Restlessly, because in spite of having flown more times than I could remember I always felt apprehensive before a flight, I walked around the lounge, trying to distract myself. I looked through the books and magazines, and bought a paperback; I examined the toys and gifts that were on sale; I went slowly past the airline information desks: British Caledonian, British Airtours, Dan-Air, Iberia. There was nowhere to sit down, nothing much to do except stand or walk about and look at the other passengers. I diverted myself with a game I had often played before in similar circumstances, trying to guess which of the people were on my own flight, why they were flying, where they were going to go to afterward, who they were. By some knack I was often able to guess correctly which people were on my flight. I remembered the time I had flown to Australia, when in the crowded Heathrow departure lounge I had spotted a particular woman in a noticeable, brightly colored dress. Four days later, in Swanston Street, Melbourne, I saw the same woman in the same dress.
Today, playing the same idle game, I picked out a middleaged man with two immense pieces of cabin luggage, a young woman dressed demurely in a light jacket and jeans, a businessman with a financial newspaper.
The delay was finally overcome, and three flights were called in quick succession. The crowd thinned out, and the people I had picked remained in the lounge with me. The next flight called was mine, and I followed the crowd through the boarding gate and into the extensible ramp. In the turmoil of finding seats I lost sight of the other three, and thought no more about them.
The flight was extremely short, the plane having barely gained its operating altitude before starting the approach into Le Touquet. Half an hour after leaving Gatwick we had reached the terminal. We were all waved smoothly through customs and immigration, and I went to find my train; most of the other passengers headed for the Paris connection. Mine was to be a long journey, so before boarding the train I bought a supply of food: fresh bread, cheese, a little cooked meat, some fruit, and a large bottle of Coca-Cola.
My first train was a local, stopping at every tiny station and halt on the line. It was well into the afternoon when I arrived in Lille, where I was to change. This was to the express train to Basel, but if anything it drove more slowly, and stopped more often, than the first. At the fourth stop a great silence descended on the train and station. Ten or fifteen minutes passed.
I was reading the paperback I had bought, and was only marginally aware that someone walking down the corridor had stopped outside my compartment. I heard the door slide open, and I looked up. It was a young woman of medium height and build, standing in the doorway.
She said, “You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I raised my paperback for her to see.
“I thought so. I saw you on the other train, to Lille.”
“Are you looking for a seat?” I said, because I was already bored with my own company.
“No, I booked one in London. My luggage is in the other compartment. The trouble is I don’t speak French very well, and there’s a family in there who keep talking to me. I don’t want to be rude, but . .
“It gets to be a strain after a while, doesn’t it?”
The train lurched, then halted again. Somewhere underneath the carriage a generator started churning. Outside on the platform two men in SNCF uniforms walked slowly past the window.
“Would you mind if I joined you for a while?” she said.
“Of course not. I’d like some company.”
She slid the door to, then sat in the window seat opposite mine. She was carrying a large canvas bag bulging with possessions, and she placed this on the seat beside her.
“I’ve seen you before!” I said. “Weren’t you on the plane—I mean, did you fly from Gatwick?”
“Yes—I saw you too.”
“This morning!” I was laughing in surprise, because I had suddenly recognized her as one of the passengers I had picked out in the departure lounge.
“Where are you going now?” she said.
“I’m hoping to get to Nancy tonight.”
“That’s a coincidence—so am I.”
“I probably won’t stay more than a day or two. What about you? Are you visiting friends?”
“No, I’m on my own. I thought I might go and see some people in the south, but they don’t even know I’m in France yet.”
She had straight brown hair, a pale face, thin hands. I guessed her to be somewhere in her late twenties. I found her company very attractive, partly for the relief from my own boredom but mostly because she was so likable, so ready to talk. She seemed interested in me, making me talk a lot.
“You don’t happen to know if there’s a restaurant car?” she said. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“I’ve brought plenty of food,” I said. “You’re we!come to it.” I had already eaten some, and had been intending to save the rest for later, but I opened the bag and passed it to her. I took an apple, but she ate the rest.
While we had been talking the train had started, and already we were moving through the flat and uninteresting countryside. The sun was shining straight in through our window, and because it could not be opened it was warm in the carriage. When she arrived she had been wearing the jacket I had noticed earlier, but now she removed it and placed it on the rack overhead. While she turned away from me I could not help appraising her body. She was slim, slightly bony around the shoulders, but she had an attractive body. I noticed the white lines of her bra visible beneath her blouse. I was thinking vaguely erotic thoughts, wondering where she was planning to stay that night, whether she would like a traveling companion for more than this train journey. It was almost too good to be true, to meet someone like this on my first day. I had planned and expected to spend the holiday on my own, but not out of a principle.
We continued to talk while she finished off the food, and exchanged names at last: hers was Sue. She lived in London, not particularly close to me but in the same general area. There was a pub in Highgate we both knew, and must have visited at different times. She said she was a freelance illustrator, had been to art school in London but had been born in Cheshire. Of course I talked about myself, some of the stories I had covered and the places I had been to, why I had given up work and what I was planning to do next. We were very interested in each other; certainly I could not remember the last time I had met someone to whom I could talk so freely in such a short time. She listened to me intently, leaning forward across the space between our seats, her head slightly to one side so that she appeared to look at the seat beside me. I consciously tried to change the subject several times and draw her out of herself. She answered direct questions but otherwise did not appear to want to talk about herself.
I kept wondering: why is she alone? Because I found her attractive, it was difficult to believe she did not have a boyfriend somewhere, perhaps one of these friends she said she was visiting in the south.
The subject did not come up. I had a friend called Annette at the back of my mind. Part of the reason for my own trip was that Annette was in Canada visiting her brother, leaving me at a loose end in London. But there was no firm commitment with her, and our friendship was casual; sometimes we slept together, sometimes we did not. I had lived moderately promiscuously, often away from home for weeks on end, sleeping with women I hardly knew, never forming ties.