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Owen only nodded.
George thought it was a wonder he’d paired off with Owen, the king of moody silences, but there it was. Sometimes friends just happened. Like love … he thought of Millie. That had just happened, too.
He tried another lure. ‘It would have been good if you’d spent Christmas with her.’
‘Better for her without me.’
‘Oh, right? If you say so.’ Glancing again at his friend, George wondered if Bethan and Owen had quarrelled. Maybe that was why he was so silent. Owen always descended into darkness when he finished with one of his girls, and the thing with Bethan had already run longer than most. It had been bound to end soon. Pity, she was a good girl, and almost as pretty as Millie.
There she was again, Millie…. always somewhere in his thoughts. Won’t be long now, he thought. Home soon. See her tonight. The excitement was almost too much for George to hide.
As soon asthey were on the train, Owen fell asleep, leaving George alone with his thoughts, free to stare out the window and plan the day ahead, a day he had been thinking about for weeks.
He was going home.Oh, yes!He’d see his mum, eat her great cooking, sleep in his own bed. Have his washing done for him. Hang out with a few old friends, but best of all,oh, yes, really very much best, best of all!He would see his girl, Millie. Lovely Millicent Mackie. Millie from Edinburgh. Dainty, beautiful Millie–short enough to make him feel tall. Millie, who enjoyed listening to him, but had the sweetest voice of her own. Millie who made allowances for him being an idiot. A twinge of doubt twisted inside him as he remembered he had still not told her about his dad. Would she make allowances then? He pushed the thought away. Millie, my Millie. He would light up when she shone her sapphire eyes on him. Burst into flames at her touch even if it was only fingertips.
Soothing his hangover, which he’d been ignoring in deference to Owen’s greater pain, George rested his head against the cold glass of the train window and closed his eyes to conjure images of Millie in his mind’s eye.
True to her word, she had written letters to him, good old-fashioned Royal Mail. There had been emails, texts, and phone calls. No carrier pigeons. He smiled at the memory of Millie’s joke.
They had been in contact every day. Often multiple times in a single day. He knew all the details of her evening job. Almost as if he had been sitting at the bar. He knew who’d been into the pub, who’d got legless. She’d told him about the comings and goings at her flat. It was like he had never London.
She shared her latest assignments at college. He’d shared his struggles with his course work, told her how he worried about keeping up with his reading without her to inspire him. The number of books his course required to be read was mammoth. The final year’s work was even harder than he’d expected. Despite all her good influence in the summer, it still looked like he’d only get a 2.2. It didn’t help that his best mate was a genius. All the tutors expected Owen to get a double first.
He hadn’t told Millie he couldn’t talk to his parents about his academic shortcomings. His mother would be disappointed, and his dad wouldn’t understand. Or if he did, it would only supply him with ammunition. More reasons it was a waste of time for his son to be attending a poncy bleeding university and that took him too dangerously close to the secret he could not share.
But it had been good to share part of his worries. He’d told her about his best mate. Millie understood. She didn’t appear to think any less of him for feeling inferior to Owen.
An upbound express sped by with a thud and a whooshing sound. The train rocked, jolting George away from the window. He shifted, and with the image of Millie fading under the onslaught of his intrusive hangover, he unglued his eyes; sticky from an alcohol fuelled sleepless night.
Where were they? He didn’t recognise the passing scenery. According to the timetable, the journey from Sheffield to London should take two hours, fifteen minutes. He checked his watch. An hour and fifteen minutes still to go. It felt like an eternity.
He looked across at Owen. Eyes closed, head lolling against the seat back, mouth open. Out for the count. Even in such an inelegant pose, Owen looked like Greek god. Was he ever anything short of perfect? Bloody Owen. George scowled, considered, and dismissed a trip to the buffet, then slumped against the headrest, and closed his eyes.
If the train arrived on time, he would go to the West End for some last-minute Christmas shopping. Shouldn’t take too long, and he’d be home by early afternoon. Hopefully, his mum would have already started her Christmas baking, so there would be sausage rolls and mince pies to eat. Salivating, he wondered if she would make a chocolate yule log this year. He loved his mum’s yule log. It was the best.
He’d spend some time with her, catch up on local gossip, sample some of the food, then try to talk to his dad–never an easy task–usually ended in aggression on one part or both. He’d not talk about university, try to avoid an argument, for Mum’s sake. After that, he could go to the pub where Millie would be working. His heart sizzled at the prospect of seeing her.
Breathless at the thought, he fidgeted; impatient to pull her into his arms, kiss her until their lips hurt. Tell her how much he loved her. Surely, she would trust him now; not think of Robert and his lies. He checked the time on his mobile. Three-quarters of an hour left of the journey. No signal, so he couldn’t even phone her.
Owen was stillasleep as the train slowed into St Pancras. George leant across and nudged his friend’s leg.
‘Rise and shine, Rip Van Winkle. We’re home.’
‘Uh, what?’ Disoriented, Owen struggled from sleep.
‘We’re pulling into the station.’
‘Right.’ Owen sat up and blinked at the station platform, slowly sliding by the window.
‘Feel better?’
‘A bit. Sorry about sleeping all the way.’
‘No problem. I had a lot to think about.’
Owen smeared his palms over his eyes and grimaced as if he couldn’t get them to focus properly.
George smiled to himself, thinking of the owner of the underwear snagged in Owen’s duvet. Obviously, her Christmas holiday got off to a good start. He hoped it had been Bethan. He hoped Owen hadn’t finished with her. He wasn’t usually this knackered after a one-night stand. Perhaps that was a good sign.
