Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Well, I hate to be a stickler for the actualité, but we’re not exactly going out, are we?’ Jamie said, a mild expression of exasperation making him look even younger and even more appealing.

  ‘What are we doing here then?’ Teri jabbed meaningfully with her fork. ‘Just filling in time until the next train comes along?’

  ‘Well, actually—’ Jamie looked longingly at his carbonara ‘—that’s exactly what we are doing.’

  Teri opened her mouth and closed it again. He did have a point. ‘So I’m just a better option than the Daily Telegraph, a can of lukewarm Coke and twiddling your thumbs for the next two hours while the fire brigade sort out Watford Junction?’

  ‘You’re a considerably better option than the Daily Telegraph, warm Coke and two hours of thumb twiddling.’

  Teri smiled reluctantly. ‘Well, I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies.’

  ‘What would you rather I say? That I’m an incorrigible, habitual seducer who wants nothing more than to coerce you into an adulterous relationship?’

  By now the young couple had stopped spooning food into each other’s mouths and were listening intently.

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Jamie sagged visibly. ‘I don’t know.’ He twiddled his fork in the middle of his penne, making a space in the sauce which showed the design on the bottom of his plate—a smiling stereotyped gondolier wearing his striped jersey and obligatory red-ribboned boater inscribed with that old Italian saying Hava Nisa Day! When Teri had visited Venice, all the gondoliers wore jeans and sulked and charged extortionate prices for the privilege of racing you round their dirty, stinking canals while screeching obscenities at anyone who got in their way.

  ‘The truth is that I’m not an habitual seducer,’ Jamie went on. ‘And I’ve never been in this situation before. I just wanted to spend time with you.’

  ‘Why? Why me?’ Teri asked.

  The young couple exchanged a quick spoonful.

  ‘For the last few weeks I’ve had something to look forward to, something to give my life at least a bit of purpose, rather than sitting on a train for nearly three hours a day and going home to an argument and food designed for five-year-olds. It’s been months since anyone has taken an interest in me. I haven’t talked to anyone for years like we’ve talked. I mean, really talked.’

  ‘But we haven’t really talked. We might have got on to the subject of your wife a bit earlier if we’d really talked.’

  ‘I know. I was going to tell you.’

  Jamie dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. The man in the far corner of the restaurant folded his newspaper, and the waiter was about to wear a hole in the glass he was still polishing intently. ‘It just seemed easier to avoid it and pretend that you must know.’

  ‘If you’re a married man, why don’t you wear a wedding ring? I’m a stickler for that— I always check.’

  The man at the table next to them leaned closer to hear Jamie’s reply. ‘I lost it, months ago. I take Francesca swimming on Sunday mornings—”Parents and Pests”. I haven’t got round to replacing it yet. I did harbour the vain hope that someone might hand it in, but you just can’t trust people these days.’

  Teri narrowed her eyes at this, but her silent sarcasm was lost on him. ‘So Francesca is the five-year-old with educational food?’ Teri found her throat had tightened.

  ‘She’s six.’

  ‘No wonder you were at home buying pantyhose. You’re a regular family guy. I bet you don’t baulk at buying Tampax either.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘Or Pampers.’

  Teri let out a heavy and unhappy breath, then said, ‘I really don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Jack’s just three.’

  ‘Are there any more?’ she snapped. ‘This isn’t going to turn out to be the bloody Waltons, is it? There’s no Jim-Bob, is there?’

  ‘No, that’s all. That’s La Famille Duncan— Frankie, Jack and—’

  Teri held up her hand. ‘Don’t! Don’t tell me! I have no desire to know your wife’s name. If she hasn’t got a name, then I can pretend she doesn’t really exist.’

  ‘Look.’ Jamie lowered his voice further. The other diners in the restaurant and the waiter leaned closer. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen—if anything has happened. I just wanted us to be friends.’

  ‘And have you told your wife you’ve found a new friend—or are you leaving her to guess, too?’

