Читать книгу The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea - Jaimie Admans - Страница 9

‘Let me get this straight,’ Daphne says as I sit in her office at Maîtresse, mopping sweat off my face from the rush to get here just-regular-late instead of monumentally going-to-be-fired late. ‘A stranger made eye contact with you, on public transport, in London?’ She screws her face up. ‘What kind of weirdo is this?’

By the time I’ve finished recounting my tube journey, she’s leaning over her desk, one hand rubbing her pregnant belly and one fanning her face. ‘Oh my God, Ness, I take it all back, he’s not a weirdo at all, he’s Train Man.’ She elongates the middle of both words to make it sound like she’s swooning.

It might not be the first time I’ve mentioned Train Man to Daphne.

‘This is like the start of a chick flick. I’d force you to watch this with me if it came on TV.’

‘And I’d humour you and spend the whole film picking apart the inaccuracies, because we all know that happily-ever-afters don’t happen in real life, and those daft romantic films are pure escapism, a million miles away from anything that could ever happen in reality.’

Daphne is so pregnant that she can barely get comfortable and she shifts in her chair again, still fanning a hand in front of her face, and I’m unsure if it’s because she’s getting hot flushes or because she thinks my morning is so swoonworthy. ‘The universe wants you to meet this man.’

I knew she’d say that.

‘No, it doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve to get his phone crushed by a stampede of people, but that’s as far as it goes. This is not one of your romantic stories.’

‘It could be like Sliding Doors.’ She ignores me. ‘Maybe you split in two as the train doors closed and there’s a whole alternative universe where you did catch up with him and—’

‘I could definitely do with splitting in two. Would the other one take half my body weight so I’d never need to go to the gym again?’

‘You don’t go to the gym, Ness, you just feel guilty for not going to the gym.’ She points a swollen finger at me. ‘And don’t try to divert the conversation. This is something special. In the other universe, the one where Gwyneth Paltrow cuts all her hair off and tells her cheating boyfriend where to go, your fingers could’ve brushed as you handed his phone back and he could’ve halted his plans to immediately take you on a date, and …’

I glance at the time on my phone again. ‘Well, my alternative-universe self works a lot faster than me. I went down the wrong escalator and got stuck for ten minutes trying to get back up. I bet she didn’t get her toes run over by three separate suitcases either.’

‘Your alternative-universe mum is probably already buying a hat. Can you imagine what your mum will say when you tell her about this? She’ll start a national campaign to find this man.’

‘That’s why no one is telling my mum in a million years. If she finds out—’

‘She’ll love it, just like all our readers will,’ Zinnia says, appearing in the doorway of Daphne’s office. I hadn’t even realised she was listening. ‘I was about to tell you off for being late, Vanessa, and then you come in with an incredible story like this.’

‘It’s not a—’

‘This is just like Sliding Doors, but it’s real,’ she says, her face lighting up as much as the Botox will allow it. ‘It’s just the sort of romantic story our readers would fall head over heels for.’

‘The romantic tale of soulmates torn apart by closing tube doors.’ Daph sits up. ‘What if now you have to find him in this universe and catch up with the other universe or you’ll be torn apart forever?’

‘I think that’s pushing it a bit, don’t you? There were no magical sliding tube doors. I’m just not fit enough to chase someone through a train station.’

‘Oh, don’t talk about pushing.’ Daph groans and rubs her belly again. ‘And everyone wants love like in the movies, but you never try to find it. Movie characters don’t just sit around expecting love to find them in the most romantic way—’

‘Unrealistic way,’ I cut in. ‘Although I wouldn’t mind my hair being as good as a Nineties Gwyneth Paltrow.’

‘Yes!’ Daph says. ‘But that’s how it is when you find “The One”. The universe rearranges itself to throw you into each other’s paths. Just like when I met Gavin. Ridiculous, inconvenient, all-consuming love, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw. This could be your chance.’

Zinnia points a bony finger at Train Man’s phone, which is still sitting in the middle of Daphne’s desk like it might burst if someone pokes it. ‘Can you get into that?’

‘No, it’s locked.’

