The Commuter E-Book

Emma Curtis

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 464

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

THE GRIPPING NEW THRILLER FROM EMMA CURTIS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE BABYSITTER 'Couldn't stop reading. Emma Curtis is a genius!' ANDREA MARA, No 1 bestselling author of NO ONE SAW A THING I used to dread rush hour. Now I live for it... Rachel wakes from a coma to discover her controlling husband has been killed, and the police suspect her of involvement. But all Rachel can recall from the last few weeks are tantalising flashes of a fellow commuter. A man whose name she doesn't know. A man who has disappeared without a trace. Now Rachel is a wealthy widow and the vultures are circling, wanting her in prison for murder, or failing that ... dead. Can Rachel discover the truth in time to save herself? 'Hugely addictive' CLAIRE DOUGLAS 'Stylish and clever' WOMAN'S WEEKLY 'Hypnotic ... kept me utterly hooked' JANE CORRY Readers LOVE The Commuter 'Those twists were gobsmacking!' ***** 'I couldn't read this book quick enough' ***** 'Emma's books are like a drug to me'***** 'This book fried my head as I tried to keep up with every twist and turn' *****

Leseprobe

Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to start writing psychological suspense thrillers. She has published six previous novels: One Little Mistake, When I Find You, The Night You Left, Keep Her Quiet, Invite Me In and The Babysitter.

Also by Emma Curtis

One Little Mistake

When I Find You

The Night You Left

Keep Her Quiet

Invite Me In

The Babysitter

Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2024 by Corvus,

an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Emma Curtis, 2024

The moral right of Emma Curtis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

No part of this book may be used in any manner in the learning, training or development of generative artificial intelligence technologies (including but not limited to machine learning models and large language models (LLMs)), whether by data scraping, data mining or use in any way to create or form a part of data sets or in any other way.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 975 3

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 977 7

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

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www.atlantic-books.co.uk

Prologue

My windscreen wipers are on their fastest setting. I grip the steering wheel as if my life depends on it, straining forward, squinting through the rain. Lauren was right. I should not be driving. There’s enough sense left that I’m aware my actions are unsound, but the thoughts drop in, cutting through the brain fog, urging me on.

I need to get home.

I need to stop all this before it goes too far.

You wouldn’t have hurt Anthony, would you? You are gentle and thoughtful, funny and wise, and you’ve been through so much. Why would you attack my husband? Did he insult you, treat you with contempt?

Headlights flare out of the darkness, and I shield my eyes with my arm as a car swoops by. I swerve, skidding on the wet road, wresting back control of the car. I mustn’t draw attention to myself. I shouldn’t be doing this. I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t an emergency.

I need to get home. That is non-negotiable. I can’t call the police until I know what’s happened, because I sent you. I held Anthony to his promise. When I left the house, I thought, You owe me now, Anthony. I was so angry and confused.

What was I thinking? I should have found some way of getting a message to you, even if it meant pinning a note to my front door.

Was Anthony hostile from the moment you stepped over the threshold?

The windscreen blurs, flashes of light distorted by rain.

Focus.

Surely I should be at the motorway by now. The slick of water on the road ahead makes it move and shimmer like the sequins on Hazel’s dress. I think I may have taken a wrong turn, but it’s hard to know when it’s pitch dark and belting down, when occasionally my vision blurs. There’s a sign to East Horsley. I have a horrible feeling that’s the wrong way. Or is it? I saw it on Google Maps earlier when I was working out my route. It’s to the west, I think. I should have switched the sat nav to home before I left, but with Hazel and Lauren banging on my windscreen, shrieking at me to stop, I was in a blind panic and pumped with adrenaline.

I pull over and clumsily stab at the screen, then try my home number again, but the landline rings out and Anthony’s phone goes straight to voicemail. I don’t know if I want you to be there when I arrive, or if I want you to have fled, but please let Anthony be safe.

Why doesn’t he answer?

I wish we’d never said goodbye. I wish it was Monday morning and we were together, back in our bubble. If I had the time again, I would get off the train with you, follow you anywhere. We could have been together. Whatever has happened tonight would not have happened.

I check the wing mirror as studiously as if I was about to join a race track, then veer onto the road, water sluicing in my path from a swelling ditch, windscreen wipers whumping. Occasional lights from oncoming cars splinter through the raindrops on my windscreen. I hate driving in the countryside. I feel safer on urban roads with their clear landmarks and frequent signage. In places like this, even though Surrey is hardly the depths of the country, one tree looks very much like another. I wish I hadn’t come. I hated that party and really didn’t like Hazel’s friends. Zandra was horrible.

Focus, Rachel.

I need to get back on the right road, find the M25 and cross it. I take my speed up to sixty, concentrating hard. This is wrong; I know it is, but I can do it. I can save you and Anthony from the consequences of whatever’s happened.

Or is it myself I want to save?

I think of you kissing me and walking away. Unless you’re a consummate liar, you didn’t have bad intentions. Whatever’s happened isn’t your fault. It’s more likely to be mine.

As a car speeds towards me, a flash of lightning clarifies the landscape with a suddenness that takes me by surprise, and I’m momentarily blinded. My reflexes have been decimated by Zandra’s lethal cocktails, and I put my foot down instead of taking it off. The car takes on a life of its own. It won’t stop and I don’t understand why, and a tree seems to surge towards me. I slam my foot down, crashing at an angle and pitching, my head ricocheting off the side window even as the airbag inflates. Oh . . .

The whiteness could be footage of a nuclear bomb going off, leaching the black out of the night and blinding me. The sudden silence is deafening. It expands, stretching my world like a balloon. I expect screams, the crunch of metal, cries for help and prayers, but nothing fills the void.

