_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

been drinking all afternoon, working myself up to confront him about it,
so when I did it was in the worst possible way. I remember his coldness
the next day, his refusal to speak about it. I remember him telling me, in
flat disappointed tones, what I’d done and said, how I’d smashed our
framed wedding photograph, how I’d screamed at him for being so
selfish, how I’d called him a useless husband, a failure. I remember how
much I hated myself that day.
I was wrong, of course I was, to say those things to him, but what
comes to me now is that I wasn’t unreasonable to be angry. I had every
right to be angry, didn’t I? We were trying to have a baby—shouldn’t we
have been prepared to make sacrifices? I would have cut off a limb if it
meant I could have had a child. Couldn’t he have forgone a weekend in
Vegas?
I lie in bed for a bit, thinking about that, and then I get up and decide
to go for a walk, because if I don’t do something I’m going to want to go
round to the corner shop. I haven’t had a drink since Sunday and I can
feel the fight going on within me, the longing for a little buzz, the urge to
get out of my head, smashing up against the vague feeling that
something has been accomplished and that it would be a shame to throw
it away now.
Ashbury isn’t really a good place to walk, it’s just shops and suburbs,
there isn’t even a decent park. I head off through the middle of town,
which isn’t so bad when there’s no one else around. The trick is to fool
yourself into thinking that you’re headed somewhere: just pick a spot
and set off towards it. I chose the church at the top of Pleasance Road,
which is about two miles from Cathy’s flat. I’ve been to an AA meeting
there. I didn’t go to the local one because I didn’t want to bump into
anyone I might see on the street, in the supermarket, on the train.
When I get to the church, I turn around and walk back, striding
purposefully towards home, a woman with things to do, somewhere to
go. Normal. I watch the people I pass—the two men running, backpacks
on, training for the marathon, the young woman in a black skirt and
white trainers, heels in her bag, on her way to work—and I wonder what
they’re hiding. Are they moving to stop drinking, running to stand still?
Are they thinking about the killer they met yesterday, the one they’re
planning to see again?
I’m not normal.
I’m almost home when I see it. I’ve been lost in thought, thinking
about what these sessions with Kamal are actually supposed to achieve:
am I really planning to rifle through his desk drawers if he happens to