Chapter 2
A couple of hours later, Rose was scanning her e-ticket to get through the barriers at King’s Cross station and onto the platform where the 10.23 to Edinburgh Waverley was waiting.
Last chance to bail out , she warned herself, but she continued onwards. She had a seat reserved and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was in first class. She’d never travelled first class before. Already she was ticking off new experiences. A porter helped her get her two large suitcases onto the train and stowed away and Rose made her way down the carriage to find her designated seat.
Her reserved place was one of four with a table in the middle. As she approached, she could see there was already someone sitting in one of the seats across from hers . . . Someone tall with chestnut brown hair. Rose’s heart sank as she sat down and had her suspicions confirmed: she’d be travelling opposite her new boss for the next four hours and eighteen minutes.
Alastair looked up from the previous day’s Financial Times . He nodded at Rose. “You made it then,” he said, before returning his attention to the newspaper.
“I didn’t think I’d be in first class,” Rose said, feeling she ought to make some sort of conversation.
“Feel free to move carriage if you’d prefer,” came the reply.
“No, no, it’s great . . . I’ve never travelled first class before. I heard there’s free food and hot drinks . . .” She let her voice trail off. Why was she babbling? She guessed she was worried she’d offended him, but doubted her babbling would help the situation.
“Everything you’ve heard is true.”
“So you wear a suit on a Sunday?” Rose blurted out. Why was she doing this ?
“I had a breakfast meeting,” sounded from behind the paper.
Having checked and seeing no reserved sign, Rose placed her leather satchel down on the seat next to her. She began taking out the sketch-pad and pencils she carried with her everywhere she went, despite not having drawn for a long time now. Being stuck on a train seemed as good a time as any to attempt to get back into the habit which, up to eighteen months ago, had been almost as natural as breathing to her.
“You’re missing your crown today. I’m guessing you don’t always dress like a Disney princess then?” asked Alastair, lowering his paper.
“No, only on special occasions.”
Alastair frowned. “Ah. That could be a problem. I thought Mairi would have explained . . .”
Rose was about to stand and make a swift exit before the train pulled out of the station when she noticed the look in Alastair’s intense green eyes. Mischief was written all over them.
“You’re joking . . .” She sighed.
“Yes,” he said, with a grin that she reflected was far too fleeting. “You won’t be required to dress as any Disney princess while working for me.” He folded up his newspaper and took out a MacBook.
“That’s good to know,” Rose said. “And by the way, Elsa is a queen, not a princess.”
“I can only apologise.” Alastair looked at her, amusement evident as his gaze met hers.
“It’s an important distinction.” Rose blushed and fiddled with her pencils, breaking eye contact.
“I imagine so.”
Alastair began working on his MacBook and Rose took that as a sign she should stop talking rubbish at him.
She was distracted from her analysis of her poor social skills when the train began to move. She felt a glimmer of excitement in her stomach at the adventure before her.
Rose opened up her sketchbook, turning it to the first page. She’d been given it the previous Christmas. She’d finally opened it a couple of days after the event, having returned home, heartbroken. Her last present from her mum. Goodness only knows how she’d managed to arrange the gift from the hospice without Rose knowing . . . And just like that, Rose’s resolve not to think about last Christmas unless she was by herself in her flat, and feeling particularly sad and lonely, dissolved and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, giving a glance towards Alastair to check he hadn’t noticed. He appeared to be just as absorbed in his laptop screen as before.
She chose a pencil and switched places with her bag, shuffling over to the window seat. The one thing that was almost guaranteed to take her away from her problems, for a little while at least, was drawing. Within minutes she’d entered her flow state as she took inspiration from the passing views to sketch whatever she felt like, allowing her body to become reacquainted with the rhythm and movements which had once been second nature to her, blocking out everything around her, including her handsome co-passenger.
She was finally brought back to the present with a jolt as she felt something land gently on her, sending tingles all the way up her arm. She glanced down to see Alastair’s large hand on hers and instinctively pulled away before looking up to meet his eyes.
“Sorry, you were miles away,” he explained. “Would you like some lunch?” He indicated to the lady waiting to take Rose’s order.
Rose’s cheeks flushed red. How long had they both been watching her in her trance while they waited for her to answer them?
“Yes, please,” she managed, accepting a menu and choosing the first thing that caught her eye, the New York deli sandwich.
“Drink?” asked the server, wearing a professional, practiced smile but no doubt completely fed up with the ditsy woman she was just trying to get a simple lunch order from.
“A latte, please,” said Rose.
The food and coffees were delivered quickly and Rose was grateful Alastair continued to be absorbed in whatever he was working on. It would be more than a little awkward to make polite conversation with him while they were eating. She’d been counting on the long train ride to get herself prepared for what was ahead of her and here she was sitting opposite her new boss, taking tiny polite bites and worrying she had bread stuck in between her teeth.
But after a few minutes, Alastair closed his laptop, took the lid off his Americano and said, “Tell me about yourself, Rose.”
Rose was a little taken aback that he remembered her name; for some reason she’d assumed he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just been looking it up in an email from Mairi. He stared at her. Rather intently, actually.
“Anything will do,” he said sighing.
“Well . . . um . . . I’m twenty-six . . . I’ve lived in London all my life . . . Worked in a Christmas shop until yesterday . . .”
“And how did you end up working in a Christmas shop?”
Was this some kind of test? Was she supposed to say she’d got a BA in Christmas Hospitality or something? Rose didn’t want to lie but she also didn’t want to be put on the next train back to London.
Honesty had to be the best policy.
“I sort of ended up working there as a bit of a stopgap. I took a career break for a while and now I’m working out exactly what I want to do.”
Alastair nodded. “You seemed to know what you were talking about when it came to organising events when I spoke to you.”
“Yes, don’t worry,” she said quickly. “I worked organising events for years during and after university.”
“Is that what you studied?”
“No,” said Rose. “I studied Art.” She felt embarrassment wash over her as Alastair’s eyes glanced over at her sketchbook. She breathed an inner sigh of relief that she’d closed it before stopping to have lunch.
Alastair took another sip of his coffee. “My aunt on my father’s side is an artist. Watercolours. She’s coming to stay for Christmas. I think the two of you will get along.”
Rose nodded politely, already dreading potential evenings stuck talking to Alastair’s elderly aunt for hours about her painting. And then being asked about her own art and having to either lie or admit that she didn’t draw anymore. Not until a couple of hours ago anyway.
She was actually kind of surprised at herself for getting out her sketch-pad in front of Alastair in the first place. She guessed it was because he’d been so absorbed in whatever he was working on that he wasn’t likely to pay any attention to her. But now that he’d stopped and was focused on her, she felt awkward.
She was glad when Alastair finally reopened his laptop and resumed his work, not that she felt confident enough to continue her sketching. She took her book out of her bag instead and settled down to read for the rest of the train journey. Every now and then she found herself glancing at her sketchbook though and smiling.