by Zoë Folbigg
I hope it’s enough. This is a nightmare.
Then Maya remembers to be grateful that she’s not stuck on the train in front. Or the person whose soul shot out of their body on impact with the windscreen just three miles up the track. Or that person’s family. Or the driver, for whom Christmas will also be ruined.
Get a grip Flowers. Someone just died. You have crossed the Darien Gap on your own, you can get home from Rockfield at two in the morning.
The train rolls slowly and comes to a stop on a quiet village platform. The snow flurry builds, swirling chaotically under the lamps that light the exit. Maya looks at it as she steps off the train, putting an unusually graceful footprint into virgin snow, and it reminds her of the precision and elegance of Felipe and Victoria Oliveira’s dance as they moved around the oak-sprung floor hours earlier. She thinks about how they’re probably already tucked up in bed, holding each other tight on this momentous day for their only child.
Maya looks to the pub down the steps that lead to the foot of the railway bridge. She has passed that pub every working day of her adult life but has never been inside. The lights are off, the doors are bolted shut. Disgruntled passengers gather outside it in coats and hats and scarves and gloves and Maya hears questions flying across the night sky as disorderly and chaotic and cold as the snow.
‘Who would do such a selfish thing?’
‘Why isn’t the landlord getting out of bed and offering us sanctuary?’
‘Where is the bus replacement service?’
‘Why aren’t there any taxis?’
‘Why did I take this train when I meant to come home earlier?’
‘Who can I talk to about this?’
‘Where are the staff?’
‘Why isn’t my wife answering the phone?’
‘Who’s in charge here?’
Maya doesn’t feel angry. She feels cold, vulnerable and alone. She looks around. There must be at least 150 frosty, angry, tipsy people, all more appropriately dressed, and she feels utter despair.
A taxi swings into the station, the first to get word of this captive market. A tall man in a fedora and a long, straight coat jumps into the back and says ‘Hazelworth,’ as if it’s a military command: quickly, efficiently, without making eye contact with anyone.
‘Hang on a minute, mate!’ says a woman with a lot of gold around her neck as she stands to block the door he was about to pull shut. ‘There are loads of people ’ere going to Hazelworth. Budge up.’
The man slides along with a sneer while the woman weighed down with gold and her friend squeeze in next to him.
‘I may as well too,’ says a young man sheepishly, getting in the front passenger seat. The driver doesn’t care. More stops, more money.
Standing on the pavement with numb toes painted oxblood red, Maya wishes she had been quicker.
Or just less polite. Pockets of people group together, asking where each other is from. Nortonbury. Leathermore. Peterham. Arguments break out over whose need is greatest. So much for Blitz spirit.
Maya looks at her phone and decides to attempt to wake Herbert on the landline. He would rather get changed out of his nightshirt and come to collect Maya than have her standing in the cold feeling scared. Even at twenty-eight, a girl might need rescuing. Freezing fingers press a button to activate a phone but the screen stays blank, the battery dead.
‘You’re stuck too?’ says a calm voice among the hullaballoo.
Maya turns around and looks up. Tall, safe, comforting Train Man is standing facing her. Or ‘photographer: James Miller’. Their names sat side by side in the newspaper, although neither of them opened it to see the finished article, neither could face it. Maya gasps, exhaling breathy relief that rolls out as steam in the cold night.
‘It’s you.’ Maya’s blue lips can barely emit words but relief washes over her and suddenly the hostile white night sky seems like a protective blanket swaddling them.
‘Big night out?’ James says, looking at Maya in her finery. The hair jewel that sat straight above her ear slopes diagonally above a looser, dishevelled side bun. Her green dress shines like a jewel in the darkness.
Maya blushes and gently touches the bun, making sure it’s still pinned up at all.
‘My best friend’s wedding. It was the most wonderful day ever… until now.’
James tries not to look deflated.
‘Well, not now,’ Maya concedes. ‘I must say I’m relieved to see you among all this.’ Maya looks around, her brow furrows despairingly at people climbing over each and shouting, and looks back at James, wrapped in a long cable-knit scarf from the collar of his navy peacoat up to his full and thoughtful lips. Black rectangles frame wide, lovely eyes. Eyes Maya feels she has known all her life. She wants to stand on tiptoes and bury her head in James’s scarf, to nestle into his neck, just as she longed to the first day she saw him on the train, but she stops herself as she remembers Kitty Jones, whichever of those two girls she was.
Taxis start to stream into the station approach and disgruntled passengers elbow each other out the way, now in packs, so that this next taxi will be their taxi. Tension cuts through a sleepy village while most of its inhabitants are unaware.
Maya and James hover at the back, facing each other as they lean into the arch of the pub’s closed door, framed by hanging baskets, colourful flowers trying to stand up to the snow.
‘About what happened in the studio…’ James looks down at the floor and sees snow settling on his boots. ‘I hope I didn’t say something to upset you.’ He looks up, dark eyebrows dive in confusion. ‘You just disappeared.’
