The Sleeper (11 page)

All the same, it beats going to the place my father insists on referring to as ‘home’, and commuting in from there, a grown woman living with my parents.

‘Come on, Lara,’ he said on the phone, that evening. ‘It’s your home. It always will be. Let us look after you.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t, Dad,’ I told him. I was as firm with him as I have ever dared to be. ‘I live in London to avoid the commute. I need to be near work so I can give it everything I’ve got during the week. Honestly, I do. I need to stay late, go in early. Thank you, though. I’ll find a little studio or something.’

‘Your sister …’ he mused, and I tensed, desperate to defuse him.

‘She’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not her fault. I’m pleased for her, I really am. I just need to be away from her for a while.’

‘She is not all right,’ he corrected me. ‘She had no business being so cruel. Now, are you sure? It would cheer the place up no end having you around, and to be honest, I could do with your level-headed advice on some matters.’

I concentrated on sounding neutral while my heart contracted with dread.

‘We can get together any time you want for something like that,’ I said, hoping with all my being that we would not. ‘I don’t really get time for a lunch break, but we can meet up after work sometime. I need to be close to the office, though.’

To my enormous relief, he accepted it. I am now keeping as far from every member of my toxic family as I possibly can.

It is only when I am sitting on the train, a traditional Friday gin and tonic in my hand, Ellen next to me and Guy opposite, that I start to do anything close to relaxing. I sit back and listen to Ellen relating a story about a Skype conversation with Singapore, and I find myself exhaling and kicking my shoes off.

I laugh as the story ends.

‘You all right, Lara?’ Guy asks. When I look up, I see that he is watching me with some curiosity. I put up my barrier, trying to be distant with him.

‘Oh, fine,’ I tell him. ‘Just a bit … tense.’

‘Your sister?’ asks Ellen.

‘No. Well, yes. It is. Quite a week. Big family showdown. I don’t want to talk about it.’ I look at her expression and laugh. ‘Not because I’m traumatised. But because I’m just so fucking bored of it.’

I hardly ever swear. I like the way it sounds. I take a sip of my drink.

‘Let’s talk about something else then,’ Guy says at once. ‘Do you want to hear my current issue?’

‘Oh yes please.’ I lean over slightly, towards him. ‘What is your current issue?’

‘Let me guess,’ says Ellen, her voice dry. ‘There’s a job come up in the West Country.’

Guy laughs, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. I like that. ‘You and I have been train buddies for too long,’ he tells her, and she raises her glass to him. He turns to me. ‘Yes indeed. You know I live outside Penzance with my family? Beyond Penzance, near Sennen – nearly as close to the edge as you can get?’

‘You moved there to be close to your wife’s family.’

‘That’s right. Diana’s dad died very suddenly, three years ago. Long story, but we ended up moving down so that Di could look after her mum, who’s frail in one sense, but stronger than a team of oxen in another. The kids were in the early years of secondary school, so they made the world’s biggest fuss about the move, and to be honest, I was silently cheering them on. Surrey to Cornwall is a big thing if you’re thirteen. If you’re any age. But we had to do it, I knew that really. Poor old Betty wasn’t going to be able to look after herself, and she was definitely not in the market for moving to the Home Counties, so we had to go to her. Di always said it was payback for her happy childhood, and maybe it was. Actually Di was delighted at the chance to move back to where she’s from.’

‘But there aren’t exactly many jobs down there.’

He nods. ‘Precisely, Lara. There’s nothing down there for me. I would literally have had to get a job in Tesco. McDonald’s. Argos. So we agreed that I’d do this and keep an eye out for something closer to home. I like my life this way. I’d go crazy if I had to live in West Cornwall the whole time. In a house full of teenagers – I only have two, but they do fill the house – and with my mother-in-law rearranging everything the whole time. So I’ve settled into this way of doing things really rather happily. Just me, during the week, in a shabby B&B room, but I don’t care. And now there’s only a bloody job come up in Truro. I mean, Truro! Since when was there a good job in Truro?’

‘What is it?’ Ellen’s voice is mild, and when I glance at her I see the amusement on her face. She sees me looking, and winks.

‘Town solicitors, but a big practice. It would involve buying a stake and going in as a partner.’

