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

now.’
    Involuntarily, he shot a look at Isabelle who had wandered off to wait from a discreet distance. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’
    ‘Come,’ she said, as the car drove off, an intense look in her eyes. ‘Let’s go up.’ She took my hand. After just a few steps, I stopped and glanced back to see the tail lights of the car recede into the distance. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’
    She lived in a small apartment on the fourth floor of a fine Art Nouveau block with ironwork balconies. She unlocked the door and pulled me in. Slamming the door shut behind me, she pushed me against it and kissed me with an urgency I’d never experienced before, her cold hands pulling my shirt free of my trousers. Ripping off our coats, she led me to her bedroom, her lips never leaving mine. By the time we got to her bed we were already half undressed, a trail of discarded clothes and shoes, hers and mine, littering the floor. She threw me onto her bed and reached over and switched on her bedside lamp. Straddling me, grinning in anticipation, she removed her bra.
    *
    Afterwards, I lay on my back, catching my breath, and felt a deep sense of contentment. She lay on her front, nestling into my neck; her arm drooped across my chest. ‘Well, Maestro, that was quite something.’ I felt the warmth of her breath against my skin. ‘I bet you sleep with all your female musicians.’
    ‘No, not at all!’
    ‘Ha! I don’t believe you.’
    ‘No, really. You’re the first.’
    ‘Anyway, I don’t mind. You’re very good for an older man.’
    I laughed at another backhanded compliment. ‘If you could just pass me my walking stick?’
    She thumped me playfully on my chest. ‘What about your wife? Won’t she be missing you?’
    ‘You know I’m married?’
    ‘Of course. You wear a ring.’
    I held up my hand, inspecting my wedding ring and sighed. ‘No, she won’t miss me at all.’ If she did, I thought, I wouldn’t now be in this situation.
    She fell asleep lying next to me while I took in my surroundings – its high ceiling, stripped blue wallpaper, a large dresser adorned with make-up and jewellery boxes, a framed Picasso print and, in the corner, a cello case. It was, I felt, a room full of love and warmth, perfectly reflecting my pretty young cellist. Resting my hand on her back, feeling the defined outline of her ribcage, I looked down at her, this delicate little thing, the wisps of hair covering her face, her arched, finely-plucked eyebrows, her flawless skin, this vulnerable, beautiful girl, and felt quite overcome with emotion.
    *
    We awoke the following morning, a Saturday, and made love again with the autumnal sunshine streaming through her curtains, the constant hum of city traffic from below.
    ‘What are your plans today?’ I asked, as finally, having showered and dressed, we ate a breakfast of boiled eggs and toast and strong coffee in her living room. The radio played English pop music in the background.
    ‘Jacques and I are going to the new Kandinsk y exhibition at the Louvre.’ I tried not to wince on hearing the name of her boyfriend.
    ‘Is he one of those painters that produces mishmashes of shapes and colour?’
    ‘It’s lovely, so vibrant.’
    ‘Yes.’ I thought it best, at this point, not to reveal what I thought of this type of art, that is, if one can call it art.
    ‘And you, Maestro; what are your plans?’
    ‘Huh, I’ll do what I do every Saturday – I shall lock myself away in my study and work.’
    ‘All you do is work,’ she said, dipping a piece of toast into her egg. ‘You must give yourself a day off sometime.’
    ‘I know, you’re right.’ Yet, I thought, working was the only way to keep out of Michèle’s way.
    A large fireplace dominated the room, candleholders on the mantelpiece, a gold-framed octagonal mirror above it; in the centre of the room a low oval table piled high with fashion magazines and, to the side, a copy of Le Monde .
    ‘What’s