Page 42 of Read My Lips

“Toodles, darling. The pair of you simply must come and see us again!”

They sped off before the tickets printed.

The announcement board on the platform spiralled through a string of pixelated orange stars. The app on Simon’s phone had told us horrible, terrible lies. Next train: never coming. We made it up for the craic. Suckers.

Both of us took our phones out.

“No signal.”

A deep grumbling rumble echoed from the sky. I peered upwards.

“Uh-oh.”

One hand shading his face, Simon peered up at the purple cloud the size of a tower block looming over us. “It’ll clear up in a minute.”

He had confidence. Backed up by absolutely no evidence whatsoever. I nudged his shoe and he turned to me. “You reckon?”

“Absolutely.”

Right on cue, the sun vanquished itself, and someone pulled the rip-cord on an entire melted ice-cap’s worth of rain right above our heads.

We darted for the station wall, both of us pressing in close against the bricks under the twee little overhang of the roof. Water sheeted from the gutter, full on torrenting away down the tarmac, and droplets plink-plunked off the scalloped, white painted edging board.

Simon nudged my shoulder. “You got a coat?”

“It’s supposed to be summer.” Did he think I had a pac-a-mac shoved in my holey carrier bag?

“We’re in England.”

“I repeat: it’s summer.” The lanes were verdant with wildflowers and everything.

“Umbrella then?”

“No.” I tried to scrub the itch of his disapproval from the back of my neck. “Didn’t pack one.”

“Too bad.” He raised an I-used-to-be-a-boy-scout-even-though-Baden-Powell-was-a-racist-homophobe eyebrow, and popped out an immaculate folding pocket thing he unfurled with a flourish.

Inside his little circle of shelter, he drew his wheelie case close in against his leg. His pristine satchel perched on top, held there by sheer wizardry. A hammering drip from the flooded downpipe splattered me with fat droplets. He squashed a laugh.

“Ben, are you always in martyr mode?”

“What?” A spray of wet splotched onto the cotton of my t-shirt, soaking straight in, darkening the fabric.

“Oh, for godsake, that’s my line. Get under here.”

In one decisive motion, he shoved his suitcase out into the rain and tugged me under the tiny umbrella with him.

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

We were too close to even sign, breath fogging the air between us. Kissing distance, if I stretched up on my toes. Which I wasn’t going to do.

Pointless trying not to look at him though; he was right there, blinking back at me. And he’d need to look at me if we were going to talk. Not that he was saying anything.

Which was fine.

We didn’t need to talk.

No skin off my nose if he wanted to stare into my eyes. Sometimes silence was exactly the right thing. Calm. Peaceful. Really good friends did silence all the ti—Oh, bollocks to that.