The Train

by Sarah Bourne

  ‘Don’t be so bloody superstitious, you idiot.’ She clenched her fists. But having thought of the jumper, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She wondered what had driven him to suicide. A failed relationship? The lack of a relationship? She was experiencing that right now, for the first time since she was fourteen. She always had a guy in her life, although most of them turned out to be toerags. Sometimes, although never for long, she even regretted breaking up with Karl, two months before. He had been far too self-absorbed and didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. He hadn’t even sent a card on Valentine’s Day; she’d had to dash out and buy one at lunchtime so she had something to show her friends that night. And a bunch of roses. She hadn’t realised how expensive they were. It was then she knew he had to go. She sighed, her head lolling in time with the clattering of the wheels.

  The door at the end of the carriage opened and the ticket collector started slowly along the aisle, checking tickets, smiling, having short conversations with the other passengers. He was tall and quite good-looking. His shirt was coming untucked on one side in a cute sort of way; she wanted to pull it out all the way and look at his body. She sat straighter, tucked her hair behind her ears, shrugged herself out of her coat and pulled her shoulders back, just enough to make her breasts seem a little fuller.

  ‘Morning,’ she said as he took her ticket.

  He nodded in her direction but didn’t actually look at her, and he was gone. Not even a word. No smile. Rude bugger. She turned and watched him take the old lady’s ticket, have a bit of a chat, and then he moved out of her sight along the carriage.

  Maybe he fancied her, and that was why he didn’t look at her – perhaps he was shy. Or gay. Or in a committed relationship with someone who got jealous if he looked at an attractive girl. She slumped in her seat again. She was a catch, so why was it that Mr Right hadn’t found her yet and swept her off her feet? Fuck the ticket collector. Who wanted to go out with someone who couldn’t get a better job than that?

  She pulled a book out of her bag. Illicit Love by Pauline de Winter. It was the third book she’d read by her, and she loved them all. So romantic, but spicy too. This Pauline de Winter certainly knew her stuff. She must have lived such an exciting life. The things the lovers did together, too, made her blush, but in a good way. The women were strong, not the sorts that needed saving, but not so independent they didn’t know a good thing when it came along. And the men were always bold, but not too bold, handsome, but unaware of it, courteous without being pussies. And, of course, they always adored the heroine. Oh, how Alice wanted a man like that. She opened the book and started reading.

  He lifted her onto the chaise carefully. She felt his powerful arms around her and turned towards him, her face inches away from his. He smelled musky. She could feel his breath on her cheek, his heart beating, strong and steady.

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want, Katherine?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed, unlacing her bodice, revealing her pert breasts, the nipples already erect, waiting for his kisses.

  He looked at her and she heard his breath quicken.

  ‘Come to me,’ she said.

  He lay next to her, his hands on her breasts, squeezing gently, his member hard against her thigh. She felt the heat spreading in her groin and moaned in anticipation as he lifted her skirts and started slowly easing her underwear off.

  ‘Oh, Clifford,’ she said, and then, as he found her pink pearl, waves of pleasure engulfed her and she couldn’t talk any more.

  Alice stopped reading and closed her eyes to imagine the rest of the scene. Lady Katherine Quincy and lowly Clifford Brown, the gardener, making love in her boudoir.

  The man next to her coughed quietly and she opened her eyes, wondering if she’d been groaning or sighing or somehow alerting him to the fact that she was feeling quite aroused. But he was deep in his newspaper, reading about Brexit. Couldn’t happen fast enough for her. She thought all the foreign health workers who could hardly speak English were a disgrace to the National Health Service. And made getting jobs harder for people like her, born and bred in England. She knew how she’d be voting come June 23rd. Closing her eyes again, she let her thoughts drift back to her book.

  She wanted a Clifford Brown, although she’d prefer it if he wasn’t a gardener. Maybe a personal trainer so he was fit and tanned with a six-pack. Or a doctor so he was rich. But he’d have to not be a wanker like the doctors who came to the nursing home. They all thought they were God’s gift and treated the patients and the staff like they were shit on their shoes. Well, except for Dr Malone, but he was at least sixty and wore a corduroy suit straight out of the seventies. And he wasn’t being retro and cool. And Dr Bell was nice too, but she was a woman.

  Alice noticed the countryside giving way to the urban sprawl. Somewhere out there was the man for her. He’d find her, claim her as his soulmate. Shame the scenery was so ugly; miles and miles of houses and gardens, factories, parks, high streets with their tired-looking shopfronts, graffiti, abandoned shopping trolleys in a muddy canal, worn-out people dragging themselves to the stations or onto buses for another day at work. She almost understood why the man had jumped in front of the train. But her Clifford Brown would make everything seem okay. With him, life would take on new meaning, colours would be more vibrant, each day would be a new adventure.

  She made her way to the toilet to freshen up. She was beginning to get nervous. It was going to be a big day. The biggest day of her life.

  As soon as the train came to a stop Alice was out the door, jogging along the platform. She’d had an idea when she was trying to do her make-up in the train – instead of battling with the swaying and getting eyeliner all over her face she’d get her make-up done at a department store, pretending she was going to buy their products. It would take longer than doing her own, but she reckoned it would be worth the time.

