Refrain

Chapter 9: Bertie

That morning in the waiting hall of Paddington Station, a loud announcement was echoing among the early commuters. Major service disruptions were expected that day, and the first train to Oxford was canceled.

Speaking of disruptions, reader: please, let me greet you properly. I'm Cadence. I know it's difficult to discern one talking voice from another on the page, especially when neither K nor I are specially trained in storytelling. And I could very well go on from now pretending to be K without you noticing. But I thought I'd better not. If a storyteller can't be skilled, then he should at least be honest.

I'm taking over—only briefly, I hope—because I think K could use a break. You see, recalling our ritual had made him pretty upset. Even after all these years, he still feels guilty about that night—how soft-hearted, my K, bless him. He's always trying to act tough and take responsibilities, but sometimes I'm made keenly aware that he is, after all, five years my junior, and should take on less.

So last night, as we were lying in the dark, our toes touching, him telling me he should stop writing, me thinking the project not entirely worthless, I said to him: 'Let me tell the next stretch, then,' and kissed him on the eyelids, to remind him that he and I are now beyond such things as guilt, or iniquity.

Since it's not my mother tongue, if I'm not as worthy a storyteller as K, reader, please bear with me.

As I was saying, the train was canceled. I was completely at a loss for what to do. K had insisted I stay for breakfast that morning, but I ran off before dawn, having my mind set on the first train out. The realisation that I had formed a devil's pact with him the night before was just sinking in; but already, I couldn't wait to cash it out.

Going back to Louis was all I could think about.

Breathing in the morning chill, I chose a bench on the platform to sit on, and wrapped my light coat tighter around me. It was not that I wasn't welcome to go back to K's house. By all standards, he was decent the night before. Respectful, patient, even gentle at times. Excellent bedside manners. Still, going back to him now would be awkward. It'd be like returning to the shop where you had just been handed your purchases by the smiling sales assistants, to ask for an extra bag. That was all we had formed, me a K—a transaction.

I wouldn't need to wait for long. The next train was only thirty minutes after the first, and was still shown to be on schedule. I fished out the pack of cigarettes I bought the day before, already half empty, and lit one to help me pass the time. As I drew in the pungent taste of tobacco and puffed, the white smoke rose, stinging my eyes, made them blur.

It was in this state of unseeing numbness that I was accosted by him. At that hour of the day, the platform must have been quite empty, but his footsteps made no sound against the hard tiles. Through the thin veil of smoke, when I saw him, it was already his face in a close-up. I almost jumped.

'Good morning,' he said. He even touched the brim of his hat, a gesture that struck me as anachronistic.

I hesitated, unsure whether to engage. A quick glance at what he was wearing told me he wasn't homeless. But strangers approaching me out of nowhere always made me wary.

'Forgive me. How rude of me, talking you up without introducing myself,' he extended a hand. 'Tristan. Tristan Chambers. Principal cello with the Royal Philharmonic. I saw you perform at Southbank Centre last weekend. It was stunning. I loved it.'

I didn't at first, but in the end took his hand reluctantly, because he was still holding it out. If anyone was bringing up the Elgar concert to my face, it certainly wasn't to congratulate me. It was to gloat.

'I'm glad it was entertaining.' I snuffed my cigarette on top of a metal station bin. 'Excuse me, but I'm on the way to a rather important appointment. If it's work-related, perhaps you could reach out to my agent?'