She’d hidden the letter, knowing if she told Jack and her family they would worry about her. She didn’t want that. She’d spent too much time as a victim. The one everyone worried about. She was stronger now. The woman she’d once been was in touching distance. She couldn’t let the appeal ruin that.
She ran a finger over the rubber band on her wrist, and pinged it three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. It helped her focus – a weapon against unease.
‘Hey, sit,’ said a lad in his teens, leaping to his feet and smiling. Had he picked up on her breathing technique – those restless, twitching feelings?
I’m twenty-nine, not ninety, she almost said. But the truth was she was relieved. She had been on her feet all day taking pictures around Tower Bridge for an article she was working on, and that horrid heat was basting the backs of her knees, the curves of her elbows, making them sweat.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and thumped down in the vacated seat, realising instantly why the bloke had moved. A fish-sandwich muncher was sitting right next to her.
Her phone rang in her canvas bag, and she pulled it out to see Jack’s face beaming from the screen.
‘Hey, you,’ she said, pinning the phone to her ear.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, just delayed. Train’s rammed.’ It jolted forward and headed on its way. ‘Ooh, we’re moving, thank the Lord. Should be home in about an hour.’
‘Great. I’m cooking teriyaki chicken. Mary Berry style.’
She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Lovely. I’ll pick up wine.’
The line went dead as the train rumbled through a tunnel, and Isla slipped her phone in her bag, and took out her camera. She flicked through her photos. She would add one or two to Facebook later, and mention her long day in London.
Your life is so perfect, Millie had written on Isla’s status a few months back, when she’d updated that she and Jack were back from France and she was closer to finishing her book. It had been an odd thing for Millie to say. Her sister knew Isla’s history better than anyone. How could she think Isla’s life was perfect, when she’d seen her at her most desperate? Felt the cruel slap of Isla’s anger?
Eyes closed, Isla drifted into thoughts of Canada. She was going for a month. Alone. Canada. The place she would have gone to after Australia if life hadn’t forced a sharp change of direction. Going abroad without Jack wouldn’t be easy. But then he couldn’t keep carrying her. She had to face it alone. And it would be the perfect escape from the pending appeal.
With a squeal of brakes, the train pulled in to Finsbury Park, and fish-sandwich man grunted, far too close to Isla’s ear, that it was his stop. She moved so he could pass, and shuffled into the window seat.
Through the glass, she watched overheated people pour onto the platform, and her eyes drifted from a woman with a crying, red-faced toddler, to a teenage boy slathering sun cream onto his bare shoulders.
‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.
She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.
Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.
‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.
He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?
‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’
‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.
‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’
Quickly, Isla changed the subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.
‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’
After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for
