The girl on the train

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Hawkins,Paula.
Thegirlonthetrain/PaulaHawkins.
p.cm.
ISBN978-0-698-18539-5
1.Railroadtravel—Fiction.2.Commuters—Fiction.3.Strangers—Fiction.4.London(England)—Fiction.5.Psychologicalfiction.I.Title.
PR6108.A963G5720152014027001
823'.92—dc23
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactual
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Version_1


CONTENTS

TitlePage

Copyright
Dedication

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Acknowledgments


FORKATE


•••
She’sburiedbeneathasilverbirchtree,downtowardstheoldtraintracks,hergravemarkedwitha
cairn.Notmorethanalittlepileofstones,really.Ididn’twanttodrawattentiontoherrestingplace,but
Icouldn’tleaveherwithoutremembrance.She’llsleeppeacefullythere,noonetodisturbher,no
soundsbutbirdsongandtherumbleofpassingtrains.


•••
Oneforsorrow,twoforjoy,threeforagirl...Threeforagirl.I’mstuckonthree,Ijustcan’tgetany
further.Myheadisthickwithsounds,mymouththickwithblood.Threeforagirl.Icanhearthe

magpies—they’relaughing,mockingme,araucouscackling.Atiding.Badtidings.Icanseethemnow,
blackagainstthesun.Notthebirds,somethingelse.Someone’scoming.Someoneisspeakingtome.
Nowlook.Nowlookwhatyoumademedo.


RACHEL
•••

FRIDAY,JULY5,2013

MORNING

Thereisapileofclothingonthesideofthetraintracks.Light-bluecloth—ashirt,perhaps—jumbledup
withsomethingdirtywhite.It’sprobablyrubbish,partofaloaddumpedintothescrubbylittlewoodup
thebank.Itcouldhavebeenleftbehindbytheengineerswhoworkthispartofthetrack,they’rehere
oftenenough.Oritcouldbesomethingelse.MymotherusedtotellmethatIhadanoveractive
imagination;Tomsaidthat,too.Ican’thelpit,Icatchsightofthesediscardedscraps,adirtyT-shirtora
lonesomeshoe,andallIcanthinkofistheothershoeandthefeetthatfittedintothem.
Thetrainjoltsandscrapesandscreechesbackintomotion,thelittlepileofclothesdisappearsfrom
viewandwetrundleontowardsLondon,movingatabriskjogger’space.Someoneintheseatbehind
megivesasighofhelplessirritation;the8:04slowtrainfromAshburytoEustoncantestthepatience
ofthemostseasonedcommuter.Thejourneyissupposedtotakefifty-fourminutes,butitrarelydoes:
thissectionofthetrackisancient,decrepit,besetwithsignallingproblemsandnever-ending
engineeringworks.
Thetraincrawlsalong;itjudderspastwarehousesandwatertowers,bridgesandsheds,pastmodest
Victorianhouses,theirbacksturnedsquarelytothetrack.
Myheadleaningagainstthecarriagewindow,Iwatchthesehousesrollpastmelikeatrackingshot
inafilm.Iseethemasothersdonot;eventheirownersprobablydon’tseethemfromthisperspective.
Twiceaday,Iamofferedaviewintootherlives,justforamoment.There’ssomethingcomforting
aboutthesightofstrangerssafeathome.

Someone’sphoneisringing,anincongruouslyjoyfulandupbeatsong.They’reslowtoanswer,it
jinglesonandonaroundme.Icanfeelmyfellowcommutersshiftintheirseats,rustletheir
newspapers,tapattheircomputers.Thetrainlurchesandswaysaroundthebend,slowingasit
approachesaredsignal.Itrynottolookup,ItrytoreadthefreenewspaperIwashandedonmyway
intothestation,butthewordsblurinfrontofmyeyes,nothingholdsmyinterest.InmyheadIcanstill
seethatlittlepileofclotheslyingattheedgeofthetrack,abandoned.
EVENING

ThepremixedginandtonicfizzesupoverthelipofthecanasIbringittomymouthandsip.Tangy
andcold,thetasteofmyfirst-everholidaywithTom,afishingvillageontheBasquecoastin2005.In
themorningswe’dswimthehalfmiletothelittleislandinthebay,makeloveonsecrethiddenbeaches;
intheafternoonswe’dsitatabardrinkingstrong,bitterginandtonics,watchingswarmsofbeach
footballersplayingchaotictwenty-five-a-sidegamesonthelow-tidesands.
Itakeanothersip,andanother;thecan’salreadyhalfempty,butit’sOK,Ihavethreemoreinthe


plasticbagatmyfeet.It’sFriday,soIdon’thavetofeelguiltyaboutdrinkingonthetrain.TGIF.The
funstartshere.
It’sgoingtobealovelyweekend,that’swhatthey’retellingus.Beautifulsunshine,cloudlessskies.
IntheolddayswemighthavedriventoCorlyWoodwithapicnicandthepapers,spentallafternoon
lyingonablanketindappledsunlight,drinkingwine.Wemighthavebarbecuedoutbackwithfriends,
orgonetotheRoseandsatinthebeergarden,facesflushingwithsunandalcoholastheafternoonwent
on,weavinghome,arminarm,fallingasleeponthesofa.
Beautifulsunshine,cloudlessskies,noonetoplaywith,nothingtodo.Livinglikethis,thewayI’m
livingatthemoment,isharderinthesummerwhenthereissomuchdaylight,solittlecoverof
darkness,wheneveryoneisoutandabout,beingflagrantly,aggressivelyhappy.It’sexhausting,andit
makesyoufeelbadifyou’renotjoiningin.
Theweekendstretchesoutaheadofme,forty-eightemptyhourstofill.Iliftthecantomymouth
again,butthere’snotadropleft.

MONDAY,JULY8,2013

MORNING

It’sarelieftobebackonthe8:04.It’snotthatIcan’twaittogetintoLondontostartmyweek—Idon’t
particularlywanttobeinLondonatall.Ijustwanttoleanbackinthesoft,saggingvelourseat,feelthe
warmthofthesunshinestreamingthroughthewindow,feelthecarriagerockbackandforthandback
andforth,thecomfortingrhythmofwheelsontracks.I’dratherbehere,lookingoutatthehouses
besidethetrack,thanalmostanywhereelse.
There’safaultysignalonthisline,abouthalfwaythroughmyjourney.Iassumeitmustbefaulty,in
anycase,becauseit’salmostalwaysred;westoptheremostdays,sometimesjustforafewseconds,
sometimesforminutesonend.IfIsitincarriageD,whichIusuallydo,andthetrainstopsatthissignal,
whichitalmostalwaysdoes,Ihaveaperfectviewintomyfavouritetracksidehouse:numberfifteen.
Numberfifteenismuchliketheotherhousesalongthisstretchoftrack:aVictoriansemi,twostoreys
high,overlookinganarrow,well-tendedgardenthatrunsaroundtwentyfeetdowntowardssome
fencing,beyondwhichlieafewmetresofno-man’s-landbeforeyougettotherailwaytrack.Iknow
thishousebyheart.Iknoweverybrick,Iknowthecolourofthecurtainsintheupstairsbedroom
(beige,withadark-blueprint),Iknowthatthepaintispeelingoffthebathroomwindowframeandthat
therearefourtilesmissingfromasectionoftheroofoverontheright-handside.
Iknowthatonwarmsummerevenings,theoccupantsofthishouse,JasonandJess,sometimesclimb
outofthelargesashwindowtositonthemakeshiftterraceontopofthekitchen-extensionroof.They
areaperfect,goldencouple.Heisdark-hairedandwellbuilt,strong,protective,kind.Hehasagreat
laugh.Sheisoneofthosetinybird-women,abeauty,pale-skinnedwithblondhaircroppedshort.She
hasthebonestructuretocarrythatkindofthingoff,sharpcheekbonesdappledwithasprinklingof
freckles,afinejaw.
Whilewe’restuckattheredsignal,Ilookforthem.Jessisoftenoutthereinthemornings,especially
inthesummer,drinkinghercoffee.Sometimes,whenIseeherthere,Ifeelasthoughsheseesme,too,I
feelasthoughshelooksrightbackatme,andIwanttowave.I’mtooself-conscious.Idon’tseeJason
quitesomuch,he’sawayalotwithwork.Butevenifthey’renotthere,Ithinkaboutwhattheymightbe
upto.Maybethismorningthey’vebothgotthedayoffandshe’slyinginbedwhilehemakesbreakfast,

ormaybethey’vegoneforaruntogether,becausethat’sthesortofthingtheydo.(TomandIusedto


runtogetheronSundays,megoingatslightlyabovemynormalpace,himatabouthalfhis,justsowe
couldrunsidebyside.)MaybeJessisupstairsinthespareroom,painting,ormaybethey’reinthe
showertogether,herhandspressedagainstthetiles,hishandsonherhips.
EVENING

