Page 100 of The Last Train Home
I cross the road, walk towards the enclave of cobbled alleys and small streets, the pavements of which are too small for pedestrians, the road width very nearly too small for cars, although they venture through regardless.
The courtyard in front of the offices where Tom and I used to meet for illicit cigarettes in the early days of our friendship could be a cut-out-and-keep version from back then. Nothing’s changed, except there are different faces outside each office now. The Victorian building where I used to work, before I went freelance, sits opposite the sleek financial building where Tom used to spend his days.
I look up at the window that I used to take great pains to avoid. There’s someone else at his old desk now. There’s someone at my old window desk too. I wonder if the two of them ever look across at each other. I wonder if they’ll evermeet by accident, or if they’ll pass each other in the street for years without ever realising who the other person is.
Around the corner I walk towards Gianni’s. By now he might have closed up for the day, but as I approach I notice it’s no longer even called Gianni’s. ‘Oh no,’ I say to myself. ‘Where’s Gianni gone?’ This isn’t an old-fashioned, comfortable-but-badly-decorated Italian café any more. Instead it’s a super-shiny artisan coffee bar.
Ahead of me, hanging baskets full of geraniums herald the ever-welcoming sight of the pub. At least some things have stayed the same. I wrestle with the idea of going in. I might grab a juice, have a well-earned sit-down, give the bump and me time to decompress before we head down to the river. But the day is still so hot, the sun working its magic on everyone as they filter out of their buildings for drinks before they head home. I miss that about summer in the City.
And then there’s one place I want to see. Because I’m here now, and I probably won’t be again for ages. I walk on slowly. It’s only two roads away and I notice the hair salon that I went to is still there, still open, all bright lights and tub-thumping music. Office windows hold workers inside as they type, rifle through files. And then I’m there: I’m outside Tom’s old flat, which he hasn’t lived in for years. I just wanted to see it, really.
He hasn’t lived there in so long. I think of him again the night he pulled me from the train, standing out here, wishing me well as my dad picked me up in his car. And I think back to the last time I was here, running out of this door as if my life depended on it, after having been rejected. But even after all that, I feel the connection to him sometimes pulls at me, athread that’s now been stretched so thin it’s practically worn away. Tom is gone from my life. I let that happen.
Rain falls; clouds have blown slowly over the City without me noticing, sweeping over the Square Mile. The change in temperature is a welcome reset, following the day’s sticky heat. I don’t even have an umbrella.
Around me people are caught out, holding newspapers over their heads as they dash between coffee shops and dry cleaners, back to their offices or home early. My ballet pumps are quickly soaked, the silken material slopping underfoot. My summer maternity dress now looks wrong in this weather. I dive into the doorway opposite and decide to wait it out. After five minutes it’s clear the torrent is unrelenting. I’m already soaked, so I might as well go for it.
Opposite me, Tom’s old apartment-building door opens and a man walks out and pauses as he takes in the state of the weather.
In that moment, everything stops. I open my mouth to say his name. It’s Tom. But it can’t be.
Have I dreamed him? He doesn’t see me and I think,He’s a mirage, surely. I’m not going to speak. I’m going to let him keep walking. I’m going to let him go.
Behind him a little boy emerges, fumbling with an umbrella, and Tom turns, lifts it from his hands and clicks it open, the umbrella brandishing pictures of various animals fromPeppa Pigon each side as he holds it in front of them, and then up, to shield them from the rain. How has Teddy grown so much? He is a proper little boy now. He looks like an incredibly young version of Tom, all blue eyes and dark hair.
And then everything stops as Tom stares straight ahead at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but is rendered as unable to communicate as I am. He looks at me, his gaze landing on my heavy-set stomach. His expression deepens and his eyes lift back towards mine.
A throng of people walk down the cobbled street, umbrellas up, taking their time, chatting and laughing and moaning about the weather. They pass in between Tom and me, momentarily breaking our view, separated as we are by a cobbled lane and five years of complicated history.
‘Hi,’ I say, when the lane in between us is empty once again, the rain crashing down against the cobbles.
Finally he speaks. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ He finds his voice. It’s so odd to hear it, after all this time.
‘I think I could probably ask you the same thing,’ I call from my position under the alcove.
‘My flat,’ he gestures behind him into the communal hallway. ‘I’ve just re-let it. The agent couldn’t find the keys to the windows. I had to get some cut and—’ He stops speaking. Beside him, Teddy looks between us with a level of obvious curiosity. ‘What are you …’ Tom tries again. ‘How are youhere?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s a long story. How are you? You look—’ I just smile. He looks wonderful. He always did.
‘I’m great. We’re great,’ he says, nodding towards Teddy. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Pregnant.’
‘I can see that,’ he says. ‘I’m glad, Abbie. I’m glad it all worked out.’
I’m not going to correct him – not here, not like this, while rain falls down around us. So I maintain my smile and acknowledge his comment. ‘Thanks.’
He looks away from me. He doesn’t know what to say now. And that’s OK. Neither do I. So I say the only thing I can think of.
‘I’ve just been on the Tube.’
Tom’s eyes widen as he calls across to me. ‘Really?’
‘For the first time since …’ I add.
‘Wow,’ he says, a small smile finding his lips. ‘That’s huge.’
‘I know,’ I reply.
