Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  Anyone with a modicum of sense had gone straight home and barricaded themselves in with a mug of hot, beefy Bovril. It would have been a good idea if she and Jamie had done the same. The restaurant was cold, the pasta was cold and, when they reluctantly headed back to Euston, the train they eventually boarded was cold, too. But at least they got a seat. And, after several false starts, they managed to find ones that didn’t sound like whoopee cushions when you sat on them.

  It was another half-hour before the train moved, by which time every conceivable inch of floor space had a disgruntled delayed commuter standing on it. Despite the fact that there was no tangible form of heat supplied by British Rail, the compartment started to steam with the warmth of damp, squashed and very sweaty bodies trying to dry out.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ A strangulated voice came through the loudspeakers. ‘British Rail would like to apologise for the late running of this train. This is due to adverse weather conditions affecting signalling equipment at Watford Junction. This service will terminate at Leighton Buzzard.’ There was a loud and unappreciative groan from the car. ‘This is due to adverse weather conditions. Buses will be provided for onward. British Rail apologises for any inconvenience caused and wishes you a pleasant journey.’

  There were times when the use of the F word was entirely justified, Teri felt. Perhaps she would look more kindly on Jez tomorrow. Then again, perhaps not.

  Teri twisted her hair round her finger. ‘What chance do they have of getting buses through, if the trains can’t make it?’

  Jamie’s brow furrowed, and a look of resigned weariness settled heavily into his features. ‘Trust you to spot the deliberate mistake.’

  Teri smiled sympathetically. At the end of the day, he had quite a shadow of stubble on his face. In the morning, he was baby-faced and scrubbed. At night, he looked paler and the stubble gave him a slightly down-but-not-out look. A bit like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. Handsome in an unwholesome sort of way. She wanted to reach up and stroke it to see if it was soft or scratchy, but so far she hadn’t had either the nerve or the opportunity.

  He was still muttering. ‘And why do they always announce these things once they’ve got you trapped on the bloody train and it’s already trundling out of the station? There’s no way that you can make an impartial decision about whether you want to travel or not. Even if you want to get off, you can’t.’

  He lapsed into a deep and unhappy silence. It seemed somehow too churlish to point out that sometimes she felt exactly the same way about their relationship.

  There was a queue outside Leighton Buzzard Station. A very long one made up of a lot of damp, dark people huddled together under dripping black umbrellas. It snaked along the front of the station and round past the empty taxi rank towards the snowbound car park. There was one very small and very full bus parked at the head of it. The driver was trying to start its engine. Unsuccessfully. The snow was still falling.

  Teri could tell by the look on Jamie’s face that his heart had just sunk to somewhere inside his shoes. ‘You’re going to be here forever,’ she remarked observantly.

  Jamie fixed her with a withering glance. ‘You could just be right, Ms Carter.’

  ‘Look.’ Teri lowered her lashes. ‘I know you’ve turned me down once tonight, but I’ll make the offer again. Why don’t you come home with me? It’s only up the hill.’

  ‘I have to try and get home,’ he stated flatly.

  ‘It’s madness to try to get home in this.’ She fought an overwhelming urge to stamp her foot.

  Jamie tilted her chin and forced her to look at him. ‘It’s madness not to.’

  ‘Either way it’s madness!’ Her voice was rising, despite the fact that she was trying not to shout.

  The bus driver tried his engine again. It reluctantly chug-chug-chugged into black, smoking life. Everyone in the queue shuffled forward one step, before the engine died once more into ominous silence.

  ‘Are we going to spend the rest of our lives looking longingly at each other and holding hands?’ she said vehemently. ‘Tell me, for goodness’ sake, Jamie, exactly what are we doing?’

  His face looked pained and jaundiced under the yellow glow of the street-lamp. He pulled her away from the stoic queue of ever-hopeful commuters. ‘I’ve got a wife,’ he said softly.

  ‘And I’ve got bloody cold feet!’ she said, and stamped off ankle-deep in snow away from the station.

  In the car park a few optimistic souls were trying to dig their cars out of snowdrifts using the scraper from the top of their de-icer can.