Turningslightlytowardsthewindow,mybacktotherestofthecarriage,Iopenoneofthelittlebottles
ofCheninBlancIpurchasedfromtheWhistlestopatEuston.It’snotcold,butit’lldo.Ipoursomeinto
aplasticcup,screwthetopbackonandslipthebottleintomyhandbag.It’slessacceptabletodrinkon
thetrainonaMonday,unlessyou’redrinkingwithcompany,whichIamnot.
Therearefamiliarfacesonthesetrains,peopleIseeeveryweek,goingtoandfro.Irecognizethem
andtheyprobablyrecognizeme.Idon’tknowwhethertheyseeme,though,forwhatIreallyam.
It’sagloriousevening,warmbutnottooclose,thesunstartingitslazydescent,shadowslengthening
andthelightjustbeginningtoburnishthetreeswithgold.Thetrainisrattlingalong,wewhippastJason
andJess’splace,theypassinablurofeveningsunshine.Sometimes,notoften,Icanseethemfromthis
sideofthetrack.Ifthere’snotraingoingintheoppositedirection,andifwe’retravellingslowly
enough,Icansometimescatchaglimpseofthemoutontheirterrace.Ifnot—liketoday—Icanimagine
them.Jesswillbesittingwithherfeetuponthetableoutontheterrace,aglassofwineinherhand,
Jasonstandingbehindher,hishandsonhershoulders.Icanimaginethefeelofhishands,theweightof
them,reassuringandprotective.SometimesIcatchmyselftryingtorememberthelasttimeIhad
meaningfulphysicalcontactwithanotherperson,justahugoraheartfeltsqueezeofmyhand,andmy
hearttwitches.

TUESDAY,JULY9,2013

MORNING

Thepileofclothesfromlastweekisstillthere,anditlooksdustierandmoreforlornthanitdidafew

daysago.Ireadsomewherethatatraincanriptheclothesrightoffyouwhenithits.It’snotthat
unusual,deathbytrain.Twotothreehundredayear,theysay,soatleastoneeverycoupleofdays.I’m
notsurehowmanyofthoseareaccidental.Ilookcarefully,asthetrainrollsslowlypast,forbloodon
theclothes,butIcan’tseeany.
Thetrainstopsatthesignalasusual.IcanseeJessstandingonthepatioinfrontoftheFrenchdoors.
She’swearingabrightprintdress,herfeetarebare.She’slookingoverhershoulder,backintothe
house;she’sprobablytalkingtoJason,who’llbemakingbreakfast.IkeepmyeyesfixedonJess,onher
home,asthetrainstartstoinchforward.Idon’twanttoseetheotherhouses;Iparticularlydon’twant
toseetheonefourdoorsdown,theonethatusedtobemine.
Ilivedatnumbertwenty-threeBlenheimRoadforfiveyears,blissfullyhappyandutterlywretched.I
can’tlookatitnow.Thatwasmyfirsthome.Notmyparents’place,notaflatsharewithotherstudents,
myfirsthome.Ican’tbeartolookatit.Well,Ican,Ido,Iwantto,Idon’twantto,Itrynotto.Every
dayItellmyselfnottolook,andeverydayIlook.Ican’thelpmyself,eventhoughthereisnothingI
wanttoseethere,eventhoughanythingIdoseewillhurtme.EventhoughIremembersoclearlyhowit
feltthattimeIlookedupandnoticedthatthecreamlinenblindintheupstairsbedroomwasgone,
replacedbysomethinginsoftbabypink;eventhoughIstillrememberthepainIfeltwhenIsawAnna
wateringtherosebushesnearthefence,herT-shirtstretchedtightoverherbulgingbelly,andIbitmylip


sohard,itbled.
Iclosemyeyestightlyandcounttoten,fifteen,twenty.There,it’sgonenow,nothingtosee.Weroll
intoWitneystationandoutagain,thetrainstartingtopickuppaceassuburbiameltsintogrimyNorth
London,terracedhousesreplacedbytaggedbridgesandemptybuildingswithbrokenwindows.The
closerwegettoEuston,themoreanxiousIfeel;pressurebuilds;howwilltodaybe?There’safilthy,
low-slungconcretebuildingontheright-handsideofthetrackaboutfivehundredmetresbeforeweget
intoEuston.Onitsside,someonehaspainted:LIFEISNOTAPARAGRAPH.Ithinkaboutthebundle
ofclothesonthesideofthetrackandIfeelasthoughmythroatisclosingup.Lifeisnotaparagraph,
anddeathisnoparenthesis.
EVENING

ThetrainItakeintheevening,the5:56,isslightlyslowerthanthemorningone—ittakesonehourand
oneminute,afullsevenminuteslongerthanthemorningtraindespitenotstoppingatanyextrastations.
Idon’tmind,becausejustasI’minnogreathurrytogetintoLondoninthemorning,I’minnohurryto
getbacktoAshburyintheevening,either.Notjustbecauseit’sAshbury,althoughtheplaceitselfisbad
enough,a1960snewtown,spreadinglikeatumourovertheheartofBuckinghamshire.Nobetteror
worsethanadozenothertownslikeit,acentrefilledwithcafésandmobile-phoneshopsandbranches
ofJDSports,surroundedbyabandofsuburbiaandbeyondthattherealmofthemultiplexcinemaand
out-of-townTesco.Iliveinasmart(ish),new(ish)blocksituatedatthepointwherethecommercial
heartoftheplacestartstobleedintotheresidentialoutskirts,butitisnotmyhome.Myhomeisthe
Victoriansemionthetracks,theoneIpart-owned.InAshburyIamnotahomeowner,notevenatenant
—I’malodger,occupantofthesmallsecondbedroominCathy’sblandandinoffensiveduplex,subject
tohergraceandfavour.
CathyandIwerefriendsatuniversity.Halffriends,really,wewereneverthatclose.Shelivedacross
thehallfrommeinmyfirstyear,andwewerebothdoingthesamecourse,sowewerenaturalalliesin
thosefirstfewdauntingweeks,beforewemetpeoplewithwhomwehadmoreincommon.Wedidn’t
seemuchofeachotherafterthefirstyearandbarelyatallaftercollege,exceptfortheoccasional
wedding.Butinmyhourofneedshehappenedtohaveaspareroomgoinganditmadesense.Iwasso
surethatitwouldonlybeforacoupleofmonths,sixatthemost,andIdidn’tknowwhatelsetodo.I’d
neverlivedbymyself,I’dgonefromparentstoflatmatestoTom,Ifoundtheideaoverwhelming,soI
saidyes.Andthatwasnearlytwoyearsago.
It’snotawful.Cathy’saniceperson,inaforcefulsortofway.Shemakesyounoticeherniceness.
Hernicenessiswritlarge,itisherdefiningqualityandsheneedsitacknowledged,often,dailyalmost,
whichcanbetiring.Butit’snotsobad,Icanthinkofworsetraitsinaflatmate.No,it’snotCathy,it’s
notevenAshburythatbothersmemostaboutmynewsituation(Istillthinkofitasnew,althoughit’s
beentwoyears).It’sthelossofcontrol.InCathy’sflatIalwaysfeellikeaguestattheveryouterlimit
ofherwelcome.Ifeelitinthekitchen,wherewejostleforspacewhencookingoureveningmeals.I
feelitwhenIsitbesideheronthesofa,theremotecontrolfirmlywithinhergrasp.Theonlyspacethat
feelslikemineismytinybedroom,intowhichadoublebedandadeskhavebeencrammed,withbarely
enoughspacetowalkbetweenthem.It’scomfortableenough,butitisn’taplaceyouwanttobe,so
insteadIlingerinthelivingroomoratthekitchentable,illateaseandpowerless.Ihavelostcontrol

overeverything,eventheplacesinmyhead.


