Platform Seven

by Louise Doughty

  ‘Yes …’ I said, by way of encouragement, as we both lay down again.

  ‘Well, I waited until the teacher had handed out all of the projects, then I put my hand up, and the teacher said, yes Matthew, and I said, Miss, where’s mine?’

  ‘You didn’t …’

  ‘I did, and she said, oh I’m sorry Matthew, I’ve handed them all out, perhaps I’ve left yours at home, I’m so sorry, I’ll look tonight and bring it in tomorrow I promise, and I went all quiet on her, and the next day she came in and came up to me in the playground and actually knelt down and said how sorry she was, she’d spent all evening going through her whole house but she couldn’t find my project anywhere … At parents’ evening that term, she even apologised for losing it in front of my mum and dad.’

  I raised myself up on one elbow. ‘Matthew! That’s awful!’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, I do feel pretty bad about that. Miss Harrington. I actually really liked her as well.’

  It was only the next weekend that it occurred to me to ask him, ‘So, you never told me, what are you most proud of …’ We were in bed again, but before sex, not after, and he took my arms and pinned them above my head and pushed between my knees and sank his mouth to my neck, entering me with a swift, firm movement that jolted my head against the headboard as he murmured, ‘What do you think …?’ I could never get him to answer any question seriously when he was turned on, I learned that very quickly.

  *

  Later in the relationship, I was to think back to his silence after I told him my story: Star Road, the small terraced house with the peeling paint on the windowsills, the woman in the window on a summer’s day and her wide-eyed look as our gazes connected. I was to fill this silence with his thoughts at that moment, and with regret for my own honesty. By the end I would regret every occasion when I had been honest with Matty, along with my own foolishness for not realising that honesty was stored up by him, secreted, in the same way that a cat might dive beneath a bed to hide the garden bird it has between its jaws.

  11

  Matty’s text arrived at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. He was working that day but we were due to see each other in the evening – we had been dating for six weeks. I had already learned what it was like dating a junior doctor. ‘I’ll be at your place by seven p.m.’ meant ‘If I’m lucky, I’ll get there by ten.’ And ‘I’ll call you right back’ could mean ‘We won’t speak for two days.’ I didn’t mind, back then. When he finally arrived, he would fall upon me like a starving man upon a roast chicken. It was always worth the wait.

  Where you now?

  I texted back. At home, running a bath, why? Thought you were working today?

  I got all excited, imagining he was about to turn up at my flat. I brushed my hair, put a little light make-up on, even though I was about to get into a bath. I looked at my pyjamas, a top and shorts, blue with white piping. I judged them acceptably cute to be wearing to answer the door. I brushed my teeth.

  He never replied.

  *

  That evening, we had an arrangement to meet in town. He hated it when I was late, and I was keen enough to be early, eight minutes early to be precise, leaning up against the wall outside Burger King where the bright yellow light shone out over the hurrying shoppers on Long Causeway. We were going to Spaghettini, which was where we had been on our first date: Matty called it ‘our’ restaurant. When he had called up to ask me out he had wanted to know my favourite type of food. I had hesitated before owning up to pasta – it wasn’t very cool, or modern, and in the back of my mind was the feeling he might disapprove of carbohydrates. He had replied, ‘Thank God, I love pasta.’

  I waited – the eight minutes passed, then another five, then ten. I considered how I wanted to look when he approached me. If I had one knee bent and the foot resting on the wall behind me, arms folded, did it make me look casual or a bit cross? I wasn’t cross. I was crazy about him and very much wanted to look casual. I studied my phone. That way, Matty would see me first, from a distance as he approached, and would see that I was not looking out for him. I wanted him to walk towards me in anticipation of the moment when I would look up and see him. I wanted him to be staring at me at the moment our eyes met.

  A group of four lads burst from the door of Burger King, all noise and shoving at each other. They disturbed a flock of scrawny pigeons that were pecking at the paving slabs in front of me. The pigeons rose in a clamour. I moved a couple of metres to my left, further away from the door.