TEN WEEKS EARLIER

March 2023

Chapter 1

RACHEL

‘Thank you so much for being here, my friends,’ my husband says as he steps onto the temporary staging set up in the orangery of one of the most exclusive members’ clubs in the world. He’s a handsome man, a silver fox. Watching people mesmerised by him, people who very likely know all about his recent problems and admire him regardless, I have a lump in my throat.

‘I am immensely grateful to you for lending your support to the men and women who have come through the Begin Again programme. We are extremely proud of our clients and those who work tirelessly to help them attain their dreams. Our success rate in changing the lives of ex-offenders is high, at eighty-nine per cent. But it isn’t about numbers, it’s about the men and women who are sent to us, their extended families, their community and their dignity as human beings. Above all it is about hope. As Ted told us just now, without hope he would never have achieved all he has, because hope made him aspire to be a better man. And that hope came from the Begin Again programme, and ultimately from you, the individuals and corporations who give so generously of their time and money.’

He goes on to explain how Stir, the company catering the evening, was set up by the charity to provide training and jobs for ex-offenders, and after summoning the staff onto the stage, he raises a hearty cheer. I get to my feet, clapping madly, and others follow my lead. Anthony nods at me, then smiles broadly. My grin in response stretches from ear to ear. What he does for these men and women is remarkable.

‘Those are the lucky ones,’ he says, after the staff have filed back into the kitchen. ‘When I was a child . . .’

I’ve heard this speech a dozen times over the past week and even helped write some of it. Anthony’s talking about his brother. Such a terrible tragedy. It happened many years before we met.

‘. . . By the time he was fifteen, he had been to young offender institutions twice. He had no support and no hope. Society had washed its hands of him. He ended up in prison, where he took his own life. My childhood memories of Harry are of a funny, cheeky and optimistic boy. He became a gaunt, drug-addicted criminal.’

It’s almost impossible to imagine Anthony coming from a background like that. He’s silky smooth with steel beneath the surface, well-spoken, erudite. Self-made. I would have added mischievous, but sadly the mischief has ebbed away. To me that’s more of a tragedy than his brother’s untimely death. He is sparkling this evening, but in reality he’s lost much of his potency since the heart attack that almost killed him last September. In the new year, his board of directors, who had clearly been plotting over Christmas, attempted to oust him. And to cap it all, his investment in cryptocurrency is currently valued at one third what he paid for it. The loss has had a damaging effect on his pride and the result is that he isn’t always kind, and it’s me who bears the brunt of that. It’s upsetting, but I meant it when I took my vows. Whether or not he pulls himself out of this difficult patch, I’m here for him just as he was for me when I needed his strength.

The possibility that he knows I feel pity for him has been consuming me lately, although he hasn’t said anything. It would account for the uptick in criticism levelled at me in recent months, and the outbursts of anger. At sixty-three and thirty-eight, the difference in our ages has never felt starker.

I find myself wondering if anyone else here has noticed that the lines on his face have deepened, especially the ones between his eyebrows; those quizzically arched eyebrows I fell in love with the first time we met.

‘. . . As an adult, I realised that a perfect storm of circumstances and a dearth of aspiration, expectation and trust were the determining factors in my brother’s short and brutal life. His fate might so easily have been mine, but I was able to learn from his mistakes.’

I dart a quick glance at my stepdaughter. Caroline has been scathing about this fundraiser, dismissing the guests as a bunch of fat cats and trophy wives. Nonetheless, she worked hard helping to put the event together, and it all looks so glamorous and beautiful. She rolled her eyes when I tried to congratulate her. Even thirteen years later, it’s almost impossible for me to say the right thing in the right tone of voice. Ironically, despite never forgiving me for stealing her father from her mother, she’s happy to live under the same roof as me for zero rent or contributions. At twenty-six, she is, as the Americans would say, a piece of work. She knows very little about her father’s troubles. He’s adamant that’s the way he wants it.

‘. . . With your help,’ Anthony is wrapping it up, ‘Begin Again can create many more outcomes like those you’ve heard about tonight. There are some fantastic auction items, generously donated, so let’s see those hands go up. Without further ado, I’d like to introduce Jimmy Lloyd, your auctioneer for this evening.’

I tip my wine glass to my lips to hide an involuntary sigh of relief. The speech has gone down well. At my shoulder, a waiter stretches to take away my dessert plate. He’s young and good-looking, with black curly hair tied back, and long lashes shadowing dark brown eyes. I murmur an apology, because I haven’t touched my semifreddo al cioccolato. I’m well above my calorie limit. The wine’s seen to that. There’s a top note of tension just below my ribcage.

I push that thought out of my head. Instead, I think about the fact that the waiter has done time, that he may have noticed the jewellery the guests are wearing, the designer handbags carelessly left where they can be rifled, and the wallets in the pockets of jackets taken off and slung over the backs of chairs. But as Anthony says, there needs to be trust, because without it the entire project fails. As the waiter moves to the next setting, I look up at him. He’s extremely good-looking, fine-featured, with the cheekbones of a catwalk model. I can’t help wondering what he did to land himself in this situation. Drugs? He’s so young.

‘Thank you.’ I read his name badge. ‘Kam.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he replies.

There is something in his eyes I don’t quite like. Scorn.

I turn my attention to the stage, burst out laughing at something Lloyd says and forget all about the waiter.

Chapter 2

I stand as Anthony reaches our table, but Caroline gets there first.

