Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  For this and other reasons that were fairly obvious to all after a few moments of partying in his company, his nickname was Champagne Charlie. He was Jamie’s assistant manager at the Mutual and Providential—a job he did simply to fill in his days while he waited impatiently for his inheritance to arrive, whereupon he could dedicate himself totally to wine, women and a certain amount of song.

  Charlie had a shock of fair, curly hair and a ruddy complexion that owed nothing to fresh air and clean living, but stated quite clearly that his favourite tipple was something stronger than lemonade. He stood out in a crowd like a golden beacon, yet Jamie failed to notice him at all until he was standing right in front of them.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello!’ said Charlie.

  Jamie dropped Teri’s hand as if it had scalded him. ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, what are you doing here? Sit down,’ he snapped irritably. ‘You sound like a hammy British detective.’

  Charlie obediently sat down. ‘Someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning, dear boy—or was it just the wrong bed?’ He winked theatrically.

  ‘Don’t be so damned rude, Charlie.’ Jamie picked up his newspaper and shook it out crossly. Although he loved the bloke dearly, he’d picked a fine time to come barging in. ‘This happens to be a good friend of mine, Miss Teri Carter.’

  Charlie held out his hand and Teri shook it. ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said breezily.

  ‘And this lazy good-for-nothing—’ Jamie gestured at Charlie dismissively ‘—is supposed to be my assistant.’

  Charlie looked suitably offended. ‘Now who’s being rude?’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Jamie was still tetchy. ‘You’ve made that quite plain, old thing.’ Charlie went from offended to hurt.

  ‘So, what are you doing on the train so early? Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘Haven’t been to sleep, old boy. Came straight from the casino. Went home, had a bit of a wash and brush-up, and back out again. I’ve got lots to do in the office.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh! No one has got anything to do in the office—it’s like a morgue in there. I keep expecting to pull out one of the filing-cabinet drawers and find a dead body in there with a tag round its toe.’

  ‘My, you are being spiteful today, James.’ Charlie sat forward and spoke conspiratorially. ‘Look, there’s no need to worry about me. Mum’s the word.’ He imitated a zip closing across his mouth, and Jamie fervently wished that there really was one there. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’ He opened his copy of the Financial Times and started to read. ‘Just pretend I’m not here.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. It might have looked more convincing if the newspaper had been the right way up. Jamie felt flushed, either with anger or embarrassment or both—he wasn’t sure. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed to Teri silently.

  She shrugged in return, as there was little else she could do. It was a morose, mist-shrouded morning, and she stared out of the window watching the scenery whiz past.

  All three sat in uncomfortable silence— Jamie skulking behind his newspaper. She stared at him and he failed to meet her eyes, so she focused instead on the electric blue-and-purple zigzag fabric of the British Rail seats that matched nothing and was hard on the eyes at any time, let alone seven o’clock in the morning. In staring at the seats, she forgot to look for the man who lived in the soulless block of flats next to the sign that said One Mile To Euston Station, who vigorously towelled dry his important little places in front of the window each morning.

  Another disappointment. Teri could feel the edges of her mouth settling into a downward pout. The tangle of tracks increased to spaghetti-like proportions, signalling their arrival at Euston. Whatever had happened to Heathcliff and Cathy and thingy and whatsit, she was pretty sure that a Charlie hadn’t turned up in the middle to blight their reunion.

  Jamie left Teri awkwardly and reluctantly with a brisk goodbye at the mouth of the Underground station and headed off with Charlie towards the Northern Line.

  ‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, old chap,’ Charlie said as they pushed through the automatic ticket barriers. Keeping up with the fast pace of seasoned commuters, they descended at a brisk walk down the escalator, which groaned in complaint, to the tube. ‘I had you down for Mr Happily Married.’

  In the subterranean tunnel, a young student-type played the love theme from Dr Zhivago, picking the strings of his battered guitar with the touch of a lover. On the floor next to him, his guitar case was filling steadily with coins. Farther along the curving corridor of cracked tiles sat a young mother with a strong Irish accent and a toddler with an equally strong pair of lungs. She proffered the child in the face of passing commuters and said, ‘Change, please!’ The chipped china cup at her feet was empty.

