Chapter Text
7.02pm
Therese awoke to the sensation of the train window vibrating against her temple. She blinked once, twice, and then lifted her head back onto the seat headrest, wincing at the slight pain that blossomed where the glass had rubbed against her skin. Looking groggily at her watch, she noted the time was 7.02pm. She’d been asleep for 15 minutes, taking advantage of the train's stationary position. Now, the train was easing out of King’s Cross Station. And she was leaving with it.
A voice crackled to life on the train speakers. A man with a thick, gravelly Glaswegian accent welcomed them onboard and listed out the stops one-by-one. York, Darlington, Newcastle, Berwick-upon-Tweed, Edinburgh. It was a surprisingly short list for a train ride that’d take five hours, if she was lucky. Somehow, five stops didn’t seem so far. She could count it on one hand. Five stops on the London underground translated to a few blocks away - a thirty minute walk if you were fast enough. Five stops didn’t feel like 400 miles.
Suddenly, she came to the horrible realisation that this was it. She was really leaving, alone, her life condensed into a single backpack and a small suitcase, the only one she'd ever owned. She imagined Richard’s set lips and furrowed brow outside the window, his disapproving eyes watching her every move, watching her leave. She imagined him shrinking with the skyline until he became a tiny speck; a piece of dust she could blow away.
York, Darlington, Newcastle, Berwick-upon-Tweed, Edinburgh .
It was really happening, wasn't it?
Therese fished frantically for the train ticket in her pocket. Edinburgh, single, one-way . There was no return from this.
Her breathing hitched, her hands trembled as they placed the train ticket down onto the tray table in front of her. She stretched up in her seat, casting her eyes over the blue patterned chairs, skimming for any signs of human life. Any sign that she wasn’t alone. She saw a man sitting a few rows ahead of her, flicking through the morning copy of The Guardian, his glasses lopsided as he read, his eyelids drooping. Beyond him, a woman rested her head in her hands, swaying in time with the gentle train movements. The two of them looked barely awake. Barely alive. Therese didn’t see anyone else.
She turned her attention to the window once more in an attempt to calm herself. The sky, blurring behind the glass, was almost pitch black, lit up only by small squares of yellow and orange light - life encapsulated behind tower block windows. She felt the rush of movement, of time passing, of the wind brushing against the metal body of the train. Soon they’d be out of London. Soon the small glimpses of colour and light would fade. Soon she’d only see her reflection, her breath fogging on the scratched glass; proof that she was here, that she was really leaving.
A nameless emotion consumed her. It felt unbearable. Like the ending of a film, when the narrative’s resolved and the audience is thrust out of it. When the curtains close, the theatre stays dark for just a moment, and the viewers are left with only themselves. The introspection of oneself after living another life for just a moment.
Therese wondered if her life prior to the present had ever truly been a life, or just a film reel she was forced to watch. And would she ever find herself living for herself? Did she even know what that meant anymore?
A chill ran through her arms as she realised she wouldn't miss London at all. No matter how terrifying Edinburgh felt - a blank canvas she had yet to fill - she was thankful to be running. And it was about time.
No , she thought. This is a good thing. This will be a good thing.
8.11pm
Daytime train rides had always been entertaining to Therese. She enjoyed losing herself in the scenery, the subtle change in terrain. But travelling during the night wasn’t quite as enthralling. With little to see, Therese was forced to amuse herself. So, an hour into the train journey, Therese pulled out her sketchbook, a stick of charcoal, a blending pencil, and an eraser. She got to work blocking out shapes, lines, and shadows. A brick here, a windowsill there.
Art had always been her solace. From a young age, Therese had scribbled on any blank surface she could find, communicating her thoughts and desires and imaginations in a way she couldn’t out loud.
In her first childhood home, she painted a bright red dog on the front door for all their neighbours to see. Her mother had almost screamed in horror, throwing a hand to her mouth to muffle any profanities. But her father had picked her up, laughed in spite of the mess, and asked if the dog’s name was Clifford. She responded with a big grin and a bark, and thus ensued a game of chase through the house and into the back garden.
