Iona Iverson's Rules for Commuting Read online

  Sanjay

  08:19 NEW MALDEN TO WATERLOO

  Today was going to be the day, thought Sanjay as he made his way to New Malden station to catch his usual train. The day he finally plucked up the courage to speak to The Girl On The Train. He’d even worked out what he was going to say. She always carried a book with her. A proper one, not a Kindle or an audiobook. It was one of the (many) reasons he knew they’d be perfect together. Last week, he’d noted that she was reading a novel called Rebecca, so he’d bought himself a copy from his local bookshop, and read the first few chapters over the weekend. Which meant that today, presuming she was still reading it, he could ask her what she thought of Mrs. Danvers. The perfect conversation starter. Original, friendly, and intelligent.

  Sanjay looked out for his two housemates. They worked at the same hospital as him, but were currently on nights, so they often passed one another in the morning—Sanjay heading north, all fresh-faced and relatively energetic, James and Ethan going south, pale, exhausted, and smelling of disinfectant. A window into his near future.

  Sanjay stood at the point on the platform, near the snack counter, where Carriage 3 usually stopped, since he’d learned, after weeks of trial and error, that this was the section of the train she was most likely to be on. Great book, he practiced in his head. What do you think of Mrs. Danvers? I’m Sanjay, by the way. Do you take this train often? No, no, scrap that last bit. Definitely too creepy.

  As soon as Sanjay boarded the train, he could see that today was, indeed, turning out to be his lucky day. There she was, sitting at a table for four with Rainbow Lady, her dog, and a slightly plump middle-aged man in an expensive suit. Sanjay had spotted him several times before. He was just the type of arrogant highflier that Sanjay used to see being wheeled into Accident & Emergency with a perforated stress-induced stomach ulcer, or a suspected heart attack brought on by a recreational cocaine habit, yelling I have private medical insurance! He obviously thought himself better than most mere mortals and had scant respect for the personal space of others.

  Sanjay was, however, very fond of Rainbow Lady, who he’d seen many times on his journey to work, but never spoken to. Obviously. In a world where almost everyone wore black, navy, or shades of gray, she chose emerald greens, turquoise blues, and livid purples. Today she did not disappoint. She was dressed in a suit made from a bright red tweed that made her look like one of the strawberry creams that were always left in the bottom of a family-size tin of Quality Street.

  Could he ask her to move her dog so he could join her table? After all, the dog presumably didn’t have a season ticket, and having an animal on the seat must contravene every health and safety rule. The problem was, Sanjay both admired and was terrified of Rainbow Lady in equal measure. He wasn’t the only one. However crowded the train, few people dared ask her to move her pet. And if they did, they didn’t make the same mistake again. Not even the guard.

  He stood, holding a metal pole for balance, trying to work out how to get close enough to the girl to start up a conversation. He’d never done this before. All his previous dates were with women he’d met at college, work, or on a dating app where they’d exchange banter for days, tentatively swapping nuggets of personal information, before actually meeting IRL. This was old-school, and it was terrifying. There was a reason why no one did this anymore.

  Considering that there were around eighty people packed into a relatively small metal casing, the carriage was, as always, remarkably quiet. Just the sound of the wheels on the track, the tinny noise from someone’s headphones, and the occasional cough. Then, cutting through the silence like a juggernaut, a voice:

  “IS THERE A DOCTOR ON THE TRAIN?!?”

  His prayers had been answered in the most unexpected and extraordinary way. He cleared his throat and said, with as much authority as he could muster, “I’m a nurse!”

  The crowds parted deferentially, people contorting their bodies out of his path, ushering him forward through a multitude of odors—coffee, perfume, sweat—toward Rainbow Lady, his girl, and the man who was quite obviously choking. This scenario had been covered in the first term at nursing college. Emergency First Aid, Module One: The Heimlich Maneuver.

