‘Sorry, excuse me, I – I –’ Henry sucked in a deep breath, trying to gather his wits. ‘Sorry, but I – excuse me, I think that you have my – my book...’
The man stared at him, bewildered.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the train – I left my book? Well, it wasn’t mine, it was given to me by someone else –’ Henry realised that he kept repeating that, but no one would ever really understand the significance of Molly’s interest except him, and perhaps Ben... He hurried on. ‘Never mind – the thing is, I left my book on the train, right where you were sitting actually, and I think you may have picked it up?’
Henry gestured to the newspaper and the guy’s perplexed expression ebbed slightly.
‘Me? Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you – I don’t really read books anymore, newspapers about all I can manage.’ Now it was Henry’s turn to look bewildered. The man flipped open his newspaper to reveal a small, black, leather-clad bundle contained securely within. Henry’s heart sank, his breathing turning shallow. ‘Since I got the Kindle, I find it easier on the commute.’
No.
No, no, no, no, no...
‘Then your friend...?’
‘Who, Barry? The guy I was sitting next to? We’d just had a business meeting, happened to be heading back the same way – I think he’s got to go back to Birmingham tonight... Now you mention it, I think he did pick up a paperback as we were getting off back there – James Herbert... No, no – Stephen King, yeah, that was the one...’
Henry felt like his legs might actually give out from underneath him. The businessman seemed to notice his suffering because he pressed a sympathetic hand to his shoulder.
‘Sorry, man – if he realised it belonged to someone, he’d be mortified.’
‘He’s going back to Birmingham?’ Henry straightened up, clutching at the one hope he had left. The man nodded and Henry wasted no more time; pulling away from his benevolent grasp, he took off down the stairs, frantically seeking out a departure screen. Birmingham, Birmingham, Birmingham – it was his last chance... There, platform three – he had two minutes –
Henry ran like he’d never run before. The blood was pounding in his ears, the back of his throat tasted like iron filings and with every step Molly’s number seemed to fade indistinctly before his eyes. Only the name of the Stephen King novel burned across his eyelids in ever-increasing irony: Cell. The number that he was about to lose forever if he didn’t make it in time...
His dream, his literary vision, it all rested on this moment...
The stairs to platform three blurred beneath his feet, the pounding of the asphalt matching the pounding of his pulse, and then suddenly the Virgin Pendolino was in front of him, steaming and hissing... And then there was that ever-ominous bleeping that was beginning to haunt Henry with its trilling, endless cry: the doors were starting to close.
He wasn’t going to make it.
‘No!’ Henry yelled, sprinting furiously towards the nearest carriage. But the whistle had sounded even as Henry had been mounting the stairs and this time his Indiana Jones incarnation wasn’t so blessed as before – third time lucky? As if.
The doors locked together and Henry pulled up short before he slammed against them cartoonishly. He screwed his eyes shut, unable to look, unable to bear the pain of how close he had been... The chugging, thundering squeal of the brakes being released shot through him like a knife and then the unmistakable sensation of the train pulling away knocked him back a few steps, albeit reluctantly.
It was over. He had lost the book.
Worse than that – he had lost Molly’s number.
He was stranded in Stoke on Trent train station, having run two platforms and the entire length of a train in order to reclaim the most perfect looking book ever written because it had her phone number scribbled in the front of it. If it hadn’t been for that god-damn ticket man, he might have actually stood a chance of not screwing up so spectacularly!
Because he had screwed up.
Henry could almost hear Ben’s chiding tone ringing in his ears: you see her every day, idiot – just ask her for her number again...
But could he really do that? Really? Molly had given him that book in the spirit of good will, of mutual interest... He had just stood up for her when he didn’t have to, when no one else looked like they were going to and, after weeks of smiles and nods, that was what it had taken to get them conversing. In all truth, Molly was a complete stranger to him – she had given him something of hers as a gesture, trusted him with it, this girl he had only just met – in fact, she had trusted him with something even more personal, her goddamn phone number –
And, within barely half an hour, he had lost it. How could he explain that to her without looking like an idiot? She’d think he wasn’t interested in her, that he was making it up...
That he didn’t care.
Slumping back against the wall, Henry pressed the base of his palms against his temples, wishing that if he could just concentrate hard enough he would simply be able to step back in time, to the moment Molly stepped off the train, leaving her book in his hands, so that he could replay those few seconds and put the damned novel in his bag...
Too little, too late.
Sighing heavily, Henry dropped his head to his chest, finally giving in.
The book was gone –
And so were his chances.
*
Wednesday morning came and Henry – after a long, hard talking-to from his brother – prepared for early-morning confession: he would just tell Molly the truth, come what may. He knew how absurd, how unbelievable it sounded... But he would just have to hope that, like his gawky jokes the night before, his literary vision would see the funny side.
But she wasn’t there.
Belatedly, Henry remembered how she had gotten off a couple of stops earlier the night before; no wonder. Holding in a sigh, he turned away from her usual spot, its emptiness tarnishing that brief spark of optimism somewhat; confession would just have to wait until five thirty then...