  She needed to get to Oxford Street so she jumped on the Victoria line and emerged a few minutes later at Oxford Circus. She didn’t get to London much. She’d have liked to, but it was expensive, and she was always short of money. She scanned the busy road, but couldn’t remember which direction Debenhams was in. She stopped a woman with a shopping bag and asked. She mumbled something at her in an incomprehensible language but a turbaned Indian man who had overheard her question pointed down the road.

  ‘Debenhams,’ he said. Alice thanked him and turned towards the department store.

  Five minutes later she was browsing the beauty section, awed by the choice, the lighting, the sheer opulence of the place. All the surfaces sparkled, light bounced off mirrors polished to diamond brightness. Women in the uniforms of Clarins, Clinique, Lancôme, and all the other posh brands were beautifully made up, hair perfect. They stood at their counters, idly waving dusters over their displays or turning their products so they all faced the same way. Alice took her time, now she was here, to make her choice. She’d applied her own foundation and blush, she just needed dramatic eyes, for which she needed a youngish sales girl who looked bored and so would welcome the distraction of making someone up. She also had to have a certain look herself, so that Alice knew she’d understand what she wanted.

  At the Urban Decay counter, she found her girl.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She felt intimidated in this place with these people who acted like they’d been born there.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The girl smiled.

  Alice relaxed a bit.

  ‘I’ve got an important event happening today, and I’ve come out without my make-up. I was wondering if you’d, you know, do it for me?’

  The sales girl’s smile fell. ‘Like for free?’

  Alice bit her lip and said nothing. She’d humiliated herself in this Mecca of beauty. She was shocked to feel tears welling, and turned to go before she embarrassed herself even more.

  ‘What’s the event?’

  Alice told her.

  ‘OMG – that’s
fantastic! Of course I’ll do it. Got nothing else to do anyway. Monday’s are always so quiet. What are you wearing – not what you’ve got on, I hope.’

  Alice pulled her outfit from her bag.

  ‘Great. Love the top. Good colours. I’ll make sure your make-up matches.’

  Alice wanted to hug her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. But if my boss comes, I’m just doing a demonstration and you’re going to buy something. Now, what sort of look are you after?’

  Alice explained what she wanted: dramatic, but not too out there, sexy but not tarty.

  ‘I’m Alice, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘Debbie, pleased to meet you.’

  As Debbie did her eyes, they chatted. Debbie, it turned out, had always wanted to be a make-up artist in movies.

  ‘It’s just so competitive, I don’t have a chance. I don’t know anyone in the industry.’

  When she’d finished, she held a mirror up. Alice gasped. She’d been transformed. Debbie was a magician.

  ‘Wow, thanks so much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me – take my number and let me know how you go! Good luck. I’m so excited for you. And jealous.’

  Alice pulled her phone out, punched in Debbie’s number and looked at the time. She went cold all over. Having her make-up done had taken longer than she’d thought, and now she’d have to rush to get there on time. And she still had to change. Taking a few deep breaths, she decided to change when she got to the venue rather than traipsing across London in her gear.

  ‘Here, take this. It’s a sample, but you might need to do your lipstick again. Hey, and if you could put a word in for me at all…’

  ‘Course I will. You’re an angel, Debbie. Laters.’

  Alice walked quickly back to the station. She wanted to run, but thought it might make her sweat and her make-up might slip. Her heart pounded. Consulting the Tube map and her instructions for how to get to the venue, she made her way to the Central line platform deep in the hot bowels of the station. She arrived on the platform as a train was pulling out and had to wait ages for the next one, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to calm herself enough to think through the next couple of hours.

  Once she was on the Docklands Light Railway, she wished she’d told Maddie what she was doing. She’d have offered to take the day off to come with her. She felt out of her depth and needed a friend. London was so big and so unfamiliar, and she too young and vulnerable and unready. It was an unusual feeling, and made her all the more uncomfortable for being so. The man opposite stared at her without embarrassment and she wanted to run away and hide, even though he was her type – good-looking and youngish and well dressed. She looked out the window, trying to ignore him, but she remained conscious of his eyes on her, and blushed.

  ‘Get a grip, girl,’ she said to herself under her breath. If all went well today, there’d be a lot more than just one good-looking bloke gazing at her. She was going to enjoy that.

  As they approached her stop she picked up her bag, winked at the bloke, and waited for the door to open.

  ‘Where are you off to then?’ asked a voice right behind her.

  Shit. How embarrassing. She’d never have winked at him if she thought he was getting off there too.

  ‘ExCel.’ She hoped he was going somewhere – anywhere – else.

  ‘Me too. Ever done it before?’

  Alice drew herself up to her full five foot three, pulled her shoulders back, and looked him in the eye. ‘No. First time.’ The train had stopped, the doors opened. ‘Good luck.’ She marched off.

  ‘It’s this way,’ said the bloke.

  When Alice looked back he was smiling.

  ‘Right.’ She felt herself redden again.

