Emily Barr - The Sleeper

‘Can I come over to your side of the table?’ he asks.

I look into his dark eyes and see nothing but warmth.

‘Yes,’ I whisper, and I watch him slide out of his seat. Then he is beside me, and his hand is on my waist. I am turning towards him, in spite of myself, and tipping my face up to meet his.

It is an odd thing, kissing a man who is not your husband. There is only one person in the world I am allowed to kiss like this, and the fact that this is not that person makes me so intensely excited, so desperate to cram as much as I can into these moments before reality catches up, that I feel every nerve-ending in my body tingling.

Guy’s mouth is new. His lips are soft, and his tongue gentle as it explores my mouth. I am doing something gloriously and utterly forbidden. It has been many years since I did something that I was absolutely not allowed to do. My long-dormant bad side comes joyously to the surface, and rejoices as Guy’s hands move from my waist upwards. One of his hands is on my breast, then inside my top, finding its way inside my bra.

The sensible me wins out for a while, and I pull away. He withdraws his hand.

‘Oh Christ,’ he says. ‘Lara. You are amazing. Apologies for overstepping.’

This is the moment. I recognise it even as it happens. This, I know, is the moment when I could draw back. I could call it a mistake, forget it ever happened, and avoid Guy for the next few weeks.

Or I could do what I actually do.

‘You’re not overstepping,’ I say quietly. ‘Or if you are, we both are.’

He grins, and his whole face is alight. He leans in close.

‘You’re sure? I mean, you must have seen me looking at you. I knew it the instant I saw you, which was quite possibly the first time you travelled on this train. I just … I mean, just because you’re married, that doesn’t mean you don’t notice people. And then I got to know you. Oh God, listen to me. No one tells you you’ll still be able to feel that way at forty-four. Is this a midlife crisis? It is, isn’t it?’

‘Guy? Shh. It’s just two people meeting each other on a train.’

One of his arms is around my shoulders. I lean into him and feel him kiss the top of my head.

‘I want to take you back to my compartment and undress you,’ he says quietly. ‘What do you think?’

I make an effort to control myself. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Yes, but.’

‘Yes. But …?’

‘But it would feel like too much.’ I should not say the next part, but I do. ‘I would love to. You know I would. Every part of my body is screaming at me to go for it. But we can’t, Guy. Because we’re both married. A kiss is one thing: you know what would happen if we were in a little locked room together.’

‘I do. I very much do. OK, you’re right. Let’s be a bit sensible.’ I can hear the reluctance in his voice. The knowledge that I could be, right now, having sex on a train with a handsome man who is not my husband, and that it is my decision not to, gives me a surge of tremendous power.

I think of Sam. I think of Diana, at her home near Penzance, dealing with her elderly mother and her two teenagers, waiting for her husband to come back for the weekend. I imagine her desperately hoping that he gets the job in Truro and comes back to live with her again. I know he has no intention of getting that job: does she, I wonder, know that too?

‘We really can’t do this,’ I say. ‘I’ve been married for nine years, and I’ve never done anything like it. You have an effect on me, Guy. No one’s ever done this to me before. Just one person, once, in the past. But I’m not going to fall into bed with you.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘And in the cold light of day, no doubt, I will appreciate your scruples.’

He leans back down towards me, and we are kissing again. I decide not to let him know how easily he could change my mind. I am exhilarated. I do not care, for these moments, about Olivia, about my parents, my marriage, my strange transitory life. Guy makes me forget it all. It is transgressive, but, briefly, the fact that he makes me happy cancels out everything else.

I do not sleep at all. I lie in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling in the sickly glow of the light that never quite goes off, and I think of nothing but Guy. I try, in spite of myself, to work out the mechanics of the tiny sleeping compartment. There is no chance of two people sharing one of these beds. Sex in here would have to be a functional thing, not a comfortable one. I picture us standing up, picture myself straddling him on the little bed. I try to think of other things, sensible ones, but I cannot.

I step on to the platform at Truro aware that the spell is breaking. I am going to have to pull myself together, to let Sam have the weekend he deserves. I will drink as much coffee as I can, and I will not flag.

I stand on the Falmouth platform, and catch sight of Guy’s face at one of the windows in a door as it flashes by. The glimpse of him is so brief that it is impossible to read his expression.

By the time I reach Falmouth Docks, I have realised that I was mad.

I can see Sam waving from the conservatory window, holding up a coffee cup, and I make myself smile and wave back. I kissed another man. I hate myself. Sam is entirely good and would never believe me capable of such an act. I have always been a good wife, and now I am a bad one, and nothing will ever be able to change that.

I walk slowly towards the end of the tiny platform. A crane swings around in the docks to my left, and there is a sudden siren, and a series of industrial beeps. In front of the station there is an oddly placed block of student housing, and I watch a girl walking towards it across the car park, clearly wearing last night’s clothes fumbling with a set of keys.

I stop and draw in a deep breath. I must pretend that it never happened. Sam must never know: it would hurt him far too much. I close my eyes and tell myself to be nice.

‘Darling!’

I jump, and gasp. Of course he has run down to the station. Of course he is here. He has been waiting for me to step off this train for five days. I have been lost in my own angst, and this flawless man has been sad solely because I was not with him. Meanwhile, he has been (I admit it to myself) very low down my list of priorities.

My stomach contracts with guilt. He is hugging me. I make a conscious effort to relax. I deliberately loosen my grip on all my muscles, only realising as I do so how entirely tense I was.

‘Hello, darling,’ I say into his shoulder. I will never do anything like that ever again. I love Sam. I would be nothing without him. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I was miles away then.’

‘Were you?’ He sounds amused, rather than worried. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was thinking how wonderful it is to be home.’

‘Not as wonderful as it is for me to have you home. Your coffee’s ready. And I’ll do some poached eggs, shall I? Would you like that?’ He takes my bag. ‘How on earth do you walk in those shoes! Come on.’

I smile. ‘My London shoes. I’ll change into boots.’

‘That’s the way. How are you feeling? What would you like to do today?’

I try not to wince as I give the answer Sam deserves.

‘I would like to do whatever you want to do. Shall we go out somewhere?’ I turn and look back at the view of Falmouth behind us. The sky is grey, but pale grey; the sun is trying to break through. ‘It might be a nice day. We should go for a long walk or something.’

‘Yes.’ Sam is happy. ‘We should. Really give you a blast of Cornwall. Do you fancy that? Really? How about Zennor?’

‘Zennor would be gorgeous. I just need some coffee and I’ll be fine.’

I force myself to walk on the cliff path. As we go, I decide I should tell him about Guy. If I admit it, confess everything and say how sorry I am, perhaps it will all go away. Sam is, after all, my best friend. My telling him, at this point, will stop me from ever doing it again. In future I can stay in my cabin and ignore Guy when I see him, and everything will be fine. I know that I need to tell him.