I was determined to be subtle about it. It wouldn’t do simply to blunder up, sit down opposite her and say something crass like ‘I see you’re reading one of my books’ – or, even worse, ‘I admire a woman with good taste in literature’. Far better to arrange it so that she made the discovery. Well, that shouldn’t be difficult. After a few minutes’ hesitation I got up and moved to a seat just across the central aisle from hers, taking my luggage with me. This in itself was enough to make her look up and watch me with surprise; perhaps even annoyance. I said, ‘Just trying to get out of the sunlight’ – a meaningless remark, given that my new seat was just as much in the sunlight as the old one. She said nothing; just smiled half-heartedly and returned to the book. I could see that she was on about page fifty, roughly a quarter of the way through: only a few pages from what was (or so I had thought when writing it) the most riotously funny scene in the whole novel. I sat back and kept a discreet watch on her from the corner of my eye; taking care, at the same time, to ensure that she had a good view – should she care to glance up – of my profile, seen from much the same angle as had been chosen by the studio photographer whose services I had myself engaged at considerable personal expense. Ten or twelve pages went by, in as many minutes, without producing anything in the way of visible amusement: not even the distant echo of a smile, let alone those helpless spasms of laughter I had fondly imagined the passage provoking in its readers. What on earth was the matter with her? In hardback, my novels sold a pitiful number of copies – five or six hundred, or something – so how had this one managed to fall into the hands of someone so obviously unattuned to its tone and methods? Looking closely at her face for the first time, I noticed the lack of humour in her eyes and the line of her mouth, and the traces of a solemn pucker which had creased her brow into a permanent frown. She read on. I waited another five minutes or more, with growing impatience. I shifted ostentatiously in my seat, even got up twice to take unnecessary items out of my holdall in the luggage rack above me; and finally I was reduced to the expedient of feigning a loud coughing fit, which went on until she looked across at me with wary expectancy, and said:
‘I’m sorry, are you trying to attract my attention?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ I said, conscious of a furious blush starting to inflame my cheek.
‘Would you like a cough sweet?’
‘No, I’m fine. Really.’
She returned to the book without another word, and I sank back into baffled silence, scarcely able to credit how difficult this was proving. The situation had gone beyond embarrassment into the realm of helpless stupidity. My only remaining option was to say: ‘Actually, I was trying to get your attention.’
She looked up and waited for me to explain.
‘It’s just … that book you’re reading.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, don’t you notice anything about the photograph on the back?’
She turned it over. ‘No, I don’t see …’ And then, looking from me to the photograph, from the photograph to me, she broke into an incredulous smile. ‘Well, I’ll be …’ It lit up her whole face, this smile; changed everything at once, so that she was suddenly welcoming and radiant. Then it turned to laughter. ‘And you just sitting there … I mean, this is incredible. I’m a huge fan of yours, you know. I’ve read all your books.’
‘Both of them,’ I corrected.
‘Both of them, absolutely. Well, I mean, I’ve read the first one, and now I’m reading this. And enjoying it hugely.’
‘Do you mind if …?’ I gestured at the seat opposite her.
‘Do I mind? How could I possibly … I mean, this is so extraordinary. It’s – well, it’s every reader’s dream, really, isn’t it?’
‘And every writer’s,’ I said, moving across to her table.
For a while we just smiled at each other, shyly, uncertain how to start.
‘I was watching you, just now,’ I said. ‘You were reading that big scene, weren’t you – at the wedding?’
‘The wedding, yes, absolutely. It’s such a marvellous chapter, too – so moving.’
‘Mm: do you think so? I was really hoping that it would be funny, you see.’
‘Oh, but it is. I mean, it’s, er, moving … and funny. That’s what’s so terribly clever about it.’
‘You didn’t seem to be laughing much, that’s all.’
‘No, I was; I was laughing on the inside, really. I never laugh aloud at books. It’s just a thing with me.’
‘Well, you’ve made my day, anyway.’ That smile again; and a captivating lightness when she tossed back her hair. ‘I’d introduce myself, of course, except that you already know who I am.’
She took the hint. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have told you before. My name’s Alice. Alice Hastings.’
∗
The train was approaching Bedford. Alice and I had been talking for perhaps half an hour; I’d been up to the buffet car and treated her to a sandwich and a cup of coffee; we’d exchanged views on the Falklands War and the merits of various contemporary authors, finding ourselves in agreement in both instances. She had a lovely, rather equine face, a long, graceful neck and her voice was full, fruity, deep. It felt wonderful to be enjoying female company again. The last few years had been so desolate in that respect: that hopeless marriage to Verity, then the decision to go to university in the mid 1970s, where I found, despite my official designation as a ‘mature’ student, that my fellow undergraduates all seemed to have such a gift for slipping in and out of physical relationships that I, by comparison, ended up feeling like a gawky adolescent. Perhaps that’s why the writer’s life had always seemed so attractive: the refuge it offered for the socially backward, the gleaming legitimacy it conferred upon solitude. Patrick had hinted as much when he made that crack about there being no ‘sexual dimension’ to my work; but I pushed that recollection aside. I still burned from that conversation, couldn’t imagine when I would next feel equal to the task of facing him again.
‘So, where are you heading for, anyway?’ Alice asked; and when I told her, ‘Do you have family there?’
‘No, I’m going to see a friend. She’s been living there a few years now. She’s a social worker.’
‘I see. This is – this is a girlfriend, then, is it?’
‘No, no, not at all. Absolutely not. No, Joan and I go … way back. I mean –’ It suddenly occurred to me that there was a quick and easy way of filling her in on the situation. ‘Did you see that feature on me a couple of months ago, in one of the Sunday supplements: “The First Story I Ever Wrote”?’
‘Yes, I did. I adored it, too: that terribly funny spoof you wrote on detective stories when you were twelve or something. You must have been such a precocious little thing.’
‘I was eight,’ I said gravely. ‘And it was meant to be perfectly serious. Anyway, Joan was – well, I suppose my best friend in those days. She lived almost next door, and we used to go and play together on this farm: and that photograph which they used in the magazine, the one of me sitting at a desk and looking very serious and intellectual, that was taken in this cowshed where we had a sort of den. I knew it would be the perfect one for them to use – you know, they’d just have to cut it in half so she wasn’t actually in it – but I lost my copy years and years ago. I phoned up my parents and they had no idea where it was, either, so in the end I phoned Joan on the off chance that she might still have one. Which she did, much to my amazement: seems that she’s hung on to it all this time. And so she sent it down, and – well, it was sort of nice to have made contact again, because we hadn’t really had much to say to each other since … I don’t know, since my rather short-lived marriage, I suppose, and after that we had a few more phone calls and then she asked me if I wanted to come up and stay for a few days and I thought – well, why not? So here I am.’