Rachel had watched his long-legged dash along the platform, and his bag-laden leap up into the carriage, barely seconds before the doors slid shut. It made no difference to her whether or not he caught the train; she could as easily pass the journey watching the girl with the pink dreads and the ring through her lip, or the three lads who were ready to doze off against each others’ shoulders, across the aisle from her seat.
This last train home always stank of fast food, and the soundtrack consisted of hands rustling in bags of chips, and the regular chime of text messages incoming. At its worst, the train was raucous, or jam-packed, or delayed; and at those times, she very much disliked travelling alone.
As the train pulled out of Waterloo, pink dreadlocks girl leaned forward and politely enquired how long it took to get to Richmond. About fifteen minutes, someone said.
There was a pause, during which everyone went about their business of eating burgers or yawning, or peering out at the London Eye, illuminated beside the moon. Then, in accented english, the newcomer asked pink dreadlocks girl how long it took.
Rachel didn’t think he understood the answer he was given, or that he had asked the right question. She peered at the green holdall that he had stuffed on to the rack above his head, trying to make out the origin of the airline tag that was still attached; but it was too far away to see. His hair had a charcoal shine, and his cheekbones and shadowed grey eyes gave him a slavic look. Her eyes rested idly on broad shoulders in a jumper that was scruffy but clean; worn jeans; comfortable looking trainers.
He didn’t get out at Richmond, but as the train started moving he put away the dog-eared book that he had not been reading, and hovered with his bag by the door. Rachel watched him go through a decision-making process at each stop: frown at the station name, check his watch, move his bag out of the way of disembarking passengers. Occasionally he looked closely at his mobile phone, which was clearly not providing him with any assistance.
At Bracknell, she found herself following through a half-formed train of thought. She hooked her handbag over her shoulder, and picked her way towards the train doors. Where are you going? she asked him, speaking clearly in case his english was not good.
The hesitation before he responded suggested that it wasn’t. Where? he repeated. Twickenham.
Then you have missed your stop,Rachel said. We have gone past Twickenham.
This information sank in, and a worried expression darkened his face. Rachel suspected that he was trying to formulate a sentence. Are you going to stay with a friend? she asked him.
The momentary delay made her think of a long-distance telephone call. She was about to repeat herself, when he held up his mobile phone and said, My friend is not answering his telephone call.
Do you know the address? Rachel thought of finding him a taxi from the next station, which happened to be her own.
He did not, nor did he have any other contact number; nor was there another train back to Twickenham that night. Rachel worked out that he should have been met at the station at midnight, and understood from his helpless puppy-dog eyes, that he was now her problem. Come with me, she suggested. We will try to contact your friend. I’m Rachel. She suppressed the nagging voice at the back of her mind, pointing out the foolishness of taking a strange man home with you, for no good reason.
He followed her obediently, making stilted conversation as they walked down the road to her house. He told her that this was the first time he had ever left Croatia. He was hoping not to go back. She was unable to work out what he did for a living, but he had a smile that lit up his eyes and glowed beneath his pale skin. You’re very kind, he told her.
Up in her flat, he tried and failed to contact his friend, while she shovelled instant coffee into a mug, working on the assumption that eastern europeans would like it to be strong. He tasted it briefly, and tried to look polite about it as he abandoned the mug and pulled a bottle out of his bag. This is for my friend. We are opening it now, no?
Rachel did not need further prompting; she found a corkscrew and some glasses, and mentally wrote off her plans for Sunday. They stood in the kitchen, laughing as they tried to share stories with each other, and he taught her several random words in his own language. He showed her how badly he could juggle, using the cork and a lime from her fruit bowl, which proved to be almost disastrous. He caught the lime, but the cork rolled too far behind the fridge, where it could be seen but not reached.
As she stood up, Rachel knocked her head against his elbow, and instinctively he touched her there, a stroke of long flat fingers. She had never felt such an electric reaction to a touch before. It froze her, her lips half-parted and her eyes fixed on his. And then dreamlike, he kissed her, and she felt him stroke her hair, and tasted the velvet of the wine that had stained his mouth.
In the morning, sun streamed into her bedroom, because she had forgotten to shut the curtains. Her body and her head competed to feel the most wholesomely bruised and aching, and she lay with her eyes closed for a few minutes, trying to reassemble her memories of the night. When she opened them, there was no-one in her bed, and she told herself she had imagined it. Gingerly, she pulled on her dressing gown, and crossed the hallway to the bathroom. There was no sign of anyone in the flat.
She brushed her teeth thoughtfully, frowning at her reflection in the streaky mirror. She remembered kissing and kissing in the kitchen, his hands under her clothing; and her body could still feel his. Most clearly of all, she recalled the blue spark that had leapt between them, when they touched. But now, as she stepped quietly around her home, there was absolutely no evidence that he had ever been here.
The front door was locked. The only dirty glass in the kitchen was one she had used yesterday afternoon. The corkscrew was in the drawer.
Rachel made herself a cup of tea, and, somewhat regretfully, started recategorising her memories as a slightly filthy dream. She smiled to herself. It was probably a good thing it had been a dream; she wasn’t really the kind of girl who picked up strangers on trains. In her mind’s eye, she recreated him, leaning against the cupboard, juggling with the cork and the lime, clumsy with the objects that were beyond his control.
And then her eye followed the train of her thought down to the floor, and along the side of the fridge, where a cork lay wedged against the back corner, just out of reach.