  When my phone began buzzing, I assumed it was Matty saying he was on his way.

  Ian.

  Ian was the boyfriend before Matty. We had broken up six months previously, not so much broken up as drifted apart – even drifted sounds a bit strong, suggesting as it does an element of volition or impetus. We had dated for a few months, in a desultory manner; we had five or six occasions of perfectly acceptable sex – the kind of sex that Rosaria would call vanilla. We were never big on texting each other or calling in between times and the gaps between seeing each other had got longer until there came the coffee we had one Saturday afternoon, in March, when he said, ‘By the way, I’m seeing someone. I thought you should know.’

  Human vanity – so predictable, ubiquitous: even though I wasn’t particularly keen on Ian I had felt a stab, of what? Pain is putting it a little strongly. A stab of indignation, perhaps – a feeling that I knew was fleeting even as I was feeling it. I didn’t want Ian but that didn’t stop me wanting him to want me.

  ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Christmas party,’ he replied, ‘at my office. She’s a freelance consultant.’

  Technically, he and I had still been together at Christmas – we had seen each other in January and I had stayed the night at his neat bachelor house in Werrington. He had guinea pigs in cages in the garden. He also owned several pairs of chinos.

  ‘I thought you should know,’ he repeated. ‘I took her to Pete and Mariam’s on Sunday so, you know …’ Pete and Mariam were distant cousins of his. Mariam’s brother Rashid was Head of Art at my school.

  I shrugged, then said, ‘Are you following the Pistorius trial? Unbelievable.’

  We hadn’t been in touch since then, so it was with some surprise that I saw a call from him while I was waiting for Matty outside Burger King as darkness fell on an October night.

  ‘Hey stranger.’ I was in a good mood that day.

  ‘Hey, it’s Ian …’ Yes I know, I thought. ‘Listen, hope it’s okay to call after all this time, I was just wanting your advice, quick bit of advice, that’s all.’ He said this all in a rush, as if he didn’t want me to misinterpret his reason for calling me, and I was reminded how he was one of those men who thinks that any single woman in her thirties must be desperate to have his babies and how he had better be straight up with a woman right from the start as it’s the decent thing to do. It was endearing in a way, as plenty of men are happy to lead you up the garden path, but it was also a little smug. ‘Gilly and I, she’s moved in now, Gilly and I are going to go to Amsterdam and do you remember you said you had that colleague there who had a place there she AirB&B-ed, do you remember?’

  ‘Anita, yes, sure, want me to text you her details?’

  ‘Oh would you, thanks? Hey, how are you anyway?’ He wasn’t a bad old stick, Ian. Many men would have just texted or emailed and made no pretence of interest in how I was.

  ‘Oh, I’m good, really good. Just in town waiting for my new fella, running late, he’s a doctor.’ I couldn’t resist getting that one in.

  ‘Oh great, cool. How are your folks?’ I had forgotten he had met my parents.

  ‘They’re good, well, you know.’

  ‘God yes, remember my mum’s arthritis?’ This had been a standing joke between us. Ian’s widowed mother, who I had never met, was convinced she had arthritis even though the doctors had given her the all clear. ‘She’s saying she’s given it to Aunt Jean. It’s the first known instance of viral
arthritis.’

  I laughed, a genuine and open laugh, and remembered what I had liked about Ian, his dryness, his anecdotes. We had never really fancied each other all that much but he was good fun, perfectly decent company for a Saturday night. I should make the effort to see him again some time, I thought.

  While we had been talking, my phone had buzzed. That was probably Matty trying to tell me he was going to be late – or changing where he wanted to meet. Even six weeks in, I had experience of that habit. ‘Hey, I’ve got to go,’ I said, ‘but I’ll text you Anita’s number, I’m sure she still does it, give her a go.’