  ‘I am happily married,’ Jamie snapped above the rushing noise of the wind on the platform. ‘I told you, she’s a good friend.’

  ‘Do you always hold hands with your good friends on the train in the morning?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen her for ages, and she was upset and needed comforting. ‘Lies, lies, lies. ‘It was all going very well until you came along and put your size ten in.’

  ‘I must say, she didn’t look very upset. She looked positively radiant to me.’

  The tube train arrived and they got on, saving Jamie the need to explain himself further. All the seats were taken, but it wasn’t overcrowded, so they stood near the door facing each other.

  ‘Does Pamela know that you meet good friends on the train and hold their hands?’ Charlie continued as the train rattled its way to Leicester Square.

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, Charlie.’

  ‘Look, I may be approaching the brink of alcoholism and the descent into early senility, but I’m not a complete idiot.’ Charlie paused. ‘You could disagree with me.’

  ‘You are a complete idiot.’

  ‘No, it’s you, dear boy—you are the complete idiot,’ Charlie said soberly, concern evident in his voice. ‘This is a very dangerous game you’re playing, Jamie.’

  ‘It’s not a game, Charlie.’ Jamie was tight-lipped. ‘Whatever you think this is, it’s certainly not a game.’

  ‘But it is. It’s a game with people’s lives. The rules aren’t fair, and I wouldn’t mind betting that some of the players don’t even know they’re on the pitch.’ He raised an eyebrow in query. Jamie looked the other way. ‘That simply isn’t cricket.’

  They changed at Leicester Square—which was always heaving with bodies at any time of the day or night. Hostility crackled between them like warning lightning before a thunderstorm breaks.

  As they marched along the platform, Charlie continued, ‘Finish it, Jamie, before people get hurt.’

  ‘Nothing has started, Charlie.’

  They waited for the lift to come to take them up to street level. ‘You don’t hold hands with people unless there’s something going on. ‘He held his own hand up to stop Jamie’s protests, which was a mistake. They crowded into the lift like very large sardines in a very small, very tight tin, and Charlie’s hand was trapped in a truncated wave against his chest.

  Jamie glowered at him. ‘If you’re so ruddy disapproving, what was that camp, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, routine on the train for?’

  ‘What could I say, dear chap? I was in an embarrassing predicament. I could see I was about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit—but I had to say something. It seemed apparent that polite conversation about Pamela and the kids was out of the question.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jamie said as they emerged into the grey drizzle that had started to fall. ‘I’ll come clean. There might have been the odd illicit drink and one meal. One meal, for goodness’ sake. That doesn’t make me an adulterer. I haven’t even given her so much as a peck on the cheek.’ He turned and faced his old friend. ‘I haven’t seen her for two weeks and I’ve been like a lovesick teenager,’ he confessed in a low voice. ‘I can’t eat, I can’t sleep and I certainly can’
t make love to my wife. Today was the first time I’d held her hand—and look where that got me.’ They continued walking. ‘A bloody morality lecture from Oliver Reed’s soul mate.’

  ‘Nip it in the bud, Jamie,’ Charlie said quietly.

  He stopped and batted his palm against his forehead. ‘You’re like a broken record!’

  ‘It’s going nowhere, Jamie. Stop it now.’

  He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry; he could have done with his usual cup of coffee with Teri at the End-of-the-Line Buffet. He wished he could have talked to Teri properly, to have told her how he felt when he hadn’t been able to see her. He wished Charlie hadn’t turned up like the proverbial bad penny and spoilt their precious little time together. And most of all he wished he weren’t having this conversation.

  The rain was heavier now, and it was running down his forehead and onto his nose. He had an umbrella in his briefcase—a fold-up one that Pamela had bought him in Harrods. He deliberately didn’t use it. He wanted to be wet and cold and miserable—and he didn’t wish to be reminded of Pamela. Although he already had been.