‘Wow, Daddy. You had everyone eating out of the palm of your hand.’

He hugs her. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it?’

‘More than all right.’

‘You were amazing, darling,’ I say, reaching to kiss him. His arm remains around Caroline’s waist.

‘I couldn’t have done it without this one. What a daughter. I’m a very lucky man.’

Caroline is a resting actor for what seems like seventy per cent of any given year. Begin Again paid her to organise the event. She didn’t do it out of the kindness of her heart. I mustn’t be mean-spirited, though. I muster a smile.

‘Getting Jimmy Lloyd was a real coup. How did you manage it?’

Caroline follows my gaze to the stage, where Lloyd, a comedian well used to the cut and thrust of prime-time television, already has his audience weeping with laughter.

‘Oh, I’ve bumped into him once or twice. I must have made an impression, because he literally bit my hand off to do this gig.’

‘Well, good on you.’ I run out of things to say and take my seat.

Our friends Naz and Jennifer are deluging Anthony with whispered praise. He’s enjoying the attention, but there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead that concerns me. He mustn’t overdo it. I check my watch. One more hour.

Anthony flops back in the cab with a sigh. As we drive through the extensive grounds, I wait for judgement. I think I did all right; I laughed and smiled and sparkled, and I didn’t show him up. As far as I know.

‘I can’t wait to find out how much you’ve raised,’ I say.

He sighs. ‘IFR will ditch the charity the moment I go.’ International Financial Recruitment is the company Anthony set up twenty-eight years ago. It’s made him a wealthy man and a mover and shaker in the city and across the world.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I said. If they’d managed to turf me out in January, they were going to review the various charities the company’s foundation supports and redistribute the funds. On top of what we raise from this event each year, Begin Again currently benefits from the interest on seven million, of which twenty per cent is earmarked for Stir, but the arrangement has to be renewed every three years. They could support several smaller charities with the same money.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Anthony smiles. ‘It’s another incentive for me to stay on.’

‘You can’t work for ever. Your health—’

‘My health is fine. Don’t fuss. Did you enjoy yourself?’

‘I had a wonderful time.’

‘You weren’t bored?’

‘No. Why would I be?’

‘Tim can be a bore. But you did well tonight. I was proud of you.’

I reach over the space between us and hold his hand.

The following morning, Anthony takes a call in his study. When he comes back, he looks thunderous.

‘There were thefts last night,’ he says. ‘Credit cards and cash mainly. You’d better check your bag.’

It’s on the kitchen dresser, a small diamanté clutch that holds my phone, debit card, lipstick and powder compact.

‘Nothing’s been taken.’ I clip the bag shut.

‘After all I’ve done for them.’

‘One bad apple, in all these years. It doesn’t matter, Anthony.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Rachel,’ he snaps. ‘Don’t be so stupid. Of course it matters.’

My stomach flips. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to downplay it.’

‘Just think before you speak.’ He cups my face with his hands. ‘Try, my darling.’

I nod and he lets me go. The old Anthony would never have spoken to me like that.

‘Do they know who it was?’ I remember the waiter, and the dirty look he gave me, but dismiss the idea. You can’t point the finger at someone simply because you don’t like the way they look at you.

‘Not yet, but Robert will find out.’ He grimaces. ‘It’s not so much the act itself, it’s the sheer stupidity. We’ve given these people a chance. Whoever it is has blown theirs.’ He sighs. ‘Never mind. These things happen. We move on.’

Chapter 3

A couple of weeks later, Anthony and I pour out of the theatre with the chattering crowd. We’ve been to see The Lehman Trilogy and are feeling emotionally wrenched. I was twenty-three when the financial crash of 2008 happened, fresh to the city and already redundant. It took me a year to land my next job. I’ll never forget that time; never take anything I have for granted. My ability to be financially independent if there’s a disaster is vital to me. That’s why I work full-time when I don’t need to. That and not having children. Anthony was forty-eight at the time, his reputation as a canny operator well established. He had men and women literally begging him to put them forward for anything, however humble. It shook him and changed his business for ever; made him more empathetic, less inclined to see the people he needed to place as units of currency.

We let ourselves in quietly. Voices drift from behind the closed door of the kitchen, where Caroline is entertaining a friend. A male one. It feels wrong to be sneaking around in our own house, but we agreed to be as silent as mice because she doesn’t want her guest being reminded that she lives at home at the age of twenty-six, even though it’s hardly unusual these days. The house smells of steak and chips. We head straight up to bed, where Anthony falls asleep almost immediately. I lie awake, still thinking. I am loved, and it isn’t many years since I believed I didn’t deserve to be, and that is down to Anthony.

It has been a lovely evening, apart from one incident. We had supper before the performance, and the waiter referred to Anthony as my father. I’ve overheard plenty of sneering remarks over the years, including ‘child bride’, ‘young enough to be his daughter’, ‘meal ticket’, ‘gold-digger’ and the classic ‘She must have been looking for a father figure.’ Everyone’s a psychiatrist these days. I have to be honest, though: that last one has a grain of truth to it.

I’ve been accused of having abandonment issues, and I suppose that’s accurate. My mother treated me as an irritation; my father ignored what was going on, in his benign way. Anything for a quiet life. Mum told me she loved me if there were witnesses. It was a long time before I noticed that, but when I did, it really stung. I don’t know whether my father actively noticed, because I don’t know when the withdrawal began. They are still together, but while I was a child and a teenager he left and came back three times. I liked to imagine that he returned because of me, but it was more likely because Mum was the one with the money. We lived in Surrey back then, in a spacious house. I remember Dad moving into one girlfriend’s poky bedsit on the Clapham Road.