‘Well, get it unlocked, woman. How else are you going to get it back to him and feel the sparks of your fingers brushing as you stare deeply into his eyes and fall in lurve?’

Zinnia is probably a typical magazine editor; picture Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, but with more hair product and brighter clothes. Thankfully she’s a bit nicer than Miranda Priestly, and she runs a fortnightly women’s magazine instead of a haute couture fashion mag, but she only employed me because Daphne persuaded her I had all the qualities needed in a fact-checker, like being fastidious and meticulous, when the only thing I’m fastidious about is making sure there’s not a scrape of Nutella left at the bottom of the jar and I’m definitely not meticulous about setting my alarm in the mornings, and the more days that I underestimate the amount of time it takes to commute through London, the more likely Zinnia is to realise that Daphne was just trying to help her best friend get a job and I’m not actually that good at being a fact-checker. Or at getting here on time.

‘You’ve got articles to check piling up on your desk, Vanessa. You could’ve finalised three stories in the time you’ve spent running around train stations this morning. Either get that unlocked and give me something that Daphne can write about, or forget it and get back to work.’

I should forget it. I should’ve handed it in at lost property in the station and been done with it. I lean over and pull the flat, black phone towards me. ‘I suppose I could ask the IT guy to look at it.’

‘Gosh, this is so romantic.’ Zinnia clasps her hands together. ‘Maybe you’ll have some sort of spiritual connection and you’ll just subconsciously know his password.’

‘Oh come on, it’s asking for a four-digit code. There are endless possibilities and the phone will probably lock us out after three attempts.’ I pick it up and run my fingers across the blank screen. I would love nothing more than to have a look through it and prove to them both that he’s undoubtedly married and his best quality is probably trying to pick up women on trains that his wife doesn’t know about. I need to forget all about Train Man and his phone. Besides, he was around my age and gorgeous, there’s no way he’s going to be single too. I don’t know what they’re expecting to come out of this.

Daphne gets up and waddles around the room in another attempt to get comfortable. ‘Try 1234,’ she says with a laugh.

I type the numbers in. ‘As if anyone would be that stup—’

The phone makes a jingling sound and pings into life.

Daph bursts out laughing. ‘Seriously? The man deserves to have his phone stolen just for that. What’s his credit card PIN – 5678?’

I suddenly feel really bad. Whoever Train Man is, this is his private phone. He wouldn’t want a random stranger going through it, and I feel like some kind of criminal mastermind to have managed to unlock it. I’m going to be hacking the government next. Even though the government’s security systems are probably slightly more complex than 1234.

‘What did I tell you?’ Zinnia sounds gleeful. ‘Get into his pictures, quick. I want to see this dashing romantic hero.’

‘What’s that?’ Daph peers over my shoulder.

‘A train timetable,’ I say, looking at the jumble of numbers and times still onscreen from the last time he looked at it. ‘And not for the tube.’

‘So he was catching another train. Maybe that’s why he ran off so quickly.’

‘He did look worried about something. And he did keep checking his phone. Maybe he was looking at the time. Probably to check that his wife wouldn’t be home before his latest bit on the side left.’

‘Nah,’ Daph says. ‘Things like this don’t just happen. He’s obviously single and looking, just like you.’

‘I’m not looking.’

‘I’m looking for you,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Same thing.’

‘Anyone would think you didn’t have enough on with swooning over your own husband and a baby on the way.’

‘Girls, pictures,’ Zinnia says before she can respond. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had this conversation anyway. It always goes the same way. Daph says I’m over the hill, I tell her there is no hill to be over because whether I’m thirty-four or fifty or seventy, I’m not interested in another relationship, and she says she thought the same thing until she met Gavin, and if I’d just put myself out there and give it a chance, I might surprise myself and meet someone. I tell her how much I enjoy my own company and how nice it is to be single after spending so many years in a loveless relationship, and she tells me that was just one relationship and others will be different, ad infinitum. I can finish the conversation in my head without Daph saying another word, until she walks off muttering things like ‘spinster’ and ‘cat lady’.

I’m obviously not moving fast enough because Daphne plucks the phone from my fingers and starts playing with it. ‘I hope he takes a lot of selfies. I’m desperate to see this guy.’

