The Mirror World of Melody Black by Gavin Extence Page A

Paddington Bear, which proved elusive. In the end, I gave up and went to the first-class lounge, where I availed myself of the first-class toilet, which was worth the ticket price all by itself. They had two types of hand lotion and theatre lights around the mirror. I touched up my lipstick, tucked away the few strands of hair that had blown loose in the Tube tunnels, pouted, and felt generally good about the girl who pouted back. She was wearing a fuchsia vest top with a sea-green A-line skirt – thin, floaty and falling just above her knees. It was a bold combination, but well judged, and clearly the most vivid colouring her skin tone would allow. The large pale pink flower on her hairclip sang of summer, while her glasses added just the right note of quirky bookishness. Her footwear wasn’t quite visible in the mirror, but I suspected she was wearing turquoise sandals with heels large enough to lengthen her legs, but modest enough to suit the gaze of an ageing professor of evolutionary science. Her earrings and bracelets were also turquoise.
    Satisfied that everything was just so, I picked up my laptop bag from beside the sink – black, unfortunately; white would have worked much better – and went to find my train.
    It was all going very well for the first fifteen minutes. I drank one cup of coffee and got an immediate refill. I found and ordered two new laptop bags, one in white and one in taupe. I made small talk with the woman opposite as the semi-detacheds of Berkshire blurred across the window. She laughed when I told her she looked a bit like the Queen. I was having a perfectly harmonious journey until Slough, where three men entered our carriage and seated themselves at the table across the aisle.
    I could tell straight away that they were dickheads. They were suited and sweating, and began talking loudly about the wholesale price of meat and last quarter’s net profits and their BMWs and some fresh-out-of-school administrator that one of them was apparently banging like a drum at carnival time. I rolled my eyes and tutted quietly at the Queen, but she had her eyes fixed on the Daily Telegraph in a valiant attempt to ignore them. I decided to do the same, and set to typing a plan for a top ten train stations in film and/or literature. It was June, so a travel feature was certain to sell. MSN would probably snap my hand off.
    1) Grand Central – North by Northwest . 2) King’s Cross – Harry Potter . 3) What was the station in Brief Encounter ? 4) I’m a big fan of Paddington Bear, but I can’t really put Paddington Station in there, however wonderful the toilet. 5) Why can’t they shut the fuck up and let me concentrate? It’s a beautiful day for a train journey and they’re ruining it for every other person in this carriage. 6) Gare Montparnasse – Hugo .
    Then the ticket inspector arrived, and my ears pricked up. For a moment, it seemed I was to be saved.
    â€˜What do you mean not valid ?’
    â€˜I’m very sorry,’ she repeated, ‘but these are advance tickets. They’re only valid on the stated train. This is the 10.36.’
    â€˜Yes, I realize this is the 10.36, love. We got to the station earlier than expected, which is why we’re on the earlier train.’ It was the largest and sweatiest of the meat men. He was speaking in the slow, patronizing voice usually reserved for the very young, the very old, or the very foreign. ‘Anyway, the man behind the information desk at Slough told us these tickets were definitely valid for this train. If they aren’t, it’s his mistake not ours.’
    The ticket inspector looked towards the door at the far end of the carriage, as if imploring for back-up. At the same time, the meat man winked smugly at his two sweaty colleagues. I tried to beam supportive thoughts into the ticket collector’s head: stand firm, tell him he’s a lying bastard, call the transport police