  ‘No, I haven’t told her.’ Jamie turned and glared at the diners who had abandoned all pretence of eating and were straining to hear. ‘She wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Teri’s flabber had never been more gasted. ‘My wife doesn’t understand me. That’s the oldest line in the book!’

  Jamie bristled. ‘It just so happens to be true. We’ve drifted apart recently. I can’t tell her about you because she wouldn’t understand that we can be just friends. Anyway, I’m a hopeless liar, it’s best just to tell her nothing.’ Admittedly, he was getting better at lying. Practice certainly does make imperfect.

  ‘So that’s what we are—just friends?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?’

  Jamie showed his toothpaste smile. He’d got a piece of parsley from his carbonara stuck between his teeth and his gum, and she had the most overwhelming urge to reach over and tenderly pick it out.

  ‘From where I’m sitting, it looks like we’ve got a problem.’ Her throat was dry and her voice was tight, and even a swig of her rapidly dwindling Valpolicella didn’t help. There was a virus going round at work, and she hoped fervently that she hadn’t got it. Sore throat, nausea, queasy tummy, chest pains, palpitations. Nasty. A lot like love really. ‘We’re more than friends, otherwise we wouldn’t be meeting in secret, but we’re not going out and we’re definitely not having an affair. So what are we?’

  ‘Hungry?’ Jamie ventured.

  ‘Starving,’ Teri agreed.

  Jamie reached out and laid his hand on top of hers. He chose the one in which she was holding her fork, and it started to go sweaty in her palm. ‘Besides—’ his voice had suddenly gone all sincere and it worried her ‘—if we were having an affair or simply going out or were even more than just friends, I could tell you that I thought you had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen—that they’re as striking as two lone cornflowers in a sea of golden wheat. If we were going out, I could reach across the table and kiss your hand casually and think that later I could be kissing your neck and smelling your hair. And that for the last few weeks commuting with you has made me feel more alive than I ever thought possible.’

  Teri pulled her hand away. ‘Yes, yes. All right, I get the picture. So we’re not going out and we’re not having an affair. We’re just friends. Let’s get that clear. With no cornflowers and wheat and all that business about smelly hair and the joys of commuting. Well, fine, pour me another glass of wine and we’ll continue not going out together and just being friends before our food gets cold.’ Teri turned in her chair and gesticulated with her fork. ‘And you lot can go back to your food, too!’

  They finished their meal hurriedly, partly because they were now awkward with each other and partly because the pasta was unappetisingly lukewarm by the time they got round to eating it. Teri had baulked from asking them to reheat it in the microwave. They sat on the train back from Euston in silence. Teri stared out of the window, pretending to be fascinated by the empty blackness and listening to the irritating squeak of her seat. How do you talk to a married man who has just declared undying friendship for you? What do you say? Would they be able to carry on meeting, now that things between them had irrevocably changed?

  If she had thought only a tiny bit harder, she would have realised he was married and would have said no thanks to the emotional Band-Aid he had been providing her with for the last few weeks. Perhaps she had chosen purposefully to ignore the nagging doubts that prodded h
er painfully in the ribs and pointed to the fact that he was unavailable.

  It was like the two blowsy women she had seen in Steamers a few weeks before, swigging pints of beer and wearing stilettos the size of boats. They were men. It was obvious when you looked at them—not even too closely. They must have been customers from the transvestite shop on a day out with the boys—or the girls or whatever cross-dressers preferred to call themselves. All the clues were there—if only you wanted to see them.

  But there is a certain blissfulness about ignorance that only being hit round the face with the truth like a piece of wet fish can shatter.

  Eventually, the train pulled into Leighton Buzzard. Teri stood up slowly. ‘Thanks for the meal.’

  Jamie was leaning against the window, his cashmere-covered elbow sitting in a puddle of condensation. ‘I don’t think we should part like this.’ He didn’t look at her, but stared out of the window at the empty platform. ‘There’s a lot more to say.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to hear it, Jamie.’ She swung the door open. The guard blew his whistle.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ His voice sounded husky.

