A Less Brief Encounter

Suitcase in hand you head to the station. You walk ahead apparently indifferent to the below zero temperature and gentle snowfall. Others are enveloped in hooded coats and scarves, but that skimpy leather jacket is your only protection. When I mentioned this to you yesterday you told me I needed to try a New York winter if I wanted to experience cold. Despite the weather the pavements are too crowded to allow us to walk together, Christmas shopping being in full spate.

               We arrive at Euston and you wait for me to catch up with you. You smile and I wonder where this is coming from. I smile back, despite myself. The station is disgorging shoppers and theatre goers, anxious to max-out their credit cards worshipping at the altar of the West End. You lead me through to your platform. You stop at the ticket check, say that this is it and add that you don’t want lingering goodbyes.

You collect your free newspaper, duck inside and I see you reappear at the windows as you take a seat. You don’t look back. As your train pulls out, I watch the wheels slide over the track and am reminded of your jean-clad legs sliding over mine as we watched the forecast. You giggled delightedly at the thought of snow awaiting you at home. Home. Is it where the heart is?

I cross the station concourse, stopping for coffee at the place we met. This time no coffee is spilled; no apologies exchanged; no eye-contact with a lost stranger seeking directions.

You seemed reluctant to accept my offer of help until I told you I was going to the same conference. You fell in beside me as we walked down Southampton Row. You talked a lot. I listened a lot. I liked your accent. I thought it was American but had made the mistake of asking a Canadian who joined the company which part of the US she was from and it didn’t end well.  Luckily, you volunteered that you were from New York and I told you of my one trip, largely inspired by my desire to pay homage to John Lennon. You said you loved The Beatles and quoted lyrics. If I’d have known that Yesterday might have become our soundtrack maybe I’d have less delighted when I found I was in your group for the seminars.

I followed you around at the “Welcome” event as we clutched cheap sparkling wine and tried to stop even cheaper vol-au-vents collapsing before we could eat them. As you failed in this second task, you laughed and told me it was clear that every expense had been spared. You raised your eyebrows at me as twenty-somethings with names like Robyn (with a y) and Tristam pressed unwanted literature from the sponsors into your hand and earnestly hoped you’d have a nice evening.

I caught your whispered aside as you were approached by tanned blond Charles. “Arsehole alert,” you said and then smiled sweetly as he greeted you. You worked in the same company, I gathered. As he walked away you whispered, “Tan out of a bottle, brain in his pants.”

The afternoon headed towards evening and you suggested I might rescue you. You said as I knew London, I must know of somewhere to eat away from Charlie and his old-Etonian ‘chums’ whom we had heard use words like ‘spiffing’ and ‘jape’, with no trace of irony, during the ice breaker which we agreed drained our will to live.

The restaurant is now a landmark to the memory of you. I glance in the window as I pass. The last time I saw my reflection here it was on its way to meet you. You told me the first chapter of your story here.

You told me that as well as The Beatles you loved Goffin and King. I said I didn’t but still played hooky (as you called it) to queue for stand-by tickets for Beautiful. ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?’ could have been our song. You didn’t hint for me to leave that night as you had when we’d drained your mini-bar the night before.

I shouldn’t be walking. It’s started to sleet again, so I pull up my hood. I click your name on my phone. You answer on the second ring. I say it’s me, and you say you know. If you know, then couldn’t the greeting have been less generic? Your voice is the chirpy professional greeting I heard so often this last week as “The Office” rang. I would listen to your clear explanation of a procedure that the caller needed to follow. I would watch you and admire your “business” persona and love you even more, but could you have a different voice for me?

You tell me that you are approaching Crewe, where you know reception is poor so we might lose each other. I know I’m losing you, I want to say, but don’t.

I add this to the list of things that I want to say and don’t. Things like whether you  have: thought about me incessantly since your train left; restructured yourself, so that Andrew’s old wife will arrive home in about half an hour; considered how you will answer the question “have you had a good time, darling?”

Instead I tell you what the weather is like. You can only tell me that your journey has been uneventful. I ask if you’ve spilled coffee on anyone, and you say that you don’t make a habit of it. 

I stand by the RAF memorial, the one you admired and where you told me that your grandfather was in the USAAF. I remind you of this now, and fancy that I can hear you thinking. You say nothing.

               I tell you that if you’re in Crewe you can get a train anywhere. You can step off and start a new life. You say your bag is full of dirty washing. I say you only need to get somewhere with a Marks and Spencer’s. 

You giggle, but then ask what the noises off are about. Your delightful giggle turns to laughter as I describe a local dispute between taxi drivers, played out against a soundtrack of blaring horns and foul language. Big Ben joins the cacophony.

You tell me to drown out the noise. How about a song, you ask? What would John and Paul have played here? Hello Goodbye I suggest. You say maybe we need another writer, adding you’d prefer your favourite poet’s That’s No Way To Say Goodbye. So, this is goodbye for you, I think but don’t say. The list is getting longer.

You’re running out of words. I can sense you want this call to end. You ask if we’re playing out a Rom-Com final scene, adding how we laughed about corny endings, Titanic being a favourite. You say one of the funniest times together was playing out the final scenes as we took a trip down The Thames and you played Kate Winslet to my Leo Di Caprio and told me you’d never let go. You laugh. I don’t.

You have let go, I say to you now. I hear you gasp. Before you can speak I say I’ll always be grateful for the spilled coffee as it bought me to you. I ask, how Titanic is that? But I laugh alone as my phone goes dead.

The evening drags on. I hear the doorbell and think that the Pizza Express are quick tonight. It’s you. And it’s raining. I look at you, water running through your hair. I say it’s raining. No kidding, you say, and add that I’m not Hugh Grant and you aren’t going for the Andie McDowell lines from Four Weddings. You say I either need to let you in or tell you to go away.

You stand in the centre of my unkempt world. Your suitcase is still in your hand. I ask if it’s truly only full of dirty washing. You smile and nod. I tell you that my local M&S is open until late. You look quizzical as my doorbell rings. Pizza Express. You ask if there is enough for two. I nod. And is the M&S open in the morning, you ask. When I say yes you smile and put down the suitcase. You ask if I’ve got a film to go with the pizza.