by Zoë Folbigg
‘Isn’t this incredible?’ Herbert marvels, as if commercial flight has just been invented. He’s only flown a couple of times in his sixty-five years, and he watches like an enchanted child as he waits for his daughter, wondering where in the world the people streaming through behind trolleys might have come from, puffing with pride that their trips won’t have been as heroic as his daughter’s turned out to be; what a fine man his daughter’s boyfriend is. He straightens his A4 piece of paper.
Nena points to the doors and whispers into Ava’s ear. ‘Through there. Aunty Maya will be coming through there any second now.’
*
Petra and Francesca try to eavesdrop on the conversation between two people in front of the barrier. A man with a Foreign Office lanyard around his neck and a security guard talk to the same woman in the expensive suit clutching an iPad. They know their brother’s arrival is imminent, and Petra smooths Francesca’s dark hair and tucks it behind her ear. They give each other excited smiles before looking back along the line. There is nothing to say now, all they can do is quietly wait.
Correspondents clutching microphones nod into cameras, taking silent instruction in their earpieces, punctuated by the odd, ‘Yep’, ‘Uh-huh’, and, ‘Sure’. Drivers holding whiteboards, with names written messily in black pen, await clients and the M4. Solitary-looking people crane necks to see what the commotion is about; they’re just here to pick up someone they missed, or someone they didn’t miss but said they’d do a favour for. Some look a bit put out by the crowds, getting in the way of their day. Others are intrigued as to who the politician, the royal or – even better – the film star might be, whose arrival is clearly imminent. A man with a single red rose smiles to himself as he looks down to his battered Converse, hoping his girlfriend will think he arranged the welcome party for her. Anticipation in the air is thick and exciting.
The doors open, the stream continues, and in the middle, leaning on the protective shield of a baggage trolley, their backpacks lying across it (one more sullied than the other), emerges James, bruised and bashful. At his side, Maya squeezes his waist and tells him this will all be OK.
Bulbs flash.
The reporters swell upwards.
The concierge at James’ side, with a walkie-talkie in his hand, encourages other passengers to continue around them, as James approaches the barrier as instructed.
‘James! Rhianon Robathan, Sky News!’
‘James! Kathleen Kiernander, ITN!’
‘James! Laurie Dubois, France 24!’
‘James! Gerle Koch, RTL Germany!’
‘James! Vinamra Gupta, ABP!’
‘James! How does it feel to have rescued Manon Junot?’
‘James! What state was she in when you found her?’
‘James! How is Manon Junot doing now?’
‘James! How are your injuries? Are you in pain?’
‘James! Have you spoken to Manon Junot’s family?’
‘James! Who is your companion?’
‘James, Clarence Meek, BBC World News…’ James looks away from the blur of the press pack, towards the man with a beige face and light ginger hair, down low in the middle. It’s a nondescript face but the one he recognises; there is something comforting about him, about his voice. ‘James, how does it feel to be home?’
Maya squeezes James’ arm and holds it, almost propping him up.
He sees Petra and Francesca waving at him, to the right of the press pack, gives a calm smile, and looks back at the correspondent. ‘It feels good. I just want to get home really. Back to work. To get on with my life; grateful that Manon Junot can now get the help she needs to get on with hers.’ James nods, giving his cue to the concierge, the airport director and the FCO representative, that this is enough. He can’t really say any more right now.
‘James! Who’s your companion?’
Maya looks up and sees her dad standing next to Nena, Ava and Tom. She sees the crap sign Herbert wrote with her name on it and her heart soars.
All lenses turn to her, content and grateful, now holding James’ hand, clutching each other harder than they realise.
‘This is my fiancée, Maya.’
Whispers of ahhhs and shouts of, ‘Is that Maya with a y or an i?’ and ‘Isn’t that Maya Flowers who was that fashion insider?’ and ‘When’s the wedding?’ before the airport director steps in and enables them to move forward.
My Travels with Train Man
I tried to protect him. To give Train Man a bit of anonymity, so these dispatches weren’t too embarrassing for the shy guy with a dimple in his left cheek. But the secret’s out. Train Man has a name. He is called James Miller.