  ‘I don’t know.’ They spoke in unison and made each other laugh. It was a sad and strained sound.

  ‘Take care,’ Teri said, biting her lip, and slammed the carriage door.

  Chapter 7

  ‘At Secure Home Limited we absolutely guarantee that all homes fitted with our advanced security systems are highly likely to be burgled within ten days of installation. Full stop. We carefully select a scurrilous— I think you’ll find that’s two r’s—a scurrilous band of workmen with dubious criminal records as our employees to ensure that you have no peace of mind whatsoever. Yours, et cetera.’ Tom Pearson sat back from his desk and leaned at a precarious angle in his favourite deep-buttoned leather swivel chair—the most expensive in the executive office furniture catalogue—arms resting behind his head. ‘Did you get all that?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Pamela chewed the end of her pencil.

  ‘I’d like four thousand copies sent out within the next half-hour,’ he said with a smile. ‘You weren’t planning to go to lunch, were you?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no,’ she agreed.

  ‘You’re not actually listening to me at all, are you?’ He sat upright, elbows on his desk.

  Pamela looked up, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Oh, sorry, Tom.’ She flicked her hair back from her face like a horse flicking an irritating fly away with its tail. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just read me back that last paragraph. If you’d be so kind.’

  Pamela’s finger trailed up her notebook. ‘Er, from “At Secure Home”?’

  Tom nodded.

  Pamela continued. ‘Er, “At Secure Home Limited we absolutely guarantee that all homes fitted with our advanced security systems are highly likely to be burgled within ten days of installation”.’ She looked up at him and winced. ‘“We carefully select a scurrilous—two r’s—band of workmen with dubious criminal records—”’ She let her notebook drop to her lap. ‘Oh, Tom. I am sorry.’

  ‘Please continue.’ A smile spread across Tom’s face and he cupped his chin.

  Pamela cringed. ‘“Workmen with dubious criminal records as our employees to ensure that you have no peace of mind whatsoever. Yours, et cetera.” Oh, hell!’

  ‘Your mind’s not exactly on the job today, is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She shook herself like a bird settling its ruffled feathers. ‘I’m all right now—go back to where we left off.’

  Tom walked from behind his desk and perched on the front edge directly in line with her. ‘Give me that page.’

  Pamela tore it out of her notebook. He shredded it like confetti and threw it in the air, scattering it on the brown shag-pile carpet. Pamela looked horrified. ‘Now close your book and tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong.’ She was perilously close to tears. It was ridiculous. Hot, spiking needles jabbed behind her eyeballs and threatened to shatter what little composure she could muster. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not fine. There is something terribly wrong when Secretary of the Year gives me a cup of black coffee with no sugar, when for the last eighteen months she has faultlessly brought me a cup of white with two sugars every morning.’

  Pamela put her hands over her face. ‘Gosh, did I? Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘Because you looked exactly like you do now. As if you’re about to burst into tears at any minute should anyone be cruel enough to say boo to you.’

  One traitorous tear slid from under her eyelashes. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Come on, get your coat. We can leave the security of Milton Keynes hanging in the balance for a few more hours. I’m taking you to lunch.’

  She allowed herself to be led quietly to the luxurious Mercedes that stood waiting in the car park. Tom whisked her at breakneck speed along the four-lane highway, while she stared out of the window at the featureless scenery that whizzed past too fast. If he was trying to impress her it didn’t work. By the time they got there, she simply felt sick.

  They went to a harsh new redbrick monstrosity pub aptly named The Windmill. Its middle section had been constructed to look like an old windmill minus its sails, and it stuck up obtrusively from the barrack-like block of the rest of the building. Inside it didn’t look like a windmill at all, but like every other brand-new, old-fashioned pub.