  ‘Yeah, great, thanks. Maybe we should have a drink some time. Meet Gilly.’

  ‘Yeah, we could do a double date, he’d love that!’ There was sarcasm in my tone but Ian didn’t pick up on it. He was a straightforward kind of guy.

  ‘Cool, text me some dates.’

  We both knew that would never happen.

  When I checked my texts, there was a message from Matty. Twenty mins x.

  I pulled a face to myself. I had just ended a phone call quickly, only to be told it was another twenty minutes. It was late October and a premonitory chill was in the air. September had been cool and wet but the sun had come out again the last couple of weeks, just in time for the leaves going golden, as if to fool us all before we were plunged into winter. I had come out inadequately dressed for the time of year, in a scoop-necked top with short sleeves and a thin cut-off jacket, red denim, a colour that flattered me. Matty was always late, even though he hated it when I was, and I thought to myself, I should know better by now. I must remember to arrange to meet him indoors. Street corners weren’t a good idea with winter on its way.

  Another text. Make it half an hour. Not even a kiss by way of apology.

  Right, well, I was damned if I was standing outside Burger King for half an hour. I’d go to Nero, if it was still open, and text him to meet me there.

  I was still looking at my phone as I pushed myself away from the wall and turned to the right, so I almost ran into him.

  He was very close, right in front of me, a cold smile on his face, and as I gave a small jolt of surprise he said, ‘And where are you off to then?’

  ‘Oh, hello you!’ I said, disconcerted by his tone, then kissed him.

  He returned my kiss in a brief, brusque manner, planting his lips on mine then pulling back. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  I smiled. ‘Nice try, mister, how about sorry I’m late?’

  ‘I’m not late. You were early.’

  I lifted my left arm, my hand bent back at my wrist, pantomiming checking a watch even though I wasn’t wearing one. ‘You said half six.’

  ‘Yes, but you were here before half six.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He reached out a hand and took hold of a fistful of the hair at the back of my head and brought my face very close to his, our noses almost touching. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you? I know everything.’

  I was still smiling. He was joking, wasn’t he? This was clowning around, right?

  He turned then, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking off down Long Causeway. I followed him, almost trotting to catch up, and took his arm, slowed his pace a little. ‘So you were watching me all that time and didn’t say?’

  ‘How about asking how my day was?’ he shot back.

  I was still trying to interpret his tone. While I tried to figure it out, I asked lightly, ‘How was your day?’

  His face was set. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What you been doing?’

  ‘Not much.’

  And that was how the conversation was all the way to Spaghettini.

  I waited until we had ordered, giving it a few minutes for him to settle. While I waited, I thought about how I felt, when I got home from work: that feeling of relief I lived alone because if there was anyone there who expected to talk to me or wanted my attention before I’d had a cup of tea and a biscuit I would feel like sinking an axe into their skull. He’d come straight from work and he’d had a bad day. I would wait until he was ready to explain. While I waited, I played with a bowl of sugar on the table, stirring the white crystals with the tiny teaspoon that rested in the bowl, until he reached out and put his hand on top of mine.

  It felt like a conciliatory gesture, so I looked at him. I thought he was about to explain why he had texted me that he was late when he was there already. Where had he been, watching me, and why?

  ‘So,’ he said, with another of his tight little smiles. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘A friend,’ I retorted quickly, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘What sort of friend?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were laughing. What sort of friend? A male friend. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  I sighed, withdrew my hand from under his and sat back in my seat with a slight frown, as if I was troubled by this line of questioning, but secretly I was thrilled. So that was what was wrong. Matty was jealous.

  It occurred to me to lie about who I had been talking to but I realised my motivation was suspect: I would be doing it because he would be able to tell I was lying and that would take his jealousy up a notch.

  I wondered where Matty had been hiding – it couldn’t have been too close otherwise I would have seen him, so he wouldn’t have been able to hear my end of the conversation but he would have seen me laugh. I answered him smugly, as if it was a trump card of some sort.

