The Cinderella Moment

‘So, are you going through to London, then?’ he asked, as he settled down opposite her.

‘No. Just to Cambridge today.’

‘Oh that’s great – me too. Well, actually I’m going to Stansted. I’m off to Rome for a few days.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Really?’ He looked interested. ‘Have you been?’

Bloody man. ‘I went there on a school trip, on a whistle-stop tour of the Renaissance. It was wonderful. I loved it. One of those places I’d really like to go back to, if I got the chance, and spend more time exploring –’

‘You’re interested in history?’

‘In art. In history – in both.’

He nodded.

‘I’m an artist.’

‘Oh right. But I thought –’ he nodded towards the briefcase – ‘interviews, people on the phone wanting things.’

‘Needs must.’ She reddened, not quite catching his eye, wishing she hadn’t started this conversation. ‘So is Rome your adventure?’

‘Kind of. I’ve got to go and sort out a little business over there. You know.’

Cass nodded and then, taking a book out of her bag, she made a show of settling in, shutting him out.

‘Good book?’ he asked, as the train pulled out of the station. ‘I love reading.’

Had the man no shame? She could feel him watching, smiling, waiting for a reaction, and at the same time her colour rising.

‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a complete pain in the arse?’ she said.

‘Not recently. So tell me what you liked in Rome and I’ll go visit it.’

‘Seriously?’

He nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

Cass considered for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose the thing that surprised me most was that you can walk everywhere – all the famous things are a stone’s throw from each other. The centre is wonderful but quite small, so you can walk from place to place, stop for coffee. The bad thing is every artist you’ve ever heard of has work there: da Vinci, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Raphael – the list is endless. And that’s without all the Classical Roman stuff…Do you know anything about art?’

He grinned. ‘I know what I like.’

Cass laughed aloud. God, fate was cruel. How come she had met him now?

There was a dog on the line just outside Ely.

‘Hi, this is Cassandra Hammond. I’m on my way to an interview this morning – yes, yes, that’s me – well, I’m afraid I’m going to be a little late,’ she said, her mobile pressed against one ear and a finger in the other. It could have been worse, at least there was a signal. ‘The train’s been delayed. No, nothing serious, fortunately. I am sorry about this, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. Yes, thank you, see you later.’

As she hung up, Cass grimaced. ‘Doesn’t look very good if you’re late for an interview, does it? They sounded OK about it, but it’s not a great start. Maybe I should have driven.’ It struck her that she was thinking aloud and she quickly shut up.

Not that the man seemed to mind. ‘People understand. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ He glanced out of the window; across a stretch of open farmland, two burly men had caught a Collie and were busy bundling it into the back of a Land Rover. ‘At least you can ring in. I can’t ask them to hold the plane for me.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘It’s going to be cutting it fine if I’m going catch my connection.’

Cass groaned, feeling anxious on his behalf. ‘I’m sorry. What time does it leave?’

‘There’s a ten-minute window. The trouble is I’m not sure what time the next train goes if I miss this one. Damn, damn –’

Cass took a long hard look at her watch; not that it helped. She had no idea what time they would get there, or what time his train would leave.

‘We’re moving now. Maybe it’ll be OK. You never know, if your luck’s in, the Stansted train will be running late as well.’

He laughed and offered her a mint humbug. ‘So tell me where else I should go.’

At Cambridge he was up on his feet a long time before the train got into the station. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, picking up his suitcase. And then, as an afterthought, added, ‘I could send you a postcard, if you like.’

Cass laughed. ‘What?’

‘A postcard. As a thank you. You know, small square of cardboard, arrives back about a month after you do, badly tinted picture of the Coliseum on the front, Weather lousy, wish you were here on the back.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Never more so,’ he said with a grin. ‘So how about it?’

‘How about what?’

‘Giving me your address. For the postcard – so I can let you know if I enjoyed your whistle-stop tour of Rome.’ Cass hesitated long enough for the man to add, ‘I promise you I’m not a stalker or an axe-wielding psychopath.’

‘And if you were you’d tell me, obviously.’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Obviously. Goes without saying.’

Cass considered for a second or two more, and then pulled the envelope containing the interview details out of her briefcase, emptied the contents and handed it to him.

He slipped it into his pocket and smiled. ‘Grazie.’

She giggled. It struck her as he hurried off down the train that she didn’t even know his name.

‘Have a great time in Rome,’ she called after him.

He turned. ‘I’m sure I will, and best of luck with the interview. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. Ciao,’ he said, lifting a hand in salute, and then hurried down the aisle so that he was first at the doors. He was gone almost as soon as the open light flashed on.

Cass was far slower, gathering her thoughts and her things together. Notes, mints…

James Devlin, hurrying out towards the car park, felt pleased with himself. He’d set up a false trail, now he just needed to get into the city and pick up his car.

‘Excuse me?’ said a voice from behind Cass as she headed, embedded in the queue of travellers, down the aisle towards the doors.

‘Excuse me?’ said the voice again, more forcefully this time, followed by a hand tapping her sharply on the shoulder. Cass looked round in surprise.