“Will you call me when you get there?” I ask him.
“When in Rome?”
“Will you do as the Romans do?”
“Ride a vespa and eat ice-cream? Oh, probably.” He smiles, but it is not a cheery smile. It has a pained quality; this parting is as difficult for him as for me. And I feel as if I’m losing a body part. “I will let you know when I land. And have your computer ready for eleven.”
“Remember there’s an hour’s difference,” I say anxiously.
“There isn’t, Beth. British Summer Time.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry. Idiot.”
He half-laughs and strokes my cheek at that. “Your train is going to leave,” he reminds me. Keeping my face in one hand, he brings his lips to mine and gives them one last taste of honey before our fortnight’s separation. Then he picks up my bags and carries them over to the waiting train, ushering me in after them.
“Don’t forget me,” I blurt through the open window, feeling absurdly Brief-Encounterish, almost expecting the strains of Rachmaninov to swell up and haunt the wrought iron splendour of the station.
“Of course not,” he clucks at me, and the train begins to slide away, leaving him to get smaller and smaller until it rounds a bend in the track and I cannot see him at all.
Tears are in my eyes as I look for a secluded place in which to squirm uncomfortably on my hot rear end for the next three hours. I look at my case up in the rack and consider getting a pair of jeans out and changing into them in the loo. But before I can even sit down my telephone beeps.
A message. “Don’t even think about getting changed. S.”
I laugh. But if he thinks I’m getting off the train in my home town wearing a school uniform, he has to be insane. I don’t care. I’m getting changed. I’ll stick to his other rules happily, because I will feel his presence while I am denying myself – but this is my token infraction. Every girl needs a token rule infraction, no?
So I spend three hours moping with my head against the window, pretending that Sinclair is next to me and holding imaginary conversations with him while my bottom throbs a reminder of our recent leave-taking. I find an awkwardly comfortable position, leaning on a hip with my legs tucked up on the seat so that most of my bum is off the seat. My knickers appear to be glued to me; taking them off is going to be a painful experience. But I will think of Sinclair as I do it. I will offer my pain to him as a proof of my love, just as they always told you at school to offer up your suffering to the
Lord.
*
“You’re looking well, love,” comments my father, hoisting my bags into the boot of the car.
“Thanks.”
“Studying going well, is it?”
“Brilliant. My tutor’s predicting a First if I keep up the good work.”
“Really? Marvellous, Beth. How’re you off for money?”
“Oh, fine. Well, cutting back a bit these days. Not going out so much.”
He straightens up and smiles oddly.
“Not like you, Miss Party Girl.”
“Can’t party all the time.”
“No. Quite. My little girl’s growing up.” There is a hint of sadness in his tone, but the hug he folds me into half a second later is wholehearted and grateful. “We do worry about you up there on your own. But you seem to be…different.”
“I’ve changed.” I confirm.
*
My mother says something similar after dinner.
“You’ve got a confidence about you, Beth. Poise, I suppose. I’m so pleased that you’re happy up there.”