strongly, and I’d basically gone through life like a dandelion clock, blown to smithereens over and over by an endless series of misfortunes that gusted into my life. But now—now—things seemed to be actually working out, and while it wasn’t a feeling to which I was accustomed, it was the best high ever.
A woman sat in the seat opposite staring at her phone with a frown, and I desperately wanted to reach across the table and shake her by the shoulders, screaming, I’ve got somewhere to live! Isn’t that great? And I wanted to shout about how I felt this was meant to be, that those little girls needed me in their lives and that the book I was writing was going to basically write itself, now that I was going to live in Norway surrounded by moody fjords and sinister, abandoned fishing villages.
Then I started to weep. I felt staggered by relief. Shortly after that, paranoia kicked in. A tiny voice in my head that sounded exactly like Eartha Kitt whispered, But what about when they find out you’re not Sophie Hallerton? But to that voice I said, Shut up, shut up! and when the woman across from me looked up sharply I realized I’d said this out loud.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Meg’s number. I was on complete autopilot, and it was only when she answered that I realized with a jolt that I’d not spoken to her since she came to see me in the hospital. Also, she answered with a distracted “Yeah?,” as though she was expecting someone else to be on the other end of the line and I worried I might be disturbing her.
“Meg? It’s me, Lexi. You’re not going to believe what I’m going to tell—”
“Where are you?” she demanded, and I glanced out the window in case we were near something that indicated my location. Still just fields, sheep, and wind turbines.
“I’m not exactly sure. I’m on a train . . .”
“Right, but where have you been? I’ve . . . I’ve been calling you loads . . .”
I told her about the women’s refuge and the interview in Hampstead, about how I’d used David’s rail pass to get there and was in fact using it now, though I wasn’t quite sure where I was headed. I covered the handset with my fingertips and hissed at the woman opposite, who was starting to look considerably nervous.
“Where is this train headed?” I asked her.
She cleared her throat. “Inverness?”
I reported this back to Meg. “Anyway, I’m moving to Norway on Monday, but I’ve nowhere to stay until then so I wondered if I can stay with you? And maybe you can lend me some clothes? I’ll be gone until March and I legit have one set of clothes.”
A long pause on the other end of the line. “Do you mean . . . you’re coming tonight?”
“Is that OK? I’ll see if I can get off somewhere near Newcastle. If not, I’ll get a train back from Inverness . . . Can you pick me up from the station?”
“Yes,” Meg said, strangely emphatic. “Yes, absolutely. Just . . . text me whenever you get in, yeah?”
“OK, but it might be really late . . .”
“That’s fine. See you when you get in.”
“OK.”
“Oh, and, Lexi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad you’re safe.”
There was a weird, motherly tone to her voice. I hung up and frowned at the phone, then the woman opposite. “What was all that about?” I asked her, and she gave a nervous shake of her head in response. “I mean, I don’t have a single missed call from Meg. I don’t think she’s rung me once all week. Why would she lie to me?”
The woman muttered a reply, but I was too caught up in my own thoughts to really hear it. I’d known Meg for over ten years. We’d gone to college together, both of us cajoled into getting a diploma in business studies when the creative writing course turned out to be full. Meg wrote micro horror stories in biro, usually on people’s skin, a precedent for her current job as a tattoo artist. We were always close, and sometimes I confided in her when I felt down.
“She sounds . . . very nice,” the woman said, and I agreed. Meg was the closest thing to a soul mate I’d ever had. I’d miss her when I went to Norway.
The train pulled in to Newcastle a couple of hours later. I called