‘We shouldn’t be going through his phone,’ I try to protest.

‘We’re not. We’re looking for a way to get it back to him. Via his photos. Ooh, and his notes. Oh, and we have to check his messages because there might be some vital bit of contact information in there.’

‘And we’re just nosy,’ Zinnia adds.

Like I hadn’t figured that one out for myself.

‘Like you don’t want to know too,’ Daph says.

‘Nope. I’m not looking. I’m not interested. I just want to get the phone back to him.’

Daphne makes various noises as she fiddles with the phone and I fight the urge to see what she’s doing.

‘Okay, well, he’s not big on selfies, but we’ve got bigger problems than making eye contact on public transport. Are you sure he didn’t strike you as a bit of a weirdo?’

‘No, why?’ I instantly imagine she’s found a folder full of dick pics ready to send to unsuspecting women or something. No wonder he smiles at people on trains – he’s probably assessing them for how happy they’d be to receive an unsolicited photo of his manhood.

‘Nothing about him screamed weird fetishist or anything?’

‘No. Why, Daph?’ All pretence of not being interested falls away as I jump out of the chair and try to see over her shoulder.

‘Well, he’s got a real thing for wooden horses. Look at this. His phone is absolutely full of photos of bits of wooden horses. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’

‘They’re carousel horses.’ I peer over one shoulder and Zinnia peers over the other as Daphne scrolls through his photos at the speed of light, each one showing similar pictures of wooden carousel animals in methodical stages, from perfectly painted to varying states of decay.

‘And what’s that? It looks like parts of a rollercoaster, and what the— Ooh, is that him?’ She shoves the phone at me, showing a picture of Train Man in the distance, his arms outstretched on a sparkling carousel.

‘He’s definitely got some kind of weird fetish for those things,’ Zinnia says.

‘Or maybe he just likes that godawful old movie that you love.’ Daphne elbows me in the ribs, knowing full well I can’t retaliate while she’s pregnant.

‘Aww, stop mocking Carousel. It’s a lovely film. One of the best.’

‘Yeah, if you like things that are nonsensical, boring, and old. And then you have the nerve to complain that I like modern romcoms. Judging by these photos, I bet he loves that movie. Talk about your perfect match.’ She takes the phone back and scrolls further through the photos, picture after picture of wooden things, half-finished paint jobs on carousel horses and other animals, and a few of various scenery, beaches and mountains and hills. Train Man must get around a bit.

‘Well, he’s definitely not vain – he’s never taken a picture of himself in his life. Although he’s got half his shoe in with one of these horse legs, which tells us so much.’ Daph gives up and scrolls back to the photo of him on the carousel, zooming in on it and bringing the phone almost to her nose. ‘He looks handsome, though. Good hair.’

‘He had good hair on the train this morning.’

I don’t realise I’m smiling involuntarily until I catch the knowing look on Zinnia’s face. I blush and tuck my own shoulder-length lank hair behind my ear. ‘Unlike my messy split-endy thing that needs a trim.’ I always feel self-conscious of my hair around Zinnia, who never has a strand out of place. Mine still hasn’t recovered from an ill-advised home highlighting kit where the streaks went orange so I dyed over them with a brown that was supposed to match my own colour but ended up going lighter because of the orangeness. Daph calls them lowlights; I call them ‘can’t afford to go to the hairdresser’s’.

‘You hate taking selfies too,’ Daphne says. ‘I can already tell this guy is perfect for you. Now, what next? Text messages?’

She’s gone back to the home screen and is fiddling around in his message folder before I’ve even started to protest. ‘We’re just looking for vital contact information so we can get it back to him.’

‘And evidence of a girlfriend because so far there’s nothing,’ Zinnia adds. ‘He must be single or there’d be some photos of a girlfriend, boyfriend, or otherwise on there. My phone is packed with pictures of my husband.’

‘And mine’s packed with pictures of Gavin measuring things against my ever-expanding belly to show how big it’s getting,’ Daph says. ‘Well, this morning someone called Jack texted telling Train Man “not to miss that bloody train”. His parcel was “now with his local courier for delivery” last Thursday, he wished someone called Susan a happy birthday last week, and someone sent a message a fortnight ago asking if he wants to go on a fishing weekend in July, but he hasn’t responded.’ She glances at me over her shoulder. ‘This is just as boring as your phone.’