‘I’m sorry – you got your shot though, yes? The story went down a storm I hear, and, as expected, it cost me my job.’ Maya tries to steer the subject. Embarrassed as she is about being outed as Fifi Fashion Insider, it’s less embarrassing than falling for a man who is in love with someone else.
‘Did you get my email?’
‘THAT’S MY TAXI!’ bellows a woman in a Rudolph jumper.
‘Look, James, it’s all good. I get it. You have a girlfriend. Can’t win ’em all!’ Maya shrugs, trying to make light of it. ‘And some good came of all this weirdness. After what you said about starting all over again with photography, doing something creative, I decided that this should be my new direction.’ Maya raises the empty hatbox.
‘Millinery?’
‘No!’ Maya laughs through chattering teeth. ‘You said I was brave, but I think you are, you had more to lose giving up something you were doing so well in. So I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and I’ve enrolled in a patisserie course. Starts in January. And my friend’s wedding cake today – that was my first commission.’ Maya beams proudly. ‘I’d show you a picture but my phone died.’
‘That’s brilliant, Maya.’
He said my name.
Maya glows.
James’s smile drops.
‘She’s not my girlfriend, you know.’
‘It’s none of my business if she is.’
‘Well she isn’t. She was. For eleven years. But I’ve been single for six months.’
Maya is confused. About the girl he held hands with at the studio; the one who slept on his shoulder that steamy summer morning after Jack White.
‘But what about the Chinese girl, beautiful face…?’
James looks puzzled. ‘Josie? She’s one of my best friends.’ He breaks into a smile. His dimple deepens in the dark. ‘No, Josie’s definitely not my girlfriend. But Kitty was,’
Maya thinks of the woman in the studio with the pixie crop of white-blonde hair.
‘She wanted to talk to me, she’d changed her mind about an affair she’d had. But she was too late. I’d already seen you.’
Another taxi zooms into the station approach, the driver hoping the four punters he’s about to pick up live far away from each other.
‘“Seen me”?’ quizzes Maya, repositioning her stole over the spaghetti straps of her green dress and wrapping her
arms around herself as she shivers.
‘Here.’
James slides the straps of his grey backpack off his shoulders and swings it in front of him. The top doesn’t quite close due to the long cardboard tube sticking out of it. James draws it out, the way he used to draw inner tubes of wrapping paper out of his waistband when he was playing knights and dragons with Francesca as children.
He hands the tube to Maya, who takes it from the other end and pops open the white stopper.
James removes his coat. ‘Here, take this too, you’re freezing.’
He carefully rests his thick wool peacoat around Maya’s shoulders like a heavy cape. She breathes in the smell of him on the upturned collar that brushes her cheek and looks at him intently. Not wanting to pull away from him to look inside the tube.
Maya slides out a roll of photographic paper and unfurls the scroll. She breaks James’s gaze to see a large picture of her in profile. Looking out of a window at the last of the Soho sun bouncing off shards of orange dotted around sad brown irises.
‘Gosh.’
‘I didn’t send that one to the paper, I kept that back. For you. I’ve been wanting to give it to you but just haven’t seen you.’
Maya’s not sure if it’s the cold or the caipirinhas, but she can’t get her head around any of this.
‘I don’t get the 8.21 anymore,’ Maya shrugs in confusion but the weight of James’s coat anchors her shoulders, warming her from her tummy out. Suddenly Maya can feel her toes again.
James looks at Maya, she sees defeat in his dark eyes.
‘After you ran off I went home and looked at the photos on the light box. This one,’ he nods to the picture now curled back together, ‘it’s the most beautiful photograph I have ever taken.’ James says it with such conviction, orange shards drown under tears.
‘You can fall for someone you don’t know, Maya.’
Maya is so shocked, her mouth hangs open.
‘Here, you keep it,’ James says, as he hands Maya the tube. He wonders what her boyfriend will think of him giving Maya the picture, knowing he too will agree it’s beautiful.
Maya tucks the tube under her arm beneath the navy peacoat cape without taking her eyes off James, locked in the sanctuary of the pub doorway.
The last of the aggrieved passengers bundle into the last taxi and the woman with lank brown hair scraped back into a ponytail bellows out of a rear window.
‘Room for one more!’
Her drunken boyfriend slumped on the seat next to her doesn’t flinch.
‘You take it. You’re freezing. I’ll wait for the next one,’ James says, preparing himself to walk two towns to get home tonight.
Maya looks at the woman. ‘No thanks. I’m staying,’ she says, nodding in James’s direction.
‘Won’t your boyfriend wonder where you are?’
Boyfriend?
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
Maya and James lock eyes and laugh nervously.
Cold but content, James holds Maya’s face in his hands and wipes a snowflake from her eyelash with his thumb.
‘Here, take this,’ he says, removing his cable-knit scarf and coiling it around Maya’s neck. As James’s arm circles above Maya’s head and the scarf rises, she thinks of Tom spinning Nena around the dance floor, just hours ago. As she watched, Maya thought it would be a long time before that would ever happen to her. Her Seeing The Future skills have let her down again and she doesn’t mind one bit.
