The Keys to Finding Love

The train disappeared round the corner and left her standing on the deserted platform, staring into the emptiness of an already difficult day.

            Slumping on a bench she relaxed her legs of jelly and pulled out her phone, pushed her hair behind her ears and phoned the office to apologise for missing the 8.30 meeting. This job was meant to be a new beginning, but she was finding it difficult to leave the house each day as she clung to the memories inside.

A queue of commuters lined up to buy their early morning wake up drinks, so she joined the trail of men and women in big coats and dark jackets as they faced the reality of a new week of impending work. 

The man in front of her ordered a latte and yawned, displaying evenly ordered teeth and faraway tonsils. Nice. 

And he was. Nice.

His dark hair was pushed back in a footballer style quiff and his beard was barely evident. A hint of pastel in an artist’s drawing. Brown eyes crinkled as he smiled at her and with burning cheeks she scrabbled in her bag while she watched him collect his coffee and leave the shop with a backward grin.

Her own Americano clasped in her hand, she ran back to the platform and avoided missing the next train by the swish of a door. Swaying along the aisle, she struggled through the carriage and sat down with a bump, face to face with latte-man.

She returned his smile and fell in love. 

But his attention returned to the book he was clutching in his hand and her joy faded into disappointment. His smile had promised so much, so why wasn’t he speaking to her. How could he be more interested in a book. She’d put him in gold medal position as the first man to notice her on this new commute, but he was going to be demoted to silver if he didn’t make eye contact again soon. 

Her laptop survived the undue force of her angry fingers as she stabbed at the keys and with a successful password entry on her third attempt, she started working out figures and projections for her afternoon meeting, but with frequent glances over the top of the screen she watched latte-man engrossed in his reading. There was no indication he was aware of her presence. 

But as the train pulled out of the next station, he put the book down by his side and her excitement at the possibilities of communication produced a minor error in the spreadsheet. Her face lit up with anticipation, but instead of telling her how much he loved her, or at least making a comment about the weather, he rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. 

He was now in bronze medal position, or more realistically a false start and removed from the running.

But she saw no reason not to spend the next few minutes studying the sprinkling of freckles across his nose, the pleasing shape of his cheeks and the slight snore from his open mouth, until the train slowed down and roused him from his slumber and her from her obsession. 

He sat up and looked out of the window.

‘Where are we? Oh no.’

Jumping up, he grabbed his bag and rushed for the door, stumbling out of the train. With a sigh of regret she watched her perfect man standing alone on the platform staring at her with what she hoped was a sense of loss. Was he regretting not exchanging phone numbers? Not arranging a romantic interlude in an expensive restaurant? No, he was pointing at the seat opposite her where his book was pushed down the side. 

She picked it up, but he was gone. 

The look on his face had been one of such panic and loss she wasn’t sure what she might find inside, but with shaking fingers she edged it open to the front page. 

‘A Poor Man’s Tale’ by Martin Talbot. 

‘To James. I hope my extra musings help you understand the inner depths of life. Love Uncle Martin.’ 

How wonderful for latte-man, or James as she would now call him, to have a book written by his uncle with such a lovely message.

Pencilled notes filled the margins and turned down corners celebrated pages to be visited again. Her fellow commuters disappeared as she became consumed by the beauty of the first chapter. But too soon the train slowed down and pulled into the main station and she was forced into the real world of offices and computers and interfering workmates.

Throughout the day she dipped into the book for doses of hope and joy. Alone with a lunchtime sandwich. In the toilet for a lengthy visit. Or at her desk with a strategically positioned laptop. And after the journey home and an evening of intermittent snacking and drinking, she’d finished it. 

Her contentment came out as a sigh and she leant back on the pillow. Now she knew why James had seemed in such a panic as he left this book behind. The story was enchanting. Of course he could buy another copy online, but the personal notes and scribbles made it extra special and gave such an insight into its true meaning. 

She must find him tomorrow and spend time discussing the mysticism with someone who obviously felt the same as her. Hugging the book to her chest, her relationship with James was just beginning.