‘Still no girlfriend,’ Zinnia says. ‘Tell me this isn’t looking more and more promising.’

‘There’s nothing here,’ Daphne says. ‘Funny pictures someone’s forwarded him, the odd joke between mates, but absolutely no sappy love messages. Not even an “on the way home, see you soon” – and even I text Gavin one of them when I leave work every night.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not interested.’ I ignore the flutteriness again. There must’ve been something wrong with that cereal this morning. Nothing more.

‘Right, notes. He could have written his address in there in case his phone ever got lost.’

‘Daph! This is his private property!’

‘Oh my God, Ness. He’s a vegetarian too. He’s literally the male version of you. Look, last week’s shopping list.’ She waves the phone in front of me. ‘Halloumi cheese, Quorn sausages, veggie bacon, Coco Pops, Nutella, and Cadbury’s Fingers.’ She sighs happily. ‘Any guy who buys Cadbury’s Fingers is a keeper. They’re your favourites.’

‘He’s probably buying them for his wife,’ I say, even though warmth floods my insides. I’m not interested in men, but if I could invent a perfect one, that would be his shopping list. ‘Besides, Cadbury’s Fingers only mean he’s a keeper if he bites both ends off and sucks tea up through it like a straw until it goes all melty and gooey on the inside.’

‘No address then?’ Zinnia asks. She’s all about yoga and detoxing teas. She doesn’t approve of chocolate. Daphne and I regularly joke that it’s all a front and she often leaves abruptly so she can get back to the bar of Galaxy hidden in her desk.

‘Nothing. What shall we do? Call the last number he dialled and see if they know how else to get in touch with him?’

‘Oi!’ I finally do protest. ‘I’m the one who found the phone. I should be the one doing this. It’s not right for us all to gather round it like some kind of soap opera.’

‘Yeah, and I’m pregnant so you can’t hit me to get it back.’ Daph ducks behind Zinnia and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘Right, call log.’

I sigh as I watch her go through the phone. ‘Again, no repeat calls to any specific number. No late-night booty calls. Here, last number dialled was local. I’ll ring it.’

She presses the dial button and puts the speaker on.

‘Cheap N Easy Pizza is closed at this time. Try again after five-thirty,’ a tinny voice comes through the phone.

Daph hangs up and bursts out laughing. ‘The last thing he did was get a takeaway pizza. Ness, he’s literally you. When did you last have a takeaway pizza?’

‘The weekend,’ I say, trying not to blush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with takeaway pizza. Not all of us have husbands who like to experiment with cooking gourmet meals for us, you know.’

‘Not for my lack of trying to find you one,’ she mutters. ‘And I bet he even likes pineapple on it too.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with—’ I start to protest but Daph drops her arm and I see an opportunity to snatch the phone out of her hand. ‘Ah ha!’

‘Okay, how are you going to find him then?’ Zinnia asks. I’m surprised she’s getting so involved in this. She loves anything to do with love, but she’s not usually got much time for me. I’m supposed to be a fact-checker for Maîtresse but my heart’s not in it. She knows it and I know it, and I’m not fast enough, thorough enough, or dedicated enough for her to like me.

‘There’s not even any social media,’ Daphne says. ‘I’m getting a bit worried here, Ness. Where’s his Facebook app? No Twitter? No Instagram? You are sure he isn’t a technophobe ninety-year-old, aren’t you?’

‘Well, maybe he just likes to keep things private. Not everyone’s on social media. Some days, I think we’d all be a lot less stressed if we weren’t. I don’t have the Facebook app on my phone either.’

‘See?’ Daph holds her hand up. ‘Perfect match.’

I sit there and scroll through the photos. He’s certainly got a thing about carousels. Almost all his photos are of them. There are photos taken of aged photos depicting them in olden days, pictures of broken parts of various wooden animals, paint-chipped poles, carousels in fairgrounds, one on a pier, and there are other rides too. I spot what must be joints of a rollercoaster and possibly some tracks, what looks like antique furniture and old steam engines. I linger on the distant photo of him standing on a carousel for longer than could be considered normal. My heart is pounding harder just at the sight of him in a zoomed-in photograph.