  ‘I don’t know if I can stop it, Charlie,’ he admitted at last. ‘I feel like I’m on a runaway train that’s gathering speed. It’s out of my control.’

  ‘That’s complete bollocks, Jamie—and you know it. You can blow the whistle at any time you like. And the sooner you do it, the less painful it will be. Don’t wait until you crash into the buffers and there’s a mangled wreck around you.’

  Chapter 9

  Clare held the soggy, man-sized Kleenex to her nose again. ‘If he crawled over broken glass to see me and arrived at the door all nasty and bloody with bits of glass sticking out of his knees, I wouldn’t have him back now.’

  Teri handed her another tissue. ‘Yes, you would.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Belligerent five-year-olds knew less about sulking than Clare. She had done A-level sulk.

  ‘Not even if he begged?’

  Clare blew her nose heartily and cast the tissue onto the ever-growing pile on the sofa. ‘Well, I might.’

  ‘I’m going to put these in the bin before they make a damp patch on the cushion.’ Teri scooped the tissues up with a shudder and went into the kitchen to dispose of them.

  ‘Women who go out with married men should be shot.’ Clare’s voice drifted into the kitchen in between sniffs.

  Teri stopped in her tracks, foot on the pedal bin, tissues poised. There was a cold prickling feeling up the back of her neck.

  ‘They destroy lives. ‘Clare was in full swing. ‘In fact, shooting’s far too good for them. It should be something slow and torturous, like the Black Death. I know—the Plague of Traitorous Women.’ Clare was obviously feeling better on this subject, and the sniffing had nearly stopped. ‘It should start with boils.’

  Teri ditched the tissues and tiptoed across the room to stare into the pine-framed mirror over the kitchen-cum-dining-room table.

  ‘Big black ones, all over their faces,’ Clare said stridently.

  Teri tentatively gave her skin an exploratory stroke.

  ‘With a particularly big one on the end of their noses so that everyone could see what they had done.’

  Teri examined her nose carefully.

  ‘Then their fingernails should drop out.’

  Teri swallowed hard. Hers were long and strong and, more often than not, painted red. She was very fond of her nails.

  ‘One by one,’ Clare added as an afterthought. ‘Then the skin on their necks should sag.’

  Teri pulled down her polo-neck and inspected her neck. There was a fairly deep crease line across it, but no sagging.

  ‘Mind you, that usually happens anyway,’ Clare said philosophically.

  Teri tore herself away from the mirror and rushed to the fridge to pull out the half-empty bottle of white wine. She braced herself to go back into the lounge.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Clare. I preferred you when you were suicidal to psychotic. Here—’ she thrust the wine bottle at her friend ‘—drink yourself into oblivion, and then we can both have some peace.’

  Clare tutted, but took the bottle anyway. ‘You’re not much of an Agony Aunt, are you? I would have expected a bit more sympathy. You know how upset I’ve been.’

  ‘I know— I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad day.’ Teri tugged her hair back from her forehead. ‘It’s just that you deserve better than David. He’s always been a complete bastard and he always will be. I hate to see you wasting yourself on him.’

  Clare refilled her glass. ‘I need to lose some weight.’

  ‘You’ve lost loads of weight! If you get any thinner, you’ll look like Kate Moss.’

  ‘She’s only a size six.’

  ‘Kate Moss?’ Teri was puzzled.

  ‘No. Her.’ Clare tossed her hair back. ‘Anthea!’

  ‘Is that what he rang up to tell you?’

  ‘No. He wanted me to know he’s putting the flat on the market.’ Her eyes filled with tears again, and she reached for another tissue.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clare.’ Teri sat next to her on the sofa and put her arm round her friend’s heaving shoulders. ‘Look, it’s probably for the best. A clean break and then you can get on with your life.’

  ‘I’ll never find another man,’ Clare wailed.