  Tom ordered the food which they had chosen from glorious Technicolor replications on a huge laminated plastic menu—just in case anyone was unsure exactly what lasagne or steak pie and chips should look like. When Tom commented on this to the waitress, she told them that they had exactly the same pictures hanging in the kitchens, so that the chefs knew exactly what they had to produce—even down to the quarter-slice of lemon, half a tomato and two sachets of tartare sauce that came with every plate of scampi and chips. Original flourishes were obviously not encouraged at The Windmill.

  Tom and Pamela perched on uncomfortable stools in an alcove overlooking the artificial lake—which at least had real ducks—while they waited for their food to arrive.

  Pamela appraised her boss while she sipped her mineral water. Tom Pearson was swarthy-looking—a twinkly eyed rogue, a gypsy out of place in a well-cut business suit. A London Eastender by birth—a street vendor made good—he had found out at an early age that the streets of London weren’t paved with gold, so at the inception of the new city, had tried his luck in Milton Keynes instead. It had proved to be a good move.

  Tom had set up Secure Home Limited on a shoestring, but with the burgeoning growth in crime that befits a new city cobbled together with the disillusioned from all walks of life, he was now making a not inconsiderable profit, and was living in the style that he always felt he should be accustomed to.

  His hair was dark and wavy, and though there was no sign of thinning, there was a distinct snowstorm of grey. Pamela noticed that he still turned heads when he went to the bar to order some drinks, and wondered if her husband was viewed by more dispassionate females in the same light. It was hard to think of your own husband as a head-turner, but there was no accounting for taste. And Jamie had managed to turn her head—once upon a time.

  Tom was fifty-five, but you would give him a good ten years off that, despite the greying hair. His figure was athletic, but with a definite softening of the waistline that spoke of too many business lunches under his belt. He dressed quite classily—a tribute to his wife, Shirley, rather than to his own sartorial tastes—and had a style that conjured up a young Regis Philbin meets man at Marks & Spencer—the shop where Shirley bought all his suits because someone had told her they were really made by Armani.

  ‘So.’ Tom looked at her levelly, one eyebrow raised in query. ‘Are you going to tell me voluntarily what’s wrong, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?’

  Her eyes welled up again and she stared sightlessly out of the window in the general direct
ion of the ducks until she had the tears more or less under control. She cleared her throat. ‘Things haven’t been too good at home lately.’

  ‘You’ve got two kids, what do you expect?’ Tom teased.

  She smiled and wiped her index finger under her eye, smearing a stray tear across her cheek. The food arrived, which did look every bit as Technicolor and as plastic as the photograph had suggested.

  They sat in silence until the waitress left. ‘It’s Jamie,’ she continued. ‘I think he’s got a friend.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘We all need friends.’

  Pamela tutted. ‘I mean a friend. A special friend.’

  Tom rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s been singing in the shower.’ Pamela held her throat as she felt it tighten. ‘At five-thirty in the morning before he goes to work.’

  ‘He might just be happy.’

  ‘He’s singing “Knock Three Times.”’

  Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Then it’s serious.’

  Pamela pushed the plate of lurid food away from her and fished a handkerchief out of her suit pocket. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  Tom swigged his beer and pushed the plate of food back towards her. ‘Well, giving up eating won’t help.’

  Obediently, she picked up the fork.

  ‘Does he know that you know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She sighed and pushed the plate of food away again. ‘Oh, damn.’ She brushed across her eyes with the palms of her hands. ‘I don’t know if I’m imagining it all. There’s nothing concrete for me to be suspicious about—apart from the uncharacteristic shower singing. It’s just a feeling. He seems different. Eager to get out of the house in the morning and less than keen to come back at night.’ She gave another heartfelt sigh. ‘There’s been no lipstick on his collars, no phones going dead when I answer them—nothing like that at all. And yet. And yet…’ She spread her hands expansively. ‘I just know. Don’t ask me how.’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  Every sentence was accompanied by a sigh. ‘A few weeks, a few months, a year. Or not at all. I have no idea. But I suppose I started sensing something a month or so ago.’