The Train to a New Life
Lydia awoke and listened. The stillness in the flat told her Nigel wasn’t home. She stretched, rose, and wandered to the kitchen. A note lay on the table: *”Sorry, forgot to mention last night. I’ll be at work till lunch.”*
She snorted, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the bin. Lydia had long suspected Nigel was seeing someone. He was never home, their heart-to-hearts had dwindled to rare, stiff exchanges. Their daughter, Emma, had married and moved to her husband’s military posting. The family was just an illusion now.
Her mobile rang in the bedroom. Margaret.
*”What are you up to?”* Her oldest friend, since grammar school.
*”Nothing. Just woke up.”*
*”Listen, it’s glorious outside—spring, sunshine. Fancy a bit of shopping? I’m dying for something colourful. Please say you’re free?”*
*”Completely. Nigel’s at work.”*
*”On a Saturday? Right, get yourself ready—properly—and I’ll pick you up in an hour.”* Margaret hung up.
Lydia put the kettle on and headed to the bathroom. Shopping with Margaret was a joy. Her friend had an uncanny eye, plucking the perfect dress from racks of confusion. Lydia would dither, overwhelmed, while Margaret summoned the ideal piece like a magician.
She’d taught Lydia to shop in full glamour—*”If you look the part, sales assistants treat you like royalty.”* Oddly, it worked. They never left empty-handed.
Lydia touched up her makeup, dressed, and appraised herself in the mirror. Satisfied. Retail therapy was just what she needed.
Ten minutes later, Margaret rang. *”I’m outside.”*
*”Hello. Anything in particular you’re after?”* Lydia asked, sliding into the passenger seat of Margaret’s Mini.
*”No. The new collection’s arriving, so last season’s on sale. Feel that, love? Spring!”* Margaret grinned.
*”Nigel will kill me. We’re saving for holiday…”*
*”He won’t. Snip the tags, bin the receipts, halve the price. Easy.”*
*”Or double what I spend.”*
*”I’ve a foolproof way to distract husbands.”*
*”Go on.”*
*”Later.”*
Margaret was statuesque—not plump, but imposing, with a bust to rival a Gainsborough portrait, hips like a violin’s curves, and a waist nipped tight. Men turned to look.
Lydia was her opposite: petite, slender, with honey-blonde curls and green eyes. In jeans, she could pass for a girl. Beside Margaret, she felt small, unsure.
Shop attendants fawned over Margaret, offering their best. Lydia? They spoke down to her, and she’d flee, flustered.
Two hours later, laden with glossy bags, they emerged.
*”Enough. Nigel will murder me,”* Lydia groaned.
Margaret tugged her toward lingerie. *”Look at these lace sets! The ruby one—perfect with your hair.”* She held up a breathtaking bra. *”A negligée too… No, too much.”*
*”Who’ll see it under clothes? And it’s dear. No, don’t tempt me.”*
*”Honestly! This isn’t for daywear. It’s for night—when even a plank would notice you. With your figure? Essential. Take it.”* Margaret marched to the till.
*”I’m done. Let’s sit somewhere. I’ve only had coffee,”* Lydia pleaded. *”Margaret… I think Nigel’s cheating.”*
*”Because he’s ‘working’ today?”* Margaret scoffed as they neared a café.
*”I’ve suspected for…”*
*”Here we are.”* Margaret cut her off.
They took a window table. Waiting for service, Lydia scanned the room. Two tables over, a man sat turned away—same haircut, same white jumper she’d gifted Nigel at Christmas. But why wear it to work? His office was across town.
She shook off the thought, yet her gaze kept drifting back. Sensing her, he turned. The profile confirmed it: Nigel.
Her stomach lurched. He hadn’t spotted her.
*”You’ve seen a ghost?”* Margaret muttered.
*”That’s Nigel. Let’s go,”* Lydia hissed.