But she wasn’t there, either.
Thursday morning came and went: no Molly.
Thursday evening was a dull repeat; by the end of Friday – still no book girl – Henry had lost hope altogether. It was over – his worst fear had come to pass: she had changed routes. God, for all he really knew about her, Molly maybe had even moved house, relocating to a new area and a new commuting timetable – why shouldn’t she? They were strangers, swapping smiles on the train into work; that situation was hardly long-term. That it had gone on for three months already without interruption for one of them was miracle enough!
And speaking of miracles, he’d had her phone number in his grasp – and he’d lost it.
She had probably wondered why he hadn’t called; three days and nothing, not even a text. Henry had spent hours stoically attempting to recreate the mobile number on scraps of paper, but he could never get past the ‘077’ without self-doubt and lingering fear kicking in to render the whole exercise completely useless. How could he have let the book out of his sight? He deserved to suffer for that stupidity.
Even Ben had no advice this time.
The weekend loomed and Henry could think only of the things he had let slip out of his grasp: what if this Saturday morning could have been spent with Molly in town, sipping coffee and discussing books? What if Saturday evening would have seen them head out to the cinema? He would never really know, not without the book and the beautiful scrawl of her phone number to guide him. All Henry was left with was his re-discovered DVD of ‘The Shining’, just the name of Stephen King making him feel like all ties with his mysterious, freckled, literary brunette weren’t completely severed.
Perhaps, come Monday morning, she would be sitting on his platform once more, nose buried in a brand new paperback?
Henry hoped for that scenario more than anything – but he doubted his luck would hold... He had really
screwed this up. He didn’t even know her second name.
Just Molly.
Beautiful, elusive, literary...
Molly.
*
Monday morning came and Henry headed onto the platform at 8am, barely raising his eyes from the white Styrofoam lid of his cardboard take-out cup of coffee. What was the point? Three days in a row she hadn’t been there, with her flowered skirts and blue peacoat, absently pushing her reading glasses up her nose as she devoured page after page... It was beginning to physically ache, the anticipation of seeing her only to find an empty space on the bench, disappointment souring the eagerness irreparably.
Stifling a sigh, Henry knocked back another swig of coffee – and froze mid-sip.
Out of the corner of his eye... No, it couldn’t be... He was surely so desperate to see her petite frame that he was imagining things in his optimism... Surely?
No. No, this time, it was real.
She was there.
Henry almost choked on his coffee. As he spluttered, Molly looked up – and frowned.
‘Henry?’
‘Molly!’ He hastily checked himself, realising how overwhelmingly animated he sounded. She rose from the bench, starting towards him and he hastily wiped smudges of spilt caffeine from his lips. ‘Hey – I’ve been looking for you, all last week –’
‘Yeah, I was staying with my sister – she’s had the flu, needed someone to look after her for a couple of days...’ Henry stared at her, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically at his own stupidity. Of course; of course, it would be something so simple – how could he have gotten so carried away? First he lost the book, then he decided he was never going to see her again because she hadn’t happened to be on the train for a couple of days – and first and second place in the Idiot Prize go to...! Molly meanwhile was looking up at him shrewdly, eyebrows raised. ‘So... you have something to tell me then?’
How did she know?
‘Well, yes.’ Henry paused, fumbling for words; now that the moment had come and his prayers had been answered, he had no idea what to actually say. His grip tightened on the coffee cup. ‘Look, it’s about the book...’
‘Yeah, you never called –’
‘It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, believe me –’
‘I know,’ She interrupted and Henry froze for a second time.
‘You – you know?’
‘Yeah. You lost my book.’ Henry’s mouth dropped open. How on earth...? Molly grinned at his evident surprise. ‘It was kind of funny actually – at about nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, I got this phone call – for a minute I thought it was you, which I thought was cute, being so eager and everything... But it was from this guy in Birmingham, which was weird, because I don’t know anyone in Birmingham. Turns out he found this book on a train? He thought someone had left it because they were done with it, but when he started reading it later that night, he found my name and phone number in the front and figured it must have been left behind by mistake...’
Henry was like a deer in the headlights; he could feel the humiliating fire of red spreading across his cheeks as she watched him, amused. Finally, after an age stretched between them, Henry managed to exhale an embarrassed laugh.
‘Yeah – about that... Look, I got up to help someone and I just... I don’t know what happened. The second I got off the train, I realised what I’d done and I practically killed myself getting back on to find it – in fact, a ticket officer is pretty sure I’m some sort of punk who likes to cheat the national rail system, and then I had to chase a guy down the platform at Stoke on Trent, then almost got on another train to Birmingham trying to get your book back...’
‘I know,’ Molly’s smile widened, dark eyes soft. Henry was incredulous.
‘You know that too?’
‘The man who found Cell, who rang me up? He said he’d gotten a call just before he rang me, from a colleague in Manchester whom he’d had a meeting with the day before... He also thought maybe the book belonged to someone – because he’d been accosted by some desperate guy off the train, who was trying to find his book...’