  Sanjay’s training took over as he clicked into autopilot. With more strength than he’d known he possessed, he hauled the man up from his seat from behind, clutched his arms around his belly, and pulled as hard as he could, right into the diaphragm. Three times. It felt as if the whole train held its breath in sympathy; then, with a huge cough, the offending grape was expelled from the man’s mouth with remarkable velocity, landing with a satisfying plop in the cup of tea sitting in front of Rainbow Lady.

  The cup rattled on its saucer, then settled back into position, as the entire carriage erupted in applause. Sanjay could feel himself blushing.

  “Ahh, it was a grape,” said Rainbow Lady, staring into her tea, as if this had all been part of a children’s party game called Guess The Hidden Object.

  “Thank you so much. I think you just saved my life,” said the man, his words coming out with effort, and one at a time, as if they were still navigating their way around the memory of the grape. “What’s your name?”

  “Sanjay,” said Sanjay. “You’re welcome. All part of the job.”

  “I’m Piers. I really can’t thank you enough,” he said, as the color gradually returned to his face.

  “THE NEXT STATION IS WATERLOO,” announced the voice on the tannoy. Sanjay started to panic. He was being patted on the back and congratulated by one stranger after another, which was really gratifying, but there was only one person he wanted to speak to, and he was missing his chance. Everyone stood and started moving toward the doors, propelling him forward, like an unwilling lemming being pushed toward the cliff. He looked back at her in desperation.

  “What do you think of Mrs. Danvers?” he blurted out. She looked totally confused. She wasn’t even reading that book this morning. She was clutching a copy of Michelle Obama’s autobiography. Now he looked like a deranged stalker. Perhaps he was a deranged stalker.

  He’d blown it. There was no coming back from that.

  FOUR

  Emmie

  Emmie was feeling far too shaky to go straight to the office, so she ducked into her favorite independent, family-owned coffee shop instead, pulling her reusable cup out of her bag.

  “Hey, Emmie!” said the barista. “How’s it going?”

  “Not great, actually,” said Emmie, before she could stop herself and replace the words with her usual, socially acceptable Good, thanks! As a point of principle, she hated the idea of being one of those people who griped about their insignificant first world problems, when every day there were people sleeping on the street, or struggling to feed their children.

  The barista paused and frowned, waiting for her to continue.

  “Someone nearly died on my train this morning. He choked on a grape,” said Emmie.

  “But he’s still alive, no?” said the barista. Emmie nodded. “No permanent disabilities?” She shook her head. “So, this is a cause for celebration! A cinnamon swirl, perhaps?”

  Emmie couldn’t even begin to explain why she wasn’t feeling in the slightest celebratory. She’d started her day, as usual, doing her stretches and counting her many blessings, and then—BAM!—before she’d even got to Waterloo she was confronted with her own sense of mortality. The realization that one day, totally out of the blue, you could go from being a happy, healthy person to . . . not being at all.

  And what use had she been when the man sitting next to her was dying? Emmie, who’d always thought of herself as resourceful and good in a crisis, had sat there impotently while two strangers had saved his life. When the chips were down, her gut reaction had been flight rather than fight. All she’d been able to do was think What if that happened to me? What if I were hit by a bus today, blown up by a terrorist, or electrocuted by a dodgy computer cable? What would I leave behind? What have I achieved?

  Emmie thought about the project she’d been working on for the past month—the fully integrated digital ad campaign for a “challenger” brand of loo roll. She imagined her eulogy: Thanks to Emmie’s strategic and creative genius, a few more people were able to discover the luxury of a slightly quilted, lightly perfumed toilet paper.

  As a teenager, she’d spent a month sleeping in a tree to protect a local forest from destruction and much of her school holidays volunteering at a soup kitchen. Her nickname had been Hermione, because her friends claimed that if they’d had house-elves at their school, Emmie would most definitely have campaigned for their liberation. Yet here she was, at twenty-nine, doing nothing that would even remotely change her corner of Thames Ditton, let alone the world, and sitting idly by while people choked to death.