WEDNESDAY,JULY10,2013

MORNING

Theheatisbuilding.It’sbarelyhalfpasteightandalreadythedayisclose,theairheavywithmoisture.
Icouldwishforastorm,buttheskyisaninsolentblank,pale,wateryblue.Iwipeawaythesweaton
mytoplip.IwishI’drememberedtobuyabottleofwater.
Ican’tseeJasonandJessthismorning,andmysenseofdisappointmentisacute.Silly,Iknow.I
scrutinizethehouse,butthere’snothingtosee.ThecurtainsareopendownstairsbuttheFrenchdoors
areclosed,sunlightreflectingofftheglass.Thesashwindowupstairsisclosed,too.Jasonmaybeaway
working.He’sadoctor,Ithink,probablyforoneofthoseoverseasorganizations.He’sconstantlyon
call,abagpackedontopofthewardrobe;there’sanearthquakeinIranoratsunamiinAsiaandhe
dropseverything,hegrabshisbagandhe’satHeathrowwithinamatterofhours,readytoflyoutand
savelives.
Jess,withherboldprintsandherConversetrainersandherbeauty,herattitude,worksinthefashion
industry.Orperhapsinthemusicbusiness,orinadvertising—shemightbeastylistoraphotographer.
She’sagoodpainter,too,plentyofartisticflair.Icanseehernow,inthespareroomupstairs,music
blaring,windowopen,abrushinherhand,anenormouscanvasleaningagainstthewall.She’llbethere
untilmidnight;Jasonknowsnottobotherherwhenshe’sworking.
Ican’treallyseeher,ofcourse.Idon’tknowifshepaints,orwhetherJasonhasagreatlaugh,or
whetherJesshasbeautifulcheekbones.Ican’tseeherbonestructurefromhereandI’veneverheard
Jason’svoice.I’veneverseenthemupclose,theydidn’tliveatthathousewhenIliveddowntheroad.
TheymovedinafterIlefttwoyearsago,Idon’tknowwhenexactly.IsupposeIstartednoticingthem
aboutayearago,andgradually,asthemonthswentpast,theybecameimportanttome.
Idon’tknowtheirnames,either,soIhadtonamethemmyself.Jason,becausehe’shandsomeina
Britishfilmstarkindofway,notaDepporaPitt,butaFirth,oraJasonIsaacs.AndJessjustgoeswith
Jason,anditgoeswithher.Itfitsher,prettyandcarefreeassheis.They’reamatch,they’reaset.

They’rehappy,Icantell.They’rewhatIusedtobe,they’reTomandmefiveyearsago.They’rewhatI
lost,they’reeverythingIwanttobe.
EVENING

Myshirt,uncomfortablytight,buttonsstrainingacrossmychest,ispit-stained,damppatchesclammy
beneathmyarms.Myeyesandthroatitch.ThiseveningIdon’twantthejourneytostretchout;Ilongto
gethome,toundressandgetintotheshower,tobewherenoonecanlookatme.
Ilookatthemanintheseatoppositemine.Heisaboutmyage,earlytomidthirties,withdarkhair,
greyingatthetemples.Sallowskin.He’swearingasuit,buthe’stakenthejacketoffandslungitonthe
seatnexttohim.HehasaMacBook,paper-thin,openinfrontofhim.He’saslowtypist.He’swearinga
silverwatchwithalargefaceonhisrightwrist—itlooksexpensive,aBreitlingmaybe.He’schewing
theinsideofhischeek.Perhapshe’snervous.Orjustthinkingdeeply.Writinganimportantemailtoa
colleagueattheofficeinNewYork,oracarefullywordedbreak-upmessagetohisgirlfriend.Helooks
upsuddenlyandmeetsmyeye;hisglancetravelsoverme,overthelittlebottleofwineonthetablein
frontofme.Helooksaway.There’ssomethingaboutthesetofhismouththatsuggestsdistaste.He
findsmedistasteful.
IamnotthegirlIusedtobe.Iamnolongerdesirable,I’moff-puttinginsomeway.It’snotjustthat
I’veputonweight,orthatmyfaceispuffyfromthedrinkingandthelackofsleep;it’sasifpeoplecan
seethedamagewrittenalloverme,canseeitinmyface,thewayIholdmyself,thewayImove.
Onenightlastweek,whenIleftmyroomtogetmyselfaglassofwater,IoverheardCathytalkingto


Damien,herboyfriend,inthelivingroom.Istoodinthehallwayandlistened.“She’slonely,”Cathy
wassaying.“Ireallyworryabouther.Itdoesn’thelp,herbeingaloneallthetime.”Thenshesaid,“Isn’t
theresomeonefromwork,maybe,ortherugbyclub?”andDamiensaid,“ForRachel?Notbeingfunny,
Cath,butI’mnotsureIknowanyonethatdesperate.”

THURSDAY,JULY11,2013

MORNING

I’mpickingattheplasteronmyforefinger.It’sdamp,itgotwetwhenIwaswashingoutmycoffeemug
thismorning;itfeelsclammy,dirty,thoughitwascleanonthismorning.Idon’twanttotakeitoff
becausethecutisdeep.CathywasoutwhenIgothome,soIwenttotheoff-licenceandboughttwo
bottlesofwine.IdrankthefirstoneandthenIthoughtI’dtakeadvantageofthefactthatshewasout
andcookmyselfasteak,makeared-onionrelish,haveitwithagreensalad.Agood,healthymeal.I
slicedthroughthetopofmyfingerwhilechoppingtheonions.Imusthavegonetothebathroomto
cleanitupandgonetoliedownforawhileandjustforgottenallaboutit,becauseIwokeuparoundten
andIcouldhearCathyandDamientalkingandhewassayinghowdisgustingitwasthatIwouldleave
thekitchenlikethat.Cathycameupstairstoseeme,sheknockedsoftlyonmydoorandopenedita
fraction.ShecockedherheadtoonesideandaskedifIwasOK.IapologizedwithoutbeingsurewhatI
wasapologizingfor.Shesaiditwasallright,butwouldImindcleaningupabit?Therewasbloodon
thechoppingboard,theroomsmelledofrawmeat,thesteakwasstillsittingoutonthecountertop,
turninggrey.Damiendidn’tevensayhello,hejustshookhisheadwhenhesawmeandwentupstairsto
Cathy’sbedroom.
Afterthey’dbothgonetobedIrememberedthatIhadn’tdrunkthesecondbottle,soIopenedthat.I
satonthesofaandwatchedtelevisionwiththesoundturneddownreallylowsotheywouldn’thearit.I
can’trememberwhatIwaswatching,butatsomepointImusthavefeltlonely,orhappy,orsomething,
becauseIwantedtotalktosomeone.Theneedforcontactmusthavebeenoverwhelming,andtherewas
nooneIcouldcallexceptforTom.
There’snooneIwanttotalktoexceptforTom.ThecalllogonmyphonesaysIrangfourtimes:at
11:02,11:12,11:54,12:09.Judgingfromthelengthofthecalls,Ilefttwomessages.Hemayevenhave
pickedup,butIdon’tremembertalkingtohim.Irememberleavingthefirstmessage;IthinkIjust
askedhimtocallme.ThatmaybewhatIsaidinbothofthem,whichisn’ttoobad.
ThetrainshudderstoastandstillattheredsignalandIlookup.Jessissittingonherpatio,drinkinga
cupofcoffee.Shehasherfeetupagainstthetableandherheadback,sunningherself.Behindher,I
thinkIcanseeashadow,someonemoving:Jason.Ilongtoseehim,tocatchaglimpseofhishandsome
face.Iwanthimtocomeoutside,tostandbehindherthewayhedoes,tokissthetopofherhead.
Hedoesn’tcomeout,andherheadfallsforward.Thereissomethingaboutthewaysheismoving
todaythatseemsdifferent;sheisheavier,weigheddown.Iwillhimtocomeouttoher,butthetrain

