The Train

by Sarah Bourne

  At one o’clock, Dr Moncrieff emerged from his office and announced he was going for lunch and straight on to the private hospital where he performed his life-saving, or maybe life-prolonging, surgery. Clare nodded seriously, and said, ‘Yes, doctor’, as if this was in any way unusual when, in fact, he always operated on Monday afternoons.

  ‘And the letter for Pauline – I thought you said you’d stop receiving mail for her here – didn’t you say she’d got herself a post-office box? I don’t like the idea of being the poste restante for someone like that even if she is your cousin.’

  Clare bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from responding. After a deep breath she said, ‘Sorry, doctor. I’m not sure why it came here. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘Well, speak to her would you – make sure it doesn’t.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He gathered his coat and umbrella and left.

  Clare slumped onto one of the sofas and let out a sigh. She’d worked for Dr Moncrieff for over five years and he was still so stiff and formal. What would it take to crack him? She thought back to the first time she’d seen him, at her interview.

  She’d arrived in plenty of time and sat waiting nervously, eyeing the other candidate who was waiting – a woman in her fifties, Clare reckoned, with varicose veins and wispy permed hair. Not the right sort to front a private doctor’s rooms. Clare had checked her own nail varnish, tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, and taken some deep breaths.

  The doctor had asked a colleague’s receptionist to help with the interviews, an officious-looking woman with thin lips. Clare knew immediately it was her she had to impress, but that she must address all her comments to the doctor or his ego would be bruised. The interview had gone well and on the train on the way home she’d celebrated with a cup of tea and an iced bun. She hadn’t been at all surprised when three days later, a formal offer of appointment arrived but only then did she do the maths; working out whether, even with the generous salary offered, it was worth accepting a job in London given the hefty train fares. She’d always known really she would have taken the job even if the numbers didn’t stack up; she wanted to work in London, whatever the cost. Surely, she’d thought to herself, she had a better chance of finding love in a bigger city?

  She shrugged and raised her eyebrows, a short sharp breath escaping her nostrils; how naïve she’d been. London was so anonymous. People walked past day after day without glancing at each other; either they were on their phones or their gaze slid over their fellow men – and women – without registering them.

  She shook her head and settled back into the sofa. With the doctor gone for the day, all she had to do was finish typing the notes, file the clinical records and answer the phone if it rang. Plenty of time for Pauline de Winter before her therapy appointment later.

  When all her work was done Clare settled herself on one of the sofas in Dr Moncrieff’s reception area and took out the letter addressed to Pauline de Winter. Such a fine name. Elegant, sophisticated. Hers. She’d fabricated the cousin.

  When she began writing as a hobby she had no idea she was going to write books. She thought she might bash out a couple of short stories and send them off to a magazine to see if she could get them published. She discovered the short form wasn’t for her though. She couldn’t tell a decent story in so few words. She had an idea to tell a modern-day tale of an independent middle-aged woman looking for love, but she found it so depressing that she started adding in the woman’s fantasies and found she had a flair for writing hot romance. Tasteful books, not even erotica really. Definitely not porn, as Dr Moncrieff had called it. More sensual. That’s how she thought of it. And therefore she needed a name to write under. She didn’t want people to know it was her who wrote those bodice-rippers. She had no idea how he knew what Pauline de Winter wrote, as he had surely never read any of her books. Maybe his wife had, or one of his clever daughters who looked down their noses at her when they occasionally came in to meet their father for lunch.

  She turned the envelope over in her hands. She knew who it was from. Clare and Nadia, her agent, had talked about letters once early on, bemoaning the fact that email had taken over. So unromantic. They both loved a good letter and had sworn to communicate as far as possible by snail mail. It had been good enough for the likes of Dickens and the Brontë sisters. And Clare loved the fact that Nadia wrote to her as Pauline, as if she were a real person.

  Clare had had no choice but to give Nadia an alternative address when she found her mother throwing one of the letters out.

  ‘I don’t know who this is, but she doesn’t live here and there’s no return address. Anyway, she’s got a harlot’s name,’ her mother had said, and torn it in two. Clare had been too shocked and embarrassed to admit it was her. She really should get a post-office box.

  Now she felt the texture of the envelope, the weight of the paper. Handmade. Expensive. Typical of Nadia. And the name and address written in purple ink with a fountain pen. Clare looked at the handwriting – round, sweeping letters, long, bold tails. A fair hand. She noticed her heartbeat speeding with anticipation. She was almost as excited as she had been when she received her first response from a publisher. It had been an email, and she’d looked at the subject line for fully five minutes, heart pounding, only to open it and read that her submission wasn’t of interest to them. Since then, she’d learned that the minutes before opening any correspondence were often the most fulfilling.

  Finally, though, she could wait no longer. She slid a finger along the lip of the envelope and took the letter out. Two sheets of paper.

  Dear Pauline,

  I am writing to let you know your sales figures for September to March are exceptional. You are a sensation with the ladies! The monies will be sent to your account within the day.

