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‘Your card is declined, Madame,’ said the cashier a few moments later, looking up from her screen.
I gripped the counter. ‘What? It can’t be.’
‘It is,’ she said, apparently about to lose the minuscule amount of patience she’d had with me to begin with.
I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh out loud at the ridiculous run of bad luck I’d had all morning. Nothing had gone right, literally nothing, and now this, at the final hurdle, when there’d been a chance I could have made it to the wedding and everything would have been all right again. With the cashier staring me out, I returned to searching the depths of my bag like a maniac. Just as I’d been about to tip the whole thing on the floor in a last-ditch attempt to find my credit card, I slid it out from under a travel-sized packet of wipes and handed it over. With shaking hands I tapped in my pin number, willing it to work. I had no idea what I was going to do if it didn’t.
‘Voilà, Madame,’ said the cashier, looking ever so slightly put out, as though she’d wanted the small triumph of denying me a ticket.
I thanked her anyway, stuffed everything back into my bag, slung it over my shoulder and ran. Platform 19, she’d said, which was, of course, right down the other end of the concourse. I wondered if there was something weird happening in the universe, some planet in retrograde that might explain why over the last twenty-four hours I’d done nothing but run frantically around stations and nearly miss trains. Upping my pace, I simultaneously raked around for my phone, wanting to check the time. As I ran, my hand swiped back and forth, checking every corner of my bag, up and down, under things, between pages, everywhere. I couldn’t find it. I swallowed hard, slowing down; this couldn’t be happening, not now, not after everything. I had an awful thought: had I picked it up again, after I’d emptied everything out at the ticket office? I couldn’t think, my brain had gone all fuzzy. Had I, in my panic to catch the train, left my phone on the counter?
I whirled round, looking for a clock, running over to the nearest departures board:
7.16. I had four minutes.
I sprinted back in the direction of the ticket office. If I didn’t have my phone then Si wouldn’t be able to get hold of me and I didn’t want him to worry or – more to the point – think me incapable of looking after myself. I charged past the queue, waltzing right to the front this time, explaining to the irate-looking security officers, one of whom had held out his hand to stop me, that I had left my phone on counter number 11 and that I wasn’t pushing in, just checking. He reluctantly let me through and, ignoring the shouts of protest from somebody in the queue, I ran over to the desk I’d been at a few moments before. The cashier was serving someone else now, a middle-aged businessman who unsurprisingly gave me a weird look as I scanned the counter, then flung myself to the ground, crawling around next to his feet to see if it had fallen on the floor.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to the cashier, jumping up, waving my arms around semaphore-style. ‘Excuse me, but did I leave my phone here a minute ago?’
She shook her head, the tiniest of smug smiles fluttering across her face. Great, I’d just proved to her that I was indeed the dimwit she’d thought I was. I put my hand over my mouth, needing to keep a clear head. If I wanted to catch the train, I had to forget about my phone and run. It was more important that I made it to Amsterdam, whatever the cost. Phones could be replaced, but Catherine would never have another wedding day. So I ran, out of the ticket office and back across the concourse, towards the platform, my breath ragged, my ticket clutched in my hot, damp hand. I was halfway to Platform 19 when out of nowhere and as if in slow motion, a huge, black bag slid across the floor in front of me. I reacted pretty quickly, I had to say, flailing my arms around, trying to slow myself down, digging the balls of my feet into the ground, but it was no good, I couldn’t stop or even swerve in time to avoid it. I flew forward, the floor of the station zooming towards me at such alarming speed that I reckoned I was going to knock myself out. I put out my hands to save myself and landed sprawled on my side, twisting my ankle in the process.
I lay there for a second or two, breathless and somewhat dazed, before everything came back into focus and I became aware of legs all around me, of painted toes in sandals and the bottoms of jeans, and a Tannoy announcement about a train to Lille and a searing pain in my ankle.
When I blinked and looked up, someone was standing over me, a man, wearing a black leather jacket. I couldn’t believe it. Or actually, I could, because with the day I was having it just had to be the arsehole French guy from the train, didn’t it? I might have guessed he’d be selfish enough to chuck his stuff about all over the place.
‘Je peux vous aider?’ he said breathing heavily, holding out his hand, which I ignored.
‘No, you can’t,’ I said, knowing I had to get up, had to keep on running. I tried to stand, but pain shot through my ankle, so I used my other leg to push myself up, grabbing at his bag for leverage.
‘Can you walk on it?’ asked the French guy, already backing off. He was catching the same train I was, presumably, and obviously had no intention of hanging around to check whether or not I was ok.
‘Just go,’ I snapped at him, bending to gather up the contents of my bag which had scattered all over the floor.
‘I can call somebody to assist you,’ he said, looking wildly around, scooping up my book and a pack of tissues and shoving them at me.
‘What I need is to catch this train,’ I said, snatching them out of his hands. The platform looked even further away than before and I could hardly sprint at full speed now, could I? Running wasn’t my forte at the best of times.
‘Go and get your train. Seriously,’ I said to him. Why was he still standing there, staring, being of no use to anyone whatsoever?
‘If you are sure?’ he said, hauling his bag onto his shoulder.
‘There’s no point both of us missing it, is there?’ I said, starting to hobble towards the platform.
He fell into step beside me, rubbing his hand over his mouth.
‘Go!’ I said, massively wound up. I didn’t want him blaming me if he didn’t catch his precious train.
He went to walk off, looking back over his shoulder as though he was unsure what to do and then finally breaking into a run and accelerating so fast that he was out of sight within seconds.
I pushed on, attempting a painful half-run because there was always a chance the train would be delayed. Someone might have pressed the emergency alarm, for example. There could be a minor signalling problem that would temporarily hold things up. Just as I neared the end of the concourse and veered left onto Platform 19, a whistle blew and the train – my train – began to move, slinking casually out of the station as though it hadn’t just added yet another terrible layer to this hell-hole of a day. I leaned on a luggage trolley for support, trying to regulate my breath, taking the weight off my ankle. And then I saw him, the French guy, striding towards me, his monstrosity of a bag thrown over his shoulder, the train snaking into the distance behind him.
‘So,’ he said, slamming his bag on the floor.
I put my hands on my hips, squaring up to him. ‘How did you manage to miss it?’
‘I was here,’ he said, throwing his arms about. ‘One minute before, at 7.19. But they had closed the doors early and that imbécile,’ he said, scowling over his shoulder at a guard, ‘would not open them again.’
‘Right,’ I said, too fed up to even pretend to care.