  ‘Look, you’re nervous, understandably. Let me show you where you need to go. I promise I’m not trying to pick you up.’

  Alice didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. What was wrong with him? He’d spent all that time on the train staring at her like he wanted to get into her pants, and now he was telling her he wasn’t interested.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll find my own way.’ She started walking down the platform, then turned back to him. ‘Good luck for today.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.’

  Alice thought what a prat he was. An arrogant prat. Why were all the good-looking blokes such plonkers? Seriously, where did he think he was getting off with an attitude like that? Stupid sod. She hoped he got put in his place today. In a big way. She hoped he was completely humiliated.

  A crowd hovered around one of the doors, and Alice approached a girl on its rim. She turned away as Alice was about to ask her question.

  ‘This where I need to be for the auditions?’ she asked the next closest person, a fat boy in dungarees and a backward cap who looked like he’d just finished the milking. He smiled and said yes. He had crooked teeth and bad breath so she edged away and started her preparation. Slow, deep breaths and several wide yawns to soften her lips and the lower half of her face. She started humming very quietly.

  The crowd moved and within minutes she was inside the door. In the foyer were long tables, the people behind them looking bright and welcoming. One of them beckoned to her.

  ‘Name?’

  Alice told her and she looked it up on her tablet.

  ‘Okay – here, this is for you.’ She handed Alice a lanyard with a number written underneath the famous logo. ‘Don’t lose this – no lanyard, no audition. It’ll be a while until you’re called. Lots of people here today. Good luck.’

  Alice thanked her and moved on with the stream of people heading towards a vast hall. There were seats in clusters, most already taken. She looked around for a toilet to change in and saw the man from the train nearby. He gave her a thumbs up and disappeared into the crowd.

  In the Ladies a couple of girls chatted as they repaired their make-up. They turned as Alice entered, and said hello.

  ‘Nervous?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Terrified,’ said Alice. ‘I was okay until I got here, but now, well–’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty full-on, isn’t it?’ said the other girl. She was black and had green contact lenses in that looked amazing. Why hadn’t she thought of doing something like that? She knew she was attractive, but she should have done something more to make herself stand out. Suddenly, Alice needed to be alone. Comparing herself to others wasn’t making her feel any better. She wished them luck, ducked into a cubicle and changed into her black skinny jeans and turquoise spandex boob tube. When she came out they’d gone. Alice assessed herself in the mirror. Her make-up was still fine. She needed to do something with her hair. Some of the girls out there must have been at it all night doing theirs. She’d spent a fortune having hers straightened and now she scraped it back and tied it high, pulling a few strands out to frame her face and hide her ears, which stuck out slightly. She teased the ponytail into a fuller, messier bunch. Casual but sexy. Once she was satisfied, she put on a bit more lippy and pouted at herself, turning her head this way and that, imagining a photographer taking dozens of snaps. Finally, she blew herself a kiss for luck, poked her tongue out at herself for being such a wanker, slung on her bag and left as another group of girls entered, giggling.

  Out in the melee again her legs felt like they wouldn’t hold her up. So many people. So much noise. People were talking and laughing with each other, a few were crying, others singing or humming to themselves. What chance did she have? Breathe. Just breathe. You’re good, you’re well prepared, you can do this. She took a sip of water, found a corner, and began her voice exercises. She’d learned them from YouTube because she couldn’t afford a singing teacher, but they were good. All her friends said her voice had really improved.

  ‘Number 984 go to room three, please.’

  That was her! It was now or never. Smoothing her jeans and tugging at her top, she took a deep breath and made her way to room three. A girl with a clipboard marked her name off, wis
hed her luck in a bored voice and opened the door.

  Across the room sat two people behind a table. Neither of them was Simon Cowell. These were just producers’ auditions. She had to get through this round to meet the proper judges, but still she was disappointed. In her fairy-tale fantasy, she’d imagined him marvelling at her voice, wondering why he hadn’t heard talent like hers before, and whisking her away to his recording studio immediately. Instead, there was a woman who could have been her mother, in a frumpy jumper and no make-up and – fuck – the man from the train.

  Alice’s step faltered, but he smiled and invited her forward, told her to stand on the X marked on the carpet.

  ‘Name?’ asked the woman.

  Alice moistened her suddenly dry lips and said, ‘Alice Cooper, no relation to Vince.’ It was her icebreaker, but neither of them cracked a smile. ‘Vincent Furnier, you know, Alice Cooper?’ Why was she doing this? Clearly neither of them had got it, or if they had, not thought it funny. An icy hand clutched Alice’s belly.

  ‘What are you going to sing for us?’ asked the woman.

  ‘“Back to Black”.’ Alice wasn’t sure if she imagined the groan from the man on the train.

  ‘Right then, when you’re ready.’

  Alice fumbled with the backing track she’d downloaded. She’d practised getting it ready so often but now she was so nervous she could hardly hold her phone, let alone get it to do what she wanted. Eventually she was ready. She stood tall, took a deep breath, tried not to look at her audience, opened her mouth and sang with as much emotion as she could muster, channelling her hero, Amy Winehouse.

  ‘He left…’