The way we three lived together – my father terrified of setting my mother off, my mother despising him and indifferent to me, apart from when I attracted male approval, at which point she flipped – was one of the reasons I so easily acquiesced when Anthony said he didn’t want more children. What if I couldn’t bond with my child because of the way I’d been treated? You read about that kind of thing all the time. The abused going on to abuse.

I first realised my mother actively hated me when I was seventeen.

Mum didn’t have female friends; she surrounded herself with men, tolerating their wives as a necessary evil. The third time Dad left, the morning after I’d sat my final A-level exam, she threw herself into dating. There was one particular man, about ten years younger than her, who was round a lot. His name was Keith.

One weekend she threw a garden party, inviting her friends and their despised wives, and Keith, who wasn’t married. He was an artist, had fine features, long hair, buckets of charm and not much money. I’m not even sure where she met him; he just appeared. Anyway, over the course of that sunny afternoon, I talked to him quite a bit. I’d been working in a busy West End pub earning money for university and bantering with the punters had boosted my confidence and honed my social skills. Keith was flirting with me, and I was flattered and flirted back. At the end, when the final guests had rolled out of the garden, I started picking up glasses and cigarette stubs, but Mum called me inside. She shut the doors, presumably so the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and went ballistic, calling me an attention-seeking little slut and hitting me so hard when I didn’t react the way she wanted me to that I fell over and fractured my wrist.

Mum is a narcissist. It took me a long time to realise that, but once I had, it made so much sense. The love-bombing, the sulking, the withdrawal. The punishments, and God, the attention-seeking, the non-stop talking, the lack of interest in anything I might have to say. My words would dry up along with the achievements I worked so hard for, because what is the point if the people who are meant to love you most don’t give a shit?

So yes, Anthony has been everything to me, including father. That’s why I won’t let the barbs get to me: because he doesn’t really mean it. He’s just scared of aging.

Something has woken me. I force my eyes open. Anthony is quietly snoring. I push back the covers, set my feet down on the floor, where they sink into the carpet. For ten seconds or so there is absolute silence, then what sounds like a muffled sob. My oyster silk dressing gown is draped over the chaise longue in the corner of the bedroom. I scoop it up, grope my way to the door and step out onto the landing. The glow from downstairs throws the slanted shadow of the banisters across the walls.

Raised voices send me scuttling back to pull the door to. Anthony used to sleep heavily, but the beta blockers have changed that. Now he suffers from bouts of insomnia. He would not appreciate being woken. Caroline should know better.

Caroline is losing it. Whoever’s with her is making calming noises while her voice rises. I slide my arms into the dressing gown and tie the sash. I hope I don’t need to interfere. I can predict the look of derision Caroline will give me if I appear in my nightclothes and ask her to keep it down.

There’s a crash as something breaks. Glass, I think, gritting my teeth. The man shouts and I start downstairs, sinking into the shadows when he appears in the hall. Caroline darts out of the kitchen, screaming at him.

‘How dare you! What is wrong with you?’

‘You’re the one with the screw loose. You fucking stabbed me.’ His voice is muffled, like he has a bad cold, and he’s clutching a wad of kitchen towels against his arm.

‘Baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let me see.’ In an instant she has gone from hissing and spitting wildcat to kitten.

‘Get off me.’

‘Please don’t go like this. Let’s talk about it. Please.’

I’m horrified, but fascinated too. How low will Caroline sink? I edge forward, peeking over the banister as she grapples with her companion. She never could bear to be thwarted. He pushes her, and she stumbles backwards with a sound that’s somewhere between a mewl and a sob.

‘Hey. Leave her alone.’

‘Go back to bed, Rachel,’ Caroline hisses. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

The man spins on his heel and lets himself out. Caroline slumps against the wall, quietly sobbing. When she doesn’t pick herself up, I pad downstairs and check her over. She doesn’t appear to have been hurt.

She shifts and pulls her knees up to her chest, glaring at me. She’s wearing a sleeveless top sewn with gold sequins that overlap like fish scales and shimmer in the light from the kitchen. ‘Why can’t you mind your own business?’

‘I only wanted to check you were okay.’

‘Well I am.’ Her eyes are teary and red-rimmed, her mouth petulant. She looks all of fifteen, doe-eyed and vulnerable. That’s the trouble. She is able to play on soft hearts. Even mine.

‘Who was he?’

‘No one you’d know.’

I sigh. ‘Okay. Fine. Try not to wake your father when you come up.’

I take myself back to bed. I’ve done my duty. Caroline is alive and well and can put the kitchen to rights herself.

Chapter 4

Waking the next morning, I feel across our super-king-size bed for Anthony, but he’s already up. The room is dim, and beyond the closed curtains rain patters against the window pane. I allow myself a moment to wallow while the threads of my dreams dissipate. And then I remember what happened last night.

I sit up abruptly and swing my legs out of bed, reach for the gown I discarded in a pool on the carpet and run downstairs. Anthony is in the kitchen, sweeping the floor in his paisley dressing gown, his feet in garden clogs. It’s an incongruous sight. His calves are splayed with blue varicose veins like an aerial picture of a river delta.

There were three rooms I wasn’t allowed to touch when I moved here: Anthony’s office, Caroline’s bedroom and the kitchen. Anthony’s ex-wife, Mia, designed the kitchen. To be honest, I wouldn’t have ripped it out even if Anthony had given permission. It is effortlessly beautiful, with its clotted-cream cabinets, vast brushed-steel range, butler sink and York stone floor.

