The Woman on the Train by Rupert Colley Read Free Book Online

attracted I was to her. I had been from the moment I first saw her at the interview but then I was still a man who yearned for the love of his wife. I realised then, in that bar, with Isabelle and her friends nearby, that I felt lonely. I had a wife, so many friends, and was adored by the multitudes, and yet… I had no one. Being a conductor is, ultimately, a lonely job – you are the boss and the musicians treat you as such; polite, respectful but always at a distance. I knew too that I had somehow been weakened, unwittingly, by Hilda. She existed in my mind as two people – the woman I’d met twenty years ago and the person I knew today. I felt, somehow, sullied by my association with her younger self while, at the same time, deeply sorry for the woman she was now. Her downfall had left me feeling vulnerable. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for myself.
    An hour passed.
    ‘Maestro, you look like you have the world on your shoulders.’
    ‘My word.’
    ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
    ‘It’s fine. What happened to your friends?’
    ‘They had to go. I was about to leave but I thought…’
    ‘Well, join me.’
    ‘I wouldn’t want–’
    ‘No, do. I’m bored of being on my own.’
    She glanced behind her, as if ensuring her friends had left, then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, slid onto the bench beside me.
    ‘I’ll get you a glass of wine.’
    ‘I shouldn’t; I’ve had too many already.’
    ‘Come now, one more won’t hurt.’
    And so we talked for two, maybe three hours. The bar became steadily busier and louder, and after a while we had to raise our voices to hear each other. A group of drinkers asked if they could share our table which, for me, seemed like a good time to call it a day. Isabelle escorted me as I returned to my office in the theatre from where I phoned through for a car.
    Sliding open the glass partition, I ordered the driver to take me home via Isabelle’s. We sat in the back, Isabelle grinning and stroking the leather seats. ‘I’m not used to such luxury,’ she purred.
    ‘Let’s call it a perk of the job.’
    We talked some more as the car meandered its way through the streets of Paris and out into the suburbs. The car smelt of leather and Isabelle’s perfume. I enjoyed her company and, for the first time in an age, found myself laughing.
    ‘We’re here already,’ said Isabelle as the car slowed down. ‘That was quick. It’s just at the end of this road.’
    I told the driver where to stop.
    ‘Well, thank you, Maestro,’ she said, buttoning up her coat. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’ I couldn’t see her expression in the dark but her tone sounded sincere.
    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we must do it again some time.’
    ‘Maestro, would you like, I mean, if you have time; what I want to say is…’
    ‘Are you inviting me in for a cup of coffee?’
    ‘I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn.’
    I leant over and kissed her hard, taking her, and myself, by surprise.
    ‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, biting my fist. ‘I don’t know what… I’m really sorry–’
    She took my hand from my mouth, stroking it. ‘Shush now, it’s fine, it’s OK. Come and have a coffee.’
    ‘Won’t your boyfriend be in?’
    ‘We don’t live together.’
    ‘I’ll tell the driver to wait.’
    A street lamp illuminated her eyes. Hesitantly, she said, ‘Send him home.’ She smiled.
    The car came to a halt. I saw the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Leaving the engine on, he darted out and opened the door for her. I followed her out, telling myself that I mustn’t give in, that I had to resist. But she doesn’t love you, I told myself, never had, never will. I felt the anger rise within me, a tightening in my chest. So why the hell did she marry me, then? Why the pretence all these years? I gave the driver a few francs as a tip. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You can call it a day