Chapter Eight
Like a true idiot, I’d always thought travelling overnight on a train would be romantic. Who wouldn’t love being gently rocked back and forth, lulled to sleep by the chug of the engine, the rush of the rails?
Me. That’s who.
For what felt like forever, I had tossed and turned on my six inches of mattress at the edge of the bed, too hot, then too cold, almost rolling across the cabin every time the train swept around a bend, which it did roughly eighteen thousand times between London and Scotland.
According to my watch, time ticked by but I was almost positive it was moving more slowly than usual.
That or I was trapped in some sort of too-tired purgatory, dehydrated from the whisky and wine and, whether I liked it or not, horny as hell.
For all my talk about being able to sleep anywhere, I’d forgotten how difficult it was to sleep next to anyone.
Naturally, Callum passed out the moment he turned out the light.
Eyes closed, arms above his head, dead to the world, and every time he moved, I was hyper aware of him, the heat that emanated from his body, the soft sighs issuing from his lips, the gentle nudges against my back each time he rolled over.
Eventually, right as it was almost time to wake up anyway, overwhelming exhaustion loosened my tight muscles and pulled me towards a fitful sleep, the room slipping away and dragging me down into relaxation.
Until an arm slung itself over my torso, drawing my stiff body in towards a warm, supple one.
Suddenly wide awake, I froze as Callum stirred, pressing against my back and curling in closer, one huge hand passively wrapping itself around my waist and making my skin tingle from head to toe.
His breath was soft on my neck, making my hair dance with every exhale.
Unfortunately, his breath was the only thing about him that was soft.
A low groan rumbled out of his body, sending shockwaves all the way through me and straight between my legs.
Ripping my phone and its charger from out the wall, I shot out of bed and into the bathroom, where I slammed the door shut and locked it behind me.
I was practically panting when I closed the toilet lid with a noisy clatter and crouched on the top like the floor was on fire.
The tingling was an automatic physiological response, nothing but frisson.
Blood vessels dilating, blood rushing to the surface of my skin, a perfectly understandable reaction to one body’s physical closeness to another.
My heavy breathing, dilated pupils and unexpectedly clenched thighs on the other hand …
My phone buzzed to life in my hand. Startled, I almost dropped it but managed to catch the tail end of the charging cable before it could clatter to the floor.
Banged him yet?
Of course it was Joel, an annoyingly chipper early riser. Desi wouldn’t see anything other than the insides of her eyelids for another two hours at least.
Don’t ask why but we had to share bed … I typed furiously, still crouched on top of the toilet.
Just woke up, I added, he’s got a …
Before I could complete the sentence, Joel replied with a barrage of GIFs: a rocket taking off, Pinocchio’s nose growing and a skeleton shooting up straight to attention.
Not helpful but yes, I replied. What should I do?
Grind on him and see what happens, came Joel’s helpful reply.
When I sent him a thumbs down, another three bubbles appeared.
Can you shuffle around and pop it in?
You have never had sex with a woman and it shows, I tapped out, listening for movement beyond the bathroom door. Was that Callum climbing out of bed or just another creak of the train? My phone vibrated in my hand again, this time signalling a phone call.
‘Are you bouncing on it?’ Joel asked, unnecessarily perky for 6.45 in the morning. ‘Am I technically part of a threesome right now?’
‘Yes, with me and the toilet,’ I hissed. ‘I’m hiding in the bathroom.’
‘Sexy. Wait, no, opposite.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked in a panic. ‘He’s going to know, isn’t he?’
‘That he’s got a hard-on? Yes, I expect so.’
‘That I know he’s got a hard-on!’ I exploded as quietly as I could. ‘He’ll be mortified. I’m mortified. We haven’t even got to Scotland yet and I’m already mortified. How am I going to get through the next five days?’
‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Is this bad?’
I considered the question before I answered.
‘No, not bad,’ I confessed. ‘Just surprising.’
‘Then as much as I hate to damage your fragile ego, it’s not a big deal,’ Joel drawled. ‘He probably wakes up with a boner every day. The only difference between today and any other day is that you could’ve given him a hand with it and instead you’re hiding in the bog like a mutant.’
I sat up straight, banging my head on something sharp behind me. The taps for the shower. The shower that hung directly over the toilet. This really was not the Orient Express.
‘What’s the problem? Why are you so bothered?’
I curled my toes around the toilet lid, phone hot against my ear.
‘Because …’ I began, struggling to finish the sentence, even though I didn’t know why. ‘Because I don’t usually wake up with a penis sticking in my lower back?’
‘Which is half your problem. You’re being so weird. You’ve seen him naked, he’s fit as fuck, and you’re all right—’
‘Oi.’
‘You’re supposed to be his girlfriend, aren’t you? You should have a quick go on it just in case anyone asks you about his attributes.’