Now the world around Maya starts to spin and the street lights and snow and hanging baskets and railway bridge all whir into a blur beyond the comfort of James’s winding arm. Tingling feet edge onto tiptoes, silver sandals shine in the moonlight, and Maya reaches up to touch James’s lips with hers. He kisses her back. Full of warmth on a cold night. Full of hope for having arrived. Full of excitement for the journey ahead of them. Full of relief to be home.
Epilogue
January 2015
Maya stands on the southbound platform hugging a weighty hardback book. For five minutes she has tried mastering the fundamentals of French pastry, but can’t concentrate, her brain whirling like a palmier, wondering where he is. She looks up to the far front end of the platform, shielding her eyes from the cold bright sunshine with her hands.
Maybe if I edge back up there.
Maya looks at the clock. 8.19 a.m. She feels a familiar wrench in the pit of her stomach.
Just see.
She puts the heavy book into a large shopper under her shoulder and feels its weight pulling her down to one side. She looks down at the concrete platform as one patent grey brogue moves in front of the other, advancing under the hem of a chambray skirt and cable-knit tights. A shiny new treat to herself for this shiny new chapter; paying full price for new shoes filled Maya with a comfortable feeling of liberty and abandon.
She advances with trepidation and feels the haunting sensation of a reassuring palm, gently pressing into the small of her back, urging her along the platform.
‘That was close,’ says James.
Maya stops in her tracks.
‘I thought you were going to miss it!’ Relief floods her, and James rubs her back tenderly, encouragingly. ‘Did you get your gear?’
‘Yep.’ James swings the camera case on his right arm and taps the ninja blades of the tripod and lighting parasol rising from his grey backpack. ‘Always cutting it fine,’ James laughs, as he slides his hand under Maya’s jacket and tucks it around her waist. ‘I didn’t want to miss your first day. Shall I walk you to your building? I have enough time before my shoot.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Maya says, as she leans into James’s arm.
A Superior Train rolls into the station. Doors ding, buttons illuminate, passengers get off. Maya and James allow Inflatable Arms to burst forward in front of them before they board the train in step. James sees one last double seat and leads Maya to it. As they sit, Maya cranes her head into the curve of James’s neck and closes her eyes.
Maya thinks about her patisserie course, a new career ahead of her, and feels that strange cocktail of nerves and excitement. She thinks of Velma and Duke Diamond, how they alighted their train together and stayed with each other until his death – and hers too, because there really was no one else. And she thinks of her Seeing The Future skills. Perhaps they weren’t so wrong after all – Maya did see herself with Train Man, together in a happy future.
The train gathers speed and Maya and James sit, facing forwards, this time holding hands.
We hope you enjoyed this book.
Zoë Folbigg’s next book is coming in summer 2018
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Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks go to my agent, the amazing Rebecca Ritchie, who is the super-smart romantic to my hopeless one. Thanks for your belief, enthusiasm and energy, I am so grateful we found each other. Big love to the team at Aria and the wider (award-winning, might I add…) Head of Zeus family. Enormous thanks to my editor, Sarah Ritherdon, for heading up the axis of awesomeness and championing The Note. And also to the clever designers, sales and production team at Aria, including the brilliant Yasemin Turan and Melanie Price – thanks for your wisdom in helping me guide Maya and James to the right platform.
Thanks also to my book squad: Kathleen, Vicki, Guro, Becky and Liz – all strong and sisterly women, who all kindly offered to read early iterations of my manuscript and fed back with honesty and advice to help me keep moving forward. Thanks also to Rebecca Kelly for helping me jump over the hurdles that kept stacking up along the way; to mentors Helen Placito, Celia Duncan, Melissa Dick; and to Ali Harris, Katy Regan, Marigold Atkey and Ian Critchley for their wisdom and their time along the journey.
To my a
mazing friends who have held my hand through this drama from the very start: Esther, Ali, Michelle, Cara, plus Navaz and the whole kickass Cosmeal clan. Also to my Running Bitches: Sarah, Sophie and Guro, putting the world to rights as we put one foot in front of the other.
To my siblings I adore and to my parents: I was very fortunate to be brought up by four wonderful and supportive parents. I’m sorry one of them didn’t get to see me achieve this particular dream, but I like to imagine he’s looking down from the night sky over Hazelworth.
Above all, thanks to my own Train Man, Mark, whose beauty and kindness inspires me in everything I do: in my heart, in my work and for our sons.
About Zoë Folbigg
ZOË FOLBIGG is a magazine journalist and digital editor, starting at Cosmopolitan in 2001 and since freelancing for titles including Glamour, Fabulous, Daily Mail, Healthy, LOOK, Top Santé, Mother & Baby, ELLE, Sunday Times Style and Style.com. In 2008 she had 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 since married Train Man and lives in Hertfordshire with him and their two young sons. This is her debut novel.
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