_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

“Rachel!” Martin said, arms outstretched, pulling me into a hug. I
wasn’t expecting it, my hands were caught between us, fumbling against
his body. Sasha and Harriet smiled, gave me tentative air-kisses, trying
not to get too close. “What are you doing here?”
For a long, long moment, I went blank. I looked at the floor, I could
feel myself colouring and, realizing it was making it worse, I gave a false
laugh and said, “Interview. Interview.”
“Oh.” Martin failed to hide his surprise, while Sasha and Harriet
nodded and smiled. “Who’s that with?”
I couldn’t remember the name of a single public relations firm. Not
one. I couldn’t think of a property company, either, let alone one that
might realistically be hiring. I just stood there, rubbing my lower lip with
my forefinger, shaking my head, and eventually Martin said, “Top secret,
is it? Some firms are weird like that, aren’t they? Don’t want you saying
anything until the contracts are signed and it’s all official.” It was
bullshit and he knew it, he did it to save me and nobody bought it, but
everyone pretended they did and nodded along. Harriet and Sasha were
looking over my shoulder at the door, they were embarrassed for me,
they wanted a way out.
“I’d better go and order my coffee,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”
Martin put his hand on my forearm and said, “It’s great to see you,
Rachel.” His pity was almost palpable. I’d never realized, not until the
last year or two of my life, how shaming it is to be pitied.
The plan had been to go to Holborn Library on Theobalds Road, but I
couldn’t face it, so I went to Regent’s Park instead. I walked to the very
far end, next to the zoo. I sat down in the shade beneath a sycamore tree,
thinking of the unfilled hours ahead, replaying the conversation in the
coffee shop, remembering the look on Martin’s face when he said goodbye
to me.
I must have been there for less than half an hour when my mobile
rang. It was Tom again, calling from the home phone. I tried to picture
him, working at his laptop in our sunny kitchen, but the image was spoilt
by encroachments from his new life. She would be there somewhere, in
the background, making tea or feeding the little girl, her shadow falling
over him. I let the call go to voice mail. I put the phone back into my bag
and tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to hear any more, not today; today
was already awful enough and it was not yet ten thirty in the morning. I
held out for about three minutes before I retrieved the phone and dialled
into voice mail. I braced myself for the agony of hearing his voice—the