Chapter 4
Boarding the Winter Wonderland Express
The next day I catch the early train out of Kent and arrive in London, then board the Eurostar to Calais.
In Calais, I spend a couple of hours exploring but find the port city rather lacking.
It’s more of an industrial wasteland in parts and uninspiring.
Being a transit point, it’s filled with impatient tourists hurrying to make their next connection – if my toes are run over one more time by suitcase wheels I’ll scream.
Under different circumstances I’d find the silver lining, but today I don’t have it in me.
Mid-afternoon I ditch the idea of sightseeing further and find the platform for the Winter Wonderland Express, in the hopes they’re offering early check-in.
Damn, I’m not the only one who had that idea.
The long queue snakes down the platform.
The train sleeps up to one hundred people plus staff and by the looks of it, a good chunk of those have arrived already.
According to my research, the train is divided into two identical sections, with fifty passengers a side.
This duplication is so that guests can enjoy the amenities without too much crowding.
There’s nothing else to do but join the end of the queue and wait.
I plan on keeping a low profile and my heartbreak to myself.
I peek at people ahead of me. Gah – I’m smacked in the face by the sight of loved-up couples as far as the eye can see.
They’re kissing. They’re canoodling. They’re speaking baby language to each other.
And wearing matching Christmas outfits. It’s sickening.
Probably my jealously talking, but still.
I’m so obviously alone in a sea of sweethearts. At Christmas.
’Tis the season for resting Grinch face.
The line moves relatively quickly as couples board the train. I’m so busy tuning out the many lovebirds and their saccharine sweet nothings that I don’t notice the life-size gingerbread man until he taps me on the shoulder.
‘Ho, ho, ho, welcome to the Winter Wonderland Express!’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen a life-size gingerbread man before.
’ Not only is there a group of giant gingerbread men waiting to greet guests, but there’s also a band of merry elves singing jaunty Christmas carols.
I can’t help but be swept along in song, and my mood lifts.
How can anyone be gloomy listening to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’? Maybe this won’t be so bad.
‘I’m actually a gingerbread woman, but it’s hard to tell under all this fur. Between us, it’s horrifically uncomfortable but I’m not supposed to say that so forget you heard,’ she says in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m your official welcomer, Sabrina.’
The gingerbread outfit does look rather cumbersome, but Sabrina is doing a good job navigating it.
Sabrina lifts a clipboard to her chest. ‘Can I get your name? I’ll check you in and you can go and find your cabin.’ I’m impressed she can read through thick plastic gingerbread eyes.
‘Aubrey Evans.’ Thankfully, I hadn’t even looked at changing any ID to my married name; figured I’d do all that much later.
‘Evans. Evans…’ Sabrina runs a pen down the list of names. ‘Ah – here we are! Evans and Walker. Oooh, our “Just Married” lovebirds! You’ve certainly picked the most romantic holiday for a honeymoon!’
Her gingerbread costume doesn’t hide the volume of her voice that rings along the platform, drawing the eyes of many of my fellow passengers.
All those damn canoodlers. With some effort, Sabrina lifts her sizeable gingerbread head from the clipboard and searches over my shoulder. ‘Where is Mr Walker then?’
I suffer a moment of sheer and utter panic with so many love-heart-for-eyes twosomes within earshot. Who wants to be known as the jilted bride among these kissy-wissy pairs packing on the PDA? Not me.
‘Ah, he, umm…’ I didn’t factor in that I’d have to explain my missing spouse, a huge oversight on my part.
I can’t tell the truth and risk ten days of pitying stares, whispers behind hands.
What if they think I’m defective or something?
No, I need a solid excuse, one they won’t question.
It feels oddly quiet on the platform, like they’re all waiting for an answer.
I creep close to Sabrina and say as quietly as I can, ‘He died. Tragically. In London.’ I want to slap my own face.
He died! In London! I suppose it works in the scheme of things.
They won’t question a widow, will they? ‘Not long after our wedding.’ Why I feel the need to blurt further details is beyond me.
There are gasps from the couple behind me, and I feel so very seen and uncomfortable in my own skin.
Sabrina’s gingerbread hand flies to her gingerbread mouth.
It’s quite comical under the circumstances but I do my best not to laugh, or else she’ll assume I’m a sociopath.
‘He died not long after you said I do? Oh, it’s too sad to even fathom.
’ Why does she need to broadcast it like that when I have so clearly spoken in a whisper?
‘What happened?’ I’m not sure Sabrina is cut out for this role.
Shouldn’t she be a little more circumspect?
‘There was an… accident.’ Oh, keep going, Aubrey, sheesh!
‘What kind of accident?’
Should she be questioning a widow like this? Still, I need my story to work, so I roll with it.
How do people routinely die in London? I have no clue. I recall my morning in transit and all the ways in which I might have come to harm. Ah! ‘Miles didn’t… He didn’t mind the gap.’ I use my pointer finger, showing his rapid descent from here to down there.
‘What! He died falling down the gap?’ She’s obviously realised I don’t want all of Calais to hear and has lowered her voice accordingly.
‘A little bit,’ I mumble. Surely I’ve done enough to stave off any further queries?
‘Oh my God, this is terrible. Was he… tiny?’ Sabrina says, choking up.
‘In a lot of ways, yes.’ I’m not going to shame the man about the size of any of his appendages, and it’s strange of her to even ask. ‘I’d prefer not to discuss it.’
‘Of course. Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘He’s in a better place.’ A place where it’s acceptable to wear your insides on the outside without judgement.
