A Certain Chemistry (28 page)

VII

So,
what I want to talk about here is . . . What? No, look, it doesn’t really matter about the specifics of Tom and George and Sara—how many times do I have to tell you that? They’re only, you know, an illustration of the general principle, right? Sara’s just one woman, in Scotland, at one moment in time; her hearing that recording on her cell phone isn’t an issue we’re concerned with. No, I’m here to tell you . . .
What?
Hey, don’t look at me like that . . .
What?
Oh, for . . . Okay, okay, I’ll come back later, then. Really—the phrase “the bigger picture” just means
nothing
to you people, does it?

eleven

“When do we get into Edinburgh?” asked George.

“The train’s supposed to arrive there at four fifty-two, but it’ll be late.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s a fucking
train,
” I replied. George’s expression told me I could have said this less ill-temperedly. “Sorry . . . I’m sorry. I’m just . . .” I kissed her cheek and hugged her. I hugged her incredibly tightly. As though, if I could just hold her hard enough, just keep us close enough together, then somehow I’d be safe. We’d be fused together, an entity of Us that was irreducible and also somehow apart from the rest of the world. Isolated. Protected.

“I can’t breathe,” she said.

“I know,” I admitted. “Me neither. It’s like a clenched fist in my—”

“No, I can’t breathe—you’re crushing me.”

“Oh, right.” I let go and stood back half a pace. “Sorry.”

“So, what if the train
does
get in on time? Could you get to her shop before she finishes work?”

“Um . . . I don’t know. Yes. From the station, in thirty-eight minutes, I might just about be able to get there on foot. If I got a taxi, I’d arrive with quite a bit of time to spare. But the problem is,
all
that depends on the train getting in on time and my being able to get a taxi, at that time of day, during the festival.”

“Then we’ll be okay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it’s best to think that way. ‘Positive visualization,’ my therapist calls it. Okay, it’s supposed to be more to do with personal interactions . . .”

“Maybe you should call your therapist and ask what visualization works for trains.”

“
This
will work. It’s, um, holistic or something. Our personal energy affects the physical world. If you believe things will be okay, then they will be.”

“They probably won’t.”

“They
will
. . . and, even if they aren’t, at least you’re in better shape, mentally.”

“I believe you should always assume the worst will happen. Because the worst certainly will happen, and then you’ll be prepared for it.”

“That’s very negative, Tom.”

“Just realistic.”

“Hmm . . . shall we get out of this lavatory?”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

“Just give me a second. It’s a big step.”

“What is?”

“Leaving this lavatory. The real world’s out there, waiting. Leaving this lavatory is a big step, psychologically.”

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

“Ready?” asked George.

“I . . . No, just give me another second.” I breathed in and out slowly again. “Right. Let’s go for it.”

We returned to our seats and hell really set in. I looked at my watch: 4:43. I now had forty-six minutes to get to Sara. Every twenty seconds or so I looked at my watch again and cursed. The feeling of utter powerlessness, of being trapped in a moving prison, was overwhelming. I knocked my knuckles rapidly on the tabletop just to have something physical to do, some outlet. Forty-two minutes. Jesus—the time was streaming away like blood from a cut artery. I flattened my face against the window, trying to peer forward to see whether the station was just up ahead, moments away. It wasn’t, of course. I tried to pick out some landmark that would tell me, at least, that we were close to it being close. What I was looking for was hope. What I saw was railway embankments. Then the misery moved up another gear entirely—thirty-eight minutes left: we should have been at the station now. Whereas before the desperation had to some extent been for us to hurry up—to give me as much time as possible—now I was watching as any chance of succeeding died before my eyes, second by second. Each tick was a knife in my stomach. Thirty-seven minutes.
Jesus
.

Then, a sliver of light: the PA tone sounded, followed by the driver announcing that we’d be arriving in Edinburgh at any moment. I jumped to my feet and shouted at the nearest loudspeaker.

“About time, you cunt!”

Fortunately—it being both in Britain and on a train—all the other passengers pretended to have completely not noticed my doing this.

I ran to the door. George, looking anxious, followed discreetly behind me. Well, to be honest, she could have been squealing like a pig and she’d still have looked discreet compared to the state I was in. I waited,
furious
with impatience, but it was still well over another minute until we pulled into Edinburgh. And the “. . . doors will remain locked until the train has come completely to a standstill,” apparently—if I ever find out which prissy twat on some safety committee came up with
that
one, I’ll punch the bastard.

Finally,
the train stopped and I was out through the door onto the platform. I raced towards the taxi rank, looking at my watch as I ran: thirty-four minutes. People. In my way. Fuck
off
.

No taxis. Can you
believe
it? Edinburgh, capital of fucking Scotland, and there’re no fucking taxis. What’s the point of giving a parliament to a place that can’t even sort out
having enough fucking taxis
?
EH?

I turned to George. I indicated the area—its taxi-free quality. I made claws of my hands and shook them. “Fuuuuuuuck!” I said. Everything in the world was against me. Everything. That Doritos bag skidding along the pavement in the breeze, this road, this railway station, Edinburgh, Britain, the earth, the whole bleeding universe—all of it arranged entirely and solely to fuck me.

“There could be one along at any second,” said George.

“Yes. Or not for another ten minutes, and look.” I pointed up at the road. “The traffic’s nose-to-tail up there. It’s not even
moving
. Even if a taxi got here
right now,
I’d never make it across town in time.”

