The Woman in Cabin 10(8)

“Oh Jesus.”

He looked at me, blood still dripping slowly from his mouth and his nose.

“What a welcome home,” was all he said.


“I’m sorry.” I felt tears prick at the back of my throat but I refused to cry in front of the taxi driver. Instead, I swallowed against the hard ache. “Judah?”

Judah said nothing; he just looked out of the window at the gray dawn that was starting to break over London. It had taken two hours at UCH accident and emergency, and then all they’d done was stitch Judah’s lip and refer him to an emergency dentist who shoved the tooth back in place and told him, more or less, to cross his fingers. Apparently the tooth might be saved if it reimplanted. If not, it would be either a bridge or a dental implant. He shut his eyes wearily, and I felt my gut twist with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, more desperately this time. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said wearily. The word came out as shorry, like a drunken Sean Connery impression, the local anesthetic in his lip making it hard to talk.

“You? What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t know. Fucking up. Not being there for you.”

“The burglar, you mean?”

He nodded.

“That. But any time, really. I wish I wasn’t away so much.”

I leaned across and he put his arm around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and listened to the slow, steady thud of his heart, reassuringly unhurried in comparison to my own panicky drumming pulse. Beneath his jacket he was wearing a blood-spattered T-shirt, the fabric soft and worn beneath my cheek. When I breathed in, a long, shaky breath, it smelled of his sweat, and I felt my pulse slow in time with his.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” I said into his chest. He shook his head.

“I still should have been there.”


It was growing light as we paid off the taxi driver and climbed wearily up the two flights of stairs to his flat, and when I looked at my watch I saw that it was nearly six. Shit. I had to be on a train to Hull in a few hours.

Inside, Judah stripped off his clothes and we fell into bed, skin against skin. He pulled me against him, inhaling the scent of my hair as he closed his eyes. I was so tired I could hardly think straight, but instead of lying back and letting sleep claim me, I found myself climbing on top of him, kissing his throat, his belly, the dark stripe of hair that arrowed to his groin.

“Lo . . .” He groaned, and he tried to pull me up towards him, to kiss me, but I shook my head.

“Don’t, your mouth. Just lie back.”

He let his head fall back, his throat arching in the pale strip of dawn that penetrated the curtains.

It was eight days since I’d last seen him. Now it would be another week until I saw him again. If we didn’t do this now . . .

Afterwards, I lay in his arms, waiting for my breathing and heart to steady, and I felt his cheek against mine crinkle in a smile.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

“More like what?”

“More like the homecoming I was expecting.”

I flinched and he touched my face.

“Lo, honey, it was a joke.”

“I know.”

We were both quiet for a long time. I thought he was slipping into sleep, and I shut my own eyes and let the tiredness wash over me, but then I felt his chest lift, and the muscles in his arm tense as he took a deep breath.

“Lo, I’m not going to ask again, but . . .”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. I could feel what he wanted to say. It was what he’d said on New Year’s Eve—he wanted us to move forward. Move in together.

“Let me think about it,” I said at last, in a voice that didn’t seem to be mine, a voice that was unusually subdued.

“That’s what you said months ago.”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Well, I’ve made up my mind.” He touched my chin, pulling my face gently towards his. What I saw there made my heart flip-flop. I reached out for him, but he caught my hand and held it. “Lo, stop trying to make this go away. I’ve been really patient, you know I have, but I’m starting to feel like we’re not on the same page.”

I felt my insides flutter with a familiar panic—something between hope and terror.

“Not on the same page?” My smile felt forced. “Have you been watching Oprah again?”

He let go of my hand at that, and something in his face had closed off as he turned away. I bit my lip.

“Jude—”

“No,” he said. “Just—no. I wanted to talk about this but you clearly don’t, so— Look, I’m tired. It’s nearly morning. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Jude,” I said again, pleadingly this time, hating myself for being such a bitch, hating him for pushing me into this.

“I said no,” he said wearily, into the pillow. I thought he was talking about our conversation, but then he continued. “To a job. Back in New York. I turned it down. For you.”

Fuck.





- CHAPTER 4 -

I was sleeping a deep, stupefied sleep, as if I’d been drugged, when the alarm dragged me to consciousness a few hours later.