  Emmie remembered the nurse from the train that morning. He was so calm. So competent. So—and she forgave herself for a moment of shallowness—good-looking. He really was making a difference. Saving lives before he’d even got to work.

  Perhaps she should retrain as a nurse. Was it too late? Maybe not, but the fact that she was renowned for fainting at the sight of a nosebleed or an ingrown toenail was a probable indication that medicine wasn’t the ideal career for her.

  What was it Gorgeous Hero Nurse had called after her as she’d left the train? It had sounded very much like What do you think of Mrs. Danvers? But it couldn’t have been, because that wouldn’t make any sense at all. All that drama was muddling her brain.

  * * *

  *

  EMMIE SAT DOWN at her desk and plugged in her laptop, buzzed by the combination of caffeine, adrenaline, and determination. She was going to start using al
l her experience and talent for something good. Perhaps she could pitch for a charity client, persuade Joey to let her take them on pro bono? He’d bite at that if they could win some awards with the creative work.

  She pulled up her email. She’d check for anything important, write her priority list for the day, then spend some time on her new project.

  Emmie scanned down the list of unread messages. One, right at the top, stood out, partly because the name made her smile: a.friend@gmail .com. The subject was You. Was it from a headhunter? She opened it and scanned the brief text.

  THAT PINK SKIRT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A TART. HOW DO YOU EXPECT ANYONE TO TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY? A FRIEND.

  Emmie swiveled her chair around, as if the author might be standing right behind her, waiting to see her reaction. But, of course, they weren’t.

  Emmie read the e-mail again, her buzz from earlier drowned out by a tidal wave of anger, shame, and embarrassment. She looked down at the skirt she’d picked out that morning. A hot pink pencil skirt that had made her feel feisty, successful, and sexy. Now she just wanted to rip it off and throw it into the office bin.

  The open-plan space was already filled with people. Her colleagues. Her friends. People she respected, and who she had thought respected her. She scanned their faces and body language, looking for clues as to who could have sent her that e-mail just—she checked the time stamp—ten minutes ago. But everyone looked just the same as they did every other day.

  Emmie, however, didn’t think she’d ever feel the same in this office again.

  FIVE

  Iona

  18:17 WATERLOO TO HAMPTON COURT

  Iona was floored by a wave of that particular form of dread that accompanies finding an HR person in your meeting with your boss. Brenda—head of “Human Resources,” which Iona still thought of as “Personnel” but had been renamed at some point in the nineties—was sitting next to her editor at the meeting room table, looking officious. This, in itself, meant nothing, since officious was Brenda’s natural resting face, but it just added to Iona’s general sense of impending doom.

  “Hello, everyone,” Iona said, cursing herself for the slight tremble in her voice. “Do two people count as everyone? Maybe I should have said Hello, both or Hi, you two.” She was blabbering. She trained her eyes on her editor, in the vain hope that refusing to make eye contact with Brenda might cause her to disappear. Her editor’s name was Ed. Had he changed his name to match his job? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Uh, would you mind leaving the dog outside, Iona?” said Ed, aiming his finger at darling Lulu like a member of a firing squad. Which perhaps he was.

  Iona reversed out of the open door, lest one of them try to shoot her in the back.

  “Could you possibly babysit for a few minutes?” she asked Ed’s “Executive Assistant,” the modern equivalent of a secretary, but without the shorthand. She looked gratifyingly thrilled. No doubt it would make a nice change from being Ed’s underpaid and undervalued henchwoman. “She loves it if you scratch her in the soft bits, just behind her ears.” Then, because she always overdid it when she was nervous, she added, “Don’t we all?” along with a forced, high-pitched laugh. Ed’s assistant shrank back in her chair, looking startled.

  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” muttered Iona under her breath as she walked into the room again, spine aligned, head held high, just like she used to walk onto the stage, back in the day.