‘Oh, Guy. You would be the perfect man for the job.’

‘I know! I’m going to have to make a token effort. Then make sure I fuck it up. More drinks, ladies?’

At one in the morning, Ellen stands up.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Charming as this is, it’s my bedtime. We’ve got a busy weekend ahead. I’ll see you on Sunday, guys.’

‘Night, Ellen,’ I say.

‘Good night, Johnson,’ says Guy. ‘Won’t be far behind you.’

‘I should definitely go to bed in a minute,’ I agree. ‘We’ll be in Truro in six hours.’

‘Six hours! That’s a surprisingly long time, actually,’ Guy muses. ‘I think we can stay up a little while longer. I know! I was going to show you how to use Twitter, wasn’t I? What’s your email address?’

I laugh at this pathetic excuse as Guy starts fiddling with his phone, and tell him. Soon he hands the phone to me.

‘There you go. Your Twitter account. Go on, write something. Your password’s lovelylara.’

‘Oh, thanks. Classy password.’

‘I know. If I were sober, you’d have had a better one.’

I stab at his phone until I have written ‘Trying to work out how to use Twitter.’ Then I pass it back.

‘That’s one thing to cross off the list, then,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve written my first, and definitely my last, tweet. Another thing my sister can do better than me, but at least I’ve tried. Now I’m going to go to bed.’

I think of Sam at home, desperately awaiting my return, pinning all his happiness on the expectation of a perfect weekend. If I got six hours’ sleep, I would be in an acceptable state for that. I would fall in with whatever he has planned, and I would be able to do it properly.

I am about to stand up when I realise that my leg is pressing against Guy’s under the table. I note that it has been for quite some time. I leave it there.

‘OK.’ My voice is quiet. The bar is open all night, but at the moment there is no one here, under its bright lights, but us. Everything has changed.

‘Lara,’ says Guy. He opens his mouth to say something more, thinks better of it, and stops.

‘Yes.’

‘This is …’

‘I know.’ I do not, of course, know. I have no idea whether he means ‘this is dangerous’, or ‘this is suddenly different, compelling and wildly, all-encompassingly exciting’. This is good: that is bad.

The atmosphere between us is electric. He leans forward and takes my hand. His is warm, his skin dry. I look down at our two hands, entangled with one another. They should not be like that, but they look right together. We are holding each other’s right hands, so wedding rings are not part of the tableau.

‘Can I come over to your side of the table?’ he asks.

I look into his dark eyes and see nothing but warmth.

‘Yes,’ I whisper, and I watch him slide out of his seat. Then he is beside me, and his hand is on my waist. I am turning towards him, in spite of myself, and tipping my face up to meet his.

It is an odd thing, kissing a man who is not your husband. There is only one person in the world I am allowed to kiss like this, and the fact that this is not that person makes me so intensely excited, so desperate to cram as much as I can into these moments before reality catches up, that I feel every nerve-ending in my body tingling.

Guy’s mouth is new. His lips are soft, and his tongue gentle as it explores my mouth. I am doing something gloriously and utterly forbidden. It has been many years since I did something that I was absolutely not allowed to do. My long-dormant bad side comes joyously to the surface, and rejoices as Guy’s hands move from my waist upwards. One of his hands is on my breast, then inside my top, finding its way inside my bra.

The sensible me wins out for a while, and I pull away. He withdraws his hand.

‘Oh Christ,’ he says. ‘Lara. You are amazing. Apologies for overstepping.’

This is the moment. I recognise it even as it happens. This, I know, is the moment when I could draw back. I could call it a mistake, forget it ever happened, and avoid Guy for the next few weeks.

Or I could do what I actually do.

‘You’re not overstepping,’ I say quietly. ‘Or if you are, we both are.’

He grins, and his whole face is alight. He leans in close.

‘You’re sure? I mean, you must have seen me looking at you. I knew it the instant I saw you, which was quite possibly the first time you travelled on this train. I just … I mean, just because you’re married, that doesn’t mean you don’t notice people. And then I got to know you. Oh God, listen to me. No one tells you you’ll still be able to feel that way at forty-four. Is this a midlife crisis? It is, isn’t it?’