‘Put something on your feet before you come in,’ he says, seeing me standing there. ‘There’s broken glass.’

I lean in. ‘I think my slippers are under the sofa.’

Anthony chucks them over. I slide my feet into them and pick my way across the floor.

‘Why are you clearing up Caroline’s mess? She should do it herself.’

‘I told her to go back to bed. It’ll only take me a minute. I’d rather she slept it off. I gather the evening got a little out of hand.’ He sweeps the shards into a dustpan, tips them into an open newspaper, parcels them up and stuffs it all into the bin.

‘You do know she attacked some poor guy last night?’

‘You saw it happen?’ Anthony’s mouth has tightened. I know that look. Caroline is his little princess and thus beyond criticism.

‘I didn’t actually see her attack him,’ I admit. ‘I woke up when the row was in full swing.’

‘There’s no blood, so she can only have nicked him. She says it was an accident.’

‘She was accusing him of something, Anthony. She lost her temper.’

He harrumphs. ‘Do we know who the man was?’

‘No idea. I didn’t see his face. You need to talk to her. She can’t go on like this, she’s abusing our hospitality.’

‘She isn’t abusing our hospitality, she lives here. This is her home.’

I experience a wave of tiredness. I was awake for over two hours last night, thanks to Caroline’s antics, and I don’t have the patience for Anthony’s blinkered pandering. ‘No it isn’t. It’s our home. She’s an adult. Can’t you see that persuading her to leave would be the kindest thing you could do for her?’

You’d think Caroline was the only child to witness her parents’ divorce, the only child asked to tolerate, if not to love, her father’s new partner. With maturity comes understanding. The trouble is, Caroline shows no sign of reaching that heady state. Early on in my marriage I was optimistic. I would sit it out. She didn’t need a new mother but I would do my best to be a companion and mentor. Caroline would go to university, get a job, move in with friends or a partner and grow up. It was doomed to failure from the start. I was far too young to be put in that position, too wrapped up in Anthony, too selfish. Anthony should have known better, but that doesn’t let Caroline off the hook. She’s still entitled, spoiled and malicious.

‘I told you when we got together that Caroline would always come first,’ he says.

Anthony sees supporting Caroline’s acting career by making it unnecessary for her to find a proper job as simply paying his dues.

‘Yes, you did. But she’s no longer your little girl. She’s too old to let a date get out of hand. She could have done serious damage.’

‘According to you, he walked away, so don’t exaggerate.’

I’m so exasperated that the words explode from me. ‘Your daughter doesn’t understand how the world works. She doesn’t care who she hurts or what she breaks. She goes too far and expects you to forgive her every single time. The trouble with Caroline is she cannot understand her own failure, or learn from it. She is never going to succeed in acting. She is mediocre at best. She needs to get a grip, get a job and get out of here. And away from you. For God’s sake, Anthony, not only did you spoil her as a child, you risk ruining her as an adult. You need to stop funding her delusions. If you don’t, then you’re as deluded as she is.’

And suddenly it’s there, so entirely unexpected that I don’t have time to react. His arm pulls back, and as I recoil, the palm of his hand catches my jaw. I stagger, my hip colliding with the table. I grab the back of a chair and bring it down with me.

Anthony yells, his voice cracking over me like a whip. ‘You will respect me. Do you understand?’

I’ve never seen him like this. The force of his fury is terrifying. I push away the chair and get up off the floor, trembling violently but determined not to cry.

We stand and stare at each other, and after a minute or two he coughs and mumbles something. At that moment, Caroline walks in. She’s dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt with a hole where the seam is coming apart at the shoulder, raven hair bunched up. Caroline makes scruffy look enticing.

‘Bit of an atmosphere in here,’ she says, going to the sink and rinsing out a cloth. ‘Have I interrupted something?’

She starts to wipe the surfaces. Anthony looks at me beseechingly, but I ignore him. He can explain himself to his daughter.

‘We were discussing last night,’ he says.

‘I am so sorry, Daddy.’ Caroline glances at me from beneath her lashes. I look away.

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Anthony says. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No. He just wound me up. He . . . um . . . we aren’t exclusive, and I didn’t know that. He’s been hooking up with women he meets online. He said it didn’t matter, but it does.’

Anthony heaves a sigh. ‘Christ. Your bloody generation.’

I leave them and go upstairs to shut myself in the bathroom, rinse a flannel in cold water and press it against my cheek. Did Caroline notice the red welt? I sit on the side of the bath and wait for the anger and shock to abate. My mother hit me because I wouldn’t grovel and apologise, my husband because I made him face himself.

No one’s marriage is perfect; you compromise and bargain and cut each other slack, but you do not get physical. The received wisdom is that if a partner hits you, there are no second chances, but as I calm down, I take a mental step back. This is familiar territory after all. I left my parents, walked out into an unknown landscape, so I can do it again. But do I want to? I don’t think I do. For one thing, I would be miserable; for another, Caroline would win.

He is my husband and I will deal with this. I’m not that child cowering in front of her mother like a frightened dog. But if there is a next time, I will leave.

I check my appearance in the mirror, pull the scrunchie out of my hair and brush it so that it falls forward, then go back downstairs and find Anthony on his own. I look straight at him. There is no shame in his eyes. Anthony doesn’t do shame or guilt. It took me a long time to realise that. It isn’t something he even thinks about; it just is.

Caroline has a cupboard in the kitchen in which she keeps her snacks, and later, when she’s out meeting a friend and Anthony has gone to the gym, I steal chocolate chip cookies and Lion bars, crisps and marshmallows, and wolf them down, in my head the sight of myself in the mirror as a child, pudgy and pasty.