  “Sit, sit,” said Ed, gesturing at a row of brightly colored, empty chairs around the meeting room table. Iona chose the one to the right, hoping that the combination of tangerine-orange chair and crimson suit might do permanent damage to Brenda’s retinas. She took a notebook and newly-sharpened pencil out of her handbag. She wasn’t intending to make any notes, but she could always use the pencil to stab Ed through the hand if necessary. The thought cheered her up a little.

  “So, before going into a detailed appraisal, I wanted to talk to you about the big picture,” said Ed, steepling his fingers in front of him and looking serious, like a schoolboy pretending to be a bank manager. He reeled off details of falling circulations, lower revenues, higher overheads, all the numbers floating past Iona like radioactive pollen on the breeze while she tried to look interested and intelligent.

  “You see,” he said finally, “we need to concentrate more on our digital offering and pull in a younger audience, and that means making sure all our content is modern and relevant. And, to put it bluntly, we’re concerned that Ask Iona feels just a little . . .” He paused, searching for the most appropriate adjective before settling on “. . . old-fashioned.” Ed was apparently unable to demonstrate creative flair even with his insults.

  Iona felt sick. Stop it, she told herself firmly. Stand up and fight. Think Boudicca, Queen of the Celts. So, she gathered her ragtag army, and climbed aboard her chariot.

  “Are you saying that I’m too old, Ed?” she said, pausing to enjoy the sight of the HR lady blanching, which only made the line where her foundation ended and her chins began more apparent. “Because, as a magazine therapist, life experience is crucial. And I have experienced it all. Sexism, ageism, homophobia.” She dropped the words like landmines, which of course they were. If she could acquire a disability, which at her age was a distinct possibility, she’d have practically a full house of potential discrimination cases. Navigate your way around those, Brenda-from-HR.

  “Of course I’m not saying that,” said Ed. “I’m just giving you a challenge.” Iona understood immediately that in this context “challenge” was code for “ultimatum.” “Anyhow, maybe downscaling could be a positive move for you. You’d be able to spend more time with the grandchildren.” She gave him an extremely hard stare and cracked her knuckles, which always made Ed wince.

  Brenda cleared her throat and fiddled with her lanyard. “Oh. No grandchildren. Of course not,” stammered Ed. Did he mean “of course not” because she was obviously too young for grandchildren, or because she was too lesbian?

  “Let’s not rush into anything. We’ll give it another month and see if you can revolutionize your pages. Bring them up to date. Make them sizzle. Think millennial. That’s where the future is.” He forced his face into a smile, and it almost cracked at the effort.

  “Sure,” said Iona, writing SIZZLE on her notepad, followed by WANKER. “But let me just remind you, Ed, how critical the problem pages are for the magazine. People depend on them. And I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I say that lives depend on them. And our readers enjoy them. After all, many of them say they only buy the magazine for my pages.” Take that, pathetic Roman centurion.

  “I’m sure they used to, Iona,” said Ed, picking up his sword and plunging it into her heart. “But when did anyone last say that? Mmm?”

  * * *

  *

  IONA DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT BACK to her desk. Instead, she walked directly to the toilets, eyes trained on the ugly yet practical carpet, still slightly tacky underfoot from all the spilled fruit punch at the last office party. She locked herself into one of the cubicles and sat on the closed seat, with Lulu on her lap, breathing in the melange of pine-fresh chemicals, various bodily excretions, and dog. She started to cry. Not pretty crying, but the explosive sort that came accompanied by rivers of snot and running mascara. This job was her life. It was the reason she got up in the morning. It gave her purpose. It was who she was. What would she be without it? And who else would employ a magazine therapist who was rapidly approaching sixty and had been in the same job for almost thirty years? How had it gone from accolades, acolytes, and awards ceremonies to this?

  Iona tried to summon up some anger but was just too weary. The old days, when she’d been ferociously busy juggling a social column and advice page with occasional restaurant reviews and travel pieces, had been tiring, but not being busy enough was exhausting. She was tired of exuding a confidence she’d not felt for real in years. She was tired of constantly having to look occupied, when she’d had all her responsibilities—bar her advice pages—gradually stripped away.