Page 22 of The Last Train Home
He laughs, climbs to his feet, lowers his hand to pull me up. ‘Let’s do that,’ he says, keeping his hand in mine as we walk. It feels so good, so natural. Somewhere an awkward boundary has been ushered away and now we’re glued together. Perhaps it’s the situation we’ve found ourselves in, but I could be glued to Tom quite readily, I think.
We pass a little Tesco and he says, ‘Takeaway? Or shall we buy something prepared in a factory that we don’t actually have to cook very much.’
‘Cooking’s not your thing?’ I ask as we enter the shop.
‘You’ve seen my empty fridge, right?’ He lets go of my hand and takes a basket. ‘The full works. Booze, ice cream, popcorn, pizza? Not in that order. Maybe in that order.’
He starts filling the basket up and sends me off to choose the ice cream. I text my parents en route to the freezer aisle, telling them where I’m staying tonight. My dad approves of Tom. It was definitely the heroics that clinched it.
I track Tom down to the snacks aisle, loading various packets of crisps and popcorn into the heaving basket. It’s full of high-fat, high-sugar items. It’s like two seven-year-olds have been let lose in a food shop for the very first time. Only with four bottles of wine on top.
‘We’re going to be comatose if we eat and drink all that,’ I say appreciatively.
‘Exactly,’ Tom says.
‘You’ll have to hold my hair back again over the toilet, you know that, right?’
‘I’d be disappointed if it was any other way.’
‘Why do you always wear jeans to work?’ he asks with his back to me as he’s twiddling the nobs on the microwave. We are a bottle of wine in and have eaten all the crisps.
I walk over, take the pizza from his hand and put it on the work surface. We are not ruining this by microwaving it. I turn the oven on to preheat and he leaps to open the oven door, pulling out a cellophane-wrapped instruction manual.
‘Have you never used the oven?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Everything I buy is microwavable.’
I ignore this sad state of affairs. ‘I wear jeans because I can. I wore a dress the other day.’
‘I remember,’ he says with a sheepish grin. He opens the second bottle of wine and pours it liberally into our glasses. ‘That dress wasveryshort. Did you ride your bike with that short dress on?’
‘I didn’t realise until I’d left the house how short it was when I sat down.’
‘Irealised,’ he says. ‘It suited you.’
I look away, embarrassed. I should probably say something to set him straight at this point, but it’s nice to be flirting with him.
‘All this bike-riding – are you really on a health kick?’ he asks. ‘Because your drinking antics in the pub and nicking my cigarettes don’t exactly go hand-in-hand with a health-and-fitness regime.’
I don’t know how to answer this. I’m still thinking while I drink an unhealthy measure of wine. He’s waiting for an actual answer. I’m about to make up a witty response, but he beats me to it.
‘Have you still not got on the Tube since …’ He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
If I’m going to talk about this to anyone, it’s probably going to be Tom. I take a deep breath, let it out again. ‘No.’
‘Not once?’ He looks concerned.
‘No.’
He knows not to ask why. It’s bloody obvious why. I’m scared.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Have you?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. I wasn’t keen, but …’
‘Really?’ My voice rises with shock.How can he?
