Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When travelling by train, eat only light, plain food. Strong, lingering smells are a nuisance …

Apart from a friendly greeting, train mates usually don’t speak. If you are a lady alone, take a book or enjoy the view out of your window.

Matilda Beam’sGood Woman Guide, 1959

What I want to know is why everyone’s so obsessed with the Quiet Zone on trains? They announce their preference for it reverentially. ‘Oh, I always book Quiet Zone, I do,’ they say, as if their ears are super delicate and simply cannot handle both human noise and high-speed travel at the same time. And then these peculiar people spend the entire journey miserable and twitchy with anticipation, ears pricked, watching and waiting for the tiniest sniffle or crunch of a biscuit that will break the silence and ruin that special Quiet Zone magic forever.

I open my beloved old laptop and place it on the plastic train table as Summer, sitting opposite me, angrily rolls her eyes at a child a few rows down who’s loudly trying to decide whether his favourite colour is blue like the sky or dandelion yellow.

‘Ugh. Doesn’t the little shit know we’re in Quiet Zone?’ she hisses, much to the chagrin of the man on the seat to her left who tells Summer to hush, thus setting off a cacophony of tuts and grumbles and high-pitched whispers throughout the whole carriage. It sounds like school assembly. I cough, even though I don’t really need to, and get the urge to shout ‘MASSIVE WANG’ at the top of my voice.

Because of Summer’s sensitivity to train noise, we’re going to rehearse our pitch silently via the power of instant message, or IM as we hip new media kids call it. As the train creaks out of Manchester Piccadilly, I pay for and connect to the WiFi Internet on both our computers.

SUMMER SPENCER: OK. Let’s go over everything one final time. We’re already behind.

MS BEAMBASTIC: Agreed. But can I get a pasty first? I’m starving. Do you want one? My treat?

SUMMER: A pasty? No thank you. It being eleven a.m. and all.

MS BEAMBASTIC. I’m a bit rough. I’m going to nip to the food cart and get one. Back in a mo.

Summer does the frosty-glare thing as I stumble my way down the narrow aisle and into the next carriage, the infinitesimal sound of my flip-flops on the carpet causing the other Quiet Zone passengers to wince and shoot me daggers. I eagerly grab my beef Ginsters from the lightly humming refrigerator and peruse the crisps selection. Hula Hoops, Skips or McCoy’s salt and vinegar? It’s a very tough choice. The sulky young fella behind the counter stares at me and utters a loud sigh.

‘What do you think I should get?’ I ask cheerily. He stares blankly at me and shrugs.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say to him. ‘McCoys are clearly superior.’

I grab a bag and plonk them onto the counter as well as a Green & Black’s ginger and dark chocolate bar for Summer.

‘I’ll have a Lilt as well, I think. And a vodka. Hair of the dog and all that.’

When I get back to my seat, Summer frowns and starts to type.

SUMMER SPENCER: Vodka? What??

MS BEAMBASTIC: Hair of the dog.

SUMMER SPENCER: Classy. And crisps? We’re in Quiet Zone.

MS BEAMBASTIC: I’ll lick them first so they won’t crunch as loud.

SUMMER SPENCER: Ugh! You are such a scruff.

MS BEAMBASTIC:

I open my pasty and take a huge bite, sighing with pleasure as the juicy beef brings the pink colour back into my chalky, hungover cheeks.

SUMMER SPENCER: That stinks. You’re upsetting the entire train.

I scan the carriage and notice the other passenger sniffing and pulling faces of horror. I put my pasty down on the table and type.

MS BEAMBASTIC: But it tastes really good! They’re just jealous of my pasty.

Summer dramatically holds her nose for the whole time I’m eating the pasty. I gobble it down as quickly as I can and attempt to stifle the resulting burp. I don’t do a good job, though, and it rings out in the silence, causing a collective gasp throughout the train coach. I cringe and expect an outcry, or even to get kicked off, but no one says a thing. They can’t, for they are in Quietzonia, land of the aggressively mute. I stand up from my seat, take a bow and do a royal wave with my most annoying flared nostril smile. They fume. They quietly fume!

* * *

Once we’ve gone over our pitch − refining key sentences, making sure the slide show of our website pages are all there and triple-checking the order we’re going to speak in − Summer plugs a pair of headphones into her laptop to watch a movie. It’s True Bromance, the smash hit ‘buddy comedy’ Anderson Warner was filming when they met in New York, the premier for which she accompanied him to. This film in particular holds special memories for her. Not only is it a reminder of how she and Anderson met (one of her fashiony friends was a wardrobe assistant for the movie and invited Summer to visit the set), but it was also at that time that she started getting a bit famous. There was actually a period of about six months when she couldn’t go out without getting papped whether Anderson was with her or not. You always read about celebs hating the paparazzi, but Summer thrived on it, on occasion tipping them off about her whereabouts. She’s even got Manila folders of all her press cuttings. Of course she doesn’t know I know that − I saw them one night when Mr Belding got trapped under her bed in a cowboy outfit and I was performing a rescue mission.

When Anderson dumped her, the interest in America all but disappeared, but a few of the UK fashion blogs still fawn over her. She’s cool, you know − wears white ankle socks with lavender-coloured brogues and has a huge fringe, both vertically and horizontally.

I yawn and give her a smile, but she doesn’t notice. She’s got that weird dreamy expression she always gets when she’s thinking about Anderson.

Jeez.

My mum used to say that love made people crazy, and she was right. Not that I’ve personally ever been in love. But for someone who’s usually so focused and razor-sharp, Summer turns into a wibbly wreck of a woman when it comes to that guy. It doesn’t seem to matter that he got his PA to dump her by email, or that he’s now officially dating Emma Watson. She still thinks of him as the one that got away, and if he were ever to come back I reckon she’d drop Holden in a nanosecond, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, since Holden is a proper turd.

Sinking back against the train seat, I get started on my Lilt and vodka, watch the gorgeous greens and golds of the English countryside whizz past through the window, and wonder what life will be like when I’m the rich and famous co-author of a bestselling book. I’ll finally be able to go travelling again without having to worry about money. I could open a bar somewhere exotic and far away. Maybe Bali. Or St Lucia, even. Somewhere full of happy, relaxed people who just want to chill out and have fun and dance in the glow of the moon and that sort of shit. Somewhere I could live in my bikini, throw amazing, life-changing parties every night and just enjoy myself without any pressure or questions or obligations to anyone. Complete and utter freedom without a worry in the world.

I can’t wait.