Detour

1

King's Cross was busier than usual for a Saturday morning. The lines at Pret A Manger flowed into the main hall, and the ticket collection machines were indiscernible behind the horde of travellers searching their pockets for the note with their booking reference. It didn't suit Crispin. His headache had worsened on the Tube, and he regretted accepting his colleagues' invitation to spend Friday evening at the pub. It was only meant to have been a few drinks. His colleagues had reassured him that they would go home early too. But one pint had followed another, and by midnight they had been doing shots. He had stumbled home at two in the morning and woken up at seven. Sitting on a train to Morpeth for three hours to attend the wedding of a cousin he hardly knew ranked just above suicide on his wish list. But promises had been made, and bailing out on account of a hangover would lower his ranking in the family alarmingly.

He couldn't decide whether to cue for a double espresso at Starbucks or try his luck with a healthier smoothie from Leon. He chose the coffee; the safe choice to kick-start his hung-over body.

He looked good despite his sufferings: He was smartly dressed in black trousers, a tight white shirt, and a light gray blazer. All his clothes were by designer labels, and he had ironed the shirt days in advance. He was slim thanks to a religious devotion to running, and had been trying recently to bulk up by going to the gym, so far without success. He hadn't shaved, but the resulting stubble made his round face look more mature. He assumed that women liked this rougher look.

He necked the espresso and felt the invigorating effect of the caffeine as he jogged to the platform. He boarded one of the carriages just before the train started to pull away. He hadn't reserved a seat, though, and discovered to his despair that it was nearly full. The thought of standing up for three hours made him feel sick. He spotted a seat and homed in on it, but a fat, middle-aged woman beat him to it by almost throwing her laptop down on the seat to signal that it was occupied. She smiled victoriously as she sat down.

He scanned the rest of the carriage, but it was a lost cause. He let out a resigned sigh, and accepted that sitting on the floor next to the toilets was his best chance of a "seat." He had his hand on the button that opened the door to the no man's land between the two carriages when a female voice pulled him back from the brink.

"Are you looking for a seat?"

He turned around and saw three women occupying a table, with a free spot in the corner. The one closest to him was tapping invitingly on the seat. He accepted and squeezed past the three pairs of legs, then threw himself into the seat with a sigh of relief.

"Thanks; I appreciate it."

2

He dozed off to the train's rocking movement, and didn't wake up until the first stop at Peterborough. He adjusted his position in the seat and yawned. The girl next to him acknowledged his return to the world of the conscious.

"You're up. Rough night?"

He had brushed his teeth twice that morning and put on extra deodorant, but it wasn't enough to hide the smell of alcohol.

"Yes, it was; too rough! Thanks for the seat, by the way."

The girl sitting diagonally across from him smiled and joined the conversation.

"No worries; you looked lost."

"I was. I was already dreading having to stand all the way to Morpeth. Anyway, I'm Crispin."

"I'm Marie," she answered and pointed to the girl next to him. "This is Fay. And this is Siena." She looked at the girl who was sitting to her left and directly opposite Crispin; she had so far been quiet.