George stuck her thumbnail in between her teeth and gnawed at it anxiously. She glanced up at the road, then back down towards the platforms . . . and then she ran away.

I didn’t feel any bitterness as she flew past me—I mean, I couldn’t help but see her point. She sped by my ear, and my only thought was, “Yeah—fair enough.”

I looked over my shoulder at her racing away—God, she was fast. I thought of the first time I’d met her, that very first day when her fitness-programmed legs had been chased by my sometimes-take-the-stairs-just-to-look-virile ones, holding off collapse by nothing but sheer determination to get the book commission. I had no will to follow her now, though—no will to do anything, in fact. I watched her sprint off in the same way as you hear people who claim to have had out-of-body experiences say that they disinterestedly watched the doctors trying to resuscitate their lifeless bodies.

But then she came to a halt in front of someone. She hadn’t been running randomly but had been running over to a particular person. He’d obviously also recently got off a train and—as is not uncommon (Edinburgh seems to attract this type)—he was pushing a bicycle. George was talking to him with great speed and many arm movements. He was looking . . . well, he was looking for the closest exit, quite frankly. I jogged over to them.

“
Please
. Honestly,” George was saying, the words scrambling from her mouth in a jostling stampede. “
Twice
whatever you paid for it. There’s bound to be a bike shop in the town. You can get yourself another bike in no time, and still have money left over.”

“Erm . . . well . . .” replied the man, his eyes searching the station for help.

I pulled at my watch. Thirty-one minutes.

“Look—” I began.

“You two are working together?” the man cut in, nervously. The phrase “working together” beautifully indicating his assessment of the situation.

“We’re not work— Never mind.
I’ll
pay you twice what you paid for it
as well,
okay? That means you’ll get four times what it’s worth. You give me the bike, I’ll leave my cash card—there’s a bank just up there—and the two of you can—”

“So . . .” The man nodded. “You don’t have the cash? You want me to give you my bike, and
then,
after you’ve
gone
—”

“Well,
of course
I don’t have the cash. I don’t carry that much cash around with me—who the hell does? Do
you
?”

“I . . . no. I have no cash on me
whatsoever
. None,” he replied, his voice trembling slightly.

“This is an emergency,” George pleaded. “Just trust us and—”

“Sorry.” He began to move away. “I—”

George ran into his path. She pulled off her hat and sunglasses and (subtly, so it wasn’t a jarring transformation but just the kind of thing that’d make you think, “. . . and, when I
listened
. . .”) turned up the Scottishness of her voice so it was closer to her accent in
The Firth
.

The man stopped dead, just as though he’d hit an invisible barrier. At the same time he changed—
physically changed.
His body posture softened—the stiffness evaporated and his shoulders loosened—while amazed eyes and a broad smile washed the fear and tension from his face.

“Hey!” he said, pointing. “You’re her off the telly, aren’t you?”

George lowered her eyes and shyly shrugged an acknowledgment—tricky one to pull off, this, when you’ve hurled yourself directly in front of someone and practically gone, “Ta-ra!” But somehow she managed to do it.

“Yes,” I said. I took a step closer and put my arm around the man’s shoulders. I glanced around with quite operatically exaggerated stealth and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Georgina Nye is staying here in Edinburgh—I’m her personal assistant—and it is
vitally
important that I meet someone about business in . . .
Jesus! . . .
Sorry. In twenty-nine minutes.”

“What kind of business?” asked the man. Also in a whisper. Also looking around anxiously for eavesdroppers.

I stared right into his eyes and paused for a beat before replying, “Television business.”

He looked back at me and—wordlessly—nodded that he understood.

“Okay,” I said, “if I can have your bike, George will go with you to the cash machine right now and give you the money.”

He waved his hands and looked almost affronted by the suggestion. “Oh, there’s no hurry. You don’t have to give me the money right
now
. I mean, if you have other things you need to do first, then—”

George had crammed her hair back into her hat and replaced her glasses. She moved me out of the way so that she could stand next to the man and thread her arm through his. “No, no, I
insist
we go to the cash machine together right away,” she said, smiling.

“Okay,” the man replied, grinning so much it forced his eyes into nothing but tiny dashes. He began to remove the bags from the back of his bicycle, making it more difficult for himself because rather than looking at the fastenings, he preferred to keep his eyes fixed on George. “My sister
loves
you,” he said. “She’s never going to believe that you’ve bought my bike.”

I pulled my cash card out of my wallet and started to offer it to George, but she waved it away. “I’ll pay the whole lot—Gavin,” she said to me, loudly. Then, with a giggle, she added to the man, “I’ll take it all out of his salary.” The man
bellowed
with laughter, this being the funniest thing
he had ever heard
.

I moved in and began helping him to get his bags off the bike. Fortunately for him, I didn’t have a knife on me or they’d have been off in three seconds. After a two-figure number of eternities, everything was finally free and I threw myself onto the bicycle. A solemn look at my wristwatch smashed “twenty-seven minutes” into my face. I glanced over at George. She was looking at me, tense beneath the apparently affable surface. I opened my mouth to say something memorably intrepid—it was clearly a Bruce Willis moment—but I couldn’t think of anything, so I just sat there for a couple of seconds with my jaw hanging down, and then started cycling as fast as I could.