  Well done! You will see that your popularity is growing exponentially in the United States, Canada, the Antipodes and South Africa where they seem to love sex in a stately home!

  I have also negotiated contracts in other territories – South America mainly – for your first two books.

  Clare pulled the second piece of paper forward and scanned the lines of the spreadsheet for the amount. Nadia had mentioned the last time they spoke that the books were selling well, but Clare stared at the numbers her agent had underlined for her and felt her heart skip a beat. Then she realised that was just the British sales. The knuckle of her left index finger made its way into her mouth. There was another amount from South Africa. And another from Australia and New Zealand. More from the States and Canada. She felt giddy. Her eyes could take in no more. She leant back into the sofa, taking deep breaths. She wasn’t great at mental arithmetic, but she reckoned it all to add up to almost £80,000. She put her hand on her chest to make sure her breathing stayed calm. In six months she had made more from her writing than she’d make in years working for the good doctor. The phone rang. She let it go to the answering machine and read the letter again.

  On the strength of these figures, I have negotiated a three-book deal for you with your current publisher. There was a bit of a bidding war, to tell the truth – you are hot property these days. The advance will be £250,000. I’ll take you out to lunch next week and if you agree to the terms – very standard apart from the large amount of money – you can sign the contract.

  Clare gasped and her hands covered her face – was this a joke? Things like this didn’t happen to her. She lowered her hands to her lap and her eyes to the letter lying there, waiting for the punchline.

  I will, of course, call you to discuss it, but knew you would appreciate seeing the amount written down first. It’s a big number to take in!

  I’m so sorry about all the exclamation marks, but I am very excited for you, and hope you will be too – how could you not?

  All the very best. Keep writing!

  Nadia.

  Clare stared at the piece of paper in her hand. Had she read it correctly? A quarter of
a million pounds? Excitement laced her body. A little squeak erupted from her throat. Her legs felt like jumping and a smile stretched her face. It was a life-changing amount of money. She looked at the spreadsheet again, at the total of her royalties at the bottom of the page: another hundred thousand pounds, give or take. She could afford to stop working, spend all her time writing. Travel. Buy a flat. Buy a dog. Have her hair done – every day if she wanted. Get that pair of red shoes she’d left in the shop.

  She put the letter back in the envelope carefully, ready to be taken out again whenever she needed to be reminded of her fortune. Whenever she needed to read again the fantastic amount of money she was worth.

  It was difficult to concentrate but she tidied away the files, closed her computer and washed the cups she and Dr Moncrieff had used.

  Then she thought of the money and felt faint and had to sit again for a few moments.

  When she’d collected herself, she shut the door behind her and put the keys in her bag. Taking a deep breath, she descended to the street and walked south, towards Cavendish Square and beyond. Not even the crowds in Oxford Street annoyed her. She swung her hips this way and that to avoid people, stepped into the gutter when necessary without so much as a grimace. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the air tasted sweet.

  She reached Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly, and the noises of London – the laughter and voices raised over the traffic, the tooting of horns, the high-pitched buzz of mopeds – receded as she stepped across the hallowed portal into the understated elegance of her favourite shop.

  She stood, inhaling the smells; chocolate, cinnamon, sugar, coffee. Subtle. No competition between them, each scent complementing the others. She made her way to the lift and got out at the fourth floor; the Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon. Her little piece of luxury.

  At a corner table, away from the piano, but still able to hear the pianist playing his repertoire of classics, she took her time over the menu. So many treats to choose from, so many teas. In the end, she ordered the afternoon tea selection and lapsang souchong. She had considered an oolong, but why celebrate with anything but her favourite?

  As she waited for her food to arrive she looked around at the other customers. Being a Monday, there weren’t very many. A mother and daughter who Clare decided were wedding shopping, as they put their heads together and seemed to be writing a list. An elderly couple who hardly spoke to one another, a group of women in the uniform of the rich – Prada handbags, Versace, Johnny Was and Camilla clothing. Oh yes, she knew all about designer labels – her heroines wore them all. These women occupied the space with the easy confidence of the wealthy, as if this very tea salon had been built for their pleasure. Until now, on the rare occasions Clare had visited, she’d felt out of place and had shrunk into her corner hoping that no one would notice she didn’t belong there. Today, however, she sat tall, looked around with a different eye. A wealthy independent woman’s eye. She doubted if anyone else in the room had her personal wealth; the women had rich husbands, the elderly couple were giving themselves a rare treat. But she was her own person. She took the letter out and read it again, a flutter of joy tripping her heart.

  She savoured her finger sandwiches, took a little clotted cream and raspberry jam on her scone, and chose a macaron from the cake carriage. Her lapsang souchong was perfect, just the right amount of smokiness. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, even though she knew she had made no mess, and asked for the bill. Leaving a generous tip, she made her way back down to the street and stepped out of her sanctuary.

