As he read the elegant script, the faint smell of Valentine’s perfume—a remnant of where her wrist had brushed the paper—took James’s mind to a cold winter’s afternoon three years earlier. It was January. The sun had already set, and a chilly wind howled through the platform as James wrapped his arms around Valentine’s waist and drew her closer. Her eyes reminded him of new, green shoots on the first day of spring. There was something slightly hypnotic about them.
‘I hate this train station. Too many bad memories,’ he said with a smile as he bent to kiss her ruby-red lips.
Valentine twisted her knotted blonde hair around her neck and down her right shoulder. ‘It’s saying goodbye every week for the last three months that makes this hard.’
‘I know.’
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Maybe I could talk to my editor and get you a position at the paper. He’s always up to his eyeballs in work, and I’m sure he’d find you something. It might be a junior position, but you could move in with me so expenses would be low. That way, we wouldn’t have to spend our Sunday evenings in this horrible station.’
James took a deep breath and pulled Valentine a little closer.
Her cheeks flushed dark crimson as she bit the inside of her lip and stared at the ground. ‘So, you’re springing this on me now, on the platform, one minute before my train leaves for London?’ She looked up into his sparkling blue-green eyes.
‘Hey, you hate working at the Standard.’
‘James—’
‘I realise the timing isn’t brilliant. But I was meaning to ask you all weekend. Actually, I planned to ask you on Friday night, but I was worried you would say no.’
‘So that was the reason for the romantic dinner.’
‘Maybe. But every time I tried to raise the subject, you reminded me I’m not allowed to talk about work at the weekends.’
‘But in answer to your question, yes, I’d love to work at your paper.’ Valentine moved her hand up James’s chest and around his neck, leaned in, and kissed him. ‘I’ve got to go.’
She slipped into the carriage as the doors closed and the train rolled out of the station.
James stared out the window, the ivory piece of paper drifting towards the floorboards. A tear trickled down his cheek. He gasped as a lone thought swirled around in his mind, jolting him back to reality. As he turned and sprinted up the stairs towards the main bedroom, James slammed the vibrating phone onto the polished tabletop. Another message had come through.
The door handle banged against the wall as James burst into the bedroom. He dived straight for the small, round, black knobs on Valentine’s side of the closet. He thrust the doors open and stared at the empty void before him. A space once overflowing with clothes was now bare. His trembling hands slammed the doors shut. He turned around and walked towards the chest of drawers and opened the top ones.
They were empty.
As he closed them one by one, his eye caught the framed picture resting on top of the dresser. He grabbed it with one hand as his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the bed. Tears streamed down his cheeks, falling onto the picture of him and Valentine taken on the steps of the Northampton Museum of Anthropology, a memento from their first year together. James caught the reflection of his reddened eyes in the glass, threw the picture aside and, ran down the stairs towards the kitchen.
He picked up his phone, swiped his finger across the screen, and listened to the dialling tone. ‘The number you have called is not available. Please try again later,’ a robotic voice called out of the handset.
‘She’s left me,’ he whispered.
James stabbed the red button to end the call. He sighed as a Skype video call rang through to his phone. Merde, it’s Harry. I have to answer this.