Her nursery and primary school books were covered in doodles - plants, houses, fishes. Some teachers would scold her for distorting her writing, others would praise her creativity. Her father loved them, always. On parents' evenings, he’d squint at the drawings, umming and ahhing like an art critic. This one is very Van Gogh , he’d say to the exasperated teacher who could barely conceal a yawn, I see it fetching a million or two at auction. What do you think, Therese? And Therese had laughed, and grabbed his arm tightly. He understood her. Possibly more than anybody else had.
When her father fell deeply ill and moved into a hospice, she churned out painting after painting, sticking them across the white walls of his room with sticky tape. Therese had only been eight years old when he took her hand in his and told her never to change, to never fit into the expectations of others, to never settle for less than she deserved. And even though she was young, she didn’t miss the pointed glance he sent her mother; the woman sat in the corner of the room, avoiding the light of the window, her lips pursed together, her hands awkwardly fidgeting in her lap. Therese remembered looking at her and feeling nothing but dread, knowing the end was near, fearing what was to come.
It was a rainy Tuesday when he finally died. She had slept in a room at the top of the hospice, overlooking patchwork hills of greens and yellows. Before anyone told her the news, her favourite carer - a plump woman in her 60s, with greying hair and kind eyes - handed her a thick envelope. She ripped it open, tears already forming in her eyes. Inside lay a stack of letters she couldn’t quite understand yet, paintings her father had attempted on lonesome nights in the hospital, and photographs of the two of them. Therese had cradled them close to her chest and surrendered to the sensation of her heart plummeting. The hills outside of the window had never looked so colourless.
Life had changed from that moment. And art had become something lonely, something unshareable. Because nobody had quite gotten it like her father.
Her mother remarried mere months after his funeral. And, as soon as she was old enough, Therese was sent off to a Catholic boarding school where she stayed until the age of 18.
She didn’t see much of her mother or her new step-brother during those years, other than the occasional Christmas. Their relationship became obligatory and awkward, neither one knowing what to say to the other. It was clear that her mother had moved on and that Therese wasn't a part of her new life. But, on the day of her graduation, her mother had visited her with a box of her father’s old belongings - the last of it. Therese could have sworn she saw a glimmer of sympathy in the woman’s eyes; a quiet apology. But it was too little too late by then. Therese had become detached, demotivated by her loss, her loneliness, the dank school full of people who never tried to get to know her, the lovelessness of it all. She took the box and left without a word, hailing a taxi to the nearest train station. A few months later, she found herself working a part-time job in London and sharing a flat with a group of strangers, until her first term studying English at Royal Holloway, University of London.
She could have chosen an Art degree - Art History, Digital Art, hell, even English with an Art minor. But she discarded it to the wayside. It was safer to pursue something that meant less to her. It was easier to rid herself of her past completely and the sentiments that lay beneath each canvas, in the bones of herself. She didn't have the courage to dig deep into herself, to find the heart of her.
Therese shook herself out of her reverie and looked down at the paper below her. Her hands had moved so mechanically, almost subconsciously. And she found that she had sketched out her childhood home without even realising it. A teardrop fell from her cheek, smudging the charcoal, smoothing out the grain. Snapping the book shut, she glanced out of the window once more, waiting for something to emerge from the darkness. Anything but herself.
9.05pm
They’d just left York, almost ten minutes behind schedule.
Two hours in and they’d only just conquered the first stop.
A couple in the carriage behind her had argued on the train platform, yelling insults and accusations at one another. Something about one of them being unfaithful. A train guard had to intervene, pulling them apart and forcing them inside the station doors. She caught a glimpse of the man - his broad shoulders and strong nose, the jerk of his hand as he pointed at his partner’s face accusingly - and thought of Richard.
Poor Richard. Entitled Richard. Ignorant Richard.
He’d been just as emotive. As sensitive as a mouse when upset and as angry as a bull when mad.
Therese couldn’t remember how they met, only that she was 21 and whizzing through her last year of university.
She had gotten on better with him than anyone else on campus. He shared the same interests as her. He made her feel at ease. She clung to him like a runaway kitten to a telegraph pole. She allowed him to look after her, take her in, show her the sights of London - the bars and museums and galleries. He introduced her to his friends, Dannie and Phil McElroy, who shortly became her friends, too. And he also welcomed her into his large Russian family, who always spoiled her without fail every birthday and Christmas.
