‘I think you have an admirer there,’ says Mum, a twinkle in her eye.
I shake my head and shrug, the daylight shifting to artificial light as the train enters the Eurotunnel.
‘What is it with me and men? Why do I have so many barriers up?’ I ask, almost more to myself than to Elsa and Mum.
‘Your independence gets in the way,’ replies Elsa.This is uncharacteristically to the point, since she usually takes a tactful route with me, unlike Mum.
‘Does it?’
‘Or perhaps it’s because you fear loss,’ she suggests, buttering her warm bread to have with the small bowl of French onion soup.
‘But why? It doesn’t make sense. I know Paul cheated on me, but the scar can’t run that deep.’ I sit for a moment, watching my reflection in the window against the concrete and cabling of the tunnel. ‘And I have lots of long-term friendships, I don’t fear losing those. What’s so different between friendships and relationships?’
‘Intimacy,’ says Elsa, without missing a beat.
Mum and I look at her.
‘A strong relationship requires four things,’ she continues. ‘Friendship, trust, respect and intimacy, both physical and emotional. Without intimacy, what have you left?’
‘Companionship?’ Mum asks, as if it were a school test.
‘Which is all well and good when you’re my age,’ Elsa laughs, her soft skin crinkling round her eyes. ‘But it’s not much use when you’re twenty-nine. You don’t allow men to become intimate with you in case you lose them.’
‘Because of Paul?’ I ask, not convinced Elsa’s theory quite rings true.
‘It’s my fault,’ says Mum, a piece of bread poised above her soup.
‘How?’ I ask, puzzled by what part my mother could possibly have played in my love life.
‘Losing my grandmother and mother when I did,I’ve always feared loss. Over time I’ve distanced myself from everyone, physically and emotionally, including you, and your dad. I imagine it’s part of the reason I’m a writer, creating worlds I’m completely in control of. If I didn’t have the connection, I couldn’t have the loss.’
‘Are you saying I don’t get close to people because of something that happened two and three generations ago?’ I ask uncertainly.
‘Partly,’ she answers, pausing to give me time to allow the idea to soak in. ‘I’ve carried a lot of fear into parenting, which is probably the reason why you don’t have a sibling – I was fearful for a long time that I wouldn’t be around long enough to look after you.’
‘I’m sorry you felt that way,’ I say, thankful for her willingness to share, and wishing she’d done so long ago.
‘I’m certain you’ve absorbed some of that fear from me, and that, coupled with the hurt Paul caused, is enough for you to resist becoming too emotionally involved in relationships.’
‘Huh,’ I say, a bit taken aback by this revelation, and not entirely sure what to do with it.
‘Long-term intimacy isn’t so challenging when we let go of the stories we tell ourselves, and see the world for what it is,’ says Elsa, giving my hand a pat. ‘Open up your heart a little, Carly-girl, and see who you might let in.’
I leave Mum and Elsa in their seats with the promise of returning with an extra drink. In the bar, a queue snakes the length of the carriage, so I prop myself against the long grey counter.
I’m thinking about what Mum and Elsa both said about generational loss and fear, and how that’s impacted on me, when the man in front of me, tall, lean and in his fifties, who’s been watching me from the corner of his eye side on, turns and says, ‘You look familiar, do I know you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I smile politely, though I’m thinking,I’ve heard this line before.
‘Huh,’ he says, not releasing his stare. His eyes, behind his wire-framed glasses, are dark and hard as conkers.
‘Are you part of the book train?’ I ask, hoping that might be it, that he recognises me from the Scotsman.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m travelling from London to Paris, that’s all.’
‘For work?’
He nods, still watching me. ‘What is it you do?’
