Kept

Kept - Chapter One

‘They sold it for three million, I heard.’

The woman is incredulous. ‘But they only paid £100k for it.’

‘Everything he does turns to gold. Come on, why else would Sarah have married him? Don’t you remember when–’

I don’t hear the rest. They’ve passed by me and I hurriedly search the train platform for the next conversation to use as a distraction. Instead of hearing about doom and gloom – what I’m really after – it’s another sickening snippet.

‘Oh yes, she’s the youngest partner there.’

‘It was expected. Didn’t she get a double first from Cambridge?’

‘Only one in her college who did,’ is the smug reply I hear as I board the train. I have no doubt as I sit down that Mrs Double First probably also found the time to play the French horn in the orchestra, debate beautifully, appear on University Challenge and cox the winning team in the Boat Race. All in one morning.

It gets worse. Escaping into the empty train carriage doesn’t mean I’m now free of the suited successes because I can still see them. Those people on the platform, the ones tapping away on their BlackBerrys, they are the people who can laugh carefree and happy with colleagues, or legitimately be absorbed in the FT, because that’s what they do. For them, success is as natural as breathing. Those people separated from me through the glass are the sort of people who make loved ones proud; they are the people who achieve, each and every day, who always accomplish, and are never found lacking. Bet they’ve never been caught lacking a ticket either...

On behalf of today’s crew, we wish you a pleasant and tranquil onward journey. Thank you for choosing Golighty Trains.

A pleasant and tranquil onward journey? That would be nice. I might look like one of those successes on the shrinking platform as the train slowly pulls me away from Waterloo, from all that is important to me, but I’m not.

There was no double first for me; there is no chance I’ll become a partner in a hot-shot firm. Today’s “success” will be surviving this train journey without getting arrested or receiving a hefty fine I can’t possibly pay for not having a ticket; yet four years ago I thought I would be like the suits the train has just whizzed past at Clapham Junction.

Needless to say, it hasn’t quite worked out that way and maybe I had my glory days when I was eight, beating my best friend Obélix – a nickname, don’t worry – at disco, winning when life was simple. He’d wear his horrid purple shell-suit and “borrow” his dad’s Boombox, I’d put on my favourite ensemble of the week, and we’d dance happily for hours trying to emulate his hero, Michael Jackson.

In fact, Obélix wanted to be Michael Jackson, just as I wanted to be Coco Chanel. We never twigged they were people. We thought to be a “Michael Jackson” or a “Coco Chanel” was a job. I certainly know now that I’m no Coco – my life hasn’t become the Technicolor extravaganza promised in movies, let alone Coco’s palette of monochrome – but I bet whatever Obélix is doing he isn’t failing.

‘Tea or coffee?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts. I have been miles away, staring aimlessly out of the window as we leave London, past demons stirring inside me.

Taking a steadying breath, I turn to the voice and force an apologetic smile that I’m certain will betray me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I try to say calmly, certain my voice will betray me, ‘but I don’t have any change.’

Let her think I’m the sort of woman who never carries anything smaller than a fifty pound note or my Platinum Amex card... please let her think that.

‘It’s complimentary in First Class.’ She smiles at me nicely, her kind green eyes crinkling with the gesture.

I’m afraid I must be staring at her with disbelief on my face, so much so that she worriedly smoothes her hand over her uniform, then touches her swept-back greying hair to reassure herself. I, on the other hand, am panicking. Of course it’s free in First Class. She must know I’m a charlatan. I feel my mouth go even drier because I’m going to be ejected from the train at the next stop and then I’m well and truly buggered. 

‘Coffee?’ she chirps conversationally. Is she trying to catch me out?

I nod, preparing myself for the probing questions that will expose me as a fare dodger and make today just that little bit worse.

‘It’s just–’ Here it comes. ‘You seem a little dazed. Judging by your tan, it’s jet-lag. Am I right?’

Sympathy. I sigh audibly with relief, hoping she will decode it as the weariness of a First Class paying traveller. ‘Yes,’ I say thankfully. ‘I would usually crash after a flight back from Australia, but I need to rush home to my parents...’

‘Oh no.’ She gapes at me. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ I grimace at this, which she interprets in her own way. ‘You poor thing.’

I smile tightly in response, but part of me hopes she will tell her colleagues to leave the weary-looking tanned lady alone, the grieving woman. It will help make this ticket evasion easier if they do; my nerves are already shot to pieces...

As the nice trolley lady walks down the rattling train after pouring my coffee with sympathy I do not deserve, I take a grateful sip. Following a week of denial trying to cling to my London life, I painfully realised I only have one place to go – back to my childhood home. This is non-negotiable – unless I get kicked off the train – and I’m not heading there because of a parental heart attack, although they may feel severe discomfort when I land on their doorstep. I’m heading home for good. Because I have messed up. Spectacularly. 

It’s going to be a stark contrast to the life I’ve left behind now I can no longer afford the luxury of choice. Ha! I can’t afford anything. I will have to learn to make do – a task that may prove to be as arduous as a drinker going cold turkey.

As I sip my lukewarm train coffee – it’s no La Esmeralda blend – and admit my stupidity caused this, I experience a fierce determination to overcome this. I don’t want to be this girl, the one Piers called a spoilt, superficial monster. Not that I can afford to be her anyway, but that’s not the point.

I wasn’t always spoilt and superficial though. A fuzzy image of a girl travelling economy on budget airlines swirls in my mind but I quickly dismiss it since it doesn’t correlate with the woman I have become. Without one, there would never have been the other. Funny that.

I’ve lost my confidence, I’ve lost everything, but confidence is the key to success. Right now I have to channel that, regain some confidence, because a man is looming over me.

‘Miss?’ he says.

I glance up in surprise, like I’ve only just seen the ticket inspector. In reality, I have beadily watched his approach from the opposite direction to the nice trolley lady. There’s no chance he knows my parental lie so only I have the power to convince him.

It’s show time.