28 August
Scott and I are on a train from Brighton to London’s Victoria station. This is the tail-end of my glorious seaside visit, during which Scott asked me to move in with him. I’m on my way back to Leeds and he has a handily-timed meeting in London, so we get to cuddle up at the rear end of this carriage like teenagers in the back row of a cinema.
An elderly couple occupy the row in front of us, but they’ve chosen seats across the aisle from each other. Beneath the man’s crop of white hair sits a joyless face, as if he’s sucking on a plum. The woman displays an equal lack of joie de vivre. Despite the summer heat, she’s still bunched up in her fleecy coat as if trying to gain maximum insulation from her husband.
Neither of them has spoken to the other during the first half of this journey. They just sit there, eating salmon sandwiches that stink out the carriage. As Scott and I chat lazily to each other, I can’t help but wonder how many secrets, lies and betrayals have divided this older couple over the past decades.
A certain smugness grips me when I compare them to me and Scott, but this is undercut with fear. I never want our bubble to pop.
By the time the old coots unwrap their packed dessert items – tangerines, which at least help to erase the reek of long dead fish – I catch Scott contemplating them too. I lean over and whisper into his ear.
“God. Let’s pledge to never be like them, eh?”
He nods gravely. “No salmon sandwiches. Ever.”
I laugh, then tickle-jab him under the armpit.