Trains and Lovers: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

marriage.”
    “Yes.”
    “Like being in prison,” she went on. “And then suddenly it’s over and you’re free.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “They’re both happier now,” she said. “Although I don’t think my father really cares one way or the other. I’m not sure that he was all that unhappy anyway; he didn’t really notice my mother. She was just there. He wasn’t nasty to her—or not as far as I could see. He just ignored her.”
    I said that I thought that some people would feel that ignoring somebody amounted to being nasty—certainly it could amount to unkindness, could it not?
    “Some people don’t know when they’re being unkind,” she said. “I think my father’s one of them. His mind is on other matters. Business mostly.”
    I had never asked her what he did. I was worriedthat she would think that I was interested in her for her money—if they had it, which I imagined they did. I had read somewhere about how wealthy people are very discreet and are always concerned that people are going to befriend them for their money rather than for themselves. But now that she had mentioned his business, I brought it up.
    “He owns a newspaper,” she said. “But that’s not the only thing. It’s for his ego. He’s the chairman of an investment firm. You see their ads all over the place. I think that’s the bit that really matters to him.”
    I nodded. Newspaper proprietorship was exactly right for a real alpha male—so much so that it almost amounted to a cliché.
    “I can see what you’re thinking,” she said.
    I blushed. “I wasn’t …”
    “No, you were. And I don’t mind. You were thinking that he owns a newspaper because that’s what somebody like him wants to do. People like that own newspapers or football teams. It’s about power, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe. But, look, I can’t say very much about it. How can I? I haven’t even met your father.”
    “You soon will,” she said.
    We had reached a gate. There was a buzzer that shepressed to open the gate. A voice from a small speaker above the button said, “Hermione, darling.” It was a man’s voice.
    She leaned forward to the microphone. “Daddy.”
    The gate was unlocked from within the house. There was a quiet click. Well-oiled machinery , I thought.
    She turned to smile at me encouragingly. “Come on.”
    I SAW IMMEDIATELY THAT HE LOOKED A BIT LIKE her. That was disconcerting at first, because you love a face and then discover that the thing you love is in another face. I know I’m not putting that very well, but it’s a very odd feeling. You feel that you should love the other person too—if only a little, out of gratitude.
    He looked at me in the same way in which she sometimes did—that same intense stare. That was another thing she got from him.
    “So you’re Andrew. They call you Andy, no doubt.”
    “Sometimes. But I like my full name.”
    It sounded rude, which is exactly the opposite of the effect I had intended. I felt far from confident in the presence of Hermione’s father; I was out of my depth, and I knew it. I noticed him react. The intense stare faded and he glanced briefly at Hermione before his gaze turned back to me.
    “Of course,” he said evenly. “You should never fool around with somebody’s name. Names are very important.”
    “Daddy’s called Peter,” said Hermione. “I call him Hosh.”
    “A family nickname,” he said quickly. It was a clear invitation not to call him Hosh.
    We were standing in the drawing room, a large formal room that looked out onto an expanse of lawn. At the far end of the grass there was a summer-house, a small wooden structure with a shingled roof. I could see chairs inside and what looked, from where I was standing, as if it was a stuffed bear.
    I glanced around the room. It was as different from our living room at home as it could be. My eyes alighted on a picture above the fireplace, a large post-impressionist framed in one of those wide gilt frames that