You’ll have heard that name a lot recently. You’ll know what James Miller looks like now too. Tall, dark, handsome-without-knowing-it. Deep brown eyes and a quiet smile. You will have seen that smile on the cover of every newspaper. You’ll have seen his face on televisions from London to Lisbon and Lima to Lagos. You’ll have read the exclusive interview with him in the Sunday broadsheet this fine magazine accompanies. You’ll know that he battled leeches, a forest and an angry psychopath – safely behind bars for now – and he put his own life at risk because he knew he needed to save somebody else’s. You’ll know he lifted Manon Junot from her months of misery and carried her to safety, so she could get back to her family and get better. Having lost him, for one night, made me experience a fraction of the pain Manon Junot’s family must have been feeling after a hundred nights like it. And I knew I couldn’t live without him.
You might have already put two and two together and realised it was Train Man who saved Manon Junot. If you’ve been reading this column, you’ll know about most of what we got up to on our trip. What you won’t know, is that our trip wasn’t always harmonious. I didn’t mention that there were issues deeper than whose turn it was to have the aisle seat or buy the Magnums, or if I did, I breezed over them.
Deep down, I was harbouring upset. I felt annoyed at myself for wanting the cliché of marriage and babies when I had the world at my feet. I didn’t write about how – as annoyed as I was with myself, I was even more annoyed with Train Man – with James – for seemingly not wanting the things I desperately pretended I didn’t.
My friends and family helpfully pointed out all the lovely places (temples, beaches at sunset, waterfalls…) and scenarios in which James could, but didn’t, propose. Miscommunication and resentment bubbled, and when a shitbag from my past tried to tell me he wanted those things with me, I even wobbled. For half a second.
But I didn’t waver because I knew James Miller was a hero way before the world did. He is kind and puts other people first every day. His unshowy, thoughtful reticence means he won’t assume someone wants to marry him. It’s the same trait that makes him get embarrassed every time he’s asked to recount the story of how he rescued Manon Junot.
Because of his unassuming manner, I didn’t realise he did want all the same things as me. He does want to get married and have children – he wants the fairytale too – he was just cautious about telling me so. And when he did ask me to marry him, we didn’t need fireworks, flowers or a filter. It was just us, bruised and drained, as we hid from news crews and he pulled me into the bath.
We’re slowly settling back to reality and James is back at work as a photographer. Getting on with the commission he was offered before this story went global; with new bookings he’s made since. I’m spending evenings unpacking our home, running, re-tuning and baking. Who knows, you might even see me in the food section of Esprit in future. But for now it’s goodbye. It’s been an honour to share most of my travels with you (and to have made the cover this week!) but I sign off and say thank you to everyone at Esprit, but mostly to you, dear reader. I’m sorry I kept so much from you on the trip, but am so glad to be able to share it with you now. Better go, I have a wedding to plan.
Epilogue
Under the glass and iron atrium of the Royal Opera House cafe, Nena stands in a shaft of s
unlight, dazzling like a multicoloured zebra, in a sequin jumpsuit of vertical rainbow stripes. Arlo clutches one hand, Ava wriggles on her other hip.
‘Do you want to put her down? We could just get you with your son…’ asks the photographer with a sympathetic smile.
Nena can already tell the sleek silver-haired woman is a mother herself.
‘No, it’s fine. If I put her down, she’ll run straight out the door! She can wriggle, but my arms are strong.’ Not yet one and Ava Vernon, with her thick black hair and bright blue eyes has already learnt to walk – and with it she can run amok. Arlo takes his role at the photocall seriously, his side parting and sincere face sitting atop a paisley blue bow tie.
Nena is holding onto her children on a little raised oval platform bathed in the light pouring in through the wrought-iron arches of the Victorian hall, to celebrate the return of Nena’s Tiny Dancers to the autumn schedule. Patrons taking afternoon tea marvel at the swirl of TV presenters they’re not quite sure they recognise around them: the woman who likes to craft, the man who talks to puppet cabbages in a pretend garden, the scientist who makes mints explode, the doctor who explains how bogies form – they’re all doing their bit to talk up their shows under the crisp September sunshine – although Dr Rosa plays her part with a sullen pout.