In the morning, with a hint of extra makeup and tidier hair, she skipped to the station and searched along the busy platform hoping to see her perfect man. But he wasn’t there. The train pulled in and out again and he didn’t get on, so neither did she. 

She boarded the next train and searched for Martin Talbot on the Internet. He’d written several critically acclaimed books over the past twenty years. A collection of photographs showed a good-looking man with dark hair and a crinkly smile. Just like James, who had studied piano at the music college nearby in the centre of the city. A musician. Could he be any more attractive?

But she was not prepared for the sense of loss when the webpage talked of Martin’s death earlier in the year. Her own devastation was nothing compared to the distress James must have felt, and it made her even more determined to find him and return his treasured book.

After a long day of solid work with her new boss keeping a watchful eye on her, she staggered into her living room and slumped on the settee. The piano stood erect against the wall and she imagined James Talbot playing a Mozart sonata for her. They would talk about the meaning of life and quote his uncle’s book while he spent time teaching her to play. Could this be the man to help her move on from her husband? 

But did she want to move on?

Her tears meandered through the evening and wouldn’t stop as she picked out items on the shelves and began to place them in cardboard boxes. The books she didn’t want to read. The vinyl she couldn’t bear to listen to. 

‘I miss you, Harry.’

Her husband’s ashes in the box on the mantelpiece didn’t reply. But she sensed a distant giggle, and she gulped out her own.

Through the haze of a night of broken sleep, she ran to the station for another day of work and the hope of meeting James. A poster on the wall of The Railway pub grabbed her attention and once again the train left without her. James Talbot and his band were playing there on Friday night. 

Less than three days and she’d see him again. 

On Friday she skipped off the train after work. The black and white poster for James Talbot and his band was still in prime position on the brick wall of The Railway, but the white banner across it with the word ‘Cancelled’ in large black letters shattered her dreams and her evening turned to hell. 

With tears running down her face she sat at the piano. There was no James to play for her, and no Harry. She missed her husband’s music and wished she’d tried harder to learn when he was alive. But her uncoordinated fingers on the keys produced a mess and she slammed down the lid.

Drained of energy, the Friday night darkened into Saturday morning as she lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. None of the pills her doctor had prescribed, or the sessions of mindfulness the Internet had provided, could help her fall into the slumber she required. And by Saturday afternoon she had nothing left, a translucent blob sitting at the kitchen table staring at Harry’s photo.

But her explosion into lonely grief was the catharsis she needed and by Sunday evening the sobs and screams died down and the excess of sorrow ebbed away. A new calm filtered through with the shedding of each tear and when she re-read an annotated chapter in Martin Talbot’s book she began to settle into some sort of peace.

‘Thank you, Martin.’

But it was time to forget about him and his nephew, so she put the book to one side and moved on. 

The weekend of emotional turmoil had reached the stage where she could begin to appreciate her life on her own. She put the books and vinyl back on the shelves. It didn’t matter what she kept or threw away because Harry would be with her forever. As a positive and not as a loss. 

But James Talbot was gone. He had never really been there, and she didn’t need him.

The Monday morning train pulled up to the platform and she stepped aboard, slipped on the rain dribbled step and jammed her foot between the carriage and the platform. 

With rising panic she struggled to get free. 

A pair of hands pulled her clear and helped her up.

She turned in relief to her rescuer.

‘James Talbot’. 

‘No. I’m Tom Stapleton.’ 

‘But the inscription in the book?’ 

‘Oh, the book. I bought it in a charity shop last month. Amazing isn’t it?’

Did it matter that latte-man wasn’t James Talbot, and his uncle hadn’t spent hours annotating the book for him? 

No, it didn’t, because he was gorgeous and had just saved her life and, most importantly, he loved the book. 

‘So, you aren’t Martin Talbot’s nephew?’

‘Nope.’

‘But do you play the piano?’ 

With his long slender fingers he took her hand and helped her into the carriage as the door slid closed behind them.