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A tale of love and betrayal - the complete second draft of my British romance novel |
Chapter 2 Outside the train, the sun dropped below the horizon. A thick blanket of snow hid England’s green and pleasant land while ice crept across the window like an infestation. Sara kept her baggy winter coat zipped up to the chin in spite of the relative warmth inside the carriage. She eyed the onboard toilet six seats down. She’d never before dared to ‘go’ on the train, but pregnant girls had needs and this journey was dragging on. ‘On behalf of the East Coast Main Line Company,’ said the train driver over the public address system, ‘I apologize for the delay, which is due to adverse weather conditions. We will arrive at Grantham in approximately twenty minutes, one hour later than scheduled.’ She turned to the elderly bloke sitting beside her and opened her mouth. Before she could speak, he tapped his hearing aid. She knew he was faking it because she’d heard him speaking with the hot ginger guy. The old bloke had given her the cold shoulder since King’s Cross. Her novel lay unopened on the table. She skimmed the dust cover for the umpteenth time, and a weird-looking girl stared back at her with one eerie eye. Her best friend Chard recommended this new Stephenie Meyer book, claiming it was a huge improvement on the Twilight series. Sara had meant to read it for ages, but there would inevitably be romance, and she couldn’t deal with that shit right now. Especially after her run-in with that disabled guy. Recalling what she’d said and how rude she’d been, her cheeks flushed. At least lots of passengers got off in Stevenage, so he must have a seat by now. For all she knew, he had already left the train. Try as she might, she couldn’t get his face out of her head. He looked familiar, though she couldn’t say from where. But neither her embarrassment nor his familiarity was the reason she couldn’t stop visualising him. Sweet Mary, he was hot! Sara needed to get him out of her system, so she dug out her sketchpad and pencils. She flipped through the pad past a portrait of Mum, a spring daffodil, a swan on the Thames, a Tower raven, and a sketch of Chard. The following page was deliciously blank. Had she really drawn nothing since her friend visited last May? She began with an oval, outlining a square jaw beneath. The guy’s straight Roman nose followed. From there, his symmetrical features slotted into place. He looked around thirty, but the faint lines across his forehead aged him. Under his hairy chin, she sketched a thick neck attached to broad shoulders. Honestly, who would expect a man with shoulders like that to be disabled? He wasn’t handsome exactly. Just distinctive. Unique. Dodgy leg aside, the whole package was mouth-watering. Ugh! This wasn’t helping. Sara sighed and caressed her bump. Even before she fell pregnant and put on weight, she was short and dumpy. Hot guys like him never went for geeks like her except in teen movies. If only she were skinny like Chard, who resembled a young Kate Moss. ‘On behalf of the East Coast Main Line Company, I apologize for the delay, which is due to adverse weather conditions. We will arrive at Newark in approximately half-an-hour, one hour and forty-five minutes later than scheduled.’ At this rate, Sara wouldn’t arrive home until midnight. After arriving in Doncaster, she would have to walk across to the bus station and catch a bus from there, and the Doncaster to Bradfield bus only ran once an hour. She returned her attention to the sketch and soon became engrossed with the minutiae of light and shade. With only graphite to form her palette, she couldn’t capture the red that highlighted his hair like glowing coals, the darker shade of his beard, or his steel-blue eyes. Perhaps at Mum’s, she could dig out her old watercolours. She chewed her pencil. The guy looked a bit like Prince Harry. Was that why he looked so familiar? He had the same accent, too. But he spoke with such a rich, deep voice that the accent sounded appealing from his lips. His beard looked ticklish, but the thought of pressing her lips against his caused a tingling in her stomach and a pool of warmth down below. She’d never before experienced such a strong visceral reaction to a man; Sara blamed it on the pregnancy hormones. She pictured him nibbling her lip then trailing a row of gentle kisses across her chin and down her neck. Her imagination drifted lower. ‘That’s really good.’ Sara’s hand flew to her chest, and she glanced around. The old bloke jabbed a gnarled finger at her sketch. ‘Looks just like him.’ ‘Er … thanks. He has a distinctive face, which helps.’ ‘You could make good money drawing tourists in Trafalgar Square.’ She smiled. She had considered joining the caricature artists during her undergraduate years but was put off when she discovered she’d have to pay five hundred pounds a month to Westminster council for a license. As a result, most of the portraits she’d sketched had been family and friends. This sketch of the hot guy was better than most of those, which was strange. Why would she be so obsessed with a stranger? Probably her hormones. Since her pregnancy began, her emotions had bounced up and down like a bungee jumper. She’d never experienced a great deal of lust while living with Tom, but lately she’d become as horny as a teenager at a boy band concert. She glanced out the window to gauge how far they’d come, but the snowfall prevented her from seeing farther than a few feet. ‘Has the snow been so bad for long?’ ‘Since Newark,’ answered the old bloke. ‘It’s grown much worse since Retford.’ ‘Retford?’ She’d been so engrossed in her sketch that she hadn’t even realised they’d reached Nottinghamshire. If it was this bad here, she dreaded to think what the weather was like in Yorkshire. Brakes screeched. The carriage jolted. All around, people cursed and yelled. The momentum threw Sara forwards. She flung out her hands to protect her bump, and the table in front of her prevented her from falling to the floor. Her sketchpad and novel slid off the table. The carriage swayed violently and then shuddered to a halt. A child burst into tears. As a teacher, Sara had undergone regular first aid training and had considerable experience treating minor playground bumps and scrapes. She turned to the old bloke. He glanced around in confusion but didn’t look hurt. In the aisle, a man lay where he’d fallen. She made to stand, but he groaned and rose by himself. The child still cried, but it sounded more like tears of shock than pain. She surveyed the surrounding chaos. Thankfully, it didn’t look as though anybody was injured, and the carriage hadn’t toppled over or anything like that. The public address system crackled into life, and a nasal voice said, ‘This is your driver speaking. Please remain calm and stay seated. I apologise for the emergency stop. The tracks ahead are blocked by a snow drift. I am awaiting further instructions from the management team and will keep you informed of any developments.’ Sara swallowed. Yeah, staying seated was sensible. At eight-months pregnant, she should avoid overexertion. But then a thought flashed through her mind. What if the hot guy was standing when the carriages shook? He could be injured, and it was her fault. More importantly, she might be the only person nearby with first aid experience. She gripped the table edge and stood. Stepping into the aisle, she stumbled a few feet, feeling woozy. She pressed on regardless. She must check he was all right. *** Rupert trembled in his seat. For a moment there, he was transported back to Helmand Province, his convoy under fire. As the present came into focus, he glanced around at the chaotic scene unfolding. Parents comforted crying children and people called out in confusion. No smoke or fire. No blood and gore. No severed limbs. No Jerry screaming for his mum. He took a calming breath then grabbed his stick and struggled to his feet. Ignoring the flare of pain in his leg, he scanned the carriage. Though he didn’t have access to a first aid kit, he still might be able to render assistance. He had received training in field medicine and occasionally helped a medic dress wounds. Once he’d assisted a doctor to deliver a baby in the back of an armoured transport vehicle in Sangin, which was an experience he never wanted to repeat. That memory reminded Rupert about the pretty pregnant woman. How close was she to term? An incident like this could prove traumatic for someone in her condition. It might even induce premature labour. Imagine her fear if contractions began while stuck in a train during a blizzard. She needed help. Rupert hobbled towards his original seat, passing dazed people. None showed signs of serious injury. As he entered the next carriage, he bumped into someone hurrying the opposite way. His bad leg gave way, and he collapsed with an undignified yelp. His buttocks smacked the floor. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said a familiar, shrill voice. He glanced up and groaned. The pretty woman stood over him. She must think him a fool. She crouched and offered her hand, but he didn’t take it. He feared she might hurt herself trying to pull him up. She wrung her hands. ‘I was coming to check you’re okay.’ She was? That was a surprise. ‘I worried that you might be standing in the aisle.’ Ah, she was driven by guilt. That made sense. Two burly men appeared from nearby seats, and he allowed them to assist him to his feet. One man handed him his walking stick. The woman thanked them as if they had helped her then threaded her arm through his. He found her proximity most distracting. ‘Let me help you to your seat.’ Naturally, she didn’t believe a cripple such as he could take two steps without assistance. He neither wanted nor needed her pity. He pushed her arm away and stepped back. ‘I think you’ve helped quite enough for one day.’ Her freckled cheeks flushed. ‘S-sorry.’ Rupert experienced a pang of guilt at her hurt expression, but she only offered assistance because she believed him to be feeble. Turning his back on her, he limped back to his seat. He wanted to be alone.  |
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