In May, as sunshine and spring blossom brought Nena a confidence to counter every tricky baby milestone – and Ava started sleeping through the night – Nena decided that she did indeed want to return to work, but she wanted to do it on her terms. By June she was shooting, only this series she got to take Ava to meetings and into the studio with her – with Arlo joining once school broke up for summer. Ava and Arlo would waddle, wiggle and dance alongside other inquisitive children, filming and following Nena on her adventures around the world via green screen, to tell the stories and origins behind dance traditions; learning foreign words and new steps, encouraging pre-schoolers to get moving. In July, a dyspraxia charity asked Nena to be their patron, which she heartily accepted, and as soon as the shoot wrapped, the Vernons went on their first family holiday to Bahia.
Now it’s September, and Charmaine McCourt is throwing a party to launch the new season of children’s television, and she’s buzzing about, directing photographers, broadcast press and newspaper TV critics as to whose pictures to take, who to talk to next, speaking in soundbites, while always keeping one eye on Nena, the jewel in the corporation’s crown. The poster girl for flexible working – something Charmaine was happy to support, having not been enabled when her children were young.
‘Did you engineer this?’ Nena whispered to Tom as he stepped in to straighten Arlo’s collar.
‘Not at all!’ he protested. ‘Anyway, I tried to talk Charmaine out of it,’ he winked. ‘I know how you hate to be the centre of attention…’
Actually Nena meant the sunbeam beating down on her – she knew she had earned the plaudits herself – but she smiled proudly and playfully all the same.
Nena the clown, now in designer multicolours and polished make-up. Dancer. TV presenter. Wife. Mother. Tom looks at the three loves of his life, happily, if wriggly, huddled together as they have their photograph taken on the podium, and his heart swells with such piercing pride it hurts.
Maya and James hurry into the former floral hall holding hands, their coats flapping open in their rush through the autumn chill, hoping to catch Nena’s big moment before they go for dinner. They sidle up to Tom, their fingers still interlocked.
‘Just in time!’ Maya says, letting go of James and bringing her palms together in a silent clap. ‘Wow, she looks amazing.’ Maya blows a kiss and gives Nena two thumbs up.
Tom turns around.
‘Hey!’ He kisses Maya on both cheeks and shakes James’ hand firmly.
‘Hi!’ Maya and James chime.
‘I haven’t see you since the Hugo Linden wedding. Nena said it was insane.’
James gives a knowing look. ‘You could say that.’
‘Lots of inspiration for you guys?’ Tom smiles as he scratches his chin.
‘I wish.’ Maya rolls her eyes. ‘Alas, I have neither the bank balance nor the legs for Ashley Jolly’s dress.’ She pulls a false grumpy face but immediately breaks it when she spots Nena’s mum talking to a former Royal Ballet colleague at the champagne bar. ‘Ah, Victoria!’
Maya leaves James to provide gossip on the A-list wedding: the supermodel demands; the superstar chateau in Provence; the impromptu pool party and ruined frocks; the Hollywood action man who made a pass at James, while his heavily pregnant actress wife was stuck back in LA… and dashes over to Nena’s mother.
‘Maya, my darling!’ she gushes with a glorious smile, as she extends both her hands for Maya to take and Nena joins with Ava and Arlo, ready for Granny to take them off for a sleepover. Maya leans in to kiss Ava’s head and feels nothing but gratitude.
*
A short hop across Covent Garden’s cobbles and Maya, James, Nena and Tom are sitting on brass-studded burgundy leather banquettes in a French brasserie. As they await their starters, nicotine paintwork and mirrors that have seen a few reflections in their time gaze down on them as they raise their glasses.
‘Cheers!’ they chime, all nodding towards Nena.
‘They do weddings at the Opera House, you know,’ Nena deflects as she smooths her sequins into one direction. It’s nice being the centre of attention again, but she might have become accustomed to playing second fiddle now.
Maya and James look at each other as though they have news.