  Usually, walking in London wound her up. Today, it was as if she was in a bubble, protected from the noise and the fumes, the dirt and the busyness. She floated along Piccadilly looking in exclusive shop windows. She had no desire to enter any of them. Just knowing she could afford anything she wanted gave her a satisfaction, a confidence she hadn’t felt before. She’d often wondered how the wealthy behaved as they did, and now she knew; the knowledge you had money, that you could have whatever you desired, bolstered your self-esteem, gave you an air of self-importance, smugness. She wore it like a cloak, aware of the weight of it, the texture, enjoying her new mantle and at the same time, marvelling at it. How quickly she’d made the transition from working woman to wealthy woman. Of course, she’d still be working, but at something she loved, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the bills, the cost of repairing the roof. She noticed she was humming, and laughed.

  Looking at her watch, her twenty-year-old Timex, she realised she would be late for her therapy appointment. She broke into a trot, and her mood sank a little with every person she had to dodge, each tourist who stopped just in front of her to take a selfie, every car, bus and taxi preventing her from crossing the road. Sweating and out of breath, she arrived at May’s office five minutes late, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Clare – you look different,’ said her therapist as she entered.

  ‘Sorry – I had to rush,’ she said, dabbing at her forehead with a tissue and slipping out of her jacket.

  ‘No, I mean different, not just hot and bothered.’

  ‘I know. Strange, isn’t it?’

  May looked at her, waiting for more.

  Clare took her seat, taking her time to get comfortable. Finally, she raised her eyes to May’s and folded her hands in her lap. ‘This morning, I was a struggling forty-four-year-old woman who fantasised about having sex with strangers on the train. This afternoon, I am a wealthy forty-four-year-old woman who fantasises about having sex with strangers on the train. That’s the only difference.’

  May raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to one side slightly. She was economical in her movements as well as her words. Clare had once counted the words May spoke in a session and worked out she paid one pound twenty-five for each one. Still, they were worth it. May was worth it. She was the only person in the world who listened to Clare with all her attention and no judgement. Or at least, she suspended her judgement and didn’t let Clare know what she really thought.

  ‘It turns out the hours I spend imagining sex in toilets or in fields, with rich men or paupers, can be turned into cash. Lots of cash.’

  May nodded. ‘You’ve turned your fantasies into money?’

  Clare sat back, crossed her legs and smiled. ‘Yes. Pauline de Winter has been paid a very large advance for three books. Apparently she – I – am a big hit all over the English-speaking world.’ Clare looked at her therapist’s face. It gave nothing away. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said May. ‘But I’m more interested in how this affects you, and whether it’s the money or the recognition that pleases you?’

  Clare looked at the plant in the corner – a tall Swiss cheese plant in a glazed ceramic pot – and sighed. ‘Both?’ she said but it came out as a question, as if she didn’t want to admit to feeling proud or greedy.

  ‘I ask because previously you’ve described yourself as feeling stifled, of having a sense you’re not living a full or fulfilling life and that your fear of death stems from the idea of a life unlived, that you will never experience life’s riches, before you are plunged into – in your words – eternal nothingness.’

  May was earning her fee today, thought Clare. Words at two a penny.

  And there were more. ‘You never rated wealth as one of those experiences.’

  ‘Maybe not, but there are so many things one can do if one has money.’

  May nodded and waited.

  ‘Travel, for example.’ She thought of her earlier ideas of Marrakesh or Timbuktu, but knew they weren’t really her sort of places. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Prague.’ She hadn’t, but it sounded like the sort of place one should want to go. ‘And the Greek islands.’ She’d never wanted to go to the Greek islands either. She wasn’t a beachy sort of person. Was money making a liar of her?

  ‘Travel,’ said May, encouraging her to continue.

  Clare sank into her seat. She wanted to cry. ‘I don�
�t know.’ Her chest tightened. She put a hand on her stomach and tried to breathe into it.

  ‘Okay, Clare. Press your feet firmly into the floor and name five things you can see around you.’

  Clare tried to do as she was told but the panic rose within her, her whole body feeling as if it was alternately compressed and released. Her vision went fuzzy and her head spun. She was dimly aware of May’s voice somewhere in the far distance.

  ‘Long, slow breaths, focusing on the exhalation, in… and out… in… and out… And now look at me.’

  Clare’s gaze met May’s. ‘Good, and now notice what you can hear. Keep breathing. Keep pressing your feet into the floor.’

  It seemed like hours, but when Clare looked at the clock, only minutes had passed. She slumped into her seat, exhausted. May sat quietly waiting.

  ‘I’m terrified. I’ve never had money before. What if it changes everything?’

  ‘What might it change?’

  ‘What if I can’t write anymore – what if I can’t fulfil the deal but I’ve spent all the advance already and they sue me and I end my days in prison?’

  ‘Clare, breathe, and consider what you’ve just said.’

  Clare closed her eyes and slowed her breathing down again. May wanted her to realise she was catastrophising, that there was no basis for any of her irrational thinking. But what did she know? For the first time since she’d started seeing her, Clare questioned her therapist’s competency. She felt a sinking in her stomach. What if May couldn’t help her?