joltsandslogsforwardandstillthereisnosignofhim;she’salone.Andnow,withoutthinking,Ifind
myselflookingdirectlyintomyhouse,andIcan’tlookaway.TheFrenchdoorsareflungopen,light
streamingintothekitchen.Ican’ttell,Ireallycan’t,whetherI’mseeingthisorimaginingit—isshe
there,atthesink,washingup?Istherealittlegirlsittinginoneofthosebouncybabychairsupthereon
thekitchentable?
Iclosemyeyesandletthedarknessgrowandspreaduntilitmorphsfromafeelingofsadnessinto
somethingworse:amemory,aflashback.Ididn’tjustaskhimtocallmeback.Iremembernow,Iwas


crying.ItoldhimthatIstilllovedhim,thatIalwayswould.Please,Tom,please,Ineedtotalktoyou.I
missyou.Nonononononono.
Ihavetoacceptit,there’snopointtryingtopushitaway.I’mgoingtofeelterribleallday,it’sgoing
tocomeinwaves—strongerthenweakerthenstrongeragain—thattwistinthepitofmystomach,the
anguishofshame,theheatcomingtomyface,myeyessqueezedtightasthoughIcouldmakeitall
disappear.AndI’llbetellingmyselfallday,it’snottheworstthing,isit?It’snottheworstthingI’ve
everdone,it’snotasifIfelloverinpublic,oryelledatastrangerinthestreet.It’snotasifIhumiliated
myhusbandatasummerbarbecuebyshoutingabuseatthewifeofoneofhisfriends.It’snotasifwe
gotintoafightonenightathomeandIwentforhimwithagolfclub,takingachunkoutoftheplaster
inthehallwayoutsidethebedroom.It’snotlikegoingbacktoworkafterathree-hourlunchand
staggeringthroughtheoffice,everyonelooking,MartinMilestakingmetooneside,Ithinkyoushould
probablygohome,Rachel.Ioncereadabookbyaformeralcoholicwhereshedescribedgivingoralsex
totwodifferentmen,menshe’djustmetinarestaurantonabusyLondonhighstreet.IreaditandI
thought,I’mnotthatbad.Thisiswherethebarisset.
EVENING

IhavebeenthinkingaboutJessallday,unabletofocusonanythingbutwhatIsawthismorning.What
wasitthatmademethinkthatsomethingwaswrong?Icouldn’tpossiblyseeherexpressionatthat
distance,butIfeltwhenIwaslookingatherthatshewasalone.Morethanalone—lonely.Perhapsshe
was—perhapshe’saway,gonetooneofthosehotcountrieshejetsofftotosavelives.Andshemisses
him,andsheworries,althoughsheknowshehastogo.

Ofcourseshemisseshim,justasIdo.Heiskindandstrong,everythingahusbandshouldbe.And
theyareapartnership.Icanseeit,Iknowhowtheyare.Hisstrength,thatprotectivenessheradiates,it
doesn’tmeanshe’sweak.She’sstronginotherways;shemakesintellectualleapsthatleavehim
openmouthedinadmiration.Shecancuttothenubofaproblem,dissectandanalyseitinthetimeit
takesotherpeopletosaygoodmorning.Atparties,heoftenholdsherhand,eventhoughthey’vebeen
togetheryears.Theyrespecteachother,theydon’tputeachotherdown.
Ifeelexhaustedthisevening.Iamsober,stone-cold.SomedaysIfeelsobadthatIhavetodrink;
somedaysIfeelsobadthatIcan’t.Today,thethoughtofalcoholturnsmystomach.Butsobrietyonthe
eveningtrainisachallenge,particularlynow,inthisheat.Afilmofsweatcoverseveryinchofmyskin,
theinsideofmymouthprickles,myeyesitch,mascararubbedintotheircorners.
Myphonebuzzesinmyhandbag,makingmejump.Twogirlssittingacrossthecarriagelookatme
andthenateachother,withaslyexchangeofsmiles.Idon’tknowwhattheythinkofme,butIknowit
isn’tgood.MyheartispoundinginmychestasIreachforthephone.Iknowthiswillbenothinggood,
either:itwillbeCathy,perhaps,askingmeeversonicelytomaybegivetheboozearestthisevening?
Ormymother,tellingmethatshe’llbeinLondonnextweek,she’lldropbytheoffice,wecangofor
lunch.Ilookatthescreen.It’sTom.IhesitateforjustasecondandthenIanswerit.
“Rachel?”
ForthefirstfiveyearsIknewhim,IwasneverRachel,alwaysRach.SometimesShelley,becausehe
knewIhateditanditmadehimlaughtowatchmetwitchwithirritationandthengigglebecauseI
couldn’thelpbutjoininwhenhewaslaughing.“Rachel,it’sme.”Hisvoiceisleaden,hesoundsworn
out.“Listen,youhavetostopthis,OK?”Idon’tsayanything.Thetrainisslowing,andwearealmost
oppositethehouse,myoldhouse.Iwanttosaytohim,Comeoutside,goandstandonthelawn.Letme
seeyou.“Please,Rachel,youcan’tcallmelikethisallthetime.You’vegottosortyourselfout.”There
isalumpinmythroatashardasapebble,smoothandobstinate.Icannotswallow.Icannotspeak.
“Rachel?Areyouthere?Iknowthingsaren’tgoodwithyou,andI’msorryforyou,Ireallyam,but...


Ican’thelpyou,andtheseconstantcallsarereallyupsettingAnna.OK?Ican’thelpyouanymore.Go
toAAorsomething.Please,Rachel.GotoanAAmeetingafterworktoday.”
Ipullthefilthyplasterofftheendofmyfingerandlookatthepale,wrinkledfleshbeneath,dried

bloodcakedattheedgeofmyfingernail.Ipressthethumbnailofmyrighthandintothecentreofthe
cutandfeelitopenup,thepainsharpandhot.Icatchmybreath.Bloodstartstooozefromthewound.
Thegirlsontheothersideofthecarriagearewatchingme,theirfacesblank.


MEGAN
•••

Oneyearearlier

WEDNESDAY,MAY16,2012

MORNING

Icanhearthetraincoming;Iknowitsrhythmbyheart.Itpicksupspeedasitacceleratesoutof
Northcotestationandthen,afterrattlingroundthebend,itstartstoslowdown,fromarattletoa
rumble,andthensometimesascreechofbrakesasitstopsatthesignalacouplehundredyardsfromthe
house.Mycoffeeiscoldonthetable,butI’mtoodeliciouslywarmandlazytobothergettingupto
makemyselfanothercup.
SometimesIdon’tevenwatchthetrainsgopast,Ijustlisten.Sittinghereinthemorning,eyesclosed
andthehotsunorangeonmyeyelids,Icouldbeanywhere.IcouldbeinthesouthofSpain,atthe
beach;IcouldbeinItaly,theCinqueTerre,allthoseprettycolouredhousesandthetrainsferryingthe
touristsbackandforth.IcouldbebackinHolkham,withthescreechofgullsinmyearsandsaltonmy
tongueandaghosttrainpassingontherustedtrackhalfamileaway.
Thetrainisn’tstoppingtoday,ittrundlesslowlypast.Icanhearthewheelsclackingoverthepoints,
canalmostfeelitrocking.Ican’tseethefacesofthepassengersandIknowthey’rejustcommuters
headingtoEustontositbehinddesks,butIcandream:ofmoreexoticjourneys,ofadventuresattheend
ofthelineandbeyond.Inmyhead,IkeeptravellingbacktoHolkham;it’soddthatIstillthinkofit,on
morningslikethis,withsuchaffection,suchlonging,butIdo.Thewindinthegrass,thebigslatesky
overthedunes,thehouseinfestedwithmiceandfallingdown,fullofcandlesanddirtandmusic.It’s

likeadreamtomenow.
Ifeelmyheartbeatingjustalittletoofast.
Icanhearhisfootfallonthestairs,hecallsmyname.
“Youwantanothercoffee,Megs?”
Thespellisbroken,I’mawake.
EVENING