I have to stop thinking about it. The sooner this phone is out of my hands, the better. ‘Why don’t I try texting someone on his contact list and ask them how to get in touch with him?’

‘I volunteer my services while you go and get on with work,’ Daphne says quickly. ‘I’ll find someone who can get in touch with him and verify his relationship status.’

‘Chop chop.’ Zinnia taps her wrist like I’m on a schedule.

I scroll through the messages again but Daph’s right, there don’t seem to be any ongoing conversations or anything other than perfunctory messages and courier confirmations, so I go to his contacts list instead, hoping it might be in some kind of most-contacted order but it’s alphabetical.

‘Just text the first one,’ Zinnia says, and I get the feeling this has gone on too long for her. She’s efficient and doesn’t believe in wasting time, which is probably why she’s the editor of a popular women’s magazine and I’m the person who phones round publicists trying to find two sources to confirm that Brad Pitt’s name is actually spelt Brad Pitt. Nothing is too pedantic in fact-checking.

I slide my finger back up to the top. ‘Okay. Alan it is. Let’s hope he’s a good friend of Train Man.’

Hello, I type out. I found this phone on the train this morning and I’m trying to get hold of the owner to give it back. Do you know how I can contact him?

‘Now we wait.’

Daph starts talking about the baby pressing on her bladder, but within minutes, the phone lets out a low jingling noise and lights up in my hand.

‘Oooh!’ we all say in unison.

I unlock the phone and blink in surprise at the reply. ‘Oh. No “oooh” at all. Wow.’ I ignore the growingly insistent chorus of ‘whats’. ‘That’s not very nice.’

I read the text message from Alan aloud, cutting out some of the more, er, choice language. ‘Eff off Nathaniel, don’t involve me in whatever stupid game you’re playing now.’

‘Ooh, intriguing,’ Daph says.

‘Worrying,’ I amend for her. ‘What’s he done to this bloke? What “stupid game” has he been playing before?’

‘Why’d he bother to keep him as a contact if they hate each other so much?’

‘A mystery,’ Zinnia says. ‘To solve.’

‘Nathaniel is such a sexy name,’ Daph says, fanning a hand in front of her face again.

‘That’s what you took from that message?’

‘Well, at least we know what he’s called now. Although I don’t fancy texting dear old Alan back to ask for his home address or landline number, do you?’

I recoil at the thought. ‘Don’t you think we’ve invaded this poor man’s privacy enough? We’ve been through his pictures, his notes, his messages; we’ve even managed to text his number one enemy. I should have dropped this phone straight in at lost property in the station. It has nothing to do with me if he gets it back or not.’

‘There’s an amazing story in this. It’s so romantic. A man you’ve been silently flirting with on the train for months, eyes meeting across a crowded carriage, and now you being the one to spot his dropped phone and the quest to find this mystery man and return it … Our readers will love it.’ Zinnia looks between me and Daphne with an expression that means she’s plotting something, and then her eyes settle on me. ‘And you’re going to be the one to write it.’

‘Me?’ I shake my head in an attempt to clear my ears because I’m definitely not hearing her right. ‘Write what?’

‘This.’ She rolls her eyes, leaving me in no doubt about how dense she thinks I am for not getting it yet. ‘The story of The Guy on the Train. It’ll be like that novel but without all the alcoholism and murderyness.’

‘Oh, it’ll be so romantic.’ Daph picks up a magazine to fan herself with. ‘The playful flirtation, the eye contact, the smile, the dimples, the connection on a crowded train where the only thing anyone usually connects with is some drunken guy’s leering or the smell of wee where someone’s urinated on a seat. Again.’

‘Yes,’ Zinnia says. ‘A story about being in the right place at the right time to pick up the mysterious gorgeous man’s dropped phone and lose him by the whisper of a second in a crowded station. A romance for the modern woman who commutes to work every day on public transport. A magical connection with a stranger that could happen to any one of our readers at any moment.’

