Low Expectations

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday 13th February 2013

As Sara Finbow glanced around the living room of the squalid flat, a tear trickled down her freckled face. Six years she’d wasted here. Even with all the furniture removed, the place looked cramped, and no amount of air freshener ever masked its manky stench. She wandered over to the tiny window. The icicles hanging from the eaves couldn’t compare to the cold in her heart. She was only twenty-nine, but it felt like her life was already over.

She turned back to the empty room. Her gaze was drawn to the Victorian fireplace and its rusty gas fire. The house clearers took the rug, but memories lingered. That was where Tom took that which was most important to good Catholic girls five years ago in the early hours of New Year’s Day. They’d just staggered back from Trafalgar Square, where he got down on one knee, accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben, and begged her to make an honest man of him. She’d accepted his proposal, but it never happened.

In the centre of the room, a purple stain marred the worn carpet. Only eight months ago, Tom had arrived home clutching a bottle of wine, and she assumed they were celebrating the completion of his medical training. Given the many hints over the years, she wondered if he would now set the date. How optimistic and naïve. Once he dredged up enough Dutch courage, he confessed he’d met someone else — a lady with whom he had more in common. She supposed that meant his new girl boasted better prospects than a humble primary school teacher. Sara had poured the remaining wine over his head, killing the conversation.

She sighed and settled her handbag strap across her shoulder. After packing, dealing with the house clearance company, and finalising things with the landlord, she was exhausted. She glanced longingly towards the bathroom. Her tangled hair itched, and she didn't smell as fresh as a daisy, but she’d have to get a move on if she wanted to reach King’s Cross in time for the three-thirty. Besides, it wasn’t as if she would run into anybody important in economy class.

Other than the essential items in her handbag — her driver’s licence, sketchpad, and a novel to while away the journey — the suitcase beside the front door was all she was taking back to Yorkshire. She wanted no mementos, nothing to stir painful memories of that git. But there was one souvenir of their ten-year-long relationship she couldn’t leave behind, Tom’s final parting gift.

Hesitating at the door, she placed a hand protectively over her swollen stomach. ‘Well, Bump. Say goodbye to London.’

***

Rupert Fitzherbert scratched his ginger beard and gazed around Kings Cross Station, admiring the open-plan building, especially the gigantic semi-circular roof overhead. The station had undergone a major refurbishment since his last visit. The monstrous, seventies carbuncle was gone from the front, and the magnificent Victorian architecture sympathetically restored to its former glory.

An attractive lady stepped out of the crowd. Dressed in a power suit and carrying a briefcase, she probably held a senior position in one of the city firms. She looked him up and down with a coy smile. He knew what she saw: a tall man in a cashmere coat and Savile Row suit who looked every inch the ex-Army officer he was. He hated to break the illusion but couldn’t stand there forever. He took a wobbly step, favouring his good leg and relying heavily on his silver-tipped walking stick, wishing he brought a crutch rather than this ornate but less practical aid. The winter cold aggravated his injury. His left femur boasted more pins than the average voodoo doll. The woman’s eyes widened, and she hurried off in another direction. He should be used to that reaction, but his heart still sank.

He hobbled across the entrance vestibule. Ahead, a news kiosk was decked in hearts and flowers. A poster featured two ladies in wedding dresses holding hands. He smiled and wondered how many lesbian and gay lovers would go down on one knee this Valentine’s Day now the law had changed.

As he passed the magazine rack, he caught sight of this week’s Hob Nob magazine. He cringed at the headline: ‘HAS RUPERT SET THE DATE?’ An old photo from before his wound showed him standing beside Abigail on the dancefloor at a charity ball. He hardly recognised himself, so youthful and clean-shaven. She looked stunning in a blue velvet dress. Inside the magazine was a puff piece sponsored by her father, who was keener on dragging Rupert to the altar than she was. Rupert didn’t want to be around when the media caught wind of today’s development.

He’d planned to fly home, but the blizzard cutting across Yorkshire closed Robin Hood Airport. He considered hiring a car but didn’t want to drive through snow. If he wanted to escape London before the media storm, a train seemed his only choice. As he made his way towards Platform Four, he mused that his personal life would soon be a hot topic. The press would hound him with questions. How could he explain his actions? More to the point, how was he going to break the news to his grandfather?

On the platform, elderly people outnumbered tourists and commuters. Everywhere, grey-haired octogenarians pushed Zimmer frames or clutched sticks. Perhaps Saga organised an event in town. He limped past the first-class carriages in frustration. He’d never travelled economy before, what his friends called plebeian transport. His personal secretary apologetically explained most of the seats on every train this afternoon were pre-booked. At least Bentley managed to secure a reservation, so Rupert wouldn’t have to stand all the way to Doncaster.

