Saskia Sarginson was awarded a distinction in her MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway after a BA in English Literature from Cambridge University and a BA in Fashion Design & Communications. Before becoming a full-time author, Saskia’s writing experience included being a health and beauty editor on women’s magazines, a ghost writer for the BBC and HarperCollins and copy-writing and script editing. Saskia lives in south London with her partner and four children.

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  By Saskia Sarginson

  The Twins

  Without You

  The Other Me

  The Stranger

  How It Ends

  The Bench

  The Central Line

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-42870-3

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Saskia Sarginson, 2022

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Epigraph on p. vii from A. C. Grayling, The Meaning of Things: Applying Philosophy to Life (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2001)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Saskia Sarginson

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Spring

  Chapter 1: Notting Hill Gate

  Chapter 2: Liverpool Street

  Chapter 3: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 4: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 5: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 6: Marble Arch

  Chapter 7: Oxford Circus

  Chapter 8: Tottenham Court Road

  Chapter 9: Oxford Circus

  Chapter 10: Holland Park

  Chapter 11: Queensway

  Chapter 12: Marble Arch

  Chapter 13: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 14: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 15: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 16: Bond Street

  Chapter 17: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 18: Marble Arch

  Chapter 19: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 20: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 21: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 22: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 23: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 24: Marble Arch

  Chapter 25: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 26: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 27: Bethnal Green

  Summer

  Chapter 28: St Paul’s

  Chapter 29: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 30: Holborn

  Chapter 31: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 32: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 33: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 34: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 35: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 36: Hanger Lane

  Chapter 37: Bethnal Green

  Chapter 38: Leytonstone

  Chapter 39: Shepherd’s Bush

  Autumn

  Chapter 40: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 41: Queensway

  Chapter 42: Notting Hill

  Chapter 43: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 44: Hanger Lane

  Chapter 45: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 46: Liverpool Street

  Chapter 47: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 48: Hanger Lane

  Chapter 49: Bethnal Green

  Winter

  Chapter 50: Woodford

  Chapter 51: Shepherd’s Bush

  Chapter 52: Bethnal Green

  Acknowledgements

  For my brother, Alex

  ‘People attempt love as climbers attempt Everest; they scramble along, and end by camping in the foothills, or half-way up, wherever their compromises leave them. Some get high enough to see the view, which we know is magnificent, for we have all glimpsed it in dreams.’

  A. C. Grayling, The Meaning of Things

  Spring

  Notting Hill Gate

  Cora pushes her chair back with a jolt and stumbles to her feet, napkin falling to the floor. Her date – Felix, his name’s Felix, she remembers – stops with his spoon hovering halfway between his mouth and his chocolate mousse. His startled expression is so comical she has to stop herself from giving a snort of laughter. She stands, ready for flight, trapped behind the crammed tables. The couples sitting on either side are practically in their laps. There’s a gap of about three inches to squeeze through. She can make it if she turns to the side, sucks everything in.

  She clears her throat. ‘Sorry. I’ve got a … a terrible headache. I have to go.’

  Felix puts his spoon down and for the first time seems to be really looking at her. His gaze hardens.

  ‘The thing is,’ she says quickly, ‘it’s been all about you this evening, hasn’t it? And I’m a bit tired of listening.’

  This is hardly an exaggeration. Since they sat down, he hasn’t asked her a single question about herself, just gone on about his divorce. But still, her heart races at her own words, heat colouring her cheeks. Oh God. Not a hot flush, she thinks. Not now. She grabs her coat from the back of her chair and, clutching her bag to her chest, endeavours to slide through the gap. Her trailing coat snags on something, and as she tugs it free, an object clatters to the floor. She doesn’t look back. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters as she passes Felix. ‘This was a bad idea. My fault. Sorry.’

  From the corner of her eye, she sees Felix half raise himself from his chair, his mouth opening and closing. Then she’s at the exit, shoving the glass so hard that she almost falls onto the cold, dark pavement.

  She’s walking fast, alert to the sound of footsteps. But when he hasn’t appeared by the time she reaches the end of the street, she slows down. He’s probably ordering a brandy with a hearty laugh and a dismissive wave, explaining away her absence to the concerned waiter.

  She opens her collar to the night air, wafting the breeze closer with flapping hands. Why did nature or God or whoever have to be quite so cruel as to add hot flushes to all the other ignominies of ageing?

  ‘Damn,’ she says out loud, ‘Such a stupid waste of time. What an idiot he turned out to be.’ She bites the corners of her mouth. No, she thinks. I’m the idiot. A blind date? When I could have been at home finishing my book. That was the problem with listening to advice from a twenty-three-year-old.