‘We’re spending Christmas with his parents, not going through a green card interview,’ I reminded him. ‘I can’t imagine our sex life is going to come up that often. Can you at least try to be helpful?’
‘Straight people are so boring,’ Joel replied with a tut of disgust. ‘Fine, this is what you want to hear. He’s probably dying of shame right now and, odds are, he’s going to pretend nothing ever happened. Is that better?’
Leaning my head to one side to avoid the tap, I closed my eyes and nodded.
‘Much. Thank you.’
‘At least that’s what I’d do if I woke up in bed with a weirdo who went to hide in the toilets because I had a hard-on.’
‘Stop helping now.’
‘Your biggest problem is going to be explaining why you bolted into the lav and stayed locked in there so long. There’s really only one reason I can think of.’
‘Thanks, Joel, appreciate it, good chat.’
I ended the call with a particularly violent jab at the screen and all my embarrassment turned inwards.
Joel had a point. Callum’s erection didn’t mean anything.
The average healthy male could get a hard-on from walking into a doorknob at the right angle.
I was a warm body in a soft bed and I’d completely overreacted. It was not like me at all.
Accepting the fact I couldn’t hide in the loo forever, I held the phone back up to my ear and opened the door to see a slightly sheepish Callum sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘OK, yeah, no, that’s OK, I was awake anyway,’ I said into my phone, rolling my eyes and pulling a face at my bunkmate. ‘It’s in the kitchen cupboard, top shelf. Call me back if you can’t find it.’
‘Anything wrong?’ Callum asked when I ended the non-existent phone call and blew out a loud, braying sigh.
‘Just Desi.’
I stretched my arms overhead in a show of relaxation until my too-big pyjama bottoms began to fall down and I had to grab them to avoid an inadvertent flashing disaster.
‘Couldn’t find the toaster.’
His eyebrows drew together, a quizzical look on his face.
‘Didn’t you tell me you were living with her?’
‘Yes?’
‘And she doesn’t know where the toaster is in her own flat?’
I ran my tongue over my top teeth, eyes sliding over to the window as if an answer might pop out of the fields and hills as we whizzed by.
‘Wouldn’t know where her head was if it wasn’t screwed on,’ I offered. ‘Useless is Desi.’
‘Should I bother asking why she keeps the toaster on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard?’
‘Desi has a gluten intolerance. We try to keep the crumbs out of her way. Because of the intolerance.’
‘So she needs the toaster because?’
There was no way he believed me. I didn’t even sound as though I believed me. But at least neither of us were thinking about his penis any more. Or at least we weren’t until I looked directly at his crotch and coloured up at once.
‘Train’s running on time,’ Callum said brusquely, standing up and turning his back to me as he pulled his plaid flannel back on over his T-shirt. ‘Breakfast should be here in half an hour unless you’d rather eat in the club car again.’
‘Club car sounds good to me. Change of scenery and all that,’ I replied, still clutching my phone in one hand and pyjama bottoms in the other. ‘Why don’t I meet you in there? Say in five minutes?’
He didn’t need telling twice.
‘Sounds like a plan.’
He opened the door, gave me a nod and then he was gone, door clattering closed behind him.
‘Oh, Laura,’ I muttered to myself as I dropped to my knees to recover my backpack from under the bed. ‘So much for staying detached.’
Underneath the bed, right next to my bag, was a small square of worn, brown leather.
A wallet. I opened it up to find the usual: credit cards, loyalty cards, a driving licence and, in a clear patched pocket on the other side, a photograph.
It was Callum’s wallet but he wasn’t alone in the photo.
His hair was much shorter than he wore it today, cropped almost to his skull, but his eyes were shining and he grinned at the camera in a way I really hadn’t seen yet, carefree and unburdened.
Pressed up against him, cheek to cheek, was a woman.
Long blonde hair, crystal-clear green eyes, a flawless complexion.
It had to be non-world-famous supermodel and donkey saviour, Shiv, supposedly out of his life but still in his wallet.
They looked perfect together, utterly gorgeous, made for each other.
Clearing my throat, I tossed the wallet on the bed and went back to my bag, pulling out clothes and dressing quickly, a new and unexpected sense of frustration blossoming.
If Callum didn’t want to marry Shiv, if he was the one who broke up with her a whole year ago, why did he still have her photo in his wallet?
When searching for a diagnosis, I’d been taught to make a hypothesis then look at all the available evidence to prove or disprove it until I was left with the most likely result.
Right now, all the information available to me pointed towards one incontrovertible truth.
The photograph. His careful wording. The fact this stupidly hot man had remained single for an entire year and made up a fake girlfriend rather than find a real one.
‘He never said he didn’t want to marry her,’ I whispered to myself, glancing down at the open wallet, a slender crease in the plastic pocket slicing the happy couple in two. ‘Only that he wanted to decide when to propose.’
If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say there was at least a ninety percent chance Callum McClay was still in love with his ex-girlfriend.
And I didn’t like that at all.