One-way Ticket

The train is just about to leave as she arrives at the station. Breaking into a run, she manages to scramble aboard, knowing that this is a journey that will change her life.

Jess sinks down into the first available seat, thankful that the train is not as tightly packed as the one she usually takes to work. If this were a normal day, she would have left hours ago; but instead, she has a day’s booked leave and an appointment at 11am. She checks her emails anxiously on her phone, just to make sure that she hasn’t remembered the wrong time or place, but the solicitor’s instructions stand out clearly on her phone screen: Birmingham County Court, 11:00, Jeffreys v Jeffreys. When this is all over, she will be a single woman once more and the hell he put her through can be consigned to the past.

As the train slows, approaching the next station, she stares out of the window at an impossibly postcard-blue sky. She should see this as a good omen: an indication that her life will be sunnier from now on. Nevertheless, she can’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia as she remembers a time when they were still in love, still happy.

As doors slide open and passengers alight and then board, she closes her eyes momentarily, trying not to think of the positives. No matter how happy they once were, he destroyed that completely when he cheated on her – not once, but over and over again.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looks up, startled by the sound of a familiar voice. Despite the plethora of unoccupied seats, her soon-to-be ex-husband is standing in front of her, his effrontery almost eclipsing his insincere smile.

Without saying anything, she places her handbag upon the seat he’s indicated, but he ignores her unspoken rebuff and sits down anyway, placing her bag in his lap. For a moment, she wants to laugh: the sight of him sitting there clutching a Gucci handbag like a security blanket makes him ridiculous. Then she reminds herself of his crimes and hardens her heart once more: she can’t afford to feel any sympathy for him – not on today of all days.

“Jess...” he begins tentatively.

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” she snaps.

“Just hear me out,” he pleads. “This is important.”

“You’ve already said everything you need to through your lawyer.” She’s not going to listen to any of his excuses.

“Can’t we just pretend we’re strangers meeting on a train for the first time?” he asks. “You tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine.”

She hesitates, thinking that maybe his request is genuine and he does have something important to say to her.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” she says tersely. “Once we reach the city centre, you’re on your own.”

He catches her eye. “You first. Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

She finds the idea childish. Nevertheless, she complies grudgingly. “I’m Jessica. And you are?”

“Martin.” He holds out his hand and eventually she shakes it. “I work in IT,” he tells her. “What about you?”

“PR.” She’s already feeling annoyed. This small talk isn’t getting them anywhere.

“And are you married, Jessica? Or seeing anyone?”

“Married, soon to be divorced,” she snaps back. This really isn’t working.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says sympathetically. “Can I ask what went wrong?”

She lets him have it, all guns blazing. “I married a cheating bastard,” she says crisply, “who had an affair with one of his clients for six months and then tried to pretend it wasn’t his fault.”

He winces at the directness of her answer. “Didn’t he try to apologise?”

Her mind returns to the pleading telephone calls, to the endless flowers delivered to her work address, to the evening she’d come home late and found rose petals trailing up the stairs and into the bedroom. Men always waited until it was too late – and then they wondered why you didn’t take them seriously when they protested they were sorry.

“When someone’s spent months lying to you,” she says crisply, “you tend not to believe whatever they tell you afterwards.”

An awkward silence ensues. He seems to be fumbling for the right words to say, but he’s never been good at this sort of thing, always better at excuses than honesty.

“So you’re divorcing him, then?” He’s turned the statement into a question, almost as if he thinks she still has doubts.

“That’s right. After what he did, I know I can’t trust him again.”

“I know what it’s like to make a mistake.”

His words catch her off guard. Does he really think he can put a positive spin on this?

“I cheated on my wife too.” The words come out in a rush. “It was one of our clients. She was attractive and she made it pretty obvious she was into me. I was flattered.”

“So you jumped into bed with her.” She is unable to keep the disdain from her voice.

“Not at first.” His tone is quiet, reflective. “I loved my wife – still do...” – she pretends not to hear that bit – “but she was so wrapped up in work and all her hobbies that she didn’t seem to have time for me anymore.”

She is momentarily stunned, unable to believe that he is blaming her for his infidelity. “So, you’re saying it’s your wife’s fault?” Sarcasm drips from her question; she should have known he’d avoid responsibility.

“No!” His emphatic denial surprises her. “It was my fault – I’m not pretending it wasn’t. But if she hadn’t been so busy with her yoga and her pottery class and her book group...” He sighs. “I’m not saying she shouldn’t have had other interests; but when you know you can either go home to an empty house or spend a pleasant evening in a bar with an attractive woman, well...” His voice tails off uncertainly. “I wouldn’t have gone for a drink in the first place if I’d thought it would lead to something more. But it did – and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“But you kept on sleeping with her.” She’s surprised that it still hurts: she’d thought she’d moved on.

He looks away, almost as if he’s embarrassed by her words.

“I wanted to tell you straight away – after the first time. But I was afraid of what you’d say, so I didn’t.” He’s no longer using the third person, his confession now raw and naked. “I didn’t want you to leave me, so I told myself that it was better not to tell you, that it wouldn’t happen again...”

“But it did,” she says softly, “and that’s what I can’t forgive – that you lied to me for so long.”

“Not intentionally...” The agony on his face is unmistakable. “If you’d asked me if I was having an affair, I would have been so relieved I could finally tell the truth. I hated deceiving you. You must believe that.” He pauses. “I always told Steff that it would be over if you ever found out.”

But she had been the one to end it, not him. Jess gazes at Martin, not wanting to relive the horror she’d felt when she discovered the text messages, the days and weeks of endless nausea as she’d begun watching her husband, waiting for a chance to catch him out.

“It’s too late to turn the clock back,” she says eventually. “You made your choice, Martin, and I made mine.”

The train’s already slowing to a halt. Martin looks at her pleadingly, but she turns away. “I promised you twenty minutes. Your time’s up.”

Silently, she gathers her belongings, trying not to look at the broken man in front of her. The train doors slide open and she steps outside, ready to make her way to the divorce court.