The Passenger Daniel Hurst (books for men to read .TXT) 📖

the annoyingly pretty female who has just broken one of the unwritten rules of train travel.

You don’t get into a seat that somebody is preparing to sit down in. As public transport rules go, it’s up there with “don’t listen to loud music without headphones” and “try to avoid eating anything fishy”. But the young woman doesn’t even acknowledge what she has done and instead settles into the seat even more.

I’m furious. I’m tired. Most of all, I’m sick of putting up with this awful routine. And I’m just about to let this rude person know it. That is until the guy sitting opposite decides to do it for me.

‘That’s not cool,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’m sure your parents didn’t bring you up to be that rude.’

The young woman frowns as if to say “Are you talking to me?” so the man makes it clear that he is.

‘Yes, I’m talking to you. This lady here was just about to sit down. As you can see, she had already placed her laptop bag on the table, and she was in the process of removing her coat when you snuck in and stole that seat away from her. I think you should apologise and go and find another place to sit.’

I notice the young woman seems as surprised about this man’s intervention as I am.

‘Why do you care?’ the woman scoffs back, and for a second I’m reminded of Louise. It makes me feel a little better to know that it’s not just my daughter who has a bad attitude towards others.

‘I care because she is my wife, and she is pregnant,’ the man says, and now I’m even more surprised. ‘I don’t think it’s fair that you are going to make her stand up all the way back to Brighton just so you can put your feet up. What are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? Come on, you’ve got the energy to stand.’

I’m not sure who this guy is and why he is pretending we are married or that I’m pregnant, but before I can question it, I see the young woman in my seat look at me with a sympathetic expression.

‘I’m sorry. My bad,’ she says, and she gets up and scurries away down the carriage on the hunt for somewhere else to sit.

Wow. I’m amazed.

That actually worked.

But I don’t waste too much time thinking about it and quickly slump down into the vacant seat before anybody else can swoop in.

‘Thanks, hubs,’ I say jokingly to the man sitting opposite me, but he waves his hand in the air as if it was no big deal.

‘Sorry for the whole marriage and pregnancy thing. I just knew that was the best chance to get her to give the seat back.’

I smile but also feel a little self-conscious. Does he think I could pass for a woman who looks pregnant?

My stomach isn’t exactly flat, but I wasn’t aware it was round.

‘And I don’t mean you look pregnant either,’ the stranger quickly adds, and I laugh in relief.

‘That’s good to know. Thank you.’

We share a brief smile before the various noises in this chaotic carriage divert our attention away. Hurried chatter. Tannoy announcements. Arguing. Music. The rustle of a packet of crisps. The clatter of a suitcase on the floor. It’s like an orchestra of the mundane.

I’m tempted to try to keep the conversation going with the stranger opposite me, if only because it’s been a while since I got chatting with a good-looking guy, but the presence of the laptop bag on the table between us reminds me why I shouldn’t. I am supposed to be working now. This is my golden hour. That one sliver of precious time in my day when I get to do what I really want to do instead of what I’m paid to do or what I’m obligated to do. My boss in the office cares little for my dreams of being an author, and my daughter cares even less, but I care, and that is all that matters.

But that book won’t write itself.

With that in mind, I unzip the bag and slide out my silver laptop before lifting up the screen and pushing the power button. It’s not the best computer on the market, and it takes an age to load up, but it was affordable, and it does what I need it to do, which is basically stay powered long enough for me to punch some words into it before it dies.

As I watch the screen run through its tediously long powering-up phase, I look around the carriage, and as expected, all the seats are now taken. I can see several people standing in the area by the doors, squeezed in almost as tightly as they were out on the platform, and I feel sorry that they are the unlucky ones today who won’t get to sit down until we are well outside London.

And to think they are all paying good money for this.

But I can’t let other people’s problems distract me from my own, so I return my focus to my laptop, where I enter my eight-digit password, and now I am in.

There’s no stopping me now. I can work all the way home. All I need to do is start typing.

‘Wow, and I thought I was a workaholic.’

I glance up at the man sitting opposite me.

‘Sorry?’

He gestures to the laptop between us. ‘I thought the working day was over, but I guess you are proving me wrong.’

‘Oh, this isn’t work,’ I reply with a smile, and I expect him to leave it at that. But I kind of hope he doesn’t.

‘What is it?’ he asks me as he unfastens the top button on his white shirt and loosens his smart navy tie a little.

Hmmm, he really is good looking. I estimate that he is around thirty years of age, which is much too young for me of course, but then it feels like most people are these days. I’ve already begun my