Fen made an effort. ‘Uh… no, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘She’s dead. Maybe they did a while ago.’ She smiled despite herself. ‘Though I don’t expect you would have come across them if they had. You don’t look like a fan of Forties and Fifties costume drama.’
‘Don’t judge,’ the man said mildly. ‘You never know.’ He looked cramped in the train seat, folded in, his legs too long for a comfortable fit. She could not look at him properly without turning sideways and that felt too blatant. She did not want to give the impression that she was interested. She wanted to go back to the book for the protection it gave her, but the archaic language seemed unappealing all of a sudden.
‘You’re right, as it happens,’ he said. ‘Thrillers, action films… That’s my sort of thing. Very conventional.’
Fen never read crime or thriller novels. There was enough darkness in real life.
‘Why pick it up if you don’t enjoy it?’ the man asked.
Fen gave up, putting the book away in her bag. ‘It was a present,’ she said.
‘Birthday?’
‘No, just…’ She let the sentence fade. What had it been: an attempt to recreate the past? An apology?
‘Just a gift from a friend,’ she said. ‘We hadn’t met up for a while. A few of us had dinner together.’
‘In London?’ Like her he must know this was the last train.
‘Yes.’ She made an effort and wondered why she was bothering. ‘You?’
‘I’ve been at work.’ He closed his eyes, massaging the back of his neck. ‘Nothing exciting. I’m hoping to be made redundant.’
‘Then you’re going about it the wrong way,’ Fen said, ‘working late.’
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Wow again. She blinked.
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’
‘What would you do if you were made redundant?’ Fen asked.
He thought about it for a moment. There was nothing rushed about him, nothing that wasn’t thoughtful and considered.
‘I’d go travelling,’ he said, after a moment, ‘and write about it.’
‘Nice.’
‘Nothing exotic,’ he continued. ‘Just local. It’s beautiful around here, you know?’ He waved a hand towards the blank train windows. ‘The river and the landscape, the water meadows, the hills…’
‘I’m not familiar with the countryside around here,’ Fen said. She remembered the view from the window earlier as she had travelled up; fields of honey-coloured corn in the sunlight, pale green hills, the curl of the river in the lazy haze. ‘I can see it can be beautiful,’ she said, ‘but what about all the bits in between – the railway sidings and industrial units and shopping parks?’
‘There’s always bits in between,’ he said. ‘Anyway,’ he settled his shoulders back against the seat, ‘it’s just a dream.’
There was silence again, the rattle of the train, the hum of the wheels on the line. They were slowing down into another station.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
She wanted to tell him that she didn’t want to talk about herself but it seemed too much effort. What about her? What was she now? Who was she? Fenella Brightwell, twenty-seven years old and starting her life over again…
‘I’m a writer.’ She chose a job at random, perhaps because she could still see the corner of the book sticking out of her bag. It didn’t matter what she said when she wasn’t going to see him again. Licence to lie was how she thought of it. Her past, her new beginning, gave her the right to pretend.
His eyes gleamed. She wasn’t sure whether he believed her but it didn’t matter.
‘That’s exciting. What sort of books do you write?’
‘Science fiction.’
‘Are you published?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does anyone beyond your family and friends actually buy your books?’
Fen smothered a laugh. Suddenly she was enjoying this.
‘Yes. Quite a few people.’
‘Are you a bestseller, then?’
This time she laughed aloud. ‘No, of course not.’
He raised his brows. ‘Lots of authors are.’
‘Proportionally few.’ She knew that; the world was flooded with books. Very few of them were by people anyone had heard of.
She noticed for the first time his crumpled but elegant suit and the expensive watch on his wrist. How awkward if he were a rich and successful author. He’d said something about writing about his travels. But he had also said he was hoping to be made redundant so he couldn’t be self-employed. He probably worked in IT. A lot of big companies were based in Reading. IT, or insurance or banking. Something boring. Something normal.
‘I’ll look out for your books,’ he said. ‘Do you write under your own name?’
‘No,’ Fen said. She hesitated, enough to give herself away. ‘My pen name is Julie Butler.’ Where the hell had that come from?
‘And your latest book?’ The gleam was back in his eyes. He knew she was making this up. ‘What’s that called?’
‘It’s called…’ She saw a hoarding flash past with an advertisement for moisturiser. ‘The Dove Flies Out.’
‘Intriguing.’ He smiled at her. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s set on a spaceship,’ Fen said. ‘A spaceship like an ark. They send the dove out when they get near a new planet, to see if it’s suitable for landing.’
‘Imaginative.’
More like imaginary, Fen thought. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘People usually say that when they think something sounds awful.’
‘I’ll look out for it when I’m next in town.’ He stood up and for one moment she thought he was going to shake hands but he didn’t. ‘This is my stop,’ he said. ‘It was nice to meet you, Julie Butler.’
‘You too,’ Fen said. She thought of the old days, the days before Jake. She would have asked for his number, or given him hers. They might have met up and had a drink. It would have been good to see him again. There was a connection there, a spark. But perhaps she had read too much into it. She wasn’t good at relationships.
The signs for Newbury slid past the train window. She watched him stroll down the carriage to the door, waiting with the cyclists, the late shoppers and the suits, standing back to let an elderly couple get to their feet. He turned and looked at her. Her gaze met his and she felt the connection between them again like a physical jolt. He walked back to where she sat.
‘In case we meet again,’ he said, ‘or in case we don’t, my name’s Hamish. Hamish Ross.’
‘Hamish,’ she repeated. ‘Well, it was good to talk to you.’
He smiled a last smile and raised a hand, and in that minute Fen realised where she had seen him before. He had been right when he had said that he thought he knew her. It hadn’t been a line.
He was Jessie’s older brother.
She opened her mouth to tell him but it was too late. The doors hissed shut behind him. She did not see him on the platform. There weren’t many people left in the carriage now and the night air from the open windows was making her feel cold. Ten minutes to Hungerford,