coffee. She
was slender, dressed in a business suit and devoid of bright colours or
jewellery. He mentally placed her in the category of a woman who takes ages to
choose from the menu.
“That’s very kind of you. I
usually have to do a bit of busking before someone buys me a coffee.”
She nervously ducked the joke:
“What do you do?”
“I run a restaurant.”
“That must be tricky with a
baby?”
“Well,” said Chris, sipping his
coffee, to remind him the conversation was worth it: it was at times like these
he felt his brother appear as a devil on his shoulder, saying something like Send her back for
a doughnut . “As you see, she is very small. Only a few months old. So it
hasn’t been tricky for long. Plus I run it with family.”
“I see.”
They drank coffee.
“And what do you do?” he
asked politely.
“I work for a pharmaceutical
company.”
The train began its sedate
journey out of London, gliding serenely along the rails with no prediction of
the high-speed action to come. Chris was prepared to be thrilled: or, at least,
diverted. The carriage was full. Gabriella, prim in her cream blouse, tapped
away at her keyboard, occasionally assailing his dozing senses with wafts of
her scent: more woody than floral, like an aftershave almost – probably
the same perfume she had worn for years.
He pre-empted Amélie’s first
stirrings from sleep since leaving the flat as her need for a change and a
feed; and he left his seat for a while to perform his parental duty and return
with a bottle warmed up by the jolly buffet attendant, a dark-skinned Frenchman
who appeared to greet every customer like meeting an old friend. Chris wondered
whether he was wasted on such a trivial role in life; or whether the world had
simply become far too accustomed to dispirited customer service.
“I thought I might have
frightened you away,” said Gabriella Dixon, who looked as though she had been
waiting for him, with her laptop set aside and (if he wasn’t mistaken) the
addition of a hint of lip gloss.
“Duty called,” he said.
Amélie consumed half her lunch
with wide-eyed restraint; and sat up on Chris’s knee to somehow take stock of
her latest environment. She was wearing the knitted strawberry hat Sara had
sent as a parting gift ‘to make her look like a girl’; and there was something
about the style that did just that, transforming her universal baby features
into an image that was more feminine and delicately pretty. Like her mum.
“She is like you,” said
Gabriella. “What is her name again?”
“Amélie.”
“Ah! Is her mother in Paris?”
“Yes,” said Chris, and found
himself waggling his knee to distract his daughter from the deceit: You won’t tell,
will you?
“My parents would love me to
have children,” his new friend confided in him, rather wistfully.
“Do you have a partner?”
“No,” Gabriella replied.
“Although my sister is married, but can’t have kids. She was born without a
womb.”
“Would you do the honours, and I
will get the coffee this time?” Chris decided to interject; not wishing to
dwell on whether Gabriella’s current flush of colour was as a result of
confessing her lack of a mate or her sister’s infertility. He left Amélie in
her bewildered but not unwilling grip and made his way back to his less
complicated friend serving drinks in the buffet carriage.
He received a call from Linda.
“How’s the trip ?”
“It’s fine, so far. St Pancras
is never that intrepid.”
“Chris, I just wanted you to
know we love you; and to say sorry if Peter has been odd about stuff. You know
what he’s like.”
Chris looked at the scene from
the window; feeling the gentle banking of the train as it swallowed up the
curves of the French countryside. A sense of his brother Peter moved in and out
of his consciousness: it hadn’t changed from childhood, like the taste of
Marmite or the texture of a Lego brick.
“Thank you, both. We will be in
touch when we
was slender, dressed in a business suit and devoid of bright colours or
jewellery. He mentally placed her in the category of a woman who takes ages to
choose from the menu.
“That’s very kind of you. I
usually have to do a bit of busking before someone buys me a coffee.”
She nervously ducked the joke:
“What do you do?”
“I run a restaurant.”
“That must be tricky with a
baby?”
“Well,” said Chris, sipping his
coffee, to remind him the conversation was worth it: it was at times like these
he felt his brother appear as a devil on his shoulder, saying something like Send her back for
a doughnut . “As you see, she is very small. Only a few months old. So it
hasn’t been tricky for long. Plus I run it with family.”
“I see.”
They drank coffee.
“And what do you do?” he
asked politely.
“I work for a pharmaceutical
company.”
The train began its sedate
journey out of London, gliding serenely along the rails with no prediction of
the high-speed action to come. Chris was prepared to be thrilled: or, at least,
diverted. The carriage was full. Gabriella, prim in her cream blouse, tapped
away at her keyboard, occasionally assailing his dozing senses with wafts of
her scent: more woody than floral, like an aftershave almost – probably
the same perfume she had worn for years.
He pre-empted Amélie’s first
stirrings from sleep since leaving the flat as her need for a change and a
feed; and he left his seat for a while to perform his parental duty and return
with a bottle warmed up by the jolly buffet attendant, a dark-skinned Frenchman
who appeared to greet every customer like meeting an old friend. Chris wondered
whether he was wasted on such a trivial role in life; or whether the world had
simply become far too accustomed to dispirited customer service.
“I thought I might have
frightened you away,” said Gabriella Dixon, who looked as though she had been
waiting for him, with her laptop set aside and (if he wasn’t mistaken) the
addition of a hint of lip gloss.
“Duty called,” he said.
Amélie consumed half her lunch
with wide-eyed restraint; and sat up on Chris’s knee to somehow take stock of
her latest environment. She was wearing the knitted strawberry hat Sara had
sent as a parting gift ‘to make her look like a girl’; and there was something
about the style that did just that, transforming her universal baby features
into an image that was more feminine and delicately pretty. Like her mum.
“She is like you,” said
Gabriella. “What is her name again?”
“Amélie.”
“Ah! Is her mother in Paris?”
“Yes,” said Chris, and found
himself waggling his knee to distract his daughter from the deceit: You won’t tell,
will you?
“My parents would love me to
have children,” his new friend confided in him, rather wistfully.
“Do you have a partner?”
“No,” Gabriella replied.
“Although my sister is married, but can’t have kids. She was born without a
womb.”
“Would you do the honours, and I
will get the coffee this time?” Chris decided to interject; not wishing to
dwell on whether Gabriella’s current flush of colour was as a result of
confessing her lack of a mate or her sister’s infertility. He left Amélie in
her bewildered but not unwilling grip and made his way back to his less
complicated friend serving drinks in the buffet carriage.
He received a call from Linda.
“How’s the trip ?”
“It’s fine, so far. St Pancras
is never that intrepid.”
“Chris, I just wanted you to
know we love you; and to say sorry if Peter has been odd about stuff. You know
what he’s like.”
Chris looked at the scene from
the window; feeling the gentle banking of the train as it swallowed up the
curves of the French countryside. A sense of his brother Peter moved in and out
of his consciousness: it hadn’t changed from childhood, like the taste of
Marmite or the texture of a Lego brick.
“Thank you, both. We will be in
touch when we
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