The Train by Sarah Bourne (fiction books to read txt) 📕

piece of paper in her hand. Had she read it correctly? A quarter of a million pounds? Excitement laced her body. A little squeak erupted from her throat. Her legs felt like jumping and a smile stretched her face. It was a life-changing amount of money. She looked at the spreadsheet again, at the total of her royalties at the bottom of the page: another hundred thousand pounds, give or take. She could afford to stop working, spend all her time writing. Travel. Buy a flat. Buy a dog. Have her hair done – every day if she wanted. Get that pair of red shoes she’d left in the shop.

She put the letter back in the envelope carefully, ready to be taken out again whenever she needed to be reminded of her fortune. Whenever she needed to read again the fantastic amount of money she was worth.

It was difficult to concentrate but she tidied away the files, closed her computer and washed the cups she and Dr Moncrieff had used.

Then she thought of the money and felt faint and had to sit again for a few moments.

When she’d collected herself, she shut the door behind her and put the keys in her bag. Taking a deep breath, she descended to the street and walked south, towards Cavendish Square and beyond. Not even the crowds in Oxford Street annoyed her. She swung her hips this way and that to avoid people, stepped into the gutter when necessary without so much as a grimace. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the air tasted sweet.

She reached Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly, and the noises of London – the laughter and voices raised over the traffic, the tooting of horns, the high-pitched buzz of mopeds – receded as she stepped across the hallowed portal into the understated elegance of her favourite shop.

She stood, inhaling the smells; chocolate, cinnamon, sugar, coffee. Subtle. No competition between them, each scent complementing the others. She made her way to the lift and got out at the fourth floor; the Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon. Her little piece of luxury.

At a corner table, away from the piano, but still able to hear the pianist playing his repertoire of classics, she took her time over the menu. So many treats to choose from, so many teas. In the end, she ordered the afternoon tea selection and lapsang souchong. She had considered an oolong, but why celebrate with anything but her favourite?

As she waited for her food to arrive she looked around at the other customers. Being a Monday, there weren’t very many. A mother and daughter who Clare decided were wedding shopping, as they put their heads together and seemed to be writing a list. An elderly couple who hardly spoke to one another, a group of women in the uniform of the rich – Prada handbags, Versace, Johnny Was and Camilla clothing. Oh yes, she knew all about designer labels – her heroines wore them all. These women occupied the space with the easy confidence of the wealthy, as if this very tea salon had been built for their pleasure. Until now, on the rare occasions Clare had visited, she’d felt out of place and had shrunk into her corner hoping that no one would notice she didn’t belong there. Today, however, she sat tall, looked around with a different eye. A wealthy independent woman’s eye. She doubted if anyone else in the room had her personal wealth; the women had rich husbands, the elderly couple were giving themselves a rare treat. But she was her own person. She took the letter out and read it again, a flutter of joy tripping her heart.

She savoured her finger sandwiches, took a little clotted cream and raspberry jam on her scone, and chose a macaron from the cake carriage. Her lapsang souchong was perfect, just the right amount of smokiness. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, even though she knew she had made no mess, and asked for the bill. Leaving a generous tip, she made her way back down to the street and stepped out of her sanctuary.

Usually, walking in London wound her up. Today, it was as if she was in a bubble, protected from the noise and the fumes, the dirt and the busyness. She floated along Piccadilly looking in exclusive shop windows. She had no desire to enter any of them. Just knowing she could afford anything she wanted gave her a satisfaction, a confidence she hadn’t felt before. She’d often wondered how the wealthy behaved as they did, and now she knew; the knowledge you had money, that you could have whatever you desired, bolstered your self-esteem, gave you an air of self-importance, smugness. She wore it like a cloak, aware of the weight of it, the texture, enjoying her new mantle and at the same time, marvelling at it. How quickly she’d made the transition from working woman to wealthy woman. Of course, she’d still be working, but at something she loved, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the bills, the cost of repairing the roof. She noticed she was humming, and laughed.

Looking at her watch, her twenty-year-old Timex, she realised she would be late for her therapy appointment. She broke into a trot, and her mood sank a little with every person she had to dodge, each tourist who stopped just in front of her to take a selfie, every car, bus and taxi preventing her from crossing the road. Sweating and out of breath, she arrived at May’s office five minutes late, and knocked on the door.

‘Clare – you look different,’ said her therapist as she entered.

‘Sorry – I had to rush,’ she said, dabbing at her forehead with a tissue and slipping out of her jacket.

‘No, I mean different, not just hot and bothered.’

‘I know. Strange, isn’t it?’

May looked at her, waiting for more.

Clare took her seat, taking her time to get comfortable. Finally, she