500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(88)

“I know,” said Lissa.

“Is she going to spew in my cab, love?” said the taxi driver.

“No!” they both said together.

“Give me the phone,” said Kim-Ange. “Come on, hand it over. You’re pissed and in possession of a phone, it’s a deadly weapon.”

Lissa sighed. Kim-Ange grabbed it and hit a few buttons. She’d done this before.

“I’ve blocked his number. Stopped any recriminatory texts.”

“I’ve got his number at home.”

“Yes, but that will be in the morning and then you can think about what you’re doing. In between sending me a thank-you bouquet.”

The meter ticked on.

“Don’t . . . don’t lose the messages,” mumbled Lissa.

“Messages are saved, but you can’t send any more and neither can he,” said Kim-Ange. “Not till you sober up.”

“Thanks,” said Lissa, flinging her arms around her again. “You’re a great friend.”

“I am,” said Kim-Ange grimly. “Now I am going back to set fire to his bed.”

“It’s my bed!”

“Oh yes. I’ll think of something.”

It felt suddenly unbearably unfair to Lissa that Kim-Ange was going back to Cormac and she wasn’t.

“Maybe he is dead,” she said, “from saving a bunch of children from a burning orphanage. Even then I still hate him.”

“In you go,” said Kim-Ange, slamming the door behind her as the cab shot off into the night.





Chapter 76


There are several ways of getting from South Bank to Euston in half an hour: Thameslink, the Northern line, the number 63 bus, a black cab, which will do puzzling things around Bedford Square—but if you are in a tearing hurry and, frankly, a bit of a panic, you could always try running it. I wouldn’t, personally. But then it very much depends on whether you are thinking straight.

Cormac wasn’t thinking straight at all.

But as he flew down the stairs, out into the humid night, and hit the great river and charged along, he felt better running—feeling free, rather than jiggering about in a cab stuck in the sticky traffic or the tube inching forward. He couldn’t have borne it.

To his surprise, he realized he knew where he was going. Across the bridge at Embankment, through Trafalgar Square and into Covent Garden, passing hordes of Lycra-clad tourists looking confused and buskers looking tired, then cutting toward Bloomsbury with its pretty red mansions and well-trimmed squares. He felt the ground under his feet and felt, at last, the pull of the city—that it could be your city, that it was expensive, yes, and grubby, and strange, but you could belong too; skirt the crowds, find your corner; experience the whole world on your doorstep.

And even as he ran, Cormac couldn’t help but feel a little comforted, as he crashed across Tottenham Court Road, skirted the sofa shops, grabbed little alleyways he thought would get him through, passed the big hospital, and emerged, panting, utterly exhausted yet somehow exhilarated too, in Lissa’s great city, as she got closer with every step. Up now the great throbbing gristly artery of Euston Road, filthy black with traffic, Euston station squat and grim across the road. Not all of London was beautiful. He glanced at his watch. Ten to nine. At home it would have been bright daylight still; here the streetlights were coming on.

He couldn’t cross the road. Six thundering lanes of traffic were roaring without a break. He hopped from foot to foot at the traffic lights. Stop. Stoppp!!





Chapter 77


There was something almost motherly in the way the attendant on the sleeper train greeted Lissa and, worn out as she was, she almost started to cry.

“Have you had a nice day, hen?” said the woman, and it was a familiar accent to Lissa, and she bit her lip.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, as her name was ticked off on a list and she found her way to her own tiny bedroom on the train.

She sighed happily as she opened the door. A bed was made up with a fresh white duvet and white sheets, two pillows and a tartan blanket. There was a sink at one end and a shelf for her clothes and a bottle of water, and it felt at that moment like the ultimate in luxury. A place to shut herself in, lock the world out, and lick her wounds.

The window showed the dank black interior of Euston station. She didn’t want to see it. She turned away and opened her bag to finally—finally—get into her pajamas and forget about today altogether.

“I’M AFRAID YOU need a ticket, son,” said the woman on the reception desk at the train, now looking not quite as nicely at the large, rather sweaty figure in front of her.

“Where can I get one?!”

“From the booking office . . . if it’s still open.”

Cormac looked back in dismay. The booking office was miles away. They both glanced at the clock. It was four minutes to nine.

“Am I going to make it?” he said.

The woman looked sad. “You can get the eleven fifty to Edinburgh,” she said brightly. “That’ll be fine.”

“If I was going to Edinburgh that would be fine!” said Cormac in anguish. If he didn’t get on that train, that would be it, it would be over. She’d never trust him again.

“It’s nice,” said the woman.