‘But … I …’ I have no idea what to say. I can’t believe she’s giving me a chance to write for Maîtresse. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since I started here. Fact-checking was only ever supposed to be temporary, but in the two years since I started, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.

‘I want this story, Vanessa, and realistically you’re the only person who can write it. I know you joined Maîtresse with the intention of writing features for us, and I know you’ve been hoping for a promotion since your first day and you’re probably wondering why I’ve always overlooked you, but the right way for you to prove yourself has never come up … until now.’

It’s probably meant as a compliment but Zinnia only succeeds in making me feel about as important to this office as the persistent bluebottle buzzing around the water dispenser.

‘I want this article on my desk today. We’ll put it on our website straight away, and if it gets a good response, then you’ll find your debut feature in print in the July issue of Maîtresse, and we’ll talk about moving you out of fact-checking and into a feature-writing role. We can start with Daphne’s maternity leave. You know she’s disappearing on us next month, and you probably know that I haven’t arranged cover yet. Impress me with this article, and Daphne’s job is yours for the twelve months of her maternity leave. If you do well, we’ll look into something more permanent.’

Daphne squeals in delight. ‘I told you ages ago that Ness should do it!’

I’m, again, unsure of whether the idea that my best friend and boss have been talking about me is a good thing or not, but it makes me feel a bit irrelevant. Daph mentioned that I should talk to Zinnia about covering her maternity leave months ago and I never plucked up the courage – if she mentioned it to Zinnia around the same time then Zinnia clearly wasn’t interested in the idea.

‘It’ll be a great start to a career as a writer here,’ Zinnia continues. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘More than anything,’ I say quickly before she has a chance to change her mind.

She nods once. ‘Good. I’ll forward this morning’s articles to be fact-checked to one of the temps so you can give this your full attention. I think this is going to be really special. Two o’clock this afternoon and not a second later.’ She goes to walk out but then spins on her heels and points a long red nail at me. ‘And, Vanessa? Leave it open-ended. You’re going to find this guy, and when you do, our readers will want to know about it.’

Daph barely gives her time to get out of earshot before she squeals. ‘This is brilliant, Ness, well done!’

It is brilliant, I know that, but … a love story? Me? I’m the worst choice in the world to write a love story. I haven’t even been on a date in over two years, as Daph reminds me repeatedly. She’s the one who writes articles about love and romance and couples who meet in weird and wonderful ways. I just fact-check them, and I love reading them because my best friend wrote them, but Daphne can make a story out of anything. I don’t know how to write this breathtakingly romantic article that Zinnia seems to want out of a guy I’ve looked at on the train a few times.

Daph’s already scribbling notes for me in a notepad. ‘Tell it exactly as you’ve always told me about Train Man. Focus on how his gaze makes you feel rather than how pretty his eyes are because you don’t want his identity to be too obvious. And make sure to mention how single you are and how single he is, and how you’ll meet when you give his phone back.’

‘I’ve got to find him first. Alan certainly wasn’t any help.’

‘Someone else will be. You haven’t got time to go through his contacts now, but after the article’s done, then you can concentrate on finding him.’

‘He’s probably a psychopath,’ I say. ‘Eye contact on public transport is a big no-no.’

‘You made eye contact on public transport with him too.’ She sighs. ‘You don’t always have to think the worst of people, Ness.’

‘I don’t always think—’

‘You thought that guy I tried to set you up with last month was a lunatic.’

‘He wanted to go rock climbing for a date. Rock climbing, Daph! A coffee is a date, not clambering up a flippin’ rock. Dating is bad enough without involving rocks and exercise.’

‘You wouldn’t have accepted even if he’d offered coffee and cake, just like you didn’t accept the last guy I tried to set you up with, or the one before that, or the one before. It’s been years since “poor Andrew”—’

‘Just how romantic do you think Zinnia wants this to be?’ I interrupt her. I know she thinks I was mad to break up with ‘poor Andrew’ and even madder not to want to find someone else, but I’m better off alone. ‘Poor Andrew’ proved that. Netflix is a much better companion.