And it was clear he had real passion. Richard was alive . While he worked as a high-flying accountant during the week, he also spent his free time taking in the beauty of life. He painted and sculpted and wrote poetry. He had the same drive and wonder within him that she’d lost as a child. The drive she left, forgotten, broken, at her father’s deathbed.
He helped her find her motivation. He was the reason she took up painting again - the reason she enrolled in extracurricular art classes that taught her all she knew.
So, Therese jumped at the chance to live with him when he had asked her. She was 23, jobless, and didn’t know any better.
But the kind Richard, the patient Richard she had once known, faded after a few years.
He dumped his previous girlfriend. He grew to love her. And because of that blind love, he felt entitled to her. He had saved her from herself, after all (or so he claimed).
‘Terry, if you only tried every once in a while. If you just gave this a chance… You’d see how great we’d be together.’
‘Terry, can I kiss you? Just once?’
‘Terry. I can’t keep waiting. You know what I want. You’re being selfish.’
‘Terry, I saw you and Dannie last night. Are you together? Do you know how upsetting it is to see you talk with another man when I’m right here? I’ve given you everything. A roof, a bed, a new life. Do I get nothing in return?'
‘Terry, I’m sorry. How about we plan that trip to Europe in the summer, huh? I’ll take you to Paris. We’ll walk around the Louvre, we'll cruise on the Seine.’
She’d always hated it when he called her Terry. But she hated it more when he drunkenly held her waist, or pushed her up against a wall and tried to kiss her, his breath sickly and warm and stinking of alcohol.
Therese tried to keep her distance. She pushed off most of his advances, batting him away with a shove or a yell. She shut herself in her room when she knew he’d been out drinking. And she never once revealed her true sexuality to him, or the infrequent dates and awkward one-night stands she'd had with women. But as the months passed - and with it her 27th birthday - his patience grew thinner, and she knew she had to leave. Even if that meant forgoing housing for a while.
The final push to leave came towards the end of that summer when Dannie had caught Richard yelling at Therese in their flat kitchen. It was another argument born out of jealousy. Therese had gone out to dinner with Dannie and Phil and he hadn't been invited.
Upon the shock of witnessing the outburst, Dannie coaxed Therese out of the flat, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder.
'Therese, I… I had no idea he was like this with you,' Dannie mumbled, anger settling behind his eyes.
Therese smiled sadly at him. She should have been more open with the McElroys. They'd always been so kind to her.
'Dannie, please don't apologise. I didn't say anything. I suppose I… I don't know. I thought he'd stop eventually. I thought he'd go back to the person I knew when I met him. Now I know he's always been like this, I had just never truly seen it before.'
They exited the apartment complex and into the street. Dannie paused for a moment, looking at his feet in thought.
'Has he ever-'
She held her hand up. 'No. I promise, never. I'd have him by the throat if he ever tried it.'
The two of them wandered aimlessly down the road, automatically taking a right down the next junction towards the coffee shop they often frequented. After ordering two americanos, they pulled out two black stools by the cafe window and sat in silence for a moment.
'Listen, Therese. How about you stay at my place for a while? Phil and I are leaving soon, but we have a few months left on our contr-'
Therese placed her coffee cup down and frowned. 'Leaving?'
Dannie couldn't meet her eyes.
'I… If I had known, we wouldn't leave you this soon.’
‘Where?’ she asked, her voice a whisper.
Dannie didn’t meet her eyes.
‘We're heading to Edinburgh. We just need a change of scenery. And, you know how it is, London's getting more expensive by the day.'
She didn't know what to say. Edinburgh was 400 miles away. And Dannie and Phil were the only two real friends she had left, beyond her few acquaintances at the bar she worked in. She couldn't bear the thought of living in a city with Richard, alone, afraid.
‘Have you got a job lined up?’ Her voice was thick, her words barely making their way out of her throat.
‘Yeah… Yeah. A news reporter gig for a local newspaper. Pay is pretty decent, and it’s a step up from the admin role I have now. And Phil’s not done badly either - he’s scored a job at an accounting firm.’
