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I set off down the carriage to the nearest set of doors. I hear Fraser let out a curse, and then he’s grabbing his stuff, and hurrying after me.
We emerge onto the empty train platform, and I look around.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he says flatly.
“It’s not nowhere,” I reason, making a beeline for the exit. “I’m sure there’s a rental car place near enough. Or a bus station.”
“You are severely overestimating the British transport system,” Fraser mutters, but he follows me through the ticket barrier, and out of the tiny station. We’re on a two-lane country road here, with nothing but trees and fields in both directions.
I pull out my phone, check the map, and start walking.
“And where, exactly, are you going?” he calls after me.
I turn back. “The next village is only a couple miles away!”
He folds his arms, refusing to move. “I’m not wandering off in the middle of nowhere. We’ll wait here for a taxi.”
“Really? One’s just going to magically appear?” I make a show of looking around. The road is empty in both directions. “Well, you have fun waiting! I’ll see you there, eventually! Or not.”
I hoist my backpack, and keep walking; glad that it’s a pleasant day, and I wore a pair of comfortable sneakers, at the very least. But that’s about my only lucky break, because soon enough, my bag feels heavy, dragging down on my shoulders, and I’m beginning to regret my food haul. Turns out, buying my weight in snacks and soda means, well, carrying said weight along the endless country road. And the man who could easily help me carry it is a half mile behind me, stubbornly waiting for a cab so he doesn’t wrinkle his precious designer suit.
The sound of a car engine breaks through my appreciation for Fraser’s forearms. I eagerly turn, ready to flag down a Good Samaritan and hitch a ride…
Only to find that it’s a taxi, with Fraser in the backseat.
The car slows to a crawl beside me. The back window rolls down, and Fraser leans out. “Did you want a ride?” he asks, looking smug. “Or would you prefer to walk?”
I glare. Part of me wants to keep walking just to spite him, but I’m already getting hot and sweaty, so I force a syrupy grin. “Yes. Thank you,” I manage, and the car pulls to a stop.
I climb in, beside him in the backseat.
“How was the fresh air?” Fraser asks, smirking.
“Great. Thanks.” I turn my attention to the driver up front. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in driving us up to—”
“He already asked,” the guy cuts me off, sending an apologetic look in the rearview mirror. “And I already told him, I’m just clocking off. There’s an Arsenal match on in half an hour, and the hubby’s got a pie in the oven. I’m not haring up to Scotland, sorry.”
I sit back, sighing. “Worth a try!”
Luckily, it’s just a short drive to the nearby village. We climb out in the town square, which is practically deserted: just a couple of antique stores with ‘closed’ signs in the windows, and a corner shop, which seems to have more life to it. The bellDINGScheerfully as we enter and find a shaggy-haired teenage boy behind the counter, playing games on his phone.
“Hi there,” I say brightly. “Our train got delayed. Is there a limo service around here, or a place we can rent a car?”
The kid looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s Sunday.”
“And that means…?”
“Everything round here is closed,” he replies.
“Everything?” I echo in disbelief. “What is this, 1952?”
He looks at Fraser, confused. “Never mind,” I sigh, backing away.
I go browse the shelves while Fraser chats to him about the nearest town (fifteen miles away, also closed on a Sunday) and whether there’s any chance of calling another taxi (not with the Arsenal game on). “We’d be willing to pay,” he offers.
And I get an idea.
“Doyouhave a car?” I ask, fixing the shaggy kid with a hopeful look.