I’mcoolfromthebreezeandwarmfromthetwofingersofvodkainmymartini.I’moutontheterrace,
waitingforScotttocomehome.I’mgoingtopersuadehimtotakemeouttodinnerattheItalianon
KinglyRoad.Wehaven’tbeenoutforbloodyages.
Ihaven’tgotmuchdonetoday.IwassupposedtosortoutmyapplicationforthefabricscourseatSt.
Martins;Ididstartit,IwasworkingdownstairsinthekitchenwhenIheardawomanscreaming,
makingahorriblenoise,Ithoughtsomeonewasbeingmurdered.Iranoutsideintothegarden,butI


couldn’tseeanything.
Icouldstillhearher,though,itwasnasty,itwentrightthroughme,hervoicereallyshrilland
desperate.“Whatareyoudoing?Whatareyoudoingwithher?Givehertome,givehertome.”It
seemedtogoonandon,thoughitprobablyonlylastedafewseconds.
IranupstairsandclimbedoutontotheterraceandIcouldsee,throughthetrees,twowomendown
bythefenceafewgardensover.Oneofthemwascrying—maybetheybothwere—andtherewasa
childbawlingitsheadoff,too.
Ithoughtaboutcallingthepolice,butitallseemedtocalmdownthen.Thewomanwho’dbeen
screamingranintothehouse,carryingthebaby.Theotheronestayedoutthere.Sheranuptowardsthe
house,shestumbledandgottoherfeetandthenjustsortofwanderedroundthegardenincircles.
Reallyweird.Godknowswhatwasgoingon.Butit’sthemostexcitementI’vehadinweeks.
MydaysfeelemptynowIdon’thavethegallerytogotoanylonger.Ireallymissit.Imisstalkingto
theartists.Ievenmissdealingwithallthosetediousyummymummieswhousedtodropby,Starbucks
inhand,togawkatthepictures,tellingtheirfriendsthatlittleJessiedidbetterpicturesthanthatat
nurseryschool.

SometimesIfeellikeseeingifIcantrackdownanybodyfromtheolddays,butthenIthink,what
wouldItalktothemaboutnow?Theywouldn’tevenrecognizeMeganthehappilymarriedsuburbanite.
Inanycase,Ican’trisklookingbackwards,it’salwaysabadidea.I’llwaituntilthesummerisover,
thenI’lllookforwork.Itseemslikeashametowastetheselongsummerdays.I’llfindsomething,here
orelsewhere,IknowIwill.

TUESDAY,AUGUST14,2012

MORNING

Ifindmyselfstandinginfrontofmywardrobe,staringforthehundredthtimeatarackofprettyclothes,
theperfectwardrobeforthemanagerofasmallbutcutting-edgeartgallery.Nothinginitsays“nanny.”
God,eventhewordmakesmewanttogag.IputonjeansandaT-shirt,scrapemyhairback.Idon’t
evenbotherputtingonanymakeup.There’snopoint,isthere,prettyingmyselfuptospendalldaywith
ababy?
Iflouncedownstairs,halfspoilingforafight.Scott’smakingcoffeeinthekitchen.Heturnstome
withagrin,andmymoodliftsinstantly.Irearrangemypouttoasmile.Hehandsmeacoffeeandkisses
me.
There’snosenseblaminghimforthis,itwasmyidea.Ivolunteeredtodoit,tobecomea
childminderforthepeopledowntheroad.Atthetime,Ithoughtitmightbefun.Completelyinsane,
really,Imusthavebeenmad.Bored,mad,curious.Iwantedtosee.IthinkIgottheideaafterIheard
heryellingoutinthegardenandIwantedtoknowwhatwasgoingon.NotthatI’veasked,ofcourse.
Youcan’treally,canyou?
Scottencouragedme—hewasoverthemoonwhenIsuggestedit.Hethinksspendingtimearound
babieswillmakemebroody.Infact,it’sdoingexactlytheopposite;whenIleavetheirhouseIrun
home,can’twaittostripmyclothesoffandgetintotheshowerandwashthebabysmelloffme.
Ilongformydaysatthegallery,prettiedup,hairdone,talkingtoadultsaboutartorfilmsornothing
atall.NothingatallwouldbeastepupfrommyconversationswithAnna.God,she’sdull!Yougetthe
feelingthatsheprobablyhadsomethingtosayforherselfonceuponatime,butnoweverythingisabout
thechild:Isshewarmenough?Isshetoowarm?Howmuchmilkdidshetake?Andshe’salwaysthere,

somostofthetimeIfeellikeasparepart.MyjobistowatchthechildwhileAnnarests,togivehera
break.Abreakfromwhat,exactly?She’sweirdlynervous,too.I’mconstantlyawareofher,hovering,
twitching.Sheflincheseverytimeatrainpasses,jumpswhenthephonerings.“They’rejustsofragile,
aren’tthey?”shesays,andIcan’tdisagreewiththat.
Ileavethehouseandwalk,leaden-legged,thefiftyyardsalongBlenheimRoadtotheirhouse.No
skipinmystep.Today,shedoesn’topenthedoor,it’shim,thehusband.Tom,suitedandbooted,offto
work.Helookshandsomeinhissuit—notScotthandsome,he’ssmallerandpaler,andhiseyesarea
littletooclosetogetherwhenyouseehimupclose,buthe’snotbad.Heflashesmehiswide,Tom
Cruisesmile,andthenhe’sgone,andit’sjustmeandherandthebaby.

THURSDAY,AUGUST16,2012

AFTERNOON

Iquit!
Ifeelsomuchbetter,asifanythingispossible.I’mfree!
I’msittingontheterrace,waitingfortherain.Theskyisblackaboveme,swallowsloopingand
diving,theairthickwithmoisture.Scottwillbehomeinanhourorso,andI’llhavetotellhim.He’ll
onlybepissedoffforaminuteortwo,I’llmakeituptohim.AndIwon’tjustbesittingaroundthe
houseallday:I’vebeenmakingplans.Icoulddoaphotographycourse,orsetupamarketstall,sell
jewellery.Icouldlearntocook.
IhadateacheratschoolwhotoldmeoncethatIwasamistressofself-reinvention.Ididn’tknow
whathewasonaboutatthetime,Ithoughthewasputtingmeon,butI’vesincecometoliketheidea.
Runaway,lover,wife,waitress,gallerymanager,nanny,andafewmoreinbetween.SowhodoIwant
tobetomorrow?
Ididn’treallymeantoquit,thewordsjustcameout.Weweresittingthere,aroundthekitchentable,
Annawiththebabyonherlap,andTomhadpoppedbacktopicksomethingup,sohewasthere,too,
drinkingacupofcoffee,anditjustseemedridiculous,therewasabsolutelynopointinmybeingthere.

Worsethanthat,Ifeltuncomfortable,asifIwasintruding.
“I’vefoundanotherjob,”Isaid,withoutreallythinkingaboutit.“SoI’mnotgoingtobeabletodo
thisanylonger.”Annagavemealook—Idon’tthinkshebelievedme.Shejustsaid,“Oh,that’sa
shame,”andIcouldtellshedidn’tmeanit.Shelookedrelieved.Shedidn’tevenaskmewhatthejob
was,whichwasarelief,becauseIhadn’tthoughtupaconvincinglie.
Tomlookedmildlysurprised.Hesaid,“We’llmissyou,”butthat’salie,too.
Theonlypersonwho’llreallybedisappointedisScott,soIhavetothinkofsomethingtotellhim.
MaybeI’lltellhimTomwashittingonme.That’llputanendtoit.