I’m so sorry about my daughter. She’s greedy.

When I can’t eat any more, my teeth aching from the sweetness, I go upstairs to lie down. I will not throw up. I will not start that again. It’s been years since the last time. I smooth my hand over the tight mound of my belly, then moan and run into the bathroom, sinking to my knees by the loo, retching, eyes weeping, fingers probing, until it’s all gone.

By Monday, we’re pretending nothing happened. It’s caused a weird kind of separation, like a chemical reaction, his swiftly raised hand flicking me out of the well-worn groove of my life. Amongst all the other emotions swirling around me, weirdly, I feel embarrassed for both of us.

The beautiful morning doesn’t suit my mood. I’d rather have unbroken grey and drizzle, but the air is fresh and cool, the sun already warming the approach to the station. The manager of the deli unfolds his chalkboard, kneeling to make an adjustment with a stub of yellow chalk. I usually like the brisk tapping sound it makes – like Morse code – but now it scratches at my nerves. The florist brings out buckets of white roses tinged with green, bluish-pink hydrangeas, fragrant stocks and branches of pussy willow. She wishes me a good morning, and I nod and attempt a cheery smile even though I feel sad. Anthony has often bought me flowers here.

I’ve left Anthony at home, working in his study. He cut down his days in the office after the pandemic, and since his heart attack barely goes in at all. It’s one of the reasons I’ve continued to go in every day. For my sanity.

I step through the entrance to the station, grabbing a copy of the Metro from the stack as I pass. The train pulls in, I get on and manoeuvre myself into a gap close to the door. I tend to ignore the pleas to move further down into the carriage, because I don’t like feeling trapped, and at least this way I get a blast of air when the doors open.

Yesterday my husband hit me. I glance at the other passengers, half expecting shocked expressions, but no one is looking at me. I’m feeling antsy and crushed as the train slows on its approach to Gunnersbury station – if it’s possible to feel both at the same time – like there’s a heavy weight on my chest but my limbs are twitching.

And then everything changes, because you walk into my life.

Chapter 5

A dozen people at least squeeze on, contorting themselves to avoid the closing doors, irritated when I refuse to move. You apologise as you edge by, catching my eye briefly. I swiftly take in short brown hair with flecks of grey, brown eyes, clean-shaven jaw. Even in that awkward situation your glance sends a jolt of electricity through my body. It is the most extraordinary moment, and I can’t account for it. I realise I’m staring and remove my gaze.

You can’t get much further in; there simply isn’t the space. It’s awkward, so I open my copy of the Metro, folding it back on itself, and skim-read the news. Stop after stop, I anticipate you leaving. The crush eases after Hammersmith and then Earls Court, but you stay on.

Midway between South Kensington and Sloane Square, the train stops in the tunnel. I feel my skin begin to crawl as time passes and we don’t move. Tension spikes amongst the other passengers. After what seems hours, but is probably only three minutes or so, we hear a crackle before the driver addresses us:

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Apologies for the delay. There’s a signal failure at Embankment. We’ll be on our way as soon as possible and I’ll be keeping you informed at regular intervals.’

The lights go out and flicker back on. I attempt to regulate my breathing, to keep it silent, so self-conscious about the noise I barely breathe at all.

‘You okay?’

It’s a casual enquiry, or you’ve tried to make it so because you can see I’m doing my best not to advertise my suppressed panic.

‘I’m fine.’

I return to the newspaper, my eyes glued to the words, but they swim in and out of focus. It’s hot. So many bodies. The sweat on my back makes my skin prickle. I envy the people sitting down. None of them look up. It’s as if they’re frightened of catching the eye of someone who needs their seat more than they do.

Another crackle of static. ‘A quick update, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been advised that it will be about thirty minutes before we can continue our journey. Once again, I apologise for the delay.’

He actually does sound sorry. This time more people vocalise their displeasure. Down the train there’s a shout. Someone has fainted. A woman calls out that she’s a nurse, and the wave of anxiety subsides.

I’m only semi-aware of you sliding your phone into your pocket. You tap my shoulder and indicate the floor.

‘I’m fine,’ I repeat.

You shrug and lower yourself, pulling up the knees of your trousers as you sit, leaning back against the side of a seat. Seconds later, I follow suit. I grip my bag between my thighs and stomach. I feel I should say something, but I can’t.

The lights go off again and this time they stay off. Around me phones glimmer in the darkness. I grip my hands together, digging my thumbnails into my flesh. The lights go back on.

‘Anything interesting in the paper?’

I look round in surprise. ‘Um. The usual. Cost of living, house prices, Ukraine.’

You take it out of my hands. I’ve folded it open on the Rush Hour Crush page.

‘Do you think anyone ever responds to these?’ you ask.

‘Don’t know.’

‘I hope they do. They can be quite poetic. Like a haiku.’

‘A what?’ I stare at the legs in front of me. A woman’s legs in suit trousers, with white trainers. I’m trying not to go into meltdown, and you’re on about poetry.

‘Didn’t your English teacher ever get you to make them up?’

‘No.’ I close my eyes. Maybe if I imagine I’m somewhere else, I’ll feel better. I visualise a beach.

‘Mine did. He loved them. They’re three-line poems with seventeen syllables. Five in the first line, then seven, then five. Think of them as a snapshot of a moment.’

I open my eyes and look round, and you smile. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. My breath is uneven. I know you can hear it.

‘My teacher used to get us to make them up on the spot,’ you say, ignoring my frosty reception. ‘It felt like a game, but it made us think quickly. See the woman standing to my left.’

