I try hard to focus on the conversation, which has now moved on to include stories from Carole and Bea about their adult children, rather than spiralling into extreme panic about Lola.
We met ten years ago at a party in a pub outside Waterloo and just had an incredible connection. Nothing happened between us because I was about to move to New York for an amazing work opportunity and Lola was in a relationship (it turned out). She told me at the end of the evening, on our way into the station, that she was actually twelve weeks pregnant, and for that reason didn’t want to leave her partner, which I obviously totally understood.
We did swap numbers and made one of those straight-out-of-a-corny-film agreements – which you don’t think real people would ever make – that if we were both single in ten years’ time we’d meet here at Waterloo under the clock tonight, on the longest night of the year, ten years on.
I actually deleted her number a couple of days after that meeting because I just felt grubby thinking about someone who had a partner and was having a baby with him, and put her out of my mind, and managed not to think about her much after that, other than on the occasions I walked past the pub where we’d met.
And then, three days ago, I got a text from her asking if I was still single. Iamofficially single, as of about nine months ago. And apparently so is she now.
And so we agreed to meet. And if I’m honest, I’ve beenreallyexcited about it.
And it seems inconceivable that she would contact me out of the blue, send all the messages she sent, and then not turn up.
And for that reason, worry is clawing away at me now.
Nadia breaks into my thoughts. ‘Honestly, Tom, I’m sure your friend is okay. British Rail being what it is, they were probably just delayed, and then got caught up in all of this.’
‘No replies to any of my messages, though?’
‘There aresomany rational explanations for that,’ Nadia says. ‘Lost the phone. Stuck in an underground station somewhere due to all of this. Out of data. To name but three.’ She has the air of a woman who could name about fifty possible explanations but has suddenly realised that it might seem insensitive to turn my worry into a guessing game.
‘Yes, there are,’ says Ruth firmly. ‘Why don’t you tell us about your friend? If you’d like to? Please don’t feel youhaveto, of course.’
And then I find myself doing exactly what Bea and Ruth and Carole did: I find myself seduced into that splurge-your-secrets-to-strangers-who-have-just-become-your-new-best-friends thing.
‘Her name is Lola,’ I begin.
3
NADIA
As Tom fills us in on his very romantic ten-year wait for Lola, I can’t decide whether I’m worried that something badhashappened to her (that would be such terrible timing for them both) or whether, yes, she’s just stuck underground due to all of this (although she would already have been several minutes late before the alert happened) or whether, maybe, she got cold feet. We’re heading towards quarter to eight now, and you would really think that she could have got in touch with him if she wanted to.
Maybe I’m just being negative, though, because of Dougie’s blatant no-show.
I wonder, actually, whether I should let him know that I’m okay.
I murmur an apology and pull out my phone to send a message to him, but then realise that, no, if he’s nowhere near the station because he never came at all (highly likely), it’s far too embarrassing. And if he’s nearby, he’ll know that there’s no panic going on and everyone seems fine and that nothing bad will have happened to me.
Yeah, no, I’m not sending him a message.
‘She’s tall and slim, with long, straight, blonde hair, and very beautiful, but most of all funny, kind and amazing company, just an all-round wonderful person,’ Tom’s saying.
Our chorus ofAwis interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker.
‘False alarm?’ Ruth says, when it’s finished. ‘All free to go?’
‘Except, any excuse for a train delay, so we won’t beableto leave.’ Roger has reappeared.
Carole has been looking almost cheery, but she immediately tenses.
‘Roger. Please leave us,’ says Bea.
‘Don’t come back to the house tonight,’ Carole says.
‘Well, where am I going to stay?’
‘Samantha’s?’ Carole suggests sarkily.