  ‘Wait!’ She heard Jamie call, but carried on walking, head down against the relentless flurries that were wet and stingingly cold and sharp on her cheeks. Not only did she have cold feet, but there was a hunger growing deep within her that had nothing to do with food. Two Big Macs, large fries and a thick chocolate milk shake wouldn’t even begin to fill this space inside her.

  He caught her arm and spun her round, flinging her off-balance on the slippery ground. In surprise, she let go of her briefcase and it sailed low over the snow, catching him squarely below the knees and taking his legs from under him as neatly as any of the Lions’ full-backs could have done. He landed on the snow with an inelegant oouf!

  ‘Oh, Jamie! I’m sorry.’ She slithered towards him and reached out her hand to help him. He lay sprawled and lifeless in the snow. As she neared him, she could hear him murmur.

  ‘Speak to me, Jamie! What is it?’ She crouched beside him, lowering her face to his lips, straining to hear what he said.

  She heard a faint croak and leaned closer.

  ‘That briefcase never liked me,’ he whispered. His hand reached out and grabbed her ankle and, with an ear-piercing scream, she joined him in the snow.

  ‘You complete bastard!’ She kicked out at him, but only succeeded in sending an ineffective flurry of snow spraying into the air.

  He was laughing now and pulling her close to him. The snow was seeping into her back, cold and wet where it had crept up inside her coat. It was in her hair and in her ears.

  ‘I’ll get you for this!’ she spluttered, and grabbed a handful of snow and flung it towards him.

  It scored a direct bull’s-eye with his mouth, showering his face and hair with glittering shards of ice. He spat it out, laughing and writhing towards her, inching his face next to hers.

  Pinning her to the snow with his arms, he raised himself above her. He shook the snow from his hair, and the tiny flakes fluttered over her. She was surprised to find that hot tears were running down the chill of her cheeks despite the fact that she, too, was laughing.

  He was still breathless when he started to speak. ‘The reason I didn’t want to come with you is that I’m terrified by what’s happening.’ He brushed her bangs back from her face. ‘I wasn’t looking for this. Do you understand that?’

  She nodded silently, scared by the intensity of emotion on his face. His lips brushed hers, as lightly and elusively as the snowflakes that were falling in the darkness. ‘So you don’t need to tell me about cold feet, Ms Teri Carter.’

  He parted her mouth with his tongue. It was hot and moist and disturbingly insistent, and despite the fact that she was soaked through to the skin and lying on a bed of freezing snow, she had never felt warmer.

  ‘I know all about cold feet.’ He held her away from him. There were snowflakes on his eyelashes. ‘Because that’s exactly what I’ve got, too.’

  Chapter 11

  He was an astonishingly good kisser for someone with cold feet. Teri gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if she looked any different now that Jamie had finally kissed her. Apart from soaking wet and completely bedraggled, that is. She decided that she probably didn’t and set about rubbing her hair vigorously with the towel.

  It had taken them ages to trudge back up to her house. Normally it was a reasonably quick walk to the station—about fifteen minutes at a brisk pace—a bit longer going home as it was al
l uphill. With a good six inches of snow it was an entirely different matter. A mountain guide and the odd oxygen canister on tap would have made the journey considerably easier.

  There was a tentative knock on the door, and Jamie peeped his head round. The Kiss hadn’t been mentioned, and they’d gone back to embarrassed shyness and tiptoeing round each other.

  ‘I borrowed this,’ he said.

  ‘This’ was her dressing gown. Navy-blue towelling, so nothing too girlie there. But those in the tailoring profession might have called it a neat fit. Its cross-over bit at the front didn’t, and he was revealing a rather alarming amount of chest and thigh, and there were bits of dark, curling hair that pointed dangerously to hidden bits of his anatomy.

