Chapter 7
Chloe ran across London Bridge, a hastily packed weekend bag slung over one shoulder.
The bridge was bustling with tourists taking photos of the Shard and Tower Bridge, but she had no time to stop and admire the view today.
McKenzie had kept her late, drilling her on exactly how to pitch the project to Sean.
The alumni committee had organized a coach from Victoria for people coming from London, but at this rate, she was going to miss it. She texted Rob as she ran:
Chloe
Running late, save me a seat on the bus!
She raced down the escalator at Monument tube station, then jumped onto the Embankment line.
She tried to fan herself with her hand, conscious that with all that running, she was going to get her outfit sweaty.
She’d changed in the loo after work and was wearing her favorite high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in soft olive green—her mum called them her Katharine Hepburn trousers, which might have been why she loved them.
On top, she wore a simple white shirt with an oversized collar, then large tortoiseshell sunglasses lost somewhere in her hair.
As she was fretting about sweating she caught her reflection in the train window.
She looked radiant, happy. It took her by surprise.
How much of that was down to Rob? Over the last two weeks, she’d seen him six times; they’d been to dinner, been to the theater, visited galleries, and strolled hand in hand along the South Bank.
Each time, she found herself liking him more.
Each time, it got harder to remember that he wasn’t the man he appeared to be.
She liked that she could talk to him about anything.
He never lost interest or got defensive.
He was unfailingly kind, and he remembered everything she said.
She’d joked that she wanted to become the sort of person who went running before work and yesterday, he’d turned up at her house in running gear, just after sunrise.
They’d run around Richmond Park, then shared a protein smoothie, all before seven a.m. She’d usually have been too nervous to run around the park alone, but with Rob at her side, she felt invincible.
She frowned at her reflection. Don’t get carried away.
It’s just for this weekend, then you’ll give him back.
When Chloe reached Victoria station, it was unpleasantly busy, the air smelled of exhaust fumes and pastries, and there were lost backpackers spinning in circles trying to navigate with their smartphones.
She sprinted up the steps, then along the busy main road toward the bus terminal.
Her loafers slapped against the pavement, and she had to hold up the hems of her trousers to keep them from murky pavement puddles.
This was the problem when your allegiance to style and your travel budget didn’t quite align.
She couldn’t imagine Katharine Hepburn ever ran for a bus.
Finally, the looming art deco architecture of the concrete bus station came into view.
She was only ten minutes late, the bus probably hadn’t even left yet.
But the concourse was so huge, it took her a moment to find the right bay, and when she got there, she found it empty. Damn. On her phone, a message from Rob.
Rob
Sorry, I should have got off the bus. I didn’t realize we were leaving.
Then a photo of the empty seat beside him and a sad-face emoji.
“Did we miss it?” asked a voice beside her.
Chloe turned to see a man of about her height, standing nearby, a battered backpack slung over one shoulder and a dog lead in his hand. At the other end of which was a small gray whippet. It took her a second to place him.
“John? John Elton?” she asked. He nodded. “Wow, you look so different.”
“Hi, Chloe,” he said.
The John she remembered had been all red hair, thick glasses, and the wardrobe of F.
Scott Fitzgerald. The man in front of her had short, albeit messy, hair, which had faded to an auburn brown.
He’d lost the glasses, and his body had broadened around the arms and shoulders.
But the change that most threw her was that he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, just like any ordinary twenty-first-century man.
“Tiny Dancer,” she said with a grin. “Well, look at you! Not so tiny anymore, hey,” she teased, tapping a finger against his shoulder.
“Chloe Fairway. Hilarious as ever,” he said dryly.
“Who’s this, then?” she said, bending down to say hello to his dog.
“Richard,” he said, and as Chloe stroked the dog’s head, Richard licked her hand appreciatively.
“Funny name for a dog. Why did you call him that?”
“He’s named after Richard Gere.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s got gray hair, and he likes pretty women.”
“Really?” Chloe asked, delighted.
“No, not really,” John said, his expression neutral. “I just thought he looked like a Richard.”
John’s delivery was so deadpan, she could never quite tell when he was joking, but she laughed anyway.