‘Actually, we’ve booked it,’ Maya says, while James tucks a wave of hair behind her ear.
‘Ace! Where? Please tell me it’s King’s Cross. And you’ll have a Thomas The Tank Engine cake.’
Maya smiles.
‘Fat Controller doing the formalities?’ asks Tom, raising an intrigued eyebrow.
‘Actually no…’
‘Oh, hang on. Somewhere exotic!’ begs Nena. ‘Please say it’s a destination wedding and we can pretend to be annoyed about how expensive it is, while actually getting super-excited about being forced to go on holiday in Turks and Caicos or Cape Town or something.’
Maya looks at James, then to Nena apologetically.
‘Well, we did consider Indonesia, given we never made it there – Bali and Ubud looked amazing, didn’t they?’ James nods. ‘But my family is too big; they’d be too pissed off.’
‘We want everyone there,’ says James, squeezing Maya’s leg under the table.
‘So…?’
Maya puts her hand on top of James’ on her thigh.
‘Hazelworth Barns. Next Easter.’
‘Easter! I love Easter!’ shouts Nena. After the drama of the day, she’s quickly tipsy. ‘And Hazelworth – home – how lovely.’
Maya is relieved. The rustic tythe barn at Hazelworth doesn’t have the glamour of the Royal Opera House or the hippie chic of Bali. But it’s home. Home for Maya and James, in the town they hope to start a family.
‘I’ll need a sexy best woman of course.’
‘Try stopping me,’ Nena beams.
Which reminds Maya. This is Nena’s day. Her official return as the star of children’s television. Maya raises her champagne flute again. ‘Here’s to you, sweetie.’ James and Tom follow suit. ‘I’m so proud of you. Look at everything you’ve achieved.’
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Tom nuzzles into Nena’s cheek.
Nena downs her fizz and looks like she’s about to smash her glass on the floor in celebration. Fortunately she doesn’t.
‘We did OK, didn’t we?’ she says. ‘I mean, we’ve almost survived the first year of parenthood. James has bloody rescued Manon Junot from the clutches of an evil psycho and is an actual real-life hero, and you, Maya… well, apart from wedding planning, what are you going to do?’
Maya pauses for a second, her glass poised at her lips, awash with a feeling of utter contentment.
‘Me? I have no idea!’
Ack
nowledgements
I waited almost ten years to have my first book published, then (like buses) three seem to have come at once. So given this is my third novel in two years, my support network hasn’t changed all that much: although it is about to. Sarah Ritherdon, my amazing editor, took a chance on me and made The Note a bestseller, and for that I will always be grateful. And I’ll miss you terribly. But the axis of awesomeness will live on for ever. Rebecca Ritchie, my brilliant agent, you’re the best. Thanks to Hannah Smith, Laura Palmer, Nikky Ward, Vicky Joss, Daniel Groenewald, Nicolas Cheetham and the whole team at Aria and Head of Zeus, I’m so excited about the road ahead. To Alice - thank you for the cover (is it weird to fancy a silhouette?!).
Huge thanks go to the people I have thanked before, the people I am grateful for every day. My parents, brothers and sisters. My friends, my cheerleaders. And to Mark, Felix and Max – I’m a lucky woman to live with and to love such fine men.
Finally, thank you to the kind people who message me from all over the world, telling me their love stories or asking me whether they should give a stranger a polite note asking them out (my answer: always). And to everyone who believes in love at first sight. Thank you for your kindness and support – it powers me on when I’m running and when I’m writing, and reminds me that love really does make the world go round.
About the Author
Zoë Folbigg is author of The Note and The Distance. Formerly a magazine journalist and digital editor, she started at Cosmopolitan in 2001, since freelancing for titles including Fabulous, Glamour, Good Housekeeping, Healthy, LOOK, Top Santé, Mother & Baby, ELLE, Sunday Times Style, ASOS and Style.com. In 2008 Zoë wrote a weekly column in Fabulous magazine documenting her year-long round-the-world trip with Train Man – a man she had met on her daily commute. She has since married Train Man and lives in Hertfordshire with him and their two sons.
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