Therese nodded and attempted to smile. She was happy for them, truly, but it hurt.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and wrapped her arms around Dannie.
When he pulled back, she noticed a sparkle in his eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
'Therese, you've always felt like a sister to me.'
It was so unexpected, spoken out of nowhere, that she couldn't help but laugh slightly. 'Don't get sentimental on me now, Dannie.'
But the confession made her blush. It was possibly one of the kindest things a friend had ever said to her. And she knew, looking at his doe eyes, the thick waves of brown hair that flopped over his forehead, that he meant it. He and Phil were the closest thing to a found family she had ever had, now that Richard had shown his true colours.
'But it's true!' he protested. 'And I'd hate to think of you stuck here with Richard.'
Therese didn't know how to respond. She hated the thought, too, but she didn't want Dannie to experience any further guilt.
A hand clasped her shoulder. Her friend turned to her, his eyes sincere, his eyebrows set, a picture of determination.
'You could come with us. We're getting a three-bed apartment and you wouldn’t need to worry about money, rent or anything, not until you're settled.'
He said it so calmly, as though it was the most obvious solution, as though it was no trouble at all.
She sucked in a sharp breath and took a long sip of coffee.
Outside the café window, she could see a small rectangular frame of London life. Couples strolling hand-in-hand, businessmen and women rushing to the tube station down the road. Therese had always been looking into the city, an outsider, an observer. She had never truly felt a part of it. It had never been home.
The closest attachment she had left was sitting to her right.
'Alright then. Tell me when and I'll pack my things.'
And she had.
Months later, on a rainy day in October, while Richard was at work, Dannie had phoned her. They'd sorted out the flat, unpacked their things, and copied a key for her. She had packed quickly, her eyes unblinking, and ran to the station without so much as a glance behind her.
While waiting for the train, she blocked his number, his social media accounts, and his email addresses. She deleted her social profiles, too, and made damn sure she was hard to find online. As far as she was concerned, Richard was no longer a part of her life. She no longer owed him anything, she no longer felt chained to him and his courtesies. It was time to move on.
9.58pm
'This train is now stopping at Darlington. Please take all your belongings with you… Welcome aboard the 9.57 train to Edinburgh. We will be calling at: Newcastle, Berwick-upon-Tweed, and Edinburgh.'
Therese's head drooped to one side, almost dragging her body down with it into the empty seat beside her. In her half-asleep state, she pulled herself back to the left and thumped her head onto her folded jumper by the window. She groaned, partly out of tiredness, but mostly out of exasperation. No matter how bone tired she felt, no matter how much her muscles ached, she could never fall asleep on public transport. There was always an innate fear that she'd miss her stop or, worse, have her belongings stolen by some fickle thief. (Though, admittedly, there wasn't much to steal.)
So, when she heard footsteps enter her carriage, shortly after the train engine rumbled back to life, she snapped herself out of her forced slumber.
Therese caught the woman’s eyes in the reflection of the train window. She stood in the aisle behind her, still and quiet, looking at Therese's reflection, too. Their faces merged together like a double exposure.
Though the image was blurry and desaturated, Therese could glean that the woman was tall, blonde, and dressed in a textured grey suit with a wide-collared white shirt. She looked to be in her late thirties. The urge to turn around and face her was overwhelming. Inevitable. But before she could move a muscle, she watched the woman's lips part. Then she heard her speak - a low voice, as smooth and deep as velvet. And Therese turned to face her, her heart stammering in her chest.
'Excuse me, is this seat available?' the woman asked in a southern English accent, gesturing loosely to the seat beside Therese. She drew her hand back to her face to tuck a strand of shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear.
Therese twisted her body around, quickly glancing at the other rows of seats in the carriage. There wasn't a single soul in sight. The two of them were alone, surrounded by empty train seats and tables. Only the quiet hum of the train and the clackety-clack of the carriages bumping along the track disturbed the silence.
'I, uh -' Therese wanted to mention the available seats, to question the woman's odd request, but she didn't want to appear rude. The woman’s blue-grey eyes demanded her attention; they demanded an answer.
'Of course,' Therese said finally. She smiled and pulled her backpack off her seat, making room for the stranger.
