The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

from YouTube because she couldn’t afford a singing teacher, but they were good. All her friends said her voice had really improved.

‘Number 984 go to room three, please.’

That was her! It was now or never. Smoothing her jeans and tugging at her top, she took a deep breath and made her way to room three. A girl with a clipboard marked her name off, wished her luck in a bored voice and opened the door.

Across the room sat two people behind a table. Neither of them was Simon Cowell. These were just producers’ auditions. She had to get through this round to meet the proper judges, but still she was disappointed. In her fairy-tale fantasy, she’d imagined him marvelling at her voice, wondering why he hadn’t heard talent like hers before, and whisking her away to his recording studio immediately. Instead, there was a woman who could have been her mother, in a frumpy jumper and no make-up and – fuck – the man from the train.

Alice’s step faltered, but he smiled and invited her forward, told her to stand on the X marked on the carpet.

‘Name?’ asked the woman.

Alice moistened her suddenly dry lips and said, ‘Alice Cooper, no relation to Vince.’ It was her icebreaker, but neither of them cracked a smile. ‘Vincent Furnier, you know, Alice Cooper?’ Why was she doing this? Clearly neither of them had got it, or if they had, not thought it funny. An icy hand clutched Alice’s belly.

‘What are you going to sing for us?’ asked the woman.

‘“Back to Black”.’ Alice