Page 40 of One Summer Weekend
‘And if I do mind?’
Deep breath. ‘Jack, you’re being ridiculous. This is a business contract and you’re putting a lot at risk if you think it’s anything else.’ I forced myself to look at him. ‘Role play’s a fundamentalcoaching tool that I’ve practised for years—’
‘Not that sort of role play, I’ll bet.’ A sardonic laugh. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’d better give Adam Chesterfield a call in the morning to compare notes. No wonder you came so highly recommended.’
‘How dare you eventhinkthat!’ I managed to bring my trembling indignation under control and salvage a brisk, almost dismissive tone. ‘AllI’m saying is that the kissing, and everything else, was just a requirement of this particular role play. Let’s face it, Jack, we’ve spent the entire weekend pretending to Midge and Bill that we’re romantically involved – and that I can’t be your coach for exactly that reason. But in reality it’s the complete opposite. Iamyour coach – and that’s why we can’t be romantically involved, even ifwe wanted to be. Whichever way you look at it, there’s a conflict of interest.’
I watched anxiously as he frowned at the road ahead for several seconds. In the end he said abruptly, ‘Sounds like I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’ll drop you at Preston, then.’ To my relief, he switched on some music, as if to discourage any more discussion.
When he pulled up outside Preston station,my heart started to thump; this was the moment of parting, when words could so easily be overruled by actions. While he went to fetch my suitcase from the boot, I grabbed my bag and darted into the ticket hall, telling myself it was purely to keep dry.
He strode grim-faced through the doorway, the shoulders of his T-shirt flecked with rain, and handed me the suitcase. Our fingers met and,inevitably, I felt the spark.
I blurted out, ‘There’s a train due.’ I had no idea if there was, but I was desperate to get away. ‘Thank you for the lift, and I’ll be in touch.’ I edged towards the barriers.
‘Alicia, wait.’ He moved closer, and I glanced up at him – wary, almost fearful. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘I’ll email you over the next few days to arrange a meeting.’An evasive reply, designed to buy me time and space. ‘And now I’d better go—’
‘Just let me give you this.’ From the pocket of his shorts, he pulled out a crumpled yet distinctive paper bag: that mysterious purchase he’d made in Keswick, when we’d been picking up the Chinese takeaway. After the detour to Ashness Bridge, and the revelation about his father.Was it only yesterday?
‘Asouvenir,’ he said softly, as he leaned in. ‘Of the Lakes.’
‘Please don’t.’ Did I mean the gift, or the kiss? Either way, it was too late. I couldn’t stop him from slipping the souvenir into my bag – just as I couldn’t stop his arms from enfolding me, and my mouth from opening under his.
He broke off to say, ‘Let’s go somewhere – anywhere. We need to talk.’
I looked around wildly– a man in railway uniform a few steps away – my brightest smile, as I wrenched myself out of Jack’s grasp. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got a ticket for the next train to London—’
‘Best come straight through, love,’ the man said, instantly. ‘You’ve only got three minutes and those bags’ll slow you down.’
He opened the ticket barrier for me, and I stumbled through its jaws. I heard them clampshut again, and a heated exchange break out behind me. The man was refusing to let Jack follow without seeing his ticket first, thank God – but what if he had time to buy one and catch the same train?
I battled the temptation to look back and dashed to the platform. The train was just pulling in, and I waited impatiently for the door locks to be released. As soon as they opened, I jumpedon board, and collapsed into a pair of empty seats halfway along the carriage, straining to listen for any telltale sounds above my gasping breath. No running footsteps, no shout of my name – I was safe.
The train eased away from the station, gathering speed at a relentless rate. But it wasn’t until we were past Manchester that I tore my unseeing gaze from the rain-streaked window and fumbledin my bag for Jack’s gift. I unwrapped it, carefully, and found a cocoon of white tissue paper. Inside nestled a sturdy painted china figure, only a few inches high.
She was just as I remembered: little black snuffly nose and bright eyes, peeping from under a white cap that barely contained her prickles; starched white apron over a bulky striped petticoat; tiny front paws holding two long,freshly laundered, pale-yellow gloves …No, aren’t they some stockings belonging to one of the hens who’s always scratching in the farmyard?
For this was Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, Beatrix Potter’s little washerwoman-hedgehog who lived over the back of Catbells …
I cradled her in my lap for the rest of the journey and stared out at the blurred world beyond the window. Only when we reached Eustondid I realise that the misted view had nothing to do with the rain.