THURSDAY,SEPTEMBER20,2012

MORNING

It’sjustafterseven,it’schillyoutherenow,butit’ssobeautifullikethis,allthesestripsofgardenside


byside,greenandcoldandwaitingforfingersofsunshinetocreepupfromthetracksandmakethem
allcomealive.I’vebeenupforhours;Ican’tsleep.Ihaven’tsleptindays.Ihatethis,hateinsomnia
morethananything,justlyingthere,braingoinground,tick,tick,tick,tick.Iitchallover.Iwantto
shavemyhead.
Iwanttorun.Iwanttotakearoadtrip,inaconvertible,withthetopdown.Iwanttodrivetothe
coast—anycoast.Iwanttowalkonabeach.Meandmybigbrotherweregoingtoberoadtrippers.We
hadsuchplans,BenandI.Well,theywereBen’splansmostly—hewassuchadreamer.Weweregoing
toridemotorbikesfromParistotheCôted’Azur,orallthewaydownthePacificcoastoftheUSA,
fromSeattletoLosAngeles;weweregoingtofollowinCheGuevara’stracksfromBuenosAiresto
Caracas.MaybeifI’ddoneallthat,Iwouldn’thaveendeduphere,notknowingwhattodonext.Or
maybe,ifI’ddoneallthat,I’dhaveendedupexactlywhereIamandIwouldbeperfectlycontented.
ButIdidn’tdoallthat,ofcourse,becauseBennevergotasfarasParis,heneverevenmadeitasfaras
Cambridge.HediedontheA10,hisskullcrushedbeneaththewheelsofanarticulatedlorry.
Imisshimeveryday.Morethananyone,Ithink.He’sthebigholeinmylife,inthemiddleofmy

soul.Ormaybehewasjustthebeginningofit.Idon’tknow.Idon’tevenknowwhetherallthisisreally
aboutBen,orwhetherit’sabouteverythingthathappenedafterthat,andeverythingthat’shappened
since.AllIknowis,oneminuteI’mtickingalongfineandlifeissweetandIwantfornothing,andthe
nextIcan’twaittogetaway,I’mallovertheplace,slippingandslidingagain.
So,I’mgoingtoseeatherapist!Whichcouldbeweird,butitcouldbealaugh,too.I’vealways
thoughtthatitmightbefuntobeCatholic,tobeabletogototheconfessionalandunburdenyourself
andhavesomeonetellyouthattheyforgiveyou,totakeallthesinaway,wipetheslateclean.
Thisisnotquitethesamething,ofcourse.I’mabitnervous,butIhaven’tbeenabletogettosleep
lately,andScott’sbeenonmycasetogo.ItoldhimIfinditdifficultenoughtalkingtopeopleIknow
aboutthisstuff—Icanbarelyeventalktohimaboutit.Hesaidthat’sthepoint,youcansayanythingto
strangers.Butthatisn’tcompletelytrue.Youcan’tjustsayanything.PoorScott.Hedoesn’tknowthe
halfofit.Helovesmesomuch,itmakesmeache.Idon’tknowhowhedoesit.Iwoulddrivememad.
ButIhavetodosomething,andatleastthisfeelslikeaction.AllthoseplansIhad—photography
coursesandcookeryclasses—whenitcomesdowntoit,theyfeelabitpointless,asifI’mplayingat
reallifeinsteadofactuallylivingit.IneedtofindsomethingthatImustdo,somethingundeniable.I
can’tdothis,Ican’tjustbeawife.Idon’tunderstandhowanyonedoesit—thereisliterallynothingto
dobutwait.Waitforamantocomehomeandloveyou.Eitherthatorlookaroundforsomethingto
distractyou.
EVENING

I’vebeenkeptwaiting.Theappointmentwasforhalfanhourago,andI’mstillhere,sittinginthe
receptionroomflickingthroughVogue,thinkingaboutgettingupandwalkingout.Iknowdoctors’
appointmentsrunover,buttherapists?Filmshavealwaysledmetobelievethattheykickyououtthe
momentyourthirtyminutesareup.IsupposeHollywoodisn’treallytalkingaboutthekindoftherapist
yougetreferredtoontheNationalHealthService.
I’mjustabouttogouptothereceptionisttotellherthatI’vewaitedlongenough,I’mleaving,when
thedoctor’sofficedoorswingsopenandthisverytall,lankymanemerges,lookingapologeticand
holdingouthishandtome.
“Mrs.Hipwell,Iamsosorrytohavekeptyouwaiting,”hesays,andIjustsmileathimandtellhim
it’sallright,andIfeel,inthismoment,thatitwillbeallright,becauseI’veonlybeeninhiscompany

foramomentortwoandalreadyIfeelsoothed.
Ithinkit’sthevoice.Softandlow.Slightlyaccented,whichIwasexpecting,becausehisnameisDr.


KamalAbdic.Iguesshemustbemidthirties,althoughhelooksveryyoungwithhisincredibledark
honeyskin.HehashandsIcouldimagineonme,longanddelicatefingers,Icanalmostfeelthemon
myskin.
Wedon’ttalkaboutanythingsubstantial,it’sjusttheintroductorysession,thegetting-to-know-you
stuff;heasksmewhatthetroubleisandItellhimaboutthepanicattacks,theinsomnia,thefactthatI
lieawakeatnighttoofrightenedtofallasleep.Hewantsmetotalkabitmoreaboutthat,butI’mnot
readyyet.HeasksmewhetherItakedrugs,drinkalcohol.ItellhimIhaveothervicesthesedays,andI
catchhiseyeandIthinkheknowswhatImean.ThenIfeelasifIoughttobetakingthisabitmore
seriously,soItellhimaboutthegalleryclosingandthatIfeelatalooseendallthetime,mylackof
direction,thefactthatIspendtoomuchtimeinmyhead.Hedoesn’ttalkmuch,justtheoccasional
prompt,butIwanttohearhimspeak,soasI’mleavingIaskhimwherehe’sfrom.
“Maidstone,”hesays,“inKent.ButImovedtoCorlyafewyearsback.”Heknowsthatwasn’twhat
Iwasasking;hegivesmeawolfishsmile.
ScottiswaitingformewhenIgethome,hethrustsadrinkintomyhand,hewantstoknowallabout
it.IsayitwasOK.Heasksmeaboutthetherapist:didIlikehim,didheseemnice?OK,Isayagain,
becauseIdon’twanttosoundtooenthusiastic.HeasksmewhetherwetalkedaboutBen.Scottthinks
everythingisaboutBen.Hemayberight.HemayknowmebetterthanIthinkhedoes.

TUESDAY,SEPTEMBER25,2012

MORNING

Iwokeearlythismorning,butIdidsleepforafewhours,whichisanimprovementonlastweek.Ifelt
almostrefreshedwhenIgotoutofbed,soinsteadofsittingontheterraceIdecidedtogoforawalk.
I’vebeenshuttingmyselfaway,almostwithoutrealizingit.TheonlyplacesIseemtogothesedays
aretotheshops,myPilatesclassesandthetherapist.OccasionallytoTara’s.Therestofthetime,I’mat

home.It’snowonderIgetrestless.
Iwalkoutofthehouse,turnrightandthenleftontoKinglyRoad.Pastthepub,theRose.Weusedto
gothereallthetime;Ican’trememberwhywestopped.Ineverlikeditallthatmuch,toomanycouples
justtherightsideoffortydrinkingtoomuchandcastingaroundforsomethingbetter,wonderingif
they’dhavethecourage.Perhapsthat’swhywestoppedgoing,becauseIdidn’tlikeit.Pastthepub,
pasttheshops.Idon’twanttogofar,justalittlecircuittostretchmylegs.
It’snicebeingoutearly,beforetheschoolrun,beforethecommutegetsgoing;thestreetsareempty
andclean,thedayfullofpossibility.Iturnleftagain,walkdowntothelittleplayground,theonlyrather
poorexcuseforgreenspacewehave.It’semptynow,butinafewhoursitwillbeswarmingwith
toddlers,mothersandaupairs.HalfthePilatesgirlswillbehere,headtotoeinSweatyBetty,
competitivelystretching,manicuredhandswrappedaroundtheirStarbucks.
IcarryonpasttheparkanddowntowardsRoseberryAvenue.IfIturnedrighthereI’dgouppastmy
gallery—whatwasmygallery,nowavacantshopwindow—butIdon’twantto,becausethatstillhurts
alittle.Itriedsohardtomakeasuccessofit.Wrongplace,wrongtime—nocallforartinsuburbia,not
inthiseconomy.Instead,Iturnright,pasttheTescoExpress,pasttheotherpub,theonewherepeople
fromtheestatego,andbacktowardshome.Icanfeelbutterfliesnow,I’mstartingtogetnervous.I’m
afraidofbumpingintotheWatsons,becauseit’salwaysawkwardwhenIseethem;it’spatentlyobvious
thatIdon’thaveanewjob,thatIliedbecauseIdidn’twanttocarryonworkingforthem.
Orrather,it’sawkwardwhenIseeher.Tomjustignoresme.ButAnnaseemstotakethings