  Teri looked back at the mirror and hoped that Jamie realised it was just the steam in the bathroom that had made her cheeks go red. They had changed out of their wet clothes and had languished under the steaming hot shower separately. It was quite the most chaste love affair Teri had ever had. Well, at least since she was sixteen. It made Jamie seem all the more appealing, the fact that he didn’t try to jump on her bones every five minutes. Although she did briefly harbour dark thoughts in the shower of him bursting in and taking her against the tiles.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said.

  Teri cleared her throat. ‘No. It’s very fetching. I’ll borrow Clare’s. She won’t be home.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Her plane’s stuck in a snowdrift in Dublin.’ She made sure her towel was attached securely and then pulled a comb through her hair. ‘It’s pink and flowery and not really your colour.’

  Jamie looked bashful and grimaced slightly. ‘I need to phone home.’

  Their eyes met, and there was an expression in his that obviously meant something deep and meaningful. But what? It didn’t seem appropriate to ask. Instead she said, ‘You sound like ET.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t get a line on my cell. The network is jammed.’

  It wasn’t surprising. The only thing in their lives that was more unreliable than the trains was the cell phone network.

  ‘Try the “real” phone. It’s at the bottom of the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’

  She tried very hard not to listen, but it was impossible. Perhaps if she’d actually been able to make herself close the bathroom door and wrap her towel round her head, it would have been easier, but with her ear pressed up against the cold, damp doorframe, she could hear every word.

  His wife must have answered the phone after the first ring. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said. Not exactly lovey-dovey. ‘I know, it’s hell in town too.’ Talking about the weather as the first topic of conversation—a sure sign that they’d been married for too long. ‘I’m not going to make it home.’ Not the slightest bit of hesitation there. ‘I’m going to spend the night with Charlie.’ Query by the wife? ‘The network is jammed.’ Why isn’t his cell working? ‘Why do you need his number? It should be by the phone.’ Longer pause. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll get it.’ Placating tone, but mild irritation creeping in? Rummaging in his briefcase. ‘Watford 99246.’ Briefcase clipped shut. Firmly. ‘It’s only for one night. I’ll be home tomorrow.’ Then: ‘Perhaps Charlie will lend me some.’ Underwear? ‘Or I’ll wear the same ones two days running. ‘Definitely underwear. ‘How are the kids?’ Lowered voice. ‘Did they?’ The first stab of pain. ‘Give them a kiss from me.’ Second stab. ‘Me too.’ I love you? Well, she’s hardly likely to be saying ‘I’m cold’ and he’s hardly likely to be answering ‘me too’. ‘Bye.’ Phone clicks.

  Teri poked her head out of the bathroom door. Jamie was sitting on the bottom step with his head cradled in his hands. She crept down quietly and sat next to him. ‘I could rinse them through for you and put them on the radiator. They’d be dry in the morning.’

  He turned towards her. His face was sad and tired. ‘What?’

  ‘Your underwear.’

  ‘You’ve been eavesdropping.’ A twinkle came back to his eyes.

  ‘Only a little bit.’

  ‘I’m finding this really difficult.’ He reached out and took her hand, and she could feel the tension in his fingers. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be here. It’s just that I know I shouldn’t be here. I’ve never told so many lies in my life, and it’s not something I’m proud of.’ He let go of her hands and scraped his hair back from his face. It was still damp and curled erratically at the base of his neck. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘Look, let’s get this straight. You don’t have to do anything. I’m not pressuring you at all.’ Teri nudged him in the arm encouragingly. ‘This has more to do with survival than seduction. I didn’t want you slithering home on a suicide mission—although I don’t think that particular bus was going to be slithering anywhere in a hurry.’

  ‘No,’ Jamie agreed thoughtfully.

  ‘You could go back down to the station and join the queue if it would help your conscience.’

  ‘No,’ Jamie disagreed thoughtfully.

  ‘So this is to do with common sense, not sex?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  ‘I think you’d better ring Charlie then, and tell him where you really are,’ Teri said. ‘And give him my phone number—just in case. Will he mind?’

  ‘Yes, but not as much as I do.’ Jamie sighed heavily. ‘If I feel this way about you—and I do— I should be sweeping you off your feet, throwing you over my shoulder and rushing you up the stairs to ravish you on the bed.’