  ‘Of course you will.’ Teri squeezed her shoulder. ‘You’ve got so much going for you. You’re young, you’re pretty, you’re slim—and getting slimmer. Who could resist you?’

  ‘Everyone.’ Clare wiped her eyes. ‘My husband did. And everyone else over the age of twenty-one is married.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’ Teri patted her arm.

  ‘I don’t want a toyboy. I want a mature man. A Tom Cruise look-alike, but taller, with no emotional baggage and no ex-wives or kids.’

  ‘It’s a good job you’re not picky,’ Teri said lightly. She gave her friend another reassuring squeeze. ‘Look, there are still some—a few—very nice men around.’

  Clare turned on her. ‘So how come it’s taken you so long to find one?’

  Teri shook her head and picked some imaginary fluff from her jeans. ‘Perhaps I just wasn’t looking in the right place.’

  ‘Still, you’ve found someone nice now, and I’m really pleased for you.’ She clutched Teri’s hand, crushing it to her. ‘I know I’ve been wrapped up in myself lately. I’m sorry. Come on then, tell me all about him. It’ll take my mind off that bastard I’m married to.’ She giggled and wiped her eyes. ‘Dish the dirt, Teri. I could do with cheering up.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell really.’ Teri’s voice sounded over-casual even to her. This was dangerous territory.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so mean. You know we’ve told each other everything since you confessed that you let Michael Lacey put his hand up your skirt under the coats in the cloakroom in Mrs Whittle’s class.’

  ‘Clare!’

  Her friend was unperturbed. ‘I know it’s still on, because you went to the naughty knicker shop and bought a load of new pants last weekend.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, it must be getting serious if you’re lashing out on new undies.’

  ‘The reason I bought new undies was because all my other knickers are grey.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Clare elbowed her meaningfully in the ribs. ‘I know you better than that.’

  Teri’s jaw tightened. ‘The reason all my knickers are grey is that someone, who shall remain nameless, left a black sock in the bottom of the washing machine.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, and to cover the uneasiness Teri poured herself half a glass of wine, even though she didn’t want it.

  ‘So is it on or is it off?’ Clare continued.

  ‘Let it drop, Clare. Please,’ Teri pleaded.

  ‘We-e-ll—’ Clare elongated the word ‘—you’re so cagey. One minute you’re mad about this bloke—he’s the best thing since the video shop started selling Hä
agen-Dazs—and then next thing, schtum. What’s the big secret?’

  ‘There’s no big secret.’ The words nearly stuck in her throat. Clare was right—she had told her everything since the embarrassing and awakening Michael Lacey incident. They had confided in each other since the day they started at The Sacred Heart of Jesus Primary School together. More often than not, this was because Clare did a superlative range of Chinese burns— Teri winced at the memory—and it was easier to tell her innermost secrets to her best friend than trying to explain away another bright red and bruised arm to her mother.

  The only thing she had ever kept from Clare was her one moment of madness when she had, for reasons which still eluded her, agreed to a clandestine date with Clare’s boyfriend. And Jamie. He could still just about be classed as a secret. Mind you, with maturing years Clare had resorted to mental forms of torture rather than purely physical—and with equally profitable results.

  ‘Then what’s the latest state of play?’ Clare was getting impatient, which was always a bad sign. ‘You never tell me anything. I bet he goes like a train. Not a British train, obviously.’

  Teri remained silent.

  ‘Why does he never ring you or take you out? And more to the point, why haven’t I met him yet?’

  ‘It’s just difficult, that’s all.’ Teri was trying to keep her temper. Her friend was under a lot of strain at the moment, and the revelation about Jamie’s circumstances wasn’t likely to help.

  ‘Why is it difficult?’

  Clare could be very stupid and stubborn when she wanted to be, and Teri was beginning to wonder why she had ever offered to share her home with her. They’d had a flat together once before, just after they finished university, and it had been an utter disaster. There was mould in the lounge, silverfish in the bathroom and a wide range of tropical diseases in the fridge. Clare had been blissfully unaware of all of them.