personally.Sheobviouslythinksthatmyshort-livedcareerasanannycametoanendbecauseofheror
becauseofherchild.Itactuallywasn’taboutherchildatall,althoughthefactthatthechildneverstops
whingingdidmakeherhardtolove.It’sallsomuchmorecomplicated,butofcourseIcan’texplain
thattoher.Anyway.That’soneofthereasonsI’vebeenshuttingmyselfaway,Isuppose,becauseI
don’twanttoseetheWatsons.Partofmehopesthey’lljustmove.Iknowshedoesn’tlikebeinghere:
shehatesthathouse,hateslivingamonghisex-wife’sthings,hatesthetrains.
Istopatthecornerandpeerintotheunderpass.Thatsmellofcoldanddampalwayssendsalittle
shiverdownmyspine,it’sliketurningoverarocktoseewhat’sunderneath:mossandwormsandearth.
Itremindsmeofplayinginthegardenasachild,lookingforfrogsbythepondwithBen.Iwalkon.

Thestreetisclear—nosignofTomorAnna—andthepartofmethatcan’tresistabitofdramais
actuallyquitedisappointed.
EVENING

Scott’sjustcalledtosayhehastoworklate,whichisnotthenewsIwantedtohear.I’mfeelingedgy,
havebeenallday.Can’tkeepstill.Ineedhimtocomehomeandcalmmedown,andnowit’sgoingto
behoursbeforehegetshereandmybrainisgoingtokeepracingroundandroundandroundandI
knowI’vegotasleeplessnightcoming.
Ican’tjustsithere,watchingthetrains,I’mtoojittery,myheartbeatfeelslikeaflutterinmychest,
likeabirdtryingtogetoutofacage.Islipmyflip-flopsonandgodownstairs,outofthefrontdoorand
ontoBlenheimRoad.It’saroundseventhirty—afewstragglersontheirwayhomefromwork.There’s
nooneelsearound,thoughyoucanhearthecriesofkidsplayingintheirbackgardens,taking
advantageofthelastofthesummersunshinebeforetheygetcalledinfordinner.
Iwalkdowntheroad,towardsthestation.Istopforamomentoutsidenumbertwenty-threeand
thinkaboutringingthedoorbell.WhatwouldIsay?Ranoutofsugar?Justfanciedachat?Theirblinds
arehalfopen,butIcan’tseeanyoneinside.
Icarryontowardsthecornerand,withoutreallythinkingaboutit,Icontinuedownintothe
underpass.I’mabouthalfwaythroughwhenthetrainrunsoverhead,andit’sglorious:it’slikean
earthquake,youcanfeelitrightinthecentreofyourbody,stirringuptheblood.Ilookdownandnotice
thatthere’ssomethingonthefloor,ahairband,purple,stretched,wellused.Droppedbyarunner,
probably,butsomethingaboutitgivesmethecreepsandIwanttogetoutoftherequickly,backintothe
sunshine.
Onthewaybackdowntheroad,hepassesmeinhiscar,oureyesmeetforjustasecondandhe
smilesatme.


RACHEL
•••

FRIDAY,JULY12,2013

MORNING

Iamexhausted,myheadthickwithsleep.WhenIdrink,Ihardlysleepatall.Ipassoutcoldforanhour
ortwo,thenIwake,sickwithfear,sickwithmyself.IfIhaveadaywhenIdon’tdrink,thatnightIfall
intotheheaviestofslumbers,adeepunconsciousness,andinthemorningIcannotwakeproperly,I
cannotshakesleep,itstayswithmeforhours,sometimesalldaylong.
Thereisjustahandfulofpeopleinmycarriagetoday,noneinmyimmediatevicinity.Thereisno
onewatchingme,soIleanmyheadagainstthewindowandclosemyeyes.
Thescreechofthetrain’sbrakeswakesme.We’reatthesignal.Atthistimeofmorning,atthistime
ofyear,thesunshinesdirectlyontothebackofthetracksidehouses,floodingthemwithlight.Ican
almostfeelit,thewarmthofthatmorningsunshineonmyfaceandarmsasIsitatthebreakfasttable,
Tomoppositeme,mybarefeetrestingontopofhisbecausethey’realwayssomuchwarmerthanmine,
myeyescastdownatthenewspaper.Icanfeelhimsmilingatme,theblushspreadingfrommychestto
myneck,thewayitalwaysdidwhenhelookedatmeacertainway.
IblinkhardandTom’sgone.We’restillatthesignal.IcanseeJessinhergarden,andbehindhera
manwalkingoutofthehouse.He’scarryingsomething—mugsofcoffee,perhaps—andIlookathim
andrealizethatitisn’tJason.Thismanistaller,slender,darker.He’safamilyfriend;he’sherbrotheror
Jason’sbrother.Hebendsdown,placingthemugsonthemetaltableontheirpatio.He’sacousinfrom
Australia,stayingforacoupleofweeks;he’sJason’soldestfriend,bestmanattheirwedding.Jess
walkstowardshim,sheputsherhandsaroundhiswaistandshekisseshim,longanddeep.Thetrain
moves.
Ican’tbelieveit.IsnatchairintomylungsandrealizethatI’vebeenholdingmybreath.Whywould
shedothat?Jasonlovesher,Icanseeit,they’rehappy.Ican’tbelieveshewoulddothattohim,he
doesn’tdeservethat.Ifeelarealsenseofdisappointment,IfeelasthoughIhavebeencheatedon.A
familiarachefillsmychest.Ihavefeltthiswaybefore.Onalargerscale,toamoreintensedegree,of
course,butIrememberthequalityofthepain.Youdon’tforgetit.
Ifoundoutthewayeveryoneseemstofindoutthesedays:anelectronicslip.Sometimesit’satextor
avoicemailmessage;inmycaseitwasanemail,themodern-daylipstickonthecollar.Itwasan
accident,really,Iwasn’tsnooping.Iwasn’tsupposedtogonearTom’scomputer,becausehewas

worriedIwoulddeletesomethingimportantbymistake,orclickonsomethingIshouldn’tandletina
virusoraTrojanorsomething.“Technology’snotreallyyourstrongpoint,isit,Rach?”hesaidafterthe
timeImanagedtodeleteallthecontactsinhisemailaddressbookbymistake.SoIwasn’tsupposedto
touchit.ButIwasactuallydoingagoodthing,Iwastryingtomakeamendsforbeingabitmiserable
anddifficult,Iwasplanningaspecialfourth-anniversarygetaway,atriptoremindushowweusedto
be.Iwantedittobeasurprise,soIhadtocheckhisworkschedulesecretly,Ihadtolook.


Iwasn’tsnooping,Iwasn’ttryingtocatchhimoutoranything,Iknewbetterthanthat.Ididn’twant
tobeoneofthoseawfulsuspiciouswiveswhogothroughtheirhusband’spockets.Once,Iansweredhis
phonewhenhewasintheshowerandhegotquiteupsetandaccusedmeofnottrustinghim.Ifeltawful
becauseheseemedsohurt.
Ineededtolookathisworkschedule,andhe’dlefthislaptopon,becausehe’drunoutlatefora
meeting.Itwastheperfectopportunity,soIhadalookathiscalendar,noteddownsomedates.WhenI
closeddownthebrowserwindowwithhiscalendarinit,therewashisemailaccount,loggedin,laid
bare.TherewasamessageatthetopfromIclicked.XXXXX.Thatwasit,justa
lineofXs.Ithoughtitwasspamatfirst,untilIrealizedthattheywerekisses.
Itwasareplytoamessagehe’dsentafewhoursbefore,justafterseven,whenIwasstillslumbering
inourbed.
Ifellasleeplastnightthinkingofyou,Iwasdreamingaboutkissingyourmouth,yourbreasts,the
insideofyourthighs.Iwokethismorningwithmyheadfullofyou,desperatetotouchyou.Don’t
expectmetobesane,Ican’tbe,notwithyou.