‘Guy? Shh. It’s just two people meeting each other on a train.’

One of his arms is around my shoulders. I lean into him and feel him kiss the top of my head.

‘I want to take you back to my compartment and undress you,’ he says quietly. ‘What do you think?’

I make an effort to control myself. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Yes, but.’

‘Yes. But …?’

‘But it would feel like too much.’ I should not say the next part, but I do. ‘I would love to. You know I would. Every part of my body is screaming at me to go for it. But we can’t, Guy. Because we’re both married. A kiss is one thing: you know what would happen if we were in a little locked room together.’

‘I do. I very much do. OK, you’re right. Let’s be a bit sensible.’ I can hear the reluctance in his voice. The knowledge that I could be, right now, having sex on a train with a handsome man who is not my husband, and that it is my decision not to, gives me a surge of tremendous power.

I think of Sam. I think of Diana, at her home near Penzance, dealing with her elderly mother and her two teenagers, waiting for her husband to come back for the weekend. I imagine her desperately hoping that he gets the job in Truro and comes back to live with her again. I know he has no intention of getting that job: does she, I wonder, know that too?

‘We really can’t do this,’ I say. ‘I’ve been married for nine years, and I’ve never done anything like it. You have an effect on me, Guy. No one’s ever done this to me before. Just one person, once, in the past. But I’m not going to fall into bed with you.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘And in the cold light of day, no doubt, I will appreciate your scruples.’

He leans back down towards me, and we are kissing again. I decide not to let him know how easily he could change my mind. I am exhilarated. I do not care, for these moments, about Olivia, about my parents, my marriage, my strange transitory life. Guy makes me forget it all. It is transgressive, but, briefly, the fact that he makes me happy cancels out everything else.

I do not sleep at all. I lie in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling in the sickly glow of the light that never quite goes off, and I think of nothing but Guy. I try, in spite of myself, to work out the mechanics of the tiny sleeping compartment. There is no chance of two people sharing one of these beds. Sex in here would have to be a functional thing, not a comfortable one. I picture us standing up, picture myself straddling him on the little bed. I try to think of other things, sensible ones, but I cannot.

I step on to the platform at Truro aware that the spell is breaking. I am going to have to pull myself together, to let Sam have the weekend he deserves. I will drink as much coffee as I can, and I will not flag.

I stand on the Falmouth platform, and catch sight of Guy’s face at one of the windows in a door as it flashes by. The glimpse of him is so brief that it is impossible to read his expression.

By the time I reach Falmouth Docks, I have realised that I was mad.

I can see Sam waving from the conservatory window, holding up a coffee cup, and I make myself smile and wave back. I kissed another man. I hate myself. Sam is entirely good and would never believe me capable of such an act. I have always been a good wife, and now I am a bad one, and nothing will ever be able to change that.

I walk slowly towards the end of the tiny platform. A crane swings around in the docks to my left, and there is a sudden siren, and a series of industrial beeps. In front of the station there is an oddly placed block of student housing, and I watch a girl walking towards it across the car park, clearly wearing last night’s clothes fumbling with a set of keys.

I stop and draw in a deep breath. I must pretend that it never happened. Sam must never know: it would hurt him far too much. I close my eyes and tell myself to be nice.

‘Darling!’

I jump, and gasp. Of course he has run down to the station. Of course he is here. He has been waiting for me to step off this train for five days. I have been lost in my own angst, and this flawless man has been sad solely because I was not with him. Meanwhile, he has been (I admit it to myself) very low down my list of priorities.

My stomach contracts with guilt. He is hugging me. I make a conscious effort to relax. I deliberately loosen my grip on all my muscles, only realising as I do so how entirely tense I was.

‘Hello, darling,’ I say into his shoulder. I will never do anything like that ever again. I love Sam. I would be nothing without him. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I was miles away then.’

‘Were you?’ He sounds amused, rather than worried. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was thinking how wonderful it is to be home.’

‘Not as wonderful as it is for me to have you home. Your coffee’s ready. And I’ll do some poached eggs, shall I? Would you like that?’ He takes my bag. ‘How on earth do you walk in those shoes! Come on.’