She’s wearing a belted red coat and her fingernails are bright red. She has earbuds in and is watching something on her phone, lips pulled down.

‘So this is a haiku,’ you say. ‘You were wearing red. Your turn.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s your go. Make up the next line. Seven syllables. You were wearing red. Go on.’

This is really annoying. ‘I complimented your hair.’ I repeat it silently, counting.

‘Your smile tripped me up.’ You wrinkle your brow. ‘Is smile two syllables or one?’

‘One, I think.’

‘Do you think they get together?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What woman could resist compliments from a random bloke on the Tube.’

I turn away. The train feels smaller and hotter. People are fanning themselves. I close my eyes again, try to find that sandy beach, that clear blue sky, but all I see is Anthony’s face as his hand flies towards me. I try to make myself smaller. My lungs won’t fill.

‘Do one on your own.’

Anthony vanishes. ‘What?’

‘The guy with the green and blue scarf.’

You win. I give you my full attention. ‘The whole thing?’ I locate him. He has earbuds in too and looks unconcerned as he scrolls through his phone.

‘Give it a try.’

I think for a moment, and then smile. ‘I was trench-coat girl. You wore a green and blue scarf. You looked cool. Coffee? Argh. I can’t do this.’

‘You can. That was superb.’

I bask for a millisecond in your praise, even though you’re laughing at me. ‘Your turn.’

You grin. ‘I thought you would faint.’

‘Is this a haiku or a statement of fact?’

‘Haiku. Be quiet. I’m doing you. I thought you would faint. I wanted to be a hero. And catch you . . . um . . . today.’

‘One too many syllables in the second line,’ I say.

‘Huh. Okay. I thought you would faint. I wanted to be your prince. And catch you today.’

‘That’s not great, to be honest.’

‘Picky! I thought you would faint. I wanted to be your prince. I would have caught you.’

‘This is silly.’

‘Fun, though. Now you do me.’

Your voice is comforting, soft with a faint accent. Northern, I think. Not Newcastle or Liverpool. Maybe Manchester. Your shoulder is barely a finger’s width from mine. I pinch my lips together, force my mind away from our predicament, onto the task you’ve set me. Now that I’ve been given permission to look at you properly, I can see that your brown eyes are beautiful, your lashes unfeasibly long.

‘You were wearing black.’

‘An inspired start.’

‘Shh. I’m concentrating. You appeared out of nowhere. You made me forget.’

‘Forget what?’

That my husband hit me, I almost say. ‘You made me forget that we’re stuck in a tunnel.’

‘Have you done the crossword yet?’

I shake my head.

‘We can do it together. It’s more fun with someone to bounce suggestions off.’

You take a pencil out of your inside pocket and hand it to me. I twist it round and read the name printed on it.

‘Blake Jackson? Is that you?’

‘Ah. No. It belongs to a friend’s kid. I stole it.’

I laugh. ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t need it. Okay. One across. Though a learner, Mr Yates is skilled. Seven letters.’

‘Masterly. Next?’

Chapter 6

‘So what’s your story?’ you ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone has a story. I don’t need your deepest secrets, just something about you. Something you wouldn’t mind telling a total stranger because you know you’ll never see them again.’

‘That’s deep. Well, I work—’

‘No jobs. Let’s skip the dull part. Give me something more interesting.’

Shoulder to shoulder now, thigh to thigh, we’ve given up trying to keep our bodies from touching because the guy sitting on the floor on the other side of me is man-spreading and I’d rather touch you than him. I can’t deny that it’s thrilling to feel the warmth of your body through my clothes.

‘I’m an only child.’

‘Tell me about that.’

A minefield, but there’s no reason why I have to tell the unvarnished truth. ‘They had expectations that I suspect I disappointed. My parents didn’t get on very well, so I was piggy in the middle. You?’

‘I’m the second of four children. I have an older brother, a younger sister and a younger brother. I wasn’t the oldest, or the youngest, or the only girl, so I always felt like the boring one.’

‘You don’t seem boring to me.’

‘That’s because I’ve deliberately cultivated an air of mystery. I’ve found it makes up for many deficiencies.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘I said no jobs. We’ve only got a few minutes together. Let’s not waste them. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.’

I shake my head. ‘You have nowhere near earned the right to ask me that.’

You grin, unapologetic. ‘You can ask me anything.’

‘Apart from what you do for a living.’

‘Apart from that.’ Your hands are draped over your knees. Bony hands with long fingers. Your shirt is slightly too short in the arm.

‘Okay. What’s your biggest regret?’

A cloud darkens your face, but then you smile. ‘Not meeting you earlier.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘All right. Since I’m never going to see you again, my biggest regret is not thinking before I reacted, in a volatile situation. It changed my life.’

‘I’m sorry.’

You shrug. ‘A long time ago.’

I shuffle to get more comfortable on the floor. ‘I’ll tell you one thing I’ve not told anyone else. Since I’m never going to see you again.’ What can I tell you? What do I want you to know? ‘I shoplifted as a teenager.’

You burst out laughing. ‘What was it?’

I blush. ‘It didn’t really matter what it was. I did it for the buzz. But usually small items of make-up. And don’t laugh. I’m ashamed.’

I stole from under the nose of shop assistants and CCTV because it released something trapped inside me. It was like cutting myself, but without the pain. I don’t tell you that, though. There is such a thing as too much information.

You give me a rueful look. ‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.’

There’s something about you. We met half an hour ago and I already feel closer to you than I do to anyone else, even Anthony. It’s an illusion, but a strong one. Once I get on with my day, you’ll fade, just as I will. But I don’t think I’ll forget. In fact, I know I won’t.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’

‘Here we go,’ you say.

