LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) Read Free Page B

ill-fitting suit as a buffer. It was like hitting a bouncy castle, and I bounced off him, nearly back onto the platform.
    I apologised profusely, but he didn't need the apology. The smile on his face said he enjoyed it. In fact, his lips curled, giving him a lascivious look that said he thought I did it on purpose. I had to get away from him. But we were so tightly packed in that it was hard to move.
    To the right was the standard class carriage. I craned my neck as much as I could to glimpse the situation. Not only were all the seats occupied, but the aisles were full of people, too.
    I hadn’t had a panic attack for a few days, but I could feel one coming on now. My body temperature was increasing and my breath shortening.
    To the left was the first class carriage. There were about seven people sitting down in the entire carriage. But I didn’t have a first class ticket, just my standard class season ticket.  
    Then I had a thought.  
    I rarely see a conductor during rush-hour. What would be the point? He wouldn’t be able to walk from one end of the train to the other checking tickets. There were too many people crowding the corridors. So why not take a chance?
    Besides, if I didn’t move now I would soon slump to the floor, breathless, and have to close my eyes, trying to force my lungs up and down until we reached Waterloo.
    “Excuse me,” I said. Not to anybody in particular, just to the mass of bodies clustered in front of me. There was a shuffling of feet, but the bodies hardly moved — there was nowhere to move. I lifted my bent arms and forged a pathway for myself. There were some awkward looks, a bit of mumbling, but I ignored them. My bouncy castle friend looked positively distraught at my leaving.
    It was wonderful walking through the doors to first class. It’s not like first class on a plane. The chairs can’t be converted into beds. I think you receive a complimentary coffee and then there’s the extra leg room. Oh, and I think you get free Wi-Fi. But that’s about it. What you really pay for in first class is to be treated like a human being and not a sardine.
    I didn’t want to be too close to the vestibule, in case a bunch of train vigilantes ratted on me. So I wandered down the aisle trying to look like I was born to travel first class. My clothes were appropriate. As a booker in a model agency, I have to look stylish. But not too stylish. I’d heard one model complain that her booker, accompanying her to a photo-shoot, was trying to upstage her.  
    I follow my mother’s advice. She tells me to have a French attitude to clothes rather than a British one. She says the French buy fewer clothes and make sure they’re of a high quality. The British, she says, tend to fill their basket with lots of clothes, sacrificing quality for quantity. My mother’s half English half French, so she doesn’t have any axe to grind.
    My mother gives good advice when it comes to clothes, or make-up. She’s not so good with relationship advice.
    I walked three-quarters of the way down the carriage before I sat down. I should have chosen a seat away from any of the other passengers, so as not to draw attention to myself. But the end of the carriage was getting closer, so I slumped into the nearest seat. Almost directly   opposite me, on the other side of the aisle, was a man. I tried not to look at him.  
    But curiosity got the better of me and I pretended to look out of the window on his side of the train. Yes, it’s going to be another fine day today, I thought. The blue skies would at least make the winter temperatures bearable. And… oh crap, how dare that man be so incredibly gorgeous.
    He was sitting at a table, leaning back in the seat, his feet stretched out as if he was in his own lounge at home.  
    He had what can only be described as a serious face. It might have been the book he was reading. It was Ways Of Seeing by John Berger. I’d never heard of it, but this guy was reading it very