“Are you bringing him? You can’t have dogs in college. Can you?”
“He’s a support dog,” John explained, shifting his gaze upward. “Should we go and find another bus, given we’ve missed ours?”
“Good idea,” she said, falling into step beside him. She was curious about why John might need a support dog but suspected it was rude to ask. “It’s so good to see you,” she said. “What are you up to these days, still composing?”
“I am,” he said.
“What kind of music?” She watched him as he checked the departures board, unable to compute how much he had changed.
Had she changed that much? The concourse around them thrummed with sound—children crying, PA announcements, the clatter of suitcase wheels, and the flutter of pigeons.
Yet John stood there, unfazed, calm and serene, as though he were standing in an art gallery, contemplating an interesting painting.
“I write scores for film and TV,” he told her, eyes scanning the screen, “and I work at a recording studio.”
“Wow,” she said, genuinely impressed. “That sounds cool.”
But then an unwelcome wave of self-doubt crept in.
John, like Sean and Kiko, was doing exactly what he’d set out to do.
Was she the only one who wasn’t? She quickly checked herself.
She knew that this weekend—hearing about everyone’s glittering lives—was going to be challenging.
That was exactly why she had armed herself with great outfits and a distractingly beautiful plus-one.
Jealousy was not a helpful emotion, and besides, didn’t a rising tide lift all ships?
She must not think of herself as the waterlogged boat that was no longer seaworthy in this analogy.
“Maybe I should take some credit for your success,” she said, nudging John.
“Wasn’t I always convincing you to compose music for our plays?
” He frowned slightly, then hitched his backpack higher onto his shoulder.
“Remember that musical we wrote in third year, Back to Brideshead?” she added with a laugh.
“Wow, that was terrible. Not your music, obviously, the play. Do you remember? We did one performance, and half the audience walked out.”
“I remember,” he said, and there was a tightness in his tone. He didn’t seem in the mood to reminisce.
“So, are you still in touch with a lot of people from college?” she asked, pivoting.
“I’m on the alumni committee, so yes,” he said, turning to walk toward the ticket machine. “I’m in touch with people all the time for fundraisers and events.”
“I meant socially,” she said, skipping along beside him as they skirted around a noisy crowd of schoolchildren wearing hi-vis jackets. “Who have you stayed friends with? I only really keep up with Akiko and Emma. Do you see—” She paused, trying to sound casual. “Do you still see much of Sean?”
“Yes. Less since he moved. LA is eight hours behind,” John said, offering for her to go first with the ticket machine. “There’s a bus in five minutes.”
By the time they’d bought tickets and found the right line, the moment to ask more about Sean had passed. The Oxford Tube was already parked up, a large red-and-blue coach, with people boarding at the front. John let her go first, but then the driver said, “No dogs on the bus, mate.”
“It’s a support dog,” John told him.
“You got an ID? Certificate?” the driver asked while chewing gum.
“Yes, somewhere here,” John said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
The driver waved him on, because a queue was building behind them. “Just don’t let it sit on the seats.”
The bus was already half full. A man in a hoodie was asleep across two seats, laptop half closed on his chest. An elderly couple near the front were quietly sharing an iPad and a bag of green boiled sweets.
Chloe walked down the bus, taking in the distinct aroma of egg sandwiches and damp upholstery.
They passed two teenage girls in matching Doc Martens, discreetly vaping while giggling over something on a phone screen.
She thought of Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert’s bus journey in It Happened One Night.
Perhaps their bus smelled of egg sandwiches too, but everything just looked more romantic in black and white.
Chloe found an empty row at the back. She let John go in first. The dog jumped up beside him, but John shooed him down to the floor.
Richard looked briefly disgruntled but then curled up at his feet.
“Kind of regretting missing our nice college bus now,” she whispered, as she slipped in beside him, and John finally cracked a smile.
“Indeed.”
Chloe looked up at John and then back down at Richard, up at John, then down at Richard again.
“What?” John asked, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Nothing,” she said, “I just…” She trailed off. “Nothing.”
“What? What were you going to say?”
“Well,” she whispered, “is Richard really a support dog?”