  She enters Notting Hill Gate Tube station, squeezing her eyes against the gritty rush of air from the tunnels. On the crowded Central Line platform, a train is approaching. She’s swept onto a carriage in a press of passengers. Everyone appears to be on their way out for the night, and it looks as if most people have already started drinking. Cora hangs on to a pole and watches them surreptitiously; they stand, tightly packed together, swaying and juddering with the movement of the train, bodies loose, gestures exaggerated, as they shout over the roar, their loud, slurred voices competing with each other. The whole experience is so unlike the prim silence of weekday commuter mornings, it makes her want to laugh. A young woman catches her eye and gets up to offer her her seat. ‘Don’t mind them,’ she says, patting Cora’s arm. ‘Rowdy but harmless.’

  Cora is at once grateful and irritated; she almost refuses, but she’s wearing heels for the first time in months and her feet are killing her, so she slinks into the seat with a nod of thanks. This ageing thing is disorientating – feeling the same and looking different; the converging and separating self. She sits upright, bag on her lap, and decides that the whole dating enterprise is a non-starter. Emotionally she’s not ready, and even if she were, the few men available are likely to be damaged from divorce or bereavement, or worse, long-term bachelors. And how can she expect to find another man as wonderful as Andrew?

  The train gives a violent lurch. Some of the drunks are thrown sideways, tumbling against each other, snatching at the overhead bars just in time. They find the whole thing hilarious, although she’s quite sure they probably travel by Tube all the time, and normally sit in bored silence, staring at their phones.

  Someone at the other end of the carriage is revealed in glimpses between bodies moving apart. It’s his stillness that catches her attention. The only other sober passenger, she thinks. He sits with a book in his lap, seemingly unperturbed by the milling chaos and loud voices. She wonders what he’s reading, what story has captivated him so completely.

  She gets out at Shepherd’s Bush, pulling her coat closer as she mounts the steps to the street. A March wind is blowing. Litter scuffs along the gutter; the lofty plane trees creak, shedding a puzzle of small branches and twigs onto the pavement below. It’s nearly the anniversary of Andrew’s death. Six years. Her friend Helena keeps telling her that it’s time to move on. But the idea of exposing her naked body to a stranger is terrifying.

  It was her daughter who si
gned her up to the dating site, who scrolled through the likely candidates, swiping right, flicking through one profile after another. ‘Look at this one,’ she said. ‘He looks all right.’

  Felix: 5’8”, slim. Once dark, now salt and pepper. Blue eyes. Partner in architect firm. Liberal. Plays piano. I’m looking for a slender, good-humoured woman to share long walks, and afterwards a whisky by a log fire – someone who loves art galleries and fringe theatre, who isn’t afraid to try something new.

  Yes. He sounded all right. More than all right. And it was fun earlier, before she met him, choosing what to wear with Fran, both of them laughing at Cora’s unkempt nails and the way all her old pots of varnish had turned to gloop. It was lovely to sit close together, feeling Fran’s breath on her cheeks as she stippled bronze shadow over Cora’s eyelids, exclaiming over the state of her unplucked brows.

  ‘I can’t actually see my eyebrows any more,’ Cora admitted. ‘That’s one of the good things about getting short-sighted – you can’t see the ruin of your looks, and all the details like spots and blackheads that used to stress you out when you were young.’

  Fran sighed. ‘God, Mum. Anyone would think you’re a hundred and five instead of fifty, the way you go on. There are loads of men out there who’d be blown away by you – you’re still pretty hot, you know. Lots of younger men fancy older women – haven’t you heard of cougars?’ She held up a hand sternly. ‘Don’t come back with a comment about big cats. You know what I mean.’

  Then there was a kind of tickling match between them and Fran fell off the edge of Cora’s bed, giggling. Cora smiles; it was worth the boredom of the date to share that uncomplicated happiness with her daughter. Those moments are too rare.

  Her mobile beeps and she looks at the screen, worried it’ll be Felix, berating her, or begging her to come back. Helena’s name flashes up. How’s it going? Hope you’re having wild sex right now!!! Call me tomorrow!!! Xxx, then a string of emoji hearts and kissy faces. Cora sighs and drops the phone into her pocket. Helena will call tomorrow and demand that Cora give her every single detail of the evening.

  She closes the front door, tossing her keys into the bowl on the hall table, kicking off the heels, peeling off her tights. She wanders into the kitchen and makes a cup of tea. Releasing her feet from bondage feels good. She wriggles her toes against the cool floor. It’s still early, but the house is silent. The kids must be in their rooms.

  Upstairs, she knocks on Francesca’s door. Usually her daughter would be out on a Saturday night, but Cora had to ground her after she took the car without asking and backed it into a lamp post. There were suspicious dents on the bonnet too, as if someone had been standing on it.

  ‘Fran?’ She peers into the dark bedroom. ‘Are you awake?’

  She was expecting to find her daughter lounging against pillows watching something on her laptop; hoped that Fran would be in the mood to allow her to climb in beside her and zone out in front of Netflix. In her head, she has already turned the disastrous date into a funny story. But even in the half-light from the landing, it’s obvious that the room is empty. She flicks the main switch, revealing a bed that Tracey Emin would be proud of, surrounded by piles of clothes, a twist of damp towel, silver Doc Martens lying on their sides. A pair of black tights and a lacy bra dangle from a lampshade. On the dressing table, make-up spills around a collection of opened beer bottles and a lipstick-imprinted mug.