‘We’re waiting for the station up ahead to clear, then we’ll be on our way. Once again, I apologise for the disruption to your journeys. Thank you for your patience and enjoy the rest of your day.’

‘Thank God.’ My relief is tinged with disappointment.

At the first jerk, applause fills the length of the train, then everyone goes quiet. People who have struck up conversations with strangers scrutinise their phones as if it never happened. You help me to my feet. I mumble an inadequate thank you, and quickly bury my head in my newspaper. We pull into Sloane Square, then you do up your jacket and I know you’re getting off at the next stop.

You heft the strap of your weathered leather bag onto your shoulder and move towards the doors. We arrive at Victoria. I should say something, touch your arm, anything, but the doors open, you step out and raise your hand in salute. I raise mine, and the smile you give me is so warm that it creates a chain reaction, beginning in the pit of my stomach and radiating into my fingers and toes. As the train moves away, I watch you until you disappear into the rush-hour crowd heading for the exit.

Chapter 7

Despite it only being April, London is experiencing a mini heatwave and I’m hot and bothered by the time I get home. I hang my coat in the cupboard and stand at the bottom of the stairs trying to get a feel for the atmosphere. Nine times out of ten I’ll sense if Caroline is in. I’m fairly certain she’s out.

I find Anthony in the garden, smoking under the blossoming apple tree. He sees me and hides the cigarette behind his back like a small boy. He ‘gave up’ years ago, but he’s always had the odd one. I’ve never begrudged him the occasional indulgence, but the heart attack was a wake-up call.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that.’ I say it kindly, determined to put what happened behind us. That fleeting contact with the man on the train, that last smile, has improved my mood. Normally I’d tell him about my day. I’d describe being stuck in the tunnel. But I don’t want to talk about it. It’s precious.

He stubs the cigarette out against the tree’s pewter bark and kisses my cheek. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of his breath.

‘I apologise for yesterday.’ He says it like it’s something to be got over, with a dismissive lift of his eyebrows. ‘In my defence, I lashed out because you went too far. I’m well aware of Caroline’s deficiencies, but to hear such vitriolic criticism from you was a shock. When you insult her, you insult me.’

‘So it was my fault?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I think you did.’

‘Don’t be like that, darling. We’ve been married a long time; we’re in this together. I’ve apologised, and if you do the same, we can put this behind us and move on.’

He yawns and goes inside, and comes back out with a bottle of zero beer and a bag of nigella seeds. I sit on the wooden bench, unable to move, watching him fill the bird feeder. He’s the only one who ever remembers. He fastens the bag, then goes back inside to wash his hands. When he comes out again, he takes a long slug from the condensation-speckled bottle and sighs with satisfaction. I’m riled now. He really doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.

This morning I met you.

I blink to get rid of the image of your smile, your brown eyes.

‘You hit me, Anthony. It’s a little hard to put it behind me, but I’m willing to if you listen to what I say and admit that Caroline has a problem.’

‘All right.’ He raises his hands. ‘I concede that the situation is far from ideal, and that I’ve failed to be a good father by spoiling her, but what did you expect? She’s my only child.’

‘That’s part of the problem,’ I say.

‘I don’t wish to talk about this any more.’

‘It’s not going to go away just because you want it to.’

He watches two goldfinches vying for position on the feeder. Mesmerising though they are, it’s an excuse not to look at me.

‘Anthony?’

‘What?’ he says impatiently.

‘Your daughter attacked someone in our house. He could press charges. He may have forgiven her in the short term, but you can bet he’s slept on it. He may well think differently now.’

‘Caroline assures me she’s smoothed it over. She’s apologised and he’s admitted he provoked her.’

‘To stab him?’ I’m incredulous. ‘A tongue-lashing from Caroline is usually enough to scare any man off.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. And from what I understand, he was as much to blame as her.’

‘What you understand is what your daughter is telling you.’

Anthony sits down. I shift so we aren’t touching.

‘Did you pay him off?’

He sighs, as if I’ve said something utterly stupid. ‘As you say, he could have pressed charges. It seemed more sensible in the long run to give him a small sum. There won’t be any repercussions.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘Certainly not. I transferred the money to Caroline to give him.’

I run my fingers through my hair. ‘I think you were wrong. I think Caroline should have been made to deal with this herself. You’re taking power out of her hands by making it all go away so easily. There needs to be consequences. She’s only living here because of your money. Turn off the tap and she might just make something of herself.’

‘I’ll thank you not to tell me how to manage my daughter. You’ve been getting very assertive lately, Rachel. It doesn’t suit you. It’s those friends you’ve made at work, I expect.’ He slides an arm around my shoulders and I try not to shrink away. ‘Let’s not ruin a beautiful evening by arguing.’

I haven’t made friends at work, except Hazel, and she isn’t a proper friend, she’s a colleague I talk to more than the others. The sun is in my eyes. I close them and think of you. I think of the warmth of your shoulder against mine when we were sitting on the floor, the faded knees of your black jeans, your hands draped over them. Your voice pulling me out of my panic.

Caroline wanders outside. So she was home after all. Perhaps she’s been eavesdropping. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s wearing a white maxi dress with puffed sleeves down to her wrists, and espadrilles. Her thick hair has been curled and cascades around her shoulders. She looks exquisite, delicate, vulnerable, and I feel a pang for complaining about her to her father. I’ll make an effort, show Anthony I’m not against her.

‘How did it go?’ Anthony asks,