Locating his carriage, he smiled to discover the top of the platform was level with the interior. His knee was already aching, so he didn’t relish negotiating steps. As soon as he stepped inside, his smile vanished. The economy class carriage was even more cramped than he’d imagined, and despite the no smoking signs, there was an unpleasant cigarette smoke odour. A reservation slip stuck out from the headrest of every seat. Checking the seat numbers, he soon found his allocated place. An elderly gentleman occupied the neighbouring window seat. With his bushy eyebrows and moustache, he passed an uncanny resemblance to a walrus. A pink hearing aid filled the cavity of his right ear.

Rupert gripped the table, shuffled his bad leg into the gap between the table and his chair, and carefully lowered himself into position. When his buttocks settled on the hideous upholstery, he groaned in relief.

‘Hello there.’ His neighbour smiled. ‘I’m Reg.’

Rupert nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t offer his name; he didn’t want to risk Reg connecting him to that stupid magazine article. He fumbled with his walking stick, wondering where to stow it.

‘Let me help.’ Reg took the stick and slotted it between his seat and the window.

‘Thank you.’

‘Is this your first NOS conference?”

‘I beg your pardon?’ For somebody hard of hearing, the man was chatty.

‘The National Osteoporosis Society Annual Conference in Doncaster.’ Reg gestured to the walking stick. ‘I assume you’re attending.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He gestured to his leg. ‘It’s not osteoporosis.’

‘Accident at work?’

Rupert loosened his regimental tie. He didn’t like talking about his injury. ‘You could say that.’

Reg’s gaze fixed on the tie, and his bushy eyebrows narrowed. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.’ He scratched his bulbous nose. ‘My grandson served in Afghanistan. Royal Hussars.’

‘Brave lads.’

‘Like you, son.’ He patted Rupert’s leg. ‘I hope you got compensation and a shiny medal to impress the girls.’

He grimaced. Yes, they gave him a stupid bronze cross, but he’d never get Jerry’s terrified expression out of his head.

More and more passengers squeezed into the carriage, most forced to stand in the aisle. Muted conversations filled the air, interspersed with complaints about the lack of seats.

A shrill voice rose above the others. ‘Where can I park my bum?’

A short, dishevelled woman ploughed through the throng dragging a battered suitcase. The rest of the world faded from Rupert’s awareness. Brunette hair trailed across her sweaty brow, and her plump cheeks glowed red, but the sparkling brown eyes on her heart-shaped face outshone anything Rupert had ever seen.

She caught his gaze and halted. ‘Well?’

Rupert blinked. ‘I’m sorry. Are you addressing me?’

Her gaze flicked from his seat to the front of her voluminous coat. When he failed to react, she rolled her eyes and tugged down her zip to expose a swollen stomach.

‘Oh.’ His cheeks flushed. Spellbound by her eyes, he hadn’t noticed her condition. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I reserved this seat.’ He felt guilty not offering his seat to a pregnant lady, but he couldn’t stand all the way to Doncaster.

Her eyes widened. ‘Seriously? You’d leave me standing because moving might inconvenience you.’

‘You don’t understand.’

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I understand you’re a proper git.’

He flinched. ‘Perhaps the next carriage has free seats.’

‘I’ve already walked through three, and there aren’t any.’ She loomed nearer. ‘You’re no gentleman.’

He clenched the hand rest. How dare she talk to him like that? Obviously, she had no idea who he was. He straightened in his seat and squared his shoulders, ready to dress her down. Then he noticed how her hand pressed against his headrest as if she would collapse without its support.

Reg leaned over him. ‘Now listen here, young lady—’

Rupert patted his arm. ‘It’s all right, Reg. Could you pass my stick?’

‘Are you sure? I know you want to be a gentleman, but—’

‘I’m sure.’

Gripping the edge of the table for support, he manoeuvred his good leg into the aisle. As he struggled to stand, his knee flared, and he grunted with exertion.

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re disabled.’

Both hands atop his stick, he mock bowed. ‘Your seat, milady.’

‘No, I can’t take your place.’

‘I insist.’

He stepped past her, and a pleasing jasmine scent teased his nostrils. Not perfume, he decided, but the smell of freshly laundered clothes. No longer scowling, her face looked as angelic as a Renoir portrait. She placed her tiny hand on his sleeve, and he couldn’t help but notice she wore no ring on her finger.

She brushed a lock of hair away to reveal an elfin ear. ‘Seriously. I can’t allow you to stand when you have mobility problems.’

‘It isn’t as bad as it looks.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

She hesitated a moment, biting her lower lip. The action was incredibly sensual. Christ, she was attractive. Was it sinful to harbour carnal thoughts about a woman heavy with another man’s child?

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I really need to sit before I faint.’ She squeezed his forearm in thanks, and he suffered an involuntary reaction that made him groan.

He nodded in farewell to Reg. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

Reg smiled at him then scowled at the woman as she lowered herself into the seat.

As a whistle blew, Rupert made his way down the aisle, stumbling when the carriage jolted. His knee throbbed, but he kept moving. He needed to distance himself from that woman and her enchanting eyes. Imagine, some fortunate man had the pleasure of her company every night. Rupert wished he were half as lucky.