‘That was nice of you,’ he murmured.
I shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s going to be cold tonight. Giving a thirsty person water, or a cold person warmth, isn’t being nice. It’s normal. You did the same.’
‘Yeah. But my friends usually tell me off for it.’
‘Mine do too. What do your friends say?’
‘Stuff about alcohol and drugs. But I don’t know, I feel like you can’t judge a stranger without knowing their situation.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘So, what do you do apart from being nice to random people on the train?’ he asked as we left the station and plunged back into the tunnel.
‘Oh, I have the most boring job in the world. I’m a paralegal. What about you?’
‘I’m a personal trainer, but I’m training to be a physiotherapist as well,’ he replied.
‘That sounds a lot more interesting,’ I smiled. That explained his physique then. ‘Who’s your craziest client?’
‘It’s this sixty-five-year-old who’s completely addicted to exercise.’ He began to tell me about his client and how he called in the middle of the night once asking if he could have a midnight training session. I only half listened because the train slowed down and as it did, I felt that twisting in my stomach again. I needed to know his name. I needed to know where he was getting off so I could mentally prepare myself. I needed to know how I could continue this conversation after we parted ways. I somehow needed to gather the strength and courage to ask for his Insta, or at least his Snap.
‘Hey, what’s your name?’ I forced myself to ask as I geared up towards asking him for his contact details. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been talking all this time without knowing each other’s names.’
‘I know, right? This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,’ he said. ‘I’m Noah. Well, Nuh in Arabic but I guess most people find it hard to pronounce, so they call me Noah.’
Arabic? Did that mean he was Muslim, like me? And he had dropped it into the conversation so casually, like it was normal that a guy that looked like him could actually be someone like me. Of course, he could have been an Arab Christian and therefore not marriage material. But who cared? I needed some experience before I got married anyway.
It was beginning to feel like the stars were aligned; like there was a superior force – God? Fate? Destiny? – pushing us together. Of all the Tube carriages in all of London, whizzing around underneath the city, I got on the same one as this potential Muslim who loved Marvel movies, art exhibitions and looked like a model for beard oil? And forget all that – he seemed interested in me as well.
‘Hi, Noah,’ I said as the train slowed down once again, approaching Piccadilly Circus. ‘I’m Maya.’
I offered him my hand to shake and he took it. His was warm and strong and I think I held onto it for longer than I should have.
He looked at me then. I mean, he had looked at me numerous times throughout the journey, but now he really looked at me, like he was seeing me properly for the first time. My heart began to pound and my skin prickled in anticipation as I waited for him to make the next move.
Piccadilly Circus. Noah opened his mouth and was about to say something when he suddenly jumped up.
‘Shit, it’s my stop,’ he exclaimed, making a dash for the doors as they began to beep. ‘I can’t be late. New client. Call me!’ I stared at him, glass now between us, partly shocked, partly horrified. How was I supposed to call him? We didn’t exchange numbers. Was that it? Was it all over before it began?
Noah must have realised this too, because he was mouthing something frantically at me, gesturing with his hands, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then the train began to move and he was gone.
Chapter Two
It wasn’t meant to be, I told myself as the blasted train sped through another blasted tunnel, creating a greater distance between us. I tried to stop the disappointment in my gut from seeping into my chest. Stuff like this happened all the time. Worse things. Anyone who has seen Before Sunrise knows what it really means to lose the love of one’s life after a chance encounter. This wasn’t a fraction as romantic, or heartbreaking. We knew each other for all of twenty minutes. It wasn’t that deep.
With a sigh, I leant back in my seat and tried to ignore the ache in my throat and the empty seat beside me. It probably still smelt like him and I resisted the urge to press my nose against the old, discoloured fabric, reminding myself that it housed a lot more than just Noah’s scent.
Feeling cold and empty, I took out my earphones. I needed a distraction from all the ‘what might have beens’ racing through my mind. As I did, something caught my eye, discarded on the carriage floor next to a newspaper. I leant forward to take a closer look. It appeared to be a notebook.
Just as I was wondering if I should pick it up and check the contents, despite the potential germ-factor and breach of privacy, I suddenly realised it was Noah’s. He had been holding it when he sat across from me. I remembered him gathering it up with his bag when he changed his seat to be closer to mine.
I reached out and picked up the notebook, cradling it in my fingers like it was made of ancient papyrus and might disintegrate into nothing if I wasn’t careful. The cover was black leather and I traced my fingers across the embossed ‘N. K.’ on the front. I could tell that it was used often from the worn creases in the leather and spine. And I was dying to find out what was inside.
‘You have to open it,’ Lucy, my colleague and friend, declared after I got to the offices of Wiser, Hall, Steadman and Associates and offloaded the story onto her. ‘How else will you find out who he is?’
The open-plan office was still quiet, as most people came in at nine and it was only a quarter to. Lucy and I were two of the firm’s eight paralegals. Three of us sat on the same side of the room and the third was a Desi guy called Arjun, who always sauntered in after nine, slightly dishevelled from his previous night’s antics. Our desks were arranged in a sort of circle, so we were facing each other, which was a blessing and curse. It was useful when we needed help – and like now, when Lucy and I had something really important to chat about – but Arjun was a total distraction. If he wasn’t on the phone, he was gossiping about the partners and other solicitors. The only time I got any proper work done was when he went to make himself a cuppa, because he spent ages chatting to everyone in the office on the way to and from the little kitchenette at the back of the room.
‘It’s hardly going to have his full name, address and phone number on the first page,’ I reasoned. ‘This isn’t the nineties.’
‘There may be hints though,’ Lucy mused. ‘Snippets of information that will help us find him.’
‘Us?’ I laughed. ‘What are we, Sherlock Holmes and Watson?’
‘Is that really the only detective reference point we have? In this day and age? Two middle-aged men?’
‘Nancy Drew?’
‘Better. Or The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.’
‘Who’s a detective?’ Arjun asked, flinging his bag onto his desk and falling into his seat with a theatrical sigh. I looked over at him and I had to admit that despite his messy hair and dark circles, he still managed to look good in that slightly unkempt, geek-meets-model way, with his tailored suit and Italian leather shoes courtesy of the Bank of Mum and Dad. ‘I’m bloody shattered. When is this week going to be over? I swear it feels like Friday.’
‘It does,’ I agreed. ‘But Sheila already thinks I’m useless after rolling up late twice this week. Let’s pick up this convo after lunch.’
‘Coming after 9 a.m. doesn’t make anyone “late”,’ Arjun argued. ‘It’s not the Victorian times. This isn’t the workhouse.’
‘Feels like one,’ Lucy said darkly. ‘I stayed until after eight every day last week.’