A big, buff, broody guy appears just to my side, gorgeous with striking bluey-green eyes framed by thick dark brows. He’s got an enigmatic smile and a quiet intensity about him. He’s earth-shatteringly hot and quite knocks rational thought from?—
Oh no.
I can’t think. Of words. Of reasons. Or why I’m still staring at him, mouth agape.
It’s not like I’m married, is it? I’m resolutely single, aren’t I?
Or should I say widowed when I’m among this crowd?
It’s not illegal for me to appreciate this very fine specimen of a man.
It, that, him, would be a bad idea. A complication.
Holiday flings are fun, sure, but I’m rather vulnerable right now and men are dead to me. D.E.A.D.
He does that hot-guy head lift, eyebrow-raise thing that sends a shiver down the length of me. Oh, this is not good.
But that’s not all that catches my attention. It’s the sceptical tilt of his lips that makes me slightly uneasy, as if he doesn’t believe my extremely plausible tale of woe. Will he call me out? Surely not!
He must sense my appraisal – not hard given I’m openly staring at him dumbstruck – because he holds out a hand and says, ‘I’m Jasper. I’m travelling solo too.’
I take his outstretched palm and feel a zap. An actual zap. As if a current of electricity runs between us. What on earth? This is some weird off-the-charts chemistry. That or I’m hallucinating, which would be more my luck.
‘I’m Aubrey.’
I’m transfixed by him, and how can that be?
He’s said exactly six words and all I manage to pick up is his rather sultry American accent.
I slip off to fantasyland. I bet he lives in some cosy cabin in Vermont where there’s a fire roaring, shelves overflowing with well-thumbed books, a charming space where we could cuddle on a wrinkled leather sofa— WHAT.
Clearly, some broken part of me is running the engine – I cannot trust myself to be rational.
And I’m not transfixed, like the heroine in some kind of insta-love wintry romance movie.
I’m simply overwrought. Aren’t I madly in love with Miles?
Yes, he might have massively let me down, but love doesn’t switch off overnight.
Does it? Or does it? Right now, I’m having a hard time remembering what Miles even looks like.
Wait. Did Jasper mention he was travelling solo too?
‘Last year my wife left me for her personal trainer. That didn’t feel too good at the time,’ Jasper says matter-of-factly. ‘They’re spending this Christmas in Aspen and asked me to pet-sit their schnauzer for them, which I declined.’
‘Declined because of this trip?’ Their split must’ve been amicable if they’re still in touch and she’s asking him to pet-sit her schnauzer.
‘Yeah, that and the fact that we’re now officially divorced, so a clean break is for the best.’
What woman would trade this love god in? She must be mad. Or…
It’s more likely that Jasper is faulty. Yes, that’s it. He’s got some huge flaw. Probably a gaslighter. And so what if he’s good with schnauzers. Is that really enough in the scheme of things?
‘Perhaps she’s still in love with you?’ I mean, I’m not one to pry but the signs are all there. Who asks their ex-husband to look after their schnauzer? Is that actually a breed of dog or some kind of euphemism?
Jasper shakes his head. ‘No, she’s in love with her personal trainer, and I’m happy for them.’ Really? If this were me, I’d be visualising all the ways in which karma might bite her for leaving out of the blue.
I find myself feeling sympathetic towards Jasper. Divorce is heavy. And being alone over the silly season while taking a romantic holiday for one amid a sea of couples isn’t easy either. ‘Leaving you for her personal trainer, sorry, but that’s just’ – I make a face – ‘such a massive cliché.’
‘Yeah.’ Jasper grins, which makes his dark eyebrows dance, his expressive eyes twinkle.
Who knew eyes actually twinkled? He looks like one of those all-American Abercrombie model types with a rugged edge that saves him from being too perfect.
Really, he’s quite disarming. With a loose shrug he says, ‘You never know, he might break a leg skiing.’
I return his grin. That’s more like it. ‘There might be an avalanche.’ I sound like Rox with the whole ‘vengeance is mine’ mindset. The difference is Jasper and I are using gallows humour for a morale boost. At least, I hope we are. ‘The world is an unpredictable place.’
He flashes his pearly whites. ‘It sure is.’
Sabrina coughs to get my attention. My cheeks pinken at the thought I’ve held up the line for so long and they’ve all been too polite to hurry me along.
Am I flirting with Jasper? The day after I was supposed to be a Mrs. Trauma will do strange things to a gal.
No, it’s not flirtation! I’m simply comforting a fellow singleton because I empathise with his pain.
There will be no flirting for the rest of my natural-born life.
Men are not just paused, they’re cancelled.
I’ll get my fix with book boyfriends who, so far, have never let me down.
‘Follow me, Aubrey.’ Sabrina breaks the spell. ‘And I’ll show you to your cabin.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘See you around, Jasper.’ Don’t make goo-goo eyes at the damn man .
God, maybe Rox put some kind of love drug in my coffee.
I wouldn’t put it past her. He’s probably a regular guy, regular height with regular-sized muscles, and she’s put a potion in my cup of Joe that morphs Mr Average into a buff, brawny mountain man. That girl is always concocting evil.
‘Bound to.’ He gives me a look I can only call sizzling.
Maybe he’s not aware of his off-the-chain super-stud energy.
I don’t hold it against him. When I travel, I always make friends.
It’s one of the best parts of any trip, connecting with strangers and hearing their stories.
Jasper and I have our singledom in common, so if I can get my overworked brain to stop misfiring and behave normally, then he just might make this couples holiday a little easier to stomach.