Nadia had checked the Missed Connections part of the paper, both days, desperate to see if Train Guy had written back. She was about 75 per cent convinced that what Emma had written was too gauche, too provocative, too … much, to warrant a response from him. And yet, still she hoped.
Even though she’d not quite made the 7.30 again on Friday, she’d still held out hope that Train Guy would be in her carriage today. She let herself get really carried away, waiting the whole ride for somebody to make eye contact, to smile, to invite conversation because, yes, he had put the advert in the paper, and yes, it was about her, and why didn’t they bunk off work together – here, today, now?
Over the weekend she’d bolstered her confidence and by Sunday night found herself wondering if – one full week on from his first advert – tomorrow she’d meet her man. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to Monday morning again until it was 9 p.m. on Sunday night without a hint of the Sunday Night Scaries settling in. Whereas normally she’d feel a sinking feeling deepening in her stomach as the evening wore on, this weekend she’d been positively giddy at bedtime looming ever closer, knowing that the closer bedtime was, the closer Monday morning was.
Nadia fantasized that they would get off the train – on the morning they met – head to the river, and walk alongside the water. It was that funny kind of early-morning light in July – the sort that shines a certain way, highlighting problematic female moustaches and chin hairs – so the two of them would probably find a shady spot, where the sun could come from behind Nadia and give her a sort of halo that he’d find seductive and disarming, and would make her look biblical, in a way, and less like a woman transitioning into a werewolf because the moon was full. Nadia knew that one way to get any two women impassionedly bonded was to casually mention a sudden necessity to tweeze a thick, wiry chin hair – where did it suddenly come from? What made it hide in plain sight until one day a foot-long black twig could poke any bystanders in the eye? It was one of the many mysteries of being female.
As they strolled on their imaginary date, Nadia would be tempted to bring up her horrible ex, to plead with Train Guy not to hurt her like he had done, to not make her anything less than herself, but before she could he’d say something funny and she’d laugh, and her laugh would make him laugh more, and she’d forget. Oh, how he’d make her forget.
On this Monday morning, though, the fantasy shifted, because there it was. He had written back:
Coffee Spill Girl: So what, you don’t like big romantic gestures? I thought you might appreciate the time it takes to craft an advert witty enough to get chosen for publication … (although, I see that in writing back you’re more of a romantic than you’re letting on ) Anyway, I’ve got dark hair, my mother thinks I’m ‘quite handsome, but must shave properly’, and am always in the last carriage, because it’s the least crowded. I promise to say hi in person if you do. From Train Guy x
Nadia smiled, instantly looking up to see if anybody was trying to get her attention. It was a great note – he was flirting! He wasn’t afraid of her! Well, of Emma, anyway. He’d seen the humour in what Emma had sent in and was showing her that he knew how to spar a little too. That was super-hot to Nadia. She loved a little verbal rough-and-tumble.
Her eyes roved around the carriage, waiting for the moment that would change everything. Maybe this really would be the morning they bunked off, that they took that walk.
It seemed more crowded than usual. The reason Nadia had resolved in the first place to get up earlier and get to the station for the 7.30 tube was that it didn’t usually get properly busy until after eight. How was she supposed to figure out who the author was when everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder, crammed in like beans in a can?
She scanned the faces she could see.
What would Emma tell me to do? she asked herself. Emma would tell her to swallow her pride and be brave. That’s why they were friends, after all –