Envisioning Serena strapped to a complicated system of wires and tubes, an oxygen mask covering her mouth, one limp hand protruding from beneath the threadbare hospital coverlet, I felt like a worm. A selfish worm, at that.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"Hmm? What?" Colin dragged himself back from the dark lagoons of Never Never Land with a visible effort. "Yes."
I had never heard such an unconvincing affirmative in my life.
Before I could decide whether or not to press further — to pry, or not to pry? — Colin spoke again. "I'm sorry to toss you out like this."
"That's all right," I lied. "I don't mind the train."
I waited. Patiently. Of course, what I really wanted to do was grab his arm and howl, "WHY?" Now, I thought, would be an excellent time for an explanation as to why I was in his car, heading for a train station unknown, at an ungodly hour of the morning. Wasn't virtue supposed to be rewarded ?
Colin's eyes snaked towards mine in the rearview mirror. I schooled my face into an expression that was supposed to be bland yet encouraging, welcoming without displaying unwarranted levity. It came out as a lopsided grimace.
Colin frowned again.
Not exactly the reaction I had hoped to elicit.
"I'll pay your train fare, of course," he said abruptly.
Urgh. So much for an explanation. "That won't be necessary."
"It's the least I can do."
"I'm quite capable of paying for myself."
"That's not the point," said Colin tiredly.
"Give it to charity," I suggested. Feeling slightly guilty over my snippiness, I added, "There must be a fund for indigent phantom monks somewhere."
Colin half-raised an eyebrow, as though he couldn't even be moved to sarcasm. With an efficient movement of his hands on the steering wheel, the car swung around a turn and skidded to a stop in front of Hove Station.
Leaving the engine on idle, Colin turned and snagged my bag for me from the backseat. It took a bit of snagging, since, in the infuriating way of inanimate objects, it had chosen to wedge itself in the cavity beneath the seats. Naturally, it had fallen upside down. Just envisioning what might have fallen out — next time, I'm buying a bag with a zipper — I lurched over the seat to help.
Naturally, I dove over the gearshift just as Colin straightened, bag in hand. If you think this is one of those scenes where the heroine manages to fetch up pressed against the hero, his lips a breath away from hers as she rests stunned — but unhurt — against his manly chest, think again. My elbow whapped painfully into Colin's chest. Dropping my bag, he let out a pained grunt, like a quarterback being hit in the stomach with the ball. I reeled back, clutching my elbow and making incoherent mewing noises. Those blows to the funnybone hurt. But not, I imagine, quite as much as a direct whack to the solar plexus with an object just slightly less pointy than Miss Gwen's parasol.
Great. If he wasn't glad to get rid of me before, I'm sure he was now.
"Sorry," I babbled, snatching my bag up off his lap, and haphazardly scooping clothes and toiletries back into it. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
Colin reached down, and produced yesterday's bra from the floor of the car.
"Yours?" he asked with a crooked smile.
"Thanks." Redder than my hair, I snatched it out of his hand and shoved it into the bag. "I'll just be going now. Before I injure you again."
"Anytime," said Colin, as I scrambled ungracefully out of the car, my bag bumping along behind me. I couldn't tell whether he meant I should be leaving any time now, or to keep the injuries coming. The former sounded far more plausible.
"It's been nice," I said lamely, rocking from one foot to the other just outside the open door of the car as I hauled my bag onto my shoulder. "Thanks for having me. It was really, um, nice of you."
When I would have swung the door closed, Colin stretched out across the empty passenger's seat, one hand resting on the handle of the open door. "I am sorry about this."
I shoved my hair out of my eyes, sending my overnight bag plummeting from my shoulder to a painful halt in the crook of my elbow. "Not as sorry as I am," I said, glancing ruefully at his chest.
"We should have drinks some time."
"That would be lovely," I said, trying to hoist my bag up again and fervently hoping nothing else embarrassing was sticking out. All I needed was for him to get a good look at those poodle pajamas.
He nodded. "I'm not sure how long I'll be away, but… I'll call you when I get back to London."
"Great!" I exclaimed, but my show of enthusiasm was, mercifully, cut off, as Colin slammed the door shut. The car swung away, leaving me standing there, repeating "drinks… I'll call you…" over and over in my head, just to make sure they'd really been said, until the impact of my bag hitting my foot shook me out of my bemused reverie.
Fumbling with the buttons on my coat, I staggered towards the train station, hitching my bag up as it began to slip slyly down my shoulder. It promptly fell again. I didn't care. Drinks. I had assaulted the man, and yet he was still willing to have drinks with me. Who said true heroes were a thing of the past? Shoving some money through the window of the ticket booth and wishing the nonplussed ticket keeper an exceptionally good day, I shambled towards the platform, trying to filter pound coins into my change purse and shove the purse back into the depths of my bag, without dropping my ticket or tumbling onto the tracks like an absentminded Anna Karenina.
I had no desire to fling myself upon the train tracks of thwarted love. On the contrary, I joyously concluded that the offer of drinks must mean he hadn't been trying to get rid of me! Something must have genuinely come up, something urgent and dreadful. Hey nonny nonny and tra la la! Belatedly, I remembered that taking joy in someone else's misfortune was a Bad Thing, and clamped down on the caroling, even if my heart was secretly singing "tirra lirra" like Sir Lancelot in the poem. Visions of intimate dinners a deux danced through my head. I imagined a cozy little restaurant somewhere away from the bustle that surrounded my flat in Bayswater. South Kensington would fit the bill, or the less-traveled bits of Notting Hill. I pictured a little box of a place with brick walls and those tiny tables where you couldn't fit more than two, and that only with knees brushing. The music would be as low as the lights, and the waiters would be the sort who didn't barge by every two seconds asking if you were enjoying your meal. There would be no Sally, no Pammy, no Phantom Monk. Just two large-bowled glasses filled with dark red wine, me, and, of course, Colin.
And I would make double sure to turn off my damned cell phone.
While I was at it, why not just add some violins as well? I made a hideous face at myself, and then glanced guiltily around the platform to make sure no one had noticed. No one had, largely because there was no one else there. Thank goodness. I hate it when my inner monologue escapes into my face.