The woman placed an overnight carrier in the overhead storage and then sat down. She let out a sigh of relief.
'Thank you. You must think I'm strange,' she said, clasping her hands in her lap.
Therese's lips twitched. 'Well, only a little strange. I've met stranger people.'
That made the woman laugh. It was loud and warm and genuine.
'Well, if it'll put you at ease… I've been stuck in first class with the vilest man since King’s Cross. He's been leering at me all evening - and other women, too. I used our stop at Darlington as my escape.' The blonde woman sent her a sideways glance and scrunched up her nose in disgust.
Oh, to be a woman on public transport, particularly at night. Therese knew the dangers all too well after growing up in London.
'Men,' Therese muttered, her voice hushed but harsh. She thought of Richard. 'I'm not getting off until Edinburgh, so you can stay with me as long as you'd like.'
She attempted to give the woman a reassuring smile, but she wasn't sure it came across well. After the physical and emotional toll the journey had had on her, it was difficult to do anything but sigh, or cry, or frown. But now she had company, and that was something. Now she didn't have to sit with only herself and her thoughts.
'You're very kind. That's my stop, too,' the blonde woman responded. 'I'm Carol, by the way.'
Carol extended her hand out to Therese, and Therese looked at it as though it might burn her. She paused for a moment - a nameless fear stuck in her throat - and then shook it. She felt Carol's thumbnail press gently into the back of her hand, leaving a faint white mark. Then it was over; Carol's hand withdrew, and Therese felt the loss. She stared at the thumbnail mark on her hand, noticing how her skin brightened back to its normal tone after a few seconds.
'I'm Therese. Therese Belivet,' she said quietly, her green eyes daring to meet Carol's once more.
Carol's eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. 'Therese Belivet,' she repeated slowly, the name rolling off her tongue as if she were rehearsing a line in a sonnet. 'It's lovely.'
Therese's cheeks burned. Looking to her left, she could see Carol's amused smile reflected in the glass.
'Do you live in Edinburgh?' Carol asked, changing the subject. She crossed her legs and turned her body to face Therese.
'No... Well, yes.' Therese was still flustered by Carol's smile, her rich and gourmand perfume, her unfaltering eyes. 'What I mean to say is I'm moving there today from London. My friends have a flat and I'm going to live with them for a while.'
The look in Carol's eyes softened, as though she could sense the turmoil Therese had been through. As though she could see her past laid out neatly in front of her, outside of the train window, and understood it all. Carol observed her like an old friend, someone who had known her for a lifetime.
'Well, Therese Belivet . You're going to love Edinburgh. And Scotland as a whole. It's charming, full of culture and beautiful countryside. Much more inhabitable than London.'
'I hope so.' Therese let out a breathy, unconvinced laugh.
Carol placed a hand on Therese's arm, lightly, briefly.
'I promise,' Carol said, her words punctuated with a final tap to Therese's arm. 'I moved there with my daughter five years ago and I haven't looked back since. It's one of the best decisions I've ever made. That said, I do get a lot of funny looks from the Scots. They're not huge fans of us English folk, though I don’t blame them.'
Therese suppressed a laugh.
'Did you move from London, too?'
'Yes. I used to live in a flat near Regent's Park… Now I've toned things down. Just a little.'
Regent's Park? Therese almost choked. How much money did this woman have? And why was she so comfortable talking to Therese, who clearly owned so little?
She was overwhelmed by a list of questions she couldn't vocalise. What did Carol do for work? Was she like Therese, always hungry for the mental stimulation of creating something with her hands? And was Carol happy? In love? Part of her didn't want to find out the answers. She enjoyed the mystery behind the women's blue-grey eyes: cold as steel, but with a slight warmth to them, like the sky of a Turner painting. She wanted to drown in them, to spend eternity drinking her in.
'I'm an interior designer,' Carol said, as though she had read Therese’s thoughts. ‘I used to work for a firm. Now I work freelance mostly, usually for hotel chains and the like.’
Therese perked up for a moment. An interior designer? So Carol was a creative of some sort.
‘Oh, wow. Is that why you were in London? For a job?’
Carol smiled softly, almost sadly. ‘No. No, not this time around.’
