‘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