It’s forty minutes to Brighton.
‘Tell me about your daughter,’ I say just after the doors close, and the train slowly moves along the platform again.
Amanda looks at me as if she might have misheard. ‘My daughter?’
I nod my head to telegraph that she heard right, and for the first time since we met, Amanda looks puzzled. It won’t be the last time, though.
‘How do you know I have a daughter?’ she asks me, and I imagine she is starting to worry that the perfect man she has met on her way home might not be so perfect after all. But like most things in life, I have an answer for it.
‘Your book. You said the main character is a single mum who ends up fighting for her and her daughter’s life. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing that character is loosely based on yourself.’
Amanda instantly looks down at her screen, clearly feeling a little shy about being so transparent.
‘It’s okay,’ I assure her. ‘Most writers write what they know. Even Lola over there,’ I say, nodding at our fictional erotic writer.
She laughs again and I’d finding it’s easy to get that reaction from her.
‘Some of it might be based on personal experience,’ Amanda confesses. ‘But only a little.’
‘So tell me about her,’ I say again, pressing her for more.
I can see that Amanda is wary of discussing this topic, and I know why. From what I have gathered, things aren’t particularly rosy between mother and child. I imagine it’s draining to live with a family member you clash with on a daily basis. But Amanda had better get comfortable talking about her daughter because she is the reason I am here right now, and we have much to discuss before we go our separate ways.
‘She’s seventeen,’ Amanda tells me, allowing her hands to rest on the table in front of her keyboard. ‘Bright girl but got no direction in her life. She’s not like I was at her age.’
‘You knew what you wanted to do?’ I ask, and Amanda nods.
‘I wanted to write.’
I smile at her again, mainly because I want her to feel as if she is chatting to an old friend and not just some random guy she has met on the train home. I bet she wasn’t expecting a free therapy session on her journey this evening. But I’m certain that I am getting more out of this than she is. That’s because I’m making sure to confirm a few things in my mind before I say what I came here to say. I’m impatient to just get to the point, but rushing in my line of work only leads to one place.
Prison.
‘She’s only young. She’ll figure things out,’ I tell her. ‘Just like her mother did.’
I wink at Amanda again, and she gives me that pretty little smile of hers. I’ll miss that in a few minutes’ time.
‘What’s your daughter doing right now?’ I ask, picking up the pace just like the driver of this train is doing as we head further out of the urban area and headlong into the great British countryside.
‘She’s at home, probably on the sofa, probably not moved all day.’
‘By herself?’
Amanda nods.
‘That’s interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘The fact that you trust her to tell you the truth about what she is doing.’
Amanda studies me for a moment, but I give nothing away, and the silence between us gradually moves from normal, to awkward, to just plain unsettling.
‘I’d better get back to work,’ Amanda says, looking back down at her screen.
‘But there’s so much we haven’t talked about yet.’
Amanda looks back up at me a little warily this time. ‘Like what?’
‘Like how can a single mum quit her only source of income so she can pursue a career with so much risk? Giving up a guaranteed wage for what? Some book she writes on her laptop on her train ride home? That seems like quite the risk to take. Unless…’
I pause for a little dramatic effect between us, allowing Amanda’s imagination to run riot while I do.
‘Unless what?’ she asks when she can’t take it anymore.
‘Unless you have a considerable amount of money saved away.’
I sit back in my seat and smile at Amanda as she processes my suggestion.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asks me, studying my face.
‘Don’t give me that,’ I reply with a wide grin. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
9 AMANDA
Why did this have to suddenly get weird?
I was so close to asking this man his name and maybe even enquiring about the possibility of the two of us going for a drink, but now he’s starting to give me the creeps. He seems to be suggesting that he knows something about me, though what that is, he hasn’t said yet. He just keeps alluding to it. But the fact he has brought up the subject of money, or rather my money, is making me think that it is time to bring this conversation to a swift end before it can get any worse.
‘Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean,’ I say, and my eyes flit from the man to the carriage behind him. I’m looking to see if there are any other tables free for me to sit at and continue my writing. The vibe at this table has changed dramatically, and I don’t wish to be around it any longer. But there are none. Never mind a table seat, there are no unoccupied seats at all, and I don’t expect there to be until we have passed through the next stop at least.
Damn you, rush hour.
If I do get up now, then I’ll end up standing all the way back to Brighton, and that wouldn’t be fun. It would also be unfair because I got this seat, and I shouldn’t have to leave it because a fellow passenger is making me feel uncomfortable. That’s why I look back to the man sitting opposite