*”Why? *He’s* the one who should sweat. Dressed for a date, checking his watch… Sound familiar?”*
Lydia stood.
*”Where are you going?”* Margaret grabbed her wrist.
*”To talk to him. If he sees us later, it’ll be worse.”*
She slid into the chair opposite Nigel. *”Hello.”*
He gaped.
*”You’re at work?”* Her voice was calm.
*”What are *you* doing here?”*
*”Shopping. We popped in for a bite.”* She waved at Margaret.
Nigel didn’t look.
*”Waiting for someone?”* Lydia nodded at the nearby table where a young woman sat. *”Her? She’s twenty-five at most. Is this what you need—reassurance from girls?”*
*”Stop. We’ll talk at home.”*
*”What about lunch? Or is charity allowed, just not for me?”*
She bit back fury. Margaret was signaling, ignored.
Nigel’s phone buzzed. He flipped it facedown.
*”Why do you do that? At home, in the loo—what are you hiding?”*
*”Habit.”*
*”New one.”* She reached for the phone. He snatched it away.
A waitress approached, smirking. *”Your guest’s here. Ready to order?”*
*”Five minutes,”* Lydia said. The girl vanished.
*”Is that her? Pretty.”* Lydia’s voice was ice. *”Five minutes, Nigel. Then I’ll ask her myself.”*
The waitress returned with a tray. Under a cloche: a velvet ring box.
*”When were you going to tell me you’re leaving?”*
*”Later—”*
*”You’ve no home now. Fetch your things tomorrow.”* She stood.
Margaret caught her outside. *”The car’s *that* way!”*
In the Mini, Lydia shattered. *”If we hadn’t stopped… I *knew*, but I buried it. I was terrified of losing him, our life. But it’s already gone.”*
*”Love, slow down. She’s Emma’s age! Maybe just a fling?”*
*”Remember his ‘business trip’ to Edinburgh? A stranger texted me their photo. He swore she just wanted to make her boyfriend jealous. And now *this*…”*
She flung a bag’s contents onto the pavement. Margaret stuffed them back, held her as she wept.
At home, Margaret poured brandy. Lydia, numbed, tore Nigel’s clothes from the wardrobe. The suitcase overflowed; she shoved the rest into bin bags, topped with his toothbrush.
*”Honestly? Good riddance,”* Margaret said, hauling bags to the hall. *”I’ll call tomorrow.”*
Oddly, Lydia slept. She woke to light from the kitchen. Nigel sat hunched on the sofa.
*”Take your things and *go*.”*
*”Lydia, let me explain.”*
*”More lies?”*
*”No. I… got involved. Thought it’d fizzle out. But she’s pregnant.”*
She hurled a pillow. *”Get *out*.”*
——
Days blurred. The flat echoed. Emma called—Nigel had confessed.
*”Mum, come to us. It’s warm here… And I’m pregnant. I’ll need you.”*
*”I’d be in the way.”*
*”We’ve space. I’m climbing the walls alone.”*
Lydia packed. Margaret saw her off at King’s Cross.
*”I’ll mind the flat. How will I manage without you?”* Margaret dabbed her eyes.
*”It’s not forever. Visit me. It’s sunny there…”*
*”Listen—you’re stunning. A garrison’s full of men in uniform. At forty-five, life’s just starting.”*
The train pulled away. Margaret’s figure shrank; London’s outskirts gave way to fields.
A man in uniform peered into her compartment. *”Sorry, wrong berth.”*
The rails carried Lydia from grief. Ahead: Emma, a grandchild… The scenery shifted, her dread easing. For the first time, she felt light.
At the station, she stepped onto the platform, scanning for Emma.
*”Need a lift? I’ve a car coming.”* The officer from the train stood beside her, holding her suitcase.
*”The garrison… My daughter should be—* There she is!”* Emma sprinted toward them.
*”Looks like*”Then perhaps, after all, life had saved its best surprises for last.”*