Before Therese had a chance to ask any more, Carol cleared her throat and flipped the conversation.
‘And what do you do for a living, Therese Belivet?’
The blonde woman smiled almost teasingly, her lips once again toying with Therese’s last name. But all Therese could do was look away, embarrassment washing over her. She noticed the beginnings of rain droplets on the train window, and she followed them with her eyes as they slid diagonally, downwards, down towards the body of the train and to the floor. She imagined the water seeping into the ground, and the accompanying smell of damp earth.
She had nothing to be ashamed of, not really… The move was a necessity, job or no job. And yet, for some reason, Carol's estimation of her meant everything.
'I don't do anything. Not yet.’
Not yet . As though there was something or someone waiting for her behind a corner. Not yet . As though she had hope, as though she didn’t feel desperately lost, stuck in between the past and the future.
Carol’s smile didn’t falter.
‘That means you’re free,’ Carol observed quietly, gently. ‘You can go in any direction you choose if you work hard enough at it. Not many people have the luxury of that. What is it you’d like to do?’
The woman’s blue-grey eyes held hers.
‘I’d like to be an artist if I have any talent for it,' Therese admitted. ‘I’ve been out of practice for a while. But this new start might just be the kick in the backside I need.’
It was the first time she’d admitted it out loud. It was the first time she’d given herself permission to want it. Therese couldn’t help but notice the impressed look in Carol’s glimmering eyes, and the inquisitive tilt of her head. A question played at the corners of her lips.
‘Do you have any photographs of your work?’ Carol asked, her eyes squinting slightly, taking pleasure in Therese’s embarrassment.
‘I - well. I mean, yes, of course. There are a few on my phone,' Therese stammered, though she made no move to retrieve her phone.
‘Well?’
If it was anyone else, Therese would have gotten annoyed. She’d ignore their request. But Carol didn’t ask because she felt entitled. She asked because she was interested.
Therese fished her phone out of her trouser pocket, flicked open an album in her gallery, and passed it to Carol. She didn’t dare to look at the woman as she scrolled through her work - a varying degree of work - oil landscapes and watercolour buildings. Gouache flowers and abstract pastels.
Carol didn’t make a sound. She scrolled for five or six minutes in unbearable silence. Until -
‘You’d like to be an artist?’ Carol asked incredulously. ‘Therese, I think you already are one. Or damn near close to being one.’
Therese blushed, looking downwards at her lap. She toyed with the gold ring on her index finger. Her father’s signet ring.
‘Truly, Therese. These are magnificent. Your use of colour is excellent - this painting of a rainy London street, the way the streetlights bleed into the background. Magnificent. You clearly do have a talent for it.’
She felt her phone fall into her lap. And then the sensation of a cold hand squeezing her shoulder. Therese stared at the hand as if it were something foreign.
'Thank you,' Therese mumbled, her eyes still observing the structure of Carol's hand, the way it lay on her, as natural as the sea spilling onto the shore, laying claim to it.
'You don't believe me, do you?'
The question was asked sincerely, but with a tinge of humour. Therese didn't quite know how to respond.
'It's not that.' She blew out a stream of breath.
There was a beat of silence. Carol withdrew her hand.
'You don't believe in yourself, then.'
Therese bit her lower lip to suppress a resigned smile. Carol was relentless and exceedingly confident. 'You've got me figured out, haven't you?'
From her peripheral vision, she noticed Carol raise a hand to the back of her neck, beneath her waves of blonde hair.
'I don't know. Have I?' Carol asked, her hand falling back into her lap.
At that moment, a train guard passed through the carriage. He stopped beside Carol and stifled a yawn, then reached out his hand to collect their tickets, marking them with a quick tick of his pen. Carol thanked him as he walked away.
Therese released a breath. She'd somehow forgotten they weren't the only two people on the train.
'I just think it’s so hard sometimes,’ Therese said, almost too quiet to hear, 'to give somebody something you’ve made with your hands, your mind. Art, words, or otherwise. How many people can you really trust to be gentle with it, or even truthful with their critique of it? How do you know if what you’re offering is ever really good to begin with?’
Carol nodded slowly in thought.
