The Passenger by Daniel Hurst (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yep. You’re writing a book because you want to be an author and you don’t want to have to commute into London anymore.’

I pause because I’m actually impressed, as well as a little shocked. Is he that good at guessing, or am I just that obvious?

‘That’s right. How do you know that?’ I ask him, intrigued to know.

He seems satisfied with himself as he leans forward across the table, closing the gap between us considerably.

‘Can I let you in on a little secret?’ he says, and with his handsome face this close to mine, he can almost do whatever he likes.

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m sorry to say, but you’re not exactly special.’ Then he sits back and winks at me.

Oh. That wasn’t what I was expecting.

‘Excuse me?’ I ask, feeling a little deflated.

‘I don’t mean it like that,’ he assures me. ‘I’m sure you are very special in your own unique way. I just mean the whole wannabe writer thing you’ve got going on here. Let’s just say you’re not the only one on this train who is dreaming of better things.’

I frown because I’m not sure what he means until he points something out behind me and tells me to look.

I turn around and glance down the carriage.

‘See that guy there with the iPad?’ he asks me. ‘He’s writing as well.’

My eyes scan the carriage before I notice the bald-headed businessman a couple of rows down typing on the device on his lap.

‘How do you know he’s writing? He could be doing anything.’

‘Trust me, he’s writing. I’m guessing it’s an action thriller about an undercover spy travelling the world. He looks the type who pretends to be James Bond when he’s not selling insurance in a bad suit.’

I laugh.

‘And you see that guy a couple of rows further down typing on his phone? The one with the wild hairstyle? He’s writing a science fiction novel. Lots of epic space battles in that one.’

I see the young man with an unruly mop of purple hair staring at his phone and smile because I get what game this stranger is playing. But I’m having fun, so I want to play along too.

‘What about her?’’ I ask, nodding towards a woman behind him who is also working on a laptop.

‘That’s an easy one,’ he says as he turns and looks in her direction. ‘She’s trying to make it as an erotic author. Very steamy stuff. I can’t be sure, but I believe her pen name is Lola Lipstick.’

‘I heard it was Penelope Passion.’

He laughs, seemingly approving of my attempts to join in the game.

‘See what I mean?’ he says, gesturing to all the people in the carriage around us. ‘Everybody here is trying to become a writer. But now we know what their books are about, the only question is, what are you writing?’

I know I shouldn’t be allowing myself to be this distracted during what little time I actually have in my day to work on my own thing, but I’m enjoying myself too much to put a stop to this conversation. Instead, I let out a deep sigh and go for it.

‘I’m writing a psychological thriller,’ I confess.

‘Interesting. Let me guess. Your hero is an ordinary woman who ends up in an extraordinary situation.’

‘Something like that.’

‘How many words have you got?’

I make a check on the count at the bottom of my screen.

‘Just over forty thousand so far.’

‘Wow, you are a writer!’ he says, and even though I know he is joking, it still feels good to hear somebody call me that. He is the only one who has ever done so, besides me, of course.

‘I’m trying,’ I confess. ‘But it’s tough. There’s so much competition. Lola Lipstick has more fans than I do.’

He laughs again, and I’m actually starting to think this might be going so well between us that it could lead to something beyond just a simple train-journey chat. But then I remind myself of my track record when it comes to the opposite sex, and I’m quickly brought back down to earth with a bump.

There’s a reason why I haven’t dated anyone in so long.

Every guy has ended up making my life worse than it was before I met him.

‘So what happens to this character of yours?’ he asks me, and I can’t believe he is genuinely interested. ‘Does she have to deal with a cheating partner? A murderous villain? A back-stabbing best friend?’

I realise at that moment that while I have been working on this book for many months, I haven’t actually told anyone about the story. That’s for two reasons. One, I’m a little self-conscious about people thinking it’s a load of rubbish, and two, nobody has been curious enough to ask me yet, including my own daughter. Until today. This handsome stranger actually wants to know about me and my writing.

I guess I should just tell him, then.

‘It’s about a single mum forced to do some things she doesn’t want to do for money.’

Well, they do say write about what you know.

‘I won’t bore you with the details,’ I continue, ‘but one of those things she ends up doing goes wrong, and she has to fight for her and her daughter’s life.’

I’m expecting him to give me some generic words of encouragement like “well, good luck with that” or “sounds great, I’m sure it’ll do well”. You know, the usual things people say when they are secretly thinking that nothing is going to come of it. But to my surprise, he actually seems interested in knowing more.

‘I’m fascinated by people who seem ordinary but possess such talents in private,’ he says to me, and I’m flattered he is referring to me as talented. At least I think he is. He could just mean other people, I suppose.

‘I don’t know about that,’ I reply. ‘But I love writing, and they do say that the key to a happy life is to do what you love, so here I