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was my ex-boyfriend, Ian.’

  ‘I see,’ he said lightly. ‘You haven’t mentioned Ian before.’

  ‘You haven’t asked.’

  ‘Do I have to ask, is that the only way to get any information out of you?’

  ‘I mean, I haven’t not-mentioned him, he wasn’t important.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned him. I think if you asked most people, that would count as not-mentioning, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, technically, but you’re making it sound like …’

  ‘So what else have you not-told me?’

  ‘I haven’t. I mean I haven’t not-told you anything, about what?’

  ‘Let’s start with Ian, the mystery ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘Well, what would you like to know?’

  ‘When did you go out with him?’

  ‘Earlier this year.’

  ‘Oh I see, how early?’

  ‘We broke up in the spring, early summer, spring I think, can’t remember.’

  ‘How convenient. So he’s a recent boyfriend.’

  ‘Well, if you mean he’s the one immediately preceding you, yes he’s recent.’

  ‘And yet you haven’t mentioned him.’

  ‘Look, he wasn’t all that important.’

  ‘Do you make a habit of sleeping with men who aren’t important to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he was a little bit important then.’

  ‘Well, I went out with him for a bit, so I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘Did he meet your parents?’

  ‘Yes, once I think.’

  ‘Once or twice, you can’t remember?’

  ‘Once properly, twice.’

  ‘So he met your parents, you slept with him, he was important.’

  ‘Not that important …’

  ‘Not that important but you introduced him to your parents and you hid him from me.’

  ‘I wasn’t hiding him.’

  ‘Just not-mentioning him, even when you’d been talking to him right before meeting me, you still didn’t mention him.’

  ‘It really wasn’t an important conversation.’

  ‘So an unimportant conversation with an unimportant man but important enough to hide it from me. How often do you talk to him?’

  Aha, I thought, another trump card. Matty was leaning across the table and looking at me and the intensity of his grey gaze was turning me on. I gazed back, quite deliberately, my eyes wide. I was as good at this as him. I would show h
im. ‘Actually, it’s the first conversation we’ve had since we broke up.’ So there.

  A pause. Matty sat back in his seat, looked away, then back again, another tight smile. ‘So, you have your first conversation with your old boyfriend since you broke up with him while you are waiting for me and you’re laughing away, but you still don’t tell me about it?’

  ‘Matthew …’ Was this serious or not? Was he playing with me?

  ‘No, it’s fine, really …’

  A very thin waiter arrived carrying two wide white bowls, modest heaps of spaghetti surrounded by absurdly broad rims. He lowered them in front of us simultaneously, with a serious expression, then said in a Fen accent, ‘Parmigiano, ducks?’

  I looked at Matty, amused, and waited for him to return my look, but he studied his plate of spaghetti vongole and said in a clipped kind of way, ‘No thank you, but she will. And can we have some black pepper?’

  We sat in silence while the waiter went away and came back with a glass bowl of grated parmesan and then scattered it, slowly and carefully, over my pasta. He put the bowl down on the table between us, went away again – we both stared at our plates – and returned with a dark-wood pepper mill large enough to be a small statue in a town square. As he turned it over our plates, coal-black chunks of pepper fell from the end and the grinding blades made a squeaking sound like the iron wheels of a very old train creaking slowly into motion. I felt plunged into seriousness, all at once, as if I had been missing something important in the debate we had just had, as if I should have known what it was but was too dim to work it out. The squeaking of the pepper mill set my teeth on edge. I realised the waiter was going to keep going until I told him to stop, so I lifted my hand.

  After the waiter had turned away, I plunged my fork into my spaghetti and began to turn it, then asked lightly, ‘How was your week?’

  ‘Okay,’ Matthew replied. ‘My shift pattern changes on Wednesday. I’ll be on lates for five days.’ There was a pause. ‘Yours?’