Henry winced.
‘Yeah, that’d be me...’ Molly raised her eyebrows again and Henry sighed. ‘Look, Molly, I’m so sorry – it was a complete accident and I feel like such an idiot – ’
‘No,’ Molly caught hold of his arms, shaking her head earnestly. ‘No, don’t be daft – Henry, you ran the length of one train, apparently got stranded at Stoke on Trent and were prepared to go all the way to Birmingham, just to get my book back.’
‘Well – honestly? It was your phone number I was more worried about.’
Molly laughed, the most amazing sound Henry had ever heard.
‘You’re crazy – and really, really sweet. You could have just asked me again.’
‘I was worried you’d think... I don’t know, that I didn’t really care? I mean, I lost your book – and I really did want to read it. And call you, obviously. This is ridiculously embarrassing.’
‘Well, I think you’ve proved that you care, even if it is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. And you already helped to save me from a drunk guy.’ She narrowed her eyes at him, lips curling; pushing her reading glasses onto her head in a tangle that was becoming strangely familiar to Henry, she fumbled into her handbag. ‘And I think I can help you out about the book... You see, the guy very kindly posted it back to me...’
Henry stared in astonishment as she produced a now slightly-more-battered copy of Cell from her bag, offering it to him once again. Unable to stop himself, Henry started laughing, tapping the cover fondly; flipping open the inside cover, he found the phone number still perfectly intact at the top of the page.
‘Unbelievable.’
Molly’s fingers brushed over his.
‘Guess you still have my number too.’
Henry held her gaze, more content in that single moment than he had ever been in his life. He didn’t even care that half the platform was earwigging in, nor the cold that nipped and bit at their fingers as they quietly held the book between them – the source of so much trouble, and yet still so much happiness.
Ben was never going to believe this...
Seize the day, Henry.
‘You know what – forget the number. Let’s go for a drink, yeah?’
‘Ah, the direct approach. In case you lose the book again, hm?’
‘Believe me, I’m never letting it out of my sight.’ Henry smiled, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m asking because I lost the book. I thought I wasn’t going to ever see you again, stupid as it sounds. That’s what I’d like to make sure doesn’t happen. Come on, you can tell me all about the other books you like that I can accidentally leave behind on trains. How about it – Molly?’
Their train rumbled up the platform, the clank and rumble like a familiar friend; around them, fellow commuters began to stir and shift their belongings, heading for the doors, but together the intrepid book-hunter and his beautiful, elusive book girl hung back, blushing into one another’s eyes. Finally Molly nodded, biting her lip as she delivered the answer he’d been dreaming of.
‘Sounds great – Henry.’
His literary vision beamed and the whole world lit up; together they turned towards the train. Finally, after days, weeks, months, they were finally walking beside one another into the carriage, sitting down next to each other, talking and laughing – together. A bubble of happiness radiated out of their sunny smiles to infect the entire carriage, the fugitive novel still held between the intrepid book-hunter and his beautiful literary vision like a talisman, while their train clattered in the background like thunderous applause echoing off into the promise of the early-morning sky.
Daffodils
She stands and watches him, and she says nothing. For a long time, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to say anything either.
Today, clutching a bunch of baby’s breath – her favourites, back when they were together –
he swallows down the fear, and starts the conversation.
‘Hi,’ he begins, and his voice catches in his throat, whipped away by fear. He wishes they weren’t standing how they are now – her, stony faced, wreathed in broken memories and emptiness – and him, accepting that it’s over, and hoping that she’ll understand. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘We need to talk,’ Luna said softly, sitting down beside him on the sofa. The TV was a dull murmur in the background, and blue flickered from the screen onto the opposing walls, darkened by the evening. John caught her eyes, and turned down the six o’clock news in order to give her his full attention. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, making a sad smile worse, and she took in a quivering breath. ‘Things aren’t good.’
‘I’m…’ His eyes close, and for a moment he forgets how to speak. The cold steals his voice, squirrels it away with dread, and guilt. All inflection ebbs, and when he speaks, he sounds nothing like himself at all. ‘I’m seeing somebody else.’
She offers no reply – of course not – and he immediately holds out the flowers in a pathetic peace offering. Several petals fall and dance, cast away by the light spring breeze. Even the daffodils are struggling to show their faces – no yellow jazz hands to brighten the morning, he relents. Why should they?
‘Oh, look at those,’ Luna beamed, and John watched her with fond eyes; she was still so beautiful, even when the cracks had begun to show. He fixed the bunch of flowers into the vase on her bedside – dainty white blooms crowding bright yellow trumpets. They brought the room to life, and Luna, too- for the first time in months. John couldn’t believe such a simple thing as roughly cut flowers could inspire such hope.
He regrets the way he sounds, like a radio station losing signal, and he shakes his head as he realises that he’s being absurd. He wonders why he needs her to be okay with this, especially now; especially with things the way they are. He has an attachment to long ago, to love lost, and yet he feels guilty about love regained. Why should he cling to the corpse of a marriage, to two years of unsaid things?