Train of Thought

“Imagination is the highest kite that can fly." – Lauren Bacall

—

London, England – Paddington Station

"This is a Great Western Railway service to Cardiff Central. This train will be calling at Reading, Swindon, Bristol Parkway, Newport, and Cardiff Central. Please make sure you are travelling with a valid ticket."

—

ELEANOR

The train isn’t busy yet. I’m glad I arrived early—it gives me time to choose my seat without feeling rushed. I prefer table bays; they have larger windows. Now, let’s see… yes, the left side will do nicely. The southern view will be far more enjoyable when we cross the Severn Estuary. And, of course, I must be facing forward. Riding backwards has always made me feel dreadfully queasy.

—

SOFIA

I feel queasy, despite the two ibuprofens. As I make my way through the narrow aisle of the train, I try to piece together just how much my friends and I drank last night. Tequila shots were involved—that much I remember—but after that? A blur. 

Typical bachelorette party. Or ‘hen do,’  as they call it here.

I despise that term. Why do men get to be stags while we’re, what—poultry? I want to be something cool too. Like, I don’t know… a unicorn?

Gee, my head hurts.

I fish my book out of my bag, tuck my scarf and gloves away, and sink into my seat.

—

TIM

I wish I’d brought gloves. I don’t usually mind the cold, but today the wind’s biting, and I can’t stick my hand in my pocket while holding my bag. I almost checked the shops at the station, but I didn’t want to risk missing the train—I’d never hear the end of it.

I stand on the steps of the third coach, waiting as the bloke ahead of me fumbles with his luggage. He looks vaguely familiar. Where have I seen him before?

—

ELEANOR

I’m certain I know that face. The dark-haired middle-aged man who just entered the carriage is scanning the compartment, assessing it. Where have I seen him before? It must have been on TV. A news report, perhaps? Something to do with an investigation. He’s a detective!

How thrilling! There’s a good chance he’s after someone. A clever thief who keeps slipping through his fingers, no doubt. But today—ah, today might just be the day he finally catches his nemesis. And I’ll be right here to witness it.

Wait until I tell the book club about this.

—

Reading, Berkshire

—

ELEANOR

We're at Reading. I spot a young woman dashing across the platform towards our train, and a moment later, she steps into the carriage and makes her way to the seat opposite mine.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” She’s still slightly out of breath from the run, but her voice is smooth. I can’t quite place her accent.

“Not at all,” I reply.

She offers a quick, almost knowing smile before settling in. She removes her long coat, indigo scarf, and grey fiddler cap, revealing auburn hair and an impressive row of jewellery lining the shell of her ears. As she retrieves a leather-bound notebook from her travel bag, I notice the ink stains on her hands.

I’ve read enough crime novels to know exactly what this means.

This woman is on the run—either from the police, who tried to take her fingerprints, or from a mobster she double-crossed after printing counterfeit money for him.

Or both.

Could she be the one the dark-haired detective is after? Oh, how neat would that be!

—

NELL

Phew. That connection was tight. The station at Reading had more platforms than I expected, but I made it.

As the train pulls away, I open my scrapbook and pull a pencil from my bag, ready to sketch.

I still have ink stains all over my fingers from yesterday’s calligraphy workshop. That’ll probably take a while to fade.

I wonder how Jane Austen and her contemporaries kept their hands presentable.

—

SOFIA

What’s comforting about Regency-style novels is that, even in one featuring vampires and werewolves like the one I’m currently holding, there’s a certain predictability that’s oddly relaxing. Even if the tropes are completely unrealistic.

For example: who’s ever had an attractive stranger retrieve their discarded glove?

“‘Miss Hartwell, I believe this is yours.’

She turned and found herself gazing into the steady, dark eyes of Lord Ashford. He stood before her, the very picture of unshakable composure. Yet, as he held out her glove, Charlotte glimpsed the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips—almost as if he took quiet amusement in the moment.

The silence between them stretched, delicate and breathless.”

I almost roll my eyes. Come on. 

—

TIM

Come on, Tim, you can do this. Just talk to the woman across the aisle.

She’s pretty stunning, even though she looks like she’s brewing a serious headache. I wish I had some paracetamol—I could offer it to her as an excuse to start a conversation. 

Right. Because nothing puts a woman at ease like a man offering medication out of nowhere.

Maybe I could ask her if she’s got any, pretending I have a headache too? Yeah, because that’s also not weird at all. Smooth one, Tim. What is wrong with me?

She’s reading something called “The Moonlight Mansion Series: The Beast of Mayfair”. Probably some kind of murder mystery.

Suddenly, it clicks—Luggage Guy. I know why he looks familiar. I’m pretty sure he’s that actor who plays the British detective in Death in Paradise. Used to watch that show with my family all the time.

Maybe I could use that as an icebreaker.

I pull out my phone to Google him, just to be sure—but, of course, the connection here is rubbish.

