The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea. Jaimie Admans

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      It is brilliant, I know that, but … a love story? Me? I’m the worst choice in the world to write a love story. I haven’t even been on a date in over two years, as Daph reminds me repeatedly. She’s the one who writes articles about love and romance and couples who meet in weird and wonderful ways. I just fact-check them, and I love reading them because my best friend wrote them, but Daphne can make a story out of anything. I don’t know how to write this breathtakingly romantic article that Zinnia seems to want out of a guy I’ve looked at on the train a few times.

      Daph’s already scribbling notes for me in a notepad. ‘Tell it exactly as you’ve always told me about Train Man. Focus on how his gaze makes you feel rather than how pretty his eyes are because you don’t want his identity to be too obvious. And make sure to mention how single you are and how single he is, and how you’ll meet when you give his phone back.’

      ‘I’ve got to find him first. Alan certainly wasn’t any help.’

      ‘Someone else will be. You haven’t got time to go through his contacts now, but after the article’s done, then you can concentrate on finding him.’

      ‘He’s probably a psychopath,’ I say. ‘Eye contact on public transport is a big no-no.’

      ‘You made eye contact on public transport with him too.’ She sighs. ‘You don’t always have to think the worst of people, Ness.’

      ‘I don’t always think—’

      ‘You thought that guy I tried to set you up with last month was a lunatic.’

      ‘He wanted to go rock climbing for a date. Rock climbing, Daph! A coffee is a date, not clambering up a flippin’ rock. Dating is bad enough without involving rocks and exercise.’

      ‘You wouldn’t have accepted even if he’d offered coffee and cake, just like you didn’t accept the last guy I tried to set you up with, or the one before that, or the one before. It’s been years since “poor Andrew”—’

      ‘Just how romantic do you think Zinnia wants this to be?’ I interrupt her. I know she thinks I was mad to break up with ‘poor Andrew’ and even madder not to want to find someone else, but I’m better off alone. ‘Poor Andrew’ proved that. Netflix is a much better companion.

      ‘So romantic. She wants the love story of the year that’s going to resonate with any woman who’s ever been on a packed train.’

      ‘That’s exactly the point though, isn’t it? It’s just a story. A fantasy. It’d make a nice movie, but this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen. It’d be great if he was the man of my dreams.’ I pat the phone in my pocket. ‘But he isn’t. Stories like these are just stories. They’re not real life.’

      * * *

      At five to two, I press send on my email to Zinnia.

       The Guy on the Train: A love story for our time, with a twist worthy of any Paula Hawkins novel

       By Vanessa Berton

       The unspoken rule of London transport: ignore everyone. No one else exists on the tube. The disinterested gaze at nothing in particular as long as it’s not another human being is an art form that every person learns upon their arrival in the capital.

       I have broken this rule. A man has broken this rule with me.

       For a few months now, Train Man and I have looked at each other on the Victoria line. It’s not every morning, far from it. Sometimes there can be days or weeks between our clandestine gazes.

       I’m not a born Londoner. Would other Londoners turn on me if they knew that I regularly make eye contact with a stranger? Would they make me disembark at the next stop if they knew that we sometimes – and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – smile at each other?

       There. I’ve said it. I’ve noticed that there are other people on the tube. One of them has noticed me. Sometimes we share a smile. And it’s a very nice smile. It’s a smile with dimples, and hair of the darkest brown, and dark eyes that smile too when they look at me. It’s quite a feat to see me flustered and sweltering on a summer morning and not be scarred for life, but Train Man manages it. Each morning that I see him is just a little better than any other morning. I arrive at work with just a slightly springier step.

       This morning was different. This morning, instead of being at the opposite end of the carriage like I usually am, I was mere feet away from him, crammed against a sweaty shirtless body. Unfortunately not his sweaty shirtless body. That would’ve made the journey marginally more pleasant.

       Our eyes met as usual. And his dimples at such close range were enough to make me take leave of my senses. I nearly spoke to him. Thankfully I stopped myself at the last second because I hadn’t completely lost my marbles. But he nearly spoke to me too. In fact, we were barely saved from a lifetime of awkward conversation by arriving at a station – his stop today, but not his usual stop. Why is he getting off here when he doesn’t usually? Judging by the suitcase and array of bags, he’s obviously going somewhere, and judging by the panicked looks he keeps giving his phone, he doesn’t have much time to get there.

       I don’t mean to watch him, but he’s tall enough to unintentionally draw the eye, and I’m short enough to be hidden by other passengers, so he can’t see me lurking behind him, watching the way long, sexy fingers wrap around the handle of his suitcase as he waits for the door to open. I see him give a final glance at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. Except, he doesn’t slip it back into his pocket. He thinks he has, but I’m the only one who’s noticed that he missed, and in the clamour of the doors opening, he hasn’t heard it clatter to the floor.

       I grab it before it gets caught in the stampede, and make a split-second decision to run after him to return it, but I may have been slightly lax on my gym visits lately, and he runs out of there at a speed that would make Sonic the Hedgehog jealous.

       I don’t catch him. And I now I have his phone.

       And I’ve managed to unlock it. I am inside the private life of Train Man. I’ve read his texts. I’ve seen his photos. I know what grocery shopping he bought last week and that he ordered a pizza last night. I know he likes the same things I like, that there are no texts to a significant other, and I’ve happened to notice on our shared journeys that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

       Could a guy so friendly and gorgeous really be single? Could my silent flirtation with Train Man really mean something? Have we defied the laws of public transport because of a deeper meaning? Has the universe thrown us into each other’s path for a reason that we can’t yet see?

       I have his phone. I have to get it back to him. But I have to find him first …

      Daph warned me to only expect a response from Zinnia if she hates it, so I take the silence as a good sign and get on with fact-checking the stack of articles piled up in my inbox. Well, between obsessively refreshing the website to see when it goes live, obviously.

      It’s not perfect; I know that. I’m sure it’ll fade into the depths of Maîtresse’s site and be read by approximately four people, СКАЧАТЬ