  ‘I’d be disappointed if you did.’ Liar.

  ‘I feel as though I’m letting you down. But if I don’t let you down, then I let myself down.’ He shook himself as if he was trying to clear his brain. ‘I need to get my head together on this, Teri.’

  ‘I know.’ She wondered what would happen if she accidentally-on-purpose let her towel slip to the floor. ‘You sort your head out while I go and sort your knickers out.’

  ‘You shouldn’t even be thinking of washing underwear for a man you barely know.’

  ‘There are a lot of things I shouldn’t be thinking about doing for a man I barely know, but I’m thinking them all the same.’ She kissed him on the end of the nose. ‘Ring Charlie.’ She stood up and walked towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hey.’ He grabbed her hand and said softly, ‘There’s something I need to know.’

  ‘What’s that?’ She hardly dared to ask.

  ‘What is your telephone number?’

  It was 01525 473663. Pamela knew because a female voice, which sounded like an old BBC announcer brought out of retirement, had broken the devastating news of her husband’s adultery in well-modulated, robotic cut-glass tones: ‘This tel-e-phone number called to-day at twent-y-one, twent-y-five hours. To re-turn the call, press three.’

  Quite an innocuous statement if you didn’t realise the implications. She wondered how many more marriages would be destroyed by the invention of British Telecom’s 1471 redial facility. She didn’t have to be an idiot—despite the fact that her husband was taking her for one—to find out that 01525 was a Leighton Buzzard dialling code and that, wherever Jamie was, he wasn’t in Watford with his alibi Charlie Perry.

  Pamela stared out of the patio window into the darkness of the garden. The children had built a snowman when Francesca had come home from school. ‘Frosty’ had been given two charcoal briquettes, left over from last summer’s barbecues, as eyes, and a traditional carrot nose. Jack had generously donated some M&M’s, except for the red ones which were his favourites, to provide his smile. Frosty was also sporting a beige cashmere scarf, which seemed a trifle excessive for a snowman, but the children refused to come indoors for their tea until Frosty’s comfort was fully catered to, and it was the only scarf Pamela could find.

  At the moment, Frosty was being battered by the relentless snow, which seemed even heavier than before; he looked as if he needed every inch of the expensive cashmere. He was a very small snowman, and already the fresh snow was drifting round where his knee
s would probably be, if snowmen had knees. His edges were becoming blurred, and there was a mound of snow building up on his carrot nose that would soon make it drop off. He would probably be gone in the morning, or at the very least unrecognisable as the snowman he once was. Like their marriage. That too would never be the same again.

  What would happen to Frosty? Would he melt into the ground, covered by fresh snow, so that no trace of him remained? Very soon, would it be forgotten that he had ever existed, what fun he had been and how he seemed so permanent at the time? Or would they rebuild him? Perhaps make a bigger and better Frosty, more able to withstand the rigours of the elements.

  It was the first time she had caught Jamie out in a lie. All the months of suspicion and wondering, and she had finally been proved right by a robotic voice that innocently blurted out lovers’ telephone numbers. Had she willed it into fruition? By concentrating all her thoughts and efforts onto Jamie’s supposed infidelity, had she made it come true? They say you should be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it. Had she wished this on herself?

  There was nothing she could do now, either for Frosty or for her marriage. She was stuck here, marooned by the snow, caring for her children while her husband made love to his mistress not fifteen miles away in Leighton Buzzard.

  Pamela pulled her cardigan more tightly round her and pressed her burning face against the cold glass. A mournful groan echoed down the chimney, and the wind whipped the snow across the garden, splattering it spitefully against the window where it ran in slow, sad rivulets like tears down a frozen cheek.

  Her husband wasn’t making love to his mistress. He was in the kitchen making hot chocolate while she artistically arranged his washed underpants on the radiator.

  ‘I may not be much good with a Black and Decker, but I’m a demon with a microwave,’ he assured her. ‘I know all there is to know. Primarily, because everything I’ve eaten in the last six years has, at some time, gone ping! Trust me.’