Tessa Hadley: The London Train

Before he began writing, as a token of his re-establishing connection with a world outside, Robert had turned on his phone without checking it. When he was halfway through his letter, Frankie called. He cleared his throat, and talk was easy after all.

– Bobs! I can’t believe it’s actually you. Where on earth are you? Everybody’s going mad here!

– Don’t worry about me, I’m absolutely fine. Didn’t you get my text?

– Didn’t you get ours? Cora sent you one just after we got yours.

– I haven’t checked my in-box. Where is Cora?

– Well, that’s the strange thing. She came up here, because you were missing and I was sort of holding the fort at your flat. Damon took your laptop, by the way.

– Who is Damon? I don’t care about the laptop.

– A ghastly SPAD. Is it all about the inquiry?

– I’m just rethinking my work-life balance.

– I can’t believe you’ve actually said that. That’s the kind of thing I’m supposed to say, and you laugh.

– So Cora’s at the flat?

– No, that’s just it. She slept there last night, in case you came back, but she was supposed to go home to Cardiff today, that’s what she said she was going to do. But I’ve just had the most extraordinary call – from Bar, of all people.

– Bar?

– Exactly. And how did she get my number? I can only think she got in touch with Elizabeth, and she gave it to Bar. Anyway, I’m sure she was drunk, in the middle of the afternoon. Not Elizabeth. Did you know she had a son – and exhibits at a gallery in Savile Row?

– I knew about the paintings. They’re rather good.

Frankie explained that apparently Cora had turned up at Bar’s house, somewhere in deepest Devon; she had got the address out of Robert’s book, and seemed to think Bar might have him stashed away somewhere.

– Probably I shouldn’t be telling you this, Frankie said. – But it’s all kind of extraordinary.

– Are you sure Bar didn’t just get the wrong end of the stick?

– She was definitely pissed.

Cora, outside on the street, was searching in her bag for her keys. It was an awful moment: the street turned its stony face to her, implacable in the hard, dull afternoon light. She was supposed to leave spare keys with her neighbours, but they were often out. Anyway, she had a feeling she hadn’t returned those keys since last she’d borrowed them back – they might still be in the pocket of her other coat. She was dog-tired and felt like crying. But what was the point? Sturdily she brought herself around to her new perspective, facing forward. She had better go down to the locksmith.

Then the door swung back, as if under the force of her will, which had pressed at its resistance without hope – and Robert was there, utterly unexpectedly. He looked awful, unshaven and in his socks.

– You left your keys in the door.

Irrationally she was angry, or her anguish sounded like it.

– Where have you been? she protested. – I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

In the shower an hour later, Cora thought she would confess to him. She would confess everything – that her heart had been fastened by heavy chains for a long miserable time to another man, and now it wasn’t. She would confess all this before they consummated their reunion in bed. She would show him Paul’s article – she had almost left it on the train, and then at the last moment she had put it in her bag and brought it with her – and she would get out all Paul’s books and show them to Robert and then she would throw them all away. Cora was remembering her old, candid, self: unafraid, flinging open all the doors to the rooms of her life. She had put out fresh towels on the heated rail and the pelting hot water streaming off her was a glory. She had forgotten this exulting happiness was possible. In the garden beyond the open bathroom window a blackbird sang out in the intensifying late-afternoon light; the day was lovelier for hiding behind its grey veil. Robert had gone to buy shaving gear and clean underwear and clothes – God only knew what he’d come back with. She had laughed to think he’d have to go to the local Peacocks because there was no time to get into town before the shops shut.

– What’s Peacocks?

– Don’t you know anything? she’d teased him. – Don’t you know how ordinary people live? Then you’ll have to learn. Peacocks is very, very cheap.

They had no idea what they were going to do next.

They weren’t going back – not to London, not to Robert’s job. For the moment they needn’t decide. They had no ties and they could do anything, go anywhere. They had money; they could sell her house, or the flat, or both. They could go to India or America or Scotland. All that was certain was dinner that evening; they were both ravenous. She booked a table at the Italian where she used to go with her parents, warning him it was nothing very wonderful. After her shower she dressed quickly and dried her hair in front of the mirror in her bedroom, sprayed her wrists and behind her ears with Trésor. Then there was a change in the light, tipping between afternoon and evening – air that had been banal and transparent refined to blue, and a bar of dark lying along the floor crossed like a touch over her skin: sobering, admonitory. Cora stood breathing carefully under the spell of the moment.

She wasn’t afraid of Robert, only of herself – in case she spoiled anything.

What words were there for what had happened while they were apart?

She wouldn’t say anything, unless Robert asked. She would watch and see what he wanted. The night ahead was a brimming dish she had to carry without spilling it.

Thanks to Richard Kerridge, whose judgement mattered, and to Alice Bradley and Liz Porter, whose help with certain details was invaluable. The library building is based on a real library in Cardiff, but the staff are entirely imaginary. Thanks to Bath Spa University for teaching relief, and to Academi for a writer’s bursary; these gave me precious time and freedom to work on the novel. Thanks of course, for everything, to Dan Franklin and Caroline Dawnay.