Ireadthroughhismessages:thereweredozens,hiddeninafolderentitled“Admin.”Idiscovered
thathernamewasAnnaBoyd,andthatmyhusbandwasinlovewithher.Hetoldherso,often.Hetold
herthathe’dneverfeltlikethisbefore,thathecouldn’twaittobewithher,thatitwouldn’tbelonguntil
theycouldbetogether.
Idon’thavewordstodescribewhatIfeltthatday,butnow,sittingonthetrain,Iamfurious,nails
diggingintomypalms,tearsstingingmyeyes.Ifeelaflashofintenseanger.Ifeelasthoughsomething
hasbeentakenawayfromme.Howcouldshe?HowcouldJessdothis?Whatiswrongwithher?Look

atthelifetheyhave,lookathowbeautifulitis!Ihaveneverunderstoodhowpeoplecanblithely
disregardthedamagetheydobyfollowingtheirhearts.Whowasitsaidthatfollowingyourheartisa
goodthing?Itispureegotism,aselfishnesstoconquerall.Hatredfloodsme.IfIsawthatwomannow,
ifIsawJess,Iwouldspitinherface.Iwouldscratchhereyesout.
EVENING

There’sbeenaproblemontheline.The5:56fasttraintoStokehasbeencancelled,soitspassengers
haveinvadedmytrainandit’sstandingroomonlyinthecarriage.I,fortunately,haveaseat,butbythe
aisle,notnexttothewindow,andtherearebodiespressedagainstmyshoulder,myknee,invadingmy
space.Ihaveanurgetopushback,togetupandshove.Theheathasbeenbuildingallday,closinginon
me,IfeelasthoughI’mbreathingthroughamask.Everysinglewindowhasbeenopenedandyet,even
whilewe’removing,thecarriagefeelsairless,alockedmetalbox.Icannotgetenoughoxygenintomy
lungs.Ifeelsick.Ican’tstopreplayingthesceneinthecoffeeshopthismorning,Ican’tstopfeelingas
thoughI’mstillthere,Ican’tstopseeingthelooksontheirfaces.
IblameJess.IwasobsessingthismorningaboutJessandJason,aboutwhatshe’ddoneandhowhe
wouldfeel,abouttheconfrontationtheywouldhavewhenhefoundoutandwhenhisworld,likemine,
wasrippedapart.Iwaswalkingaroundinadaze,notconcentratingonwhereIwasgoing.Without
thinking,IwentintothecoffeeshopthateveryonefromHuntingdonWhitelyuses.Iwasthroughthe
doorbeforeIsawthem,andbythetimeIdiditwastoolatetoturnback;theywerelookingatme,eyes
wideningforafractionofasecondbeforetheyrememberedtofixsmilesontheirfaces.MartinMiles
withSashaandHarriet,atriumvirateofawkwardness,beckoning,wavingmeover.
“Rachel!”Martinsaid,armsoutstretched,pullingmeintoahug.Iwasn’texpectingit,myhands
werecaughtbetweenus,fumblingagainsthisbody.SashaandHarrietsmiled,gavemetentativeair-


kisses,tryingnottogettooclose.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Foralong,longmoment,Iwentblank.Ilookedatthefloor,Icouldfeelmyselfcolouringand,
realizingitwasmakingitworse,Igaveafalselaughandsaid,“Interview.Interview.”
“Oh.”Martinfailedtohidehissurprise,whileSashaandHarrietnoddedandsmiled.“Who’sthat
with?”

Icouldn’trememberthenameofasinglepublicrelationsfirm.Notone.Icouldn’tthinkofa
propertycompany,either,letaloneonethatmightrealisticallybehiring.Ijuststoodthere,rubbingmy
lowerlipwithmyforefinger,shakingmyhead,andeventuallyMartinsaid,“Topsecret,isit?Some
firmsareweirdlikethat,aren’tthey?Don’twantyousayinganythinguntilthecontractsaresignedand
it’sallofficial.”Itwasbullshitandheknewit,hedidittosavemeandnobodyboughtit,buteveryone
pretendedtheydidandnoddedalong.HarrietandSashawerelookingovermyshoulderatthedoor,
theywereembarrassedforme,theywantedawayout.
“I’dbettergoandordermycoffee,”Isaid.“Don’twanttobelate.”
Martinputhishandonmyforearmandsaid,“It’sgreattoseeyou,Rachel.”Hispitywasalmost
palpable.I’dneverrealized,notuntilthelastyearortwoofmylife,howshamingitistobepitied.
TheplanhadbeentogotoHolbornLibraryonTheobaldsRoad,butIcouldn’tfaceit,soIwentto
Regent’sParkinstead.Iwalkedtotheveryfarend,nexttothezoo.Isatdownintheshadebeneatha
sycamoretree,thinkingoftheunfilledhoursahead,replayingtheconversationinthecoffeeshop,
rememberingthelookonMartin’sfacewhenhesaidgood-byetome.
Imusthavebeenthereforlessthanhalfanhourwhenmymobilerang.ItwasTomagain,calling
fromthehomephone.Itriedtopicturehim,workingathislaptopinoursunnykitchen,buttheimage
wasspoiltbyencroachmentsfromhisnewlife.Shewouldbetheresomewhere,inthebackground,
makingteaorfeedingthelittlegirl,hershadowfallingoverhim.Iletthecallgotovoicemail.Iputthe
phonebackintomybagandtriedtoignoreit.Ididn’twanttohearanymore,nottoday;todaywas
alreadyawfulenoughanditwasnotyettenthirtyinthemorning.Iheldoutforaboutthreeminutes
beforeIretrievedthephoneanddialledintovoicemail.Ibracedmyselffortheagonyofhearinghis
voice—thevoicethatusedtospeaktomewithlaughterandlightandnowisusedonlytoadmonishor
consoleorpity—butitwasn’thim.
“Rachel,it’sAnna.”Ihungup.
Icouldn’tbreatheandIcouldn’tstopmybrainfromracingormyskinfromitching,soIgottomy
feetandwalkedtothecornershoponTitchfieldStreetandboughtfourginandtonicsincans,thenwent
backtomyspotinthepark.IopenedthefirstoneanddrankitasfastasIcould,andthenopenedthe
second.IturnedmybacktothepathsothatIcouldn’tseetherunnersandthemotherswithbuggiesand
thetourists,andifIcouldn’tseethem,Icouldpretendlikeachildthattheycouldn’tseeme.Icalledmy
voicemailagain.

“Rachel,it’sAnna.”Longpause.“Ineedtotalktoyouaboutthephonecalls.”Anotherlongpause—
she’stalkingtomeanddoingsomethingelse,multitasking,thewaybusywivesandmothersdo,tidying
up,loadingthewashingmachine.“Look,Iknowyou’rehavingatoughtime,”shesays,asthoughshe
hasnothingtodowithmypain,“butyoucan’tcallusatnightallthetime.”Hertoneisclipped,
irritable.“It’sbadenoughthatyouwakeuswhenyoucall,butyouwakeEvie,too,andthat’sjustnot
acceptable.We’restrugglingtogethertosleepthroughatthemoment.”We’restrugglingtogetherto
sleepthrough.We.Us.Ourlittlefamily.Withourproblemsandourroutines.Fuckingbitch.She’sa
cuckoo,layingheregginmynest.Shehastakeneverythingfromme.Shehastakeneverythingand
nowshecallsmetotellmethatmydistressisinconvenientforher?
Ifinishthesecondcanandmakeastartonthethird.Theblissfulrushofalcoholhittingmy
bloodstreamlastsonlyafewminutes,andthenIfeelsick.I’mgoingtoofast,evenforme,Ineedto
slowdown;ifIdon’tslowdownsomethingbadisgoingtohappen.I’mgoingtodosomethingIwill