  Along the landing, Cora opens her son’s door. Luke is sitting at his desk with his back to her, headphones clamped over his ears. In contrast to his sister’s room, his is like a monk’s cell: minimal, neat, with detailed revision charts for his A levels tacked up on the pinboard. She suspects he has a tendency towards mild OCD. ‘Luke!’ she yells. He doesn’t stir.

  She goes over to him, leaning over his shoulder. He starts.

  ‘Jesus, Mum! You gave me a shock,’ he says. ‘Can’t you knock?’

  She points to his earphones. He slips them off.

  ‘Where’s Fran?’

  He shrugs, pushing at the bridge of his glasses. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘She hasn’t gone out, has she?’

  He shrugs again. ‘I guess.’

  Cora rolls her eyes. ‘She promised me she’d stay in … and she’s supposed to be practising for that audition next week.’

  Luke sighs. ‘Maybe she’s, you know, a bit old?’ He’s staring at his knees as if talking and making eye contact are an impossible combination. ‘To be, like, actually grounded. I don’t think that’s, um, a thing any more.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s living here without paying rent. The deal is that she tries to get acting jobs. She knows there have to be rules …’

  Cora stops. She may as well be talking to herself. ‘Did you eat supper?’

  He nods.

  She sniffs the air. He never opens his window, and the room is thick with the stench of adolescent boy. She stretches out a hand to push a strand of hair from his eyes, and he flinches. He was a beautiful baby, round and smiley, fitting perfectly onto her hip, pressing his little fingers inside her mouth, laughing, puckering up for kisses she couldn’t stop giving.

  ‘So she didn’t say anything to you?’ she persists.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know … maybe about where she was going? Who she was going with? When she’d be back?’

  Luke looks confused. ‘She doesn’t tell me anything, Mum.’

  ‘No,’ Cora says, relenting. ‘That makes two of us.’

  Cora goes downstairs, takes her tea, already going cold, and a family-size packet of crisps and makes herself comfortable on the sofa, sitting cross-legged, feet tucked up. She guesses that Fran will sneak in before twelve, thinking she can slip into bed unnoticed.

  She gulps down some lukewarm tea, switches on the TV and stares at the screen without really seeing it. How do you manage a twenty-three-year-old? Fran’s an adult, even if she doesn’t behave like one. Luke’s right. Of course she can’t ground her. Andrew used to have the knack of laughing her out of her moods, or he’d be stern and serious, which always made her fall into line. Cora’s face contorts, pulled out of shape by grief, and a familiar howling rage welling up from her centre. So much of her anger is for Andrew himself, for putting himself in danger, for thinking he was somehow immortal, god-like, able to joust with lightning and come out victorious. She digs her fingers into her thighs and squeezes hard enough to feel an edge of pain.

  ‘I miss you,’ she says quietly, and then repeats it louder into the empty room. ‘I miss you, you bastard. God, I miss you.’

  Liverpool Street

  Fran stomps her boots with everyone else. She lifts her arms, waving them like seaweed underwater; this low and smoky darkness could almost be the bottom of the ocean. The music is so loud it inhabits her, shaking her bones, punching through vital organs, hammering against her heart. She has fulfilled her ambition to get totally wasted. The vodkas she downed earlier perform the magic trick of erasing edges, letting her escape herself to go flickering through the jostling clubbers, so that she’s everywhere and nowhere at once. She loves each person dancing around her. Every. Single. Person. In. The. Universe. And it’s wonderful. It’s profound. There’s no loss, no failure. It’s like they’re all part of some amazing pattern. Suddenly Fran is certain she understands what it’s all about. The big question. It’s simple! She laughs.

  A woman steps into the space before her, grinning, sharing in her delight. She has beautiful green glitter over her cheeks, like a lizard-elf creature. She’s echoing Fran’s dance movements, shoulders dipping, hips swinging. The two of them close the gap between them. The woman’s arms are twined around Fran’s neck, chest against sticky chest, and Fran exits her body, flying through space and time, untouchable, her hair straggling down her back in ropes of fire. Yes! she shouts into the noise, into the stranger’s neck, and it feels better than an orgasm, this hurtling straight down into oblivion.

  ‘You all right?’ Someone bangs on the cubicle door. ‘There are other people out here, you know.’

  Fran lifts her head from the bowl, wipes her lips with the back of her hand. Her mouth is revolting, full of bitter aftertaste. Her face itches with dried perspiration. She scrubs at her forehead with the hem of her top, then pushes herself up from the filthy floor and leans against the stall, shivering. The walls and door are covered with writing in different colours and sizes. Drawings, too. Under a picture of a pair of boobs, there’s smudged black writing: Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, she reads, hate me because I did your dad. Another scrawl of graffiti just below in different handwriting says, You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here.