested in what was going on.
“I think it is just a sprain,” he said confidently.
“I’m pretty sure I could have worked that out for myself,” I said. Trust him to make a big deal of stating the obvious.
I looked up at the nearest departures screen: 7:28. Our train had been erased from the schedule as though it had never existed. Now not only had I lost my phone, but it was touch and go as to whether I’d make it to the wedding at all. I imagined Catherine and her parents, waking up in their executive suites, cracking open the champagne. No expense had been spared on this wedding, that much I knew. When I’d first met Si’s family, I’d had to hide my surprise when Si pulled up outside a sprawling detached house that was at least five times the size of the one I’d grown up in. I’d looked up at it in all its double-fronted glory, trying not to gasp out loud at the perfection of its double bay windows, its grand, brass-laced door and its brickwork covered with ivy. Their sweeping driveway, flanked by expansive, manicured lawns, was large enough to house about six cars. For when they hosted their posh dinner parties, probably, and the whole village came.
“Here we are,” Si had said, chirpily. “Home sweet home.”
“Well, this is lovely,” I’d said, smiling inanely at him, trying to hide how annoyed I was that he hadn’t warned me his family was loaded. I supposed this was so normal to him, this life, that it hadn’t even crossed his mind that I might like to know. That I might have wanted to prepare myself. I immediately felt underdressed, in high-street jeans and a bobbly black turtleneck jumper, which I’d been
convinced had looked chic and French when I’d flattened myself against the wall of my tiny room in my shitty house share in Manor House to check myself out in the mirror. I’d been kidding myself, obviously: it was hardly sophisticated enough for this spectacle of a house.
* * *
• • •
The Gare du Nord was getting busier by the second, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. I watched people rushing in from outside, their summer clothes wet with rain, flicking water off their umbrellas, leaving tiny, shiny puddles on the floor. I didn’t know how long I was going to be stuck in this station for, but I’d already had enough.
“Am I missing something here, or are there no Amsterdam trains on the board?” I said, pointing at the nearest screen.
French Guy stood up to see for himself, brushing dust off his knees.
“I cannot see anything, either,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder and ruffling his hair with confusion.
When I spotted a guard striding past, I seized my opportunity, waving my arms about to flag him down.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur!” I shouted. “When is the next Amsterdam train, please?”
He pulled a timetable out of his jacket pocket and flicked through it for a few agonizing seconds, shaking his head. This didn’t seem like a particularly good sign.
“This afternoon, madame,” he said. “The 13:40, arriving in Amsterdam Centraal at 16:57.”
I put my head in my hands, trying to think. The wedding was at 5:30. Would that give me enough time? If there were no delays, would half an hour be long enough to get to the hotel? When I looked up, French Guy was strutting around gesticulating madly as the guard explained that there were engineering works on the line, that two trains had been canceled and that there was nothing that could be done. I looked away because I was trying to keep calm and he wasn’t helping. It was possible, if everything went smoothly and the train left when it was supposed to, that I might just make it. I needed to hold on to the tiniest bit of hope.
The Paris Connection Page 5