The Train Sarah Bourne (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

ordinary, that she wasn’t just trotting out your typical romance. Who else would have thought of a reindeer herder having his way with a British lady in Lapland, for example?

Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. She smiled at her reflection in the train window, the scenery behind blurred into lines – green, brown, grey. She tried to focus on herself, but her eyes kept tracking the lines. Soon she felt sick with all the movement and had to stop. She took a peppermint out of her bag and sucked on it to stop the queasiness. With her eyes now closed, she thought of all that money. Would that many twenty-pound notes fill a wheelbarrow?

Suddenly she sat bolt upright. It was a three-book deal; what if she couldn’t write three more books? What had May said about it in their session? What had she said? She couldn’t remember. Her breathing began to speed up, her heart rate too. She pushed her feet into the floor and clasped her hands together. Forcing herself not to think about anything but to concentrate on the pattern of the seat fabric, she calmed down.

I always think each book is the last, but the reality is I keep creating other plots and new characters, she reminded herself. Long breath in, long breath out. She repeated this comforting phrase to herself for the rest of the journey.

As the train approached Milton Keynes she made sure she had her possessions, shouldered her bag and was waiting at the door when the train stopped. She flashed her season ticket at the barrier although the ticket collector wasn’t there, and pulled her scarf tighter round her neck as she left the station. A man in a cashmere coat and in a hurry bumped into her, making her stumble as he headed off towards the car park.

‘No, that’s okay. Don’t bother apologising,’ she said to his retreating back. She watched him go, briefcase in one hand while the other fished in his pocket for his car keys. She wondered what kind of car he drove, where he lived, if he had a wife waiting for him at home making dinner, ready to pour him a drink as soon as he walked through the door. He walked tall, his long legs striding fast. Rude though he’d been, she liked watching attractive men and couldn’t tear her eyes away. She imagined him getting home to a kiss, a smile, small talk over dinner. They’d watch the ten o’clock news together, he’d say, ‘time for bed?’ and hold a hand out to her. And she’d smile a knowing smile and lead him upstairs.

Clare sighed. She had to stop these fantasies. Or try to channel them into her writing rather than get enveloped in them outside the station at half past six in the evening with commuters spilling out into the night all around her, pushing her this way and that, tutting as she stood lost in thought.

She decided to walk home rather than catch the bus. It only took a few minutes longer and she wanted to enjoy these last few moments of peace. As she walked, she allowed herself to think more about how she’d spend her new-found wealth. A donation to the local animal sanctuary – she’d call Judith about it. New clothes. Nadia hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe there would be a book tour and she’d need to look her best. A personal trainer might be a good idea too. She always meant to exercise and never got round to it. Paying someone to make her do it would be a good investment. The house needed repainting inside and out. And maybe she could add another room, a study. Or build one in the garden with a bathroom and kitchenette. A Room of One’s Own where she could write and dream. It would be an extravagance, certainly, but why not? Didn’t she deserve it?

Too soon she arrived at her front door. As she was trying to find her key, it opened.

‘Evening, Clare.’

‘Hello, Marion. How were they today?’

‘Your mother’s been quite upset. She kept asking when her mummy was coming to see her and wouldn’t be fobbed off with my usual “tomorrow”. I had to ring my sister and ask her to pretend to be her mother so they could talk. It cheered her for a few minutes, until she forgot it had happened and asked again when she’d be seeing her mother.’ Clare suddenly felt deflated. Dream had collided head-on with reality. She took a deep breath.

‘That was creative of you, Marion. What about Dad?’ She didn’t really want to hear any more, but Marion prided herself on her ability to look after them both and provide a detailed report at the end of the day. Clare couldn’t afford to piss her off by not letting her present it.

‘He’s been quite chirpy. Took his medication, ate his lunch, watched a bit of TV, had a sleep this afternoon. He says his left arm is sore, but I’m not sure it really is – he hasn’t been able to feel it properly since the last stroke, has he? It might be he’s getting some feeling back, but unlikely. Anyway, he asked me to make him an appointment to see the doctor, so I have. And I’ve ordered the taxi to take him.’

‘Thank you. You’re a star, you really are. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Marion smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ she said, and put her bag over her shoulder. She always had it ready and waiting in the hall when Clare got home.

‘Wait a moment, Marion.’ Clare fished out her phone and transferred a hundred pounds to Marion’s account. ‘I had some good news today. Here’s a little bonus for you. Give yourself a treat.’

Marion looked at the screen Clare was showing her and a smile lit up her face. ‘Thank you, Clare. Very generous of you.’ She called goodnight to Clare’s parents, and left.

Clare hung up her coat