A Midlife Marriage (The Midlife Trilogy #4)
Chapter 1
1
J et-lagged and jowly, Helen stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom. Two hours until she was supposed to be meeting Caro and Kay, and she could barely get moving. By her reckoning it was three am in the morning. If she were to listen to her body, it would tell her to go back to bed. Come on, Helen, she said, slapping at her face. If she were to listen to her heart it would tell her to get back on the plane.
In the kitchen she found a packet of teabags, but no milk. In her toilet bag, her toothbrush, but no toothpaste. She used a travel sized all-in-one for her hair and her body, and a squeeze of sunscreen as moisturiser. She found a clean-enough pair of jeans, but not a clean-enough t-shirt. And twenty minutes later, after sorting through a mountain of dirty washing, she settled on what was supposed to be a gift for Jack, her son. Never mind, she thought as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. Jack, heading into his last year at university, was finishing a summer jaunt in the states. She’d wear the t-shirt wash it, then fold it back into the packaging and he would never know.
She locked the door of her new flat and headed out into a July morning heavy with latent rain. The sky was grey as socks, the road full of potholes and the station facade weathered and beaten.
‘Twenty-four fifty,’ the ticket clerk muttered, from behind glass thick enough to contain a serial killer.
‘Twenty-four fifty?’ She wasn’t sure, because he hadn’t bothered to look up as he spoke.
Twenty-four fifty.’
‘Thank you,’ she said pointedly, as without any further attempt at civility, the tickets were slid towards her.
The train was fast but full and for nearly an hour Helen negotiated a personal space marked on one side by a large man with body odour, and on the other by a foul-smelling toilet with a permanently open door.
Kings Cross was even busier, everyone and his dog on their way to London. By the time she found a grubby tube seat and collapsed into it, she was exhausted. Three stops to Oxford Circus. Just about enough time for a micro-nap. Arms crossed over the strap of her handbag, she closed her eyes and let her head drop and the rumble of the track and the black of the tunnel were a lullaby, rocking her back to the summit of Pikes Peak, Colorado. The spruce forests and crisp clean air, the pristine snow-caps of the Rocky Mountains, the space … so much space.
The train jerked to a halt, a screeching percussion of brakes waking her up. She stood up and on wobbly legs, joined a moving river of human bodies through the open doors of the carriage, along the narrow platform, up a steep escalator and out into a marginally brighter, but no less crowded, Oxford Street.