—

MICHAEL

Why can’t they figure out decent Internet connections on trains? Can’t even check my emails right now.

I head to the café car for a snack and a soda. On my way back to my seat, I notice a few passengers reading books. So people still buy those. Interesting.

They should have bookshops on board—with this lousy Internet, it’s the perfect opportunity. Deflect from the issue, provide a distraction, drive sales, boost revenue. Foolproof.

Back at my seat, I realize I have an earlier unread message from my wife. A video.

"Jeremy at his football game," Trish captioned.

Soccer, I mentally correct. If we move back to the States, maybe he can play proper football.

I watch the video anyway—because I like seeing Jeremy happy.

—

SOFIA

I am not happy.

Does the guy behind me really have to blast this video at full volume? It sounds like children playing. I bet his wife sent it to make him feel guilty for missing it. I hope it’s working—I’m not feeling kind right now. 

My head hurts.

With a sigh, I rummage through my bag for my headphones. I don’t like wearing them on the train—I’m always worried I’ll miss my stop—but at this point, I’m willing to take my chances.

—

TIM

She’s stopped reading. This is my chance.

Just say, “Hey, don’t look yet, but isn’t that that actor over there?”

She’ll glance over, then go, “Oh yeah, you’re right! I love that series he was in.” And I’ll respond with an enthusiastic, “Me too! By the way, I’m Tim. Are you heading to Bristol too?”

Okay. I’ve got this.

I slide over to the aisle seat, ready to make my move, and—

She puts on her headphones and picks up her book.

Well, that went well.

—

Swindon, Wiltshire

—

MICHAEL

But really, when you think about it, you could systemize the whole thing by letting passengers pre-book their on-board expenses when they purchase their train ticket.

Maybe something like: Pay £20 now for a “journey treats” package—includes a snack, a drink, and a book of your choice.

Yeah, that’s good. We can always brainstorm the name.

Advertise it at £25 with a 20% discount to make people think they’re saving money.

Maybe even upsell a neck pillow for an extra £5. Or £6.50 with a ‘limited-time’ 30% discount. Brand it a ‘luxury comfort kit’.

Wait. I know the guy who just passed by. Wasn’t he in Johnny English? Or another one of those British spy flicks?

—

Bristol Parkway, Bristol

—

ELEANOR

We are approaching Bristol. I watch as my beautiful con artist stands, gives me a conspiratorial smile, and shoulders her bag as though it didn’t hold some grand loot. She moves through the carriage with that same quiet confidence—not hurried, not anxious—just slipping away, as if she were never here at all.

And just like that, she’ll be gone, vanishing to Europe. Or Cornwall.

Of course, she never admitted to anything. Never explained the ink-stained fingers, the large bag, or the way she instinctively assessed her surroundings. But she didn’t need to—I have a good intuition for these things.

Why, then, didn’t I alert the detective to her presence, you might ask?

Well, what can I say? I’m a romantic at heart, and I appreciate a young woman with a sense of adventure.

Oh, yes. I’ll be keeping an eye on the news.

—

NELL

I lift my eyes from my sketch at the announcement that we’re approaching Bristol. As I pack my things, I offer a polite smile to the nice older lady who’s been sitting opposite me, then make my way toward the end of the carriage.

A few steps ahead, a tall young man moves into the aisle, pausing to retrieve his bag from the overhead rack. While I wait, my eye catches on a familiar book cover—the woman in the row across from him is holding one of the Moonlight Mansion novels. My friends keep raving about that series. Maybe I should give it a try.

"Oh, sorry—please go ahead."

The young man has realised he’s been standing in my way and steps aside to let me pass. I squeeze past him, and as the woman with the book is already heading toward the end of the carriage, I spot something on her seat—she’s left a glove behind.

I pick it up and call after her.

—

SOFIA

"Sorry, love. I think this is yours."

I turn and find myself gazing into the striking green eyes of a young woman wearing more earrings than I can count. She stands before me, the very picture of free-spirited confidence. And, as she holds out my glove, I glimpse the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips—just enough to suggest a quiet, knowing amusement.

The silence between us stretches, delicate and breathless.

Until the train jolts to a stop.

—

TIM

I barely have time to chastise myself for not spotting the glove—missing the silver-platter-handed opportunity to become an instant hero—before the train lurches to a stop.

The stranger with the copper hair takes a step back and almost knocks into me, but I catch her elbow, steadying her. She smells of coffee and paper.

She turns to me, and my "You okay?" overlaps with her "Sorry—thank you."

She looks past me before her green eyes meet mine again. And then—just as I’m still standing there like a stricken idiot—she lowers her voice and says,

"Don’t look yet, but I think that’s Ben Miller over there. You know, from Primeval, that sci-fi show?”

—

SOFIA 

Hold on. Is that Lord Featherington from Bridgerton?

—

Cardiff Central, Wales

—

BEN

Well, at least this time, absolutely no one recognised me.