‘So romantic. She wants the love story of the year that’s going to resonate with any woman who’s ever been on a packed train.’

‘That’s exactly the point though, isn’t it? It’s just a story. A fantasy. It’d make a nice movie, but this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen. It’d be great if he was the man of my dreams.’ I pat the phone in my pocket. ‘But he isn’t. Stories like these are just stories. They’re not real life.’

* * *

At five to two, I press send on my email to Zinnia.

The Guy on the Train: A love story for our time, with a twist worthy of any Paula Hawkins novel

By Vanessa Berton

The unspoken rule of London transport: ignore everyone. No one else exists on the tube. The disinterested gaze at nothing in particular as long as it’s not another human being is an art form that every person learns upon their arrival in the capital.

I have broken this rule. A man has broken this rule with me.

For a few months now, Train Man and I have looked at each other on the Victoria line. It’s not every morning, far from it. Sometimes there can be days or weeks between our clandestine gazes.

I’m not a born Londoner. Would other Londoners turn on me if they knew that I regularly make eye contact with a stranger? Would they make me disembark at the next stop if they knew that we sometimes – and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – smile at each other?

There. I’ve said it. I’ve noticed that there are other people on the tube. One of them has noticed me. Sometimes we share a smile. And it’s a very nice smile. It’s a smile with dimples, and hair of the darkest brown, and dark eyes that smile too when they look at me. It’s quite a feat to see me flustered and sweltering on a summer morning and not be scarred for life, but Train Man manages it. Each morning that I see him is just a little better than any other morning. I arrive at work with just a slightly springier step.

This morning was different. This morning, instead of being at the opposite end of the carriage like I usually am, I was mere feet away from him, crammed against a sweaty shirtless body. Unfortunately not his sweaty shirtless body. That would’ve made the journey marginally more pleasant.

Our eyes met as usual. And his dimples at such close range were enough to make me take leave of my senses. I nearly spoke to him. Thankfully I stopped myself at the last second because I hadn’t completely lost my marbles. But he nearly spoke to me too. In fact, we were barely saved from a lifetime of awkward conversation by arriving at a station – his stop today, but not his usual stop. Why is he getting off here when he doesn’t usually? Judging by the suitcase and array of bags, he’s obviously going somewhere, and judging by the panicked looks he keeps giving his phone, he doesn’t have much time to get there.

I don’t mean to watch him, but he’s tall enough to unintentionally draw the eye, and I’m short enough to be hidden by other passengers, so he can’t see me lurking behind him, watching the way long, sexy fingers wrap around the handle of his suitcase as he waits for the door to open. I see him give a final glance at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. Except, he doesn’t slip it back into his pocket. He thinks he has, but I’m the only one who’s noticed that he missed, and in the clamour of the doors opening, he hasn’t heard it clatter to the floor.

I grab it before it gets caught in the stampede, and make a split-second decision to run after him to return it, but I may have been slightly lax on my gym visits lately, and he runs out of there at a speed that would make Sonic the Hedgehog jealous.

I don’t catch him. And I now I have his phone.

And I’ve managed to unlock it. I am inside the private life of Train Man. I’ve read his texts. I’ve seen his photos. I know what grocery shopping he bought last week and that he ordered a pizza last night. I know he likes the same things I like, that there are no texts to a significant other, and I’ve happened to notice on our shared journeys that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

Could a guy so friendly and gorgeous really be single? Could my silent flirtation with Train Man really mean something? Have we defied the laws of public transport because of a deeper meaning? Has the universe thrown us into each other’s path for a reason that we can’t yet see?

I have his phone. I have to get it back to him. But I have to find him first …

Daph warned me to only expect a response from Zinnia if she hates it, so I take the silence as a good sign and get on with fact-checking the stack of articles piled up in my inbox. Well, between obsessively refreshing the website to see when it goes live, obviously.

It’s not perfect; I know that. I’m sure it’ll fade into the depths of Maîtresse’s site and be read by approximately four people, three of whom will be me, Daph, and Zinnia double-checking ad placement, and any hopes of seeing my name in print and starting a real career will be gone forever. But it was fun to write, even if my promotion to features writer only lasts a morning.