‘You should never make something for someone else. Not really,' Carol said, her words like pillars holding Therese upright. Her eyes looked ahead to the front of the carriage, unblinking. ‘I wouldn’t present a room design I didn’t believe in, for instance. You have to put a part of yourself into everything you do - work, relationships, hobbies. If you do that, it’s bound to be good because it’s authentic. The confidence… the lack of caring about others’ opinions… That falls into place in time. You just have to stride on through, following your gut.’
Therese thought of her artwork as a child, and how she had created it because she wished to. How, even though it was messy and abstract and amateur, it had been brilliant because of that.
‘Yes,' she murmured. ‘When you put it like that, I believe you might be right.’
‘Authenticity,’ Carol repeated. ‘Authenticity is everything, isn’t it? Who are we without it?’
Therese somehow knew everything would be alright just by looking at Carol. The tension in her shoulders loosened and she relaxed back into her chair.
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a moment, convinced the blonde woman - surely an illusion - would disappear when she opened them. Of course, Carol was still there, as real as Therese wished her to be. But the woman looked through Therese, her eyes out of focus, her skin tinged by the greenish hue of the overhead carriage lights. Therese noticed a quiet sadness in her expression, in the almost unnoticeable downturn of her full, red lips. She wondered what troubled Carol and whether it was something she had said.
The train rushed past a smaller station where they wouldn't stop. But the platform lights - wavering streaks of yellow and orange - shocked Carol out of her reverie.
'I was miles away then,' Carol said quietly, as though she could sense Therese's prying eyes on her. She covered her mouth with her hand and yawned, blinking away sleepy tears.
'You must be tired,' Therese observed, flicking her wrist to check her watch. 10.30pm. 'It's late. We still have an hour or so left. How about you sleep? I promise I’ll wake you up at our stop.'
There was a beat of silence while Carol considered the proposition.
'Alright,' she said finally while shooting Therese a look of gratitude. 'I think I can trust you.'
Therese laughed. 'You think? Have I given you any reason not to trust me?'
A smile spread slowly across Carol's face as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. 'Of course not. You're lovely.'
You’re lovely.
And you're magnificent , Therese wanted to reply, shocked by the urgent response the woman elicited from her. Instead, she watched the muscles in Carol's face and shoulders relax as she fell softly into sleep.
11.14pm
As Therese looked aimlessly outside of the train window once more, she felt an odd sense of calm overcome her. There she was, drenched in the late evening darkness, on a train to a new city - a new country, even - with a complete stranger beside her. And yet she felt completely at peace. She'd never felt more certain of herself or where she was going. Yet, at the same time, she experienced a niggling sense of bittersweet sadness. It prickled under her skin and pulled at her heart. It ran cold through her bloodstream.
They had only moments left of their journey. Eleven minutes, to be precise. Dannie and Phil had already texted to let her know they were driving down to the station.
Eleven minutes of this weird purgatory, somewhere between London and Edinburgh. Her last attachment to her old life and her last moments before her new one.
She looked at her reflection once more - her companion - and noted the tired bags under her eyes and the frizz of her long brunette hair. It was a journey that had lasted a lifetime and also no time at all. Only now, her reflection didn't seem to frighten her.
Therese turned in the opposite direction, once again gazing upon the blonde woman sleeping beside her. She had indulged in watching her, taking the previous 45 minutes to study her bone structure, the way her body moved as she breathed. When she closed her eyes, she could see a glowing image of her - a refraction of the light. Carol was beautiful. Ethereal. And almost gone.
She fought the urge to shake her awake, to talk to her for ten more minutes, to ask her if she’d ever see her again, and when, and where. Was this where it ended? But Carol looked just as tired as she. And Therese didn’t have the heart to deprive her of the sleep she so clearly needed.
Nine more minutes.
She waited, tapping her finger on her knee, the dull sound of it merging with the patter of rain outside.
Eight more minutes.
Therese decided to wait three more minutes and then wake her. She counted the seconds in her head, faster than a clock would, her arm reaching closer and closer, like her body moved in slow motion.
But before she could reach out to tap Carol’s shoulder, the blonde woman opened her eyes, and, after noticing Therese’s confused expression, gave her a groggy smile.
‘Intuition,’ she said. ‘I always seem to know when a journey’s about to end.’
Therese didn’t want the reminder.
‘Well. We have five more minutes,' she said, wincing at how halfhearted she sounded.
It was obvious Carol didn’t notice. She was busy pulling her bag down from the overhead shelf.
Can I see you again? Therese wanted to ask. But she wasn’t sure Carol would want the same.
Carol had a daughter, a career, and possibly even a partner. They were different in many ways, particularly when it came to age and social class. And yet, and yet, and yet . Therese felt an undeniable attachment to her, a sort of gravitational pull.
She opened her mouth, the question daring to spill out into the train carriage, loud and unashamed and direct - because they were alone, and this night she was different. That night she wasn’t Therese Belivet, Londoner and orphan and lost soul. That night she was someone else, outside of herself, and feeling braver than she had done mere hours ago while leaving King’s Cross Station. She wasn't frightened. She would ask to see her again. She would ask.
‘Carol-’
The conductor’s voice cut her off.
Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Edinburgh Waverly. Please collect your belongings and take care when stepping onto the platform. Have a good evening and thank you for travelling with us tonight.
She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.
‘My goodness, it’s tipping it down outside,’ Carol observed, peering out the window.
The lights of Edinburgh station - and the houses and cars beyond - offered some much-needed visibility. It was indeed tipping it down. The station platform - outside of the sheltered roof - was slick with rainwater, glimmering underneath the station lights like an oily night sky.
‘Have you a coat?’ Carol asked, concerned.
Shit. She’d forgotten it at Richard’s flat. She could envision it in her mind, hanging loosely on the coat rack by the front door. It didn’t matter now.
‘No… But it’s alright. I’m not walking to the flat - my friend’s picking me up. He should be here soon.’
‘Nonsense. Here, take my umbrella just in case. Consider it a thank you for keeping me company this evening.’
Carol searched through her red leather handbag and handed Therese a pocket green umbrella.
It was unnecessary, really. She’d be waiting inside until she knew where Dannie was parked. But she couldn’t resist taking it. It belonged to Carol.
The train squealed to a halt. They walked out of the carriage together and onto the empty platform. The station was eerily quiet, save for the patter of rain outside and the distant hum of city traffic. Their breath fogged in front of them, puffing into the night air like little white clouds. It was the only thing that disturbed the stillness of the evening, the stillness of the two of them standing on the concrete.
Carol looked at Therese, hesitating for a moment, her bag swaying slightly in her hand. Her lips were parted, the red lipstick almost turning purple in the darkness. Neither one of them made a move for the ticket barriers. Seconds passed, their eyes locked together.
And then Carol’s phone rang, shrill and artificial, a shock from the silence they’d settled into. Carol had almost looked annoyed.
A loud female voice boomed down the phone, though Therese couldn’t work out what the woman was saying.
‘Yes - the train’s just pulled in. Who is that chattering in the - did you bring Rindy along? It’s almost midnight, are you out of your mind, I - oh, alright I see, I thought she'd be with you. Well, thank you for not leaving her home alone. Yes, yes I know, you’re a wonderful godmother.’
Carol rolled her eyes, but Therese heard an undeniable hint of amusement in her voice. She spoke for a moment longer before hanging up and placing her phone back in her bag.
‘That was my best friend. She’s waiting outside. I really should run - my daughter’s only six and it’s way past her bedtime.’
Therese nodded, the lump in her throat growing larger by the second.
They made their way through the ticket barrier in silence, Carol looking ahead, Therese looking at her feet. This was the end of it.
‘Therese Belivet,’ Carol said, placing a hand on Therese’s shoulder. Her hand felt heavier than it had done earlier that evening. ‘Take care, won’t you?’
A flurry of sensations swarmed in Therese’s insides. Fear, panic, loss, and something else she couldn’t name.
Can I see you again? Can I call you? Can I write? Can I please see you again?
‘You too,' Therese responded, her voice strangled.
And, with that, Carol spun on the spot and left in the direction of the exit, jogging slightly, eager to see her daughter.
Therese followed the woman with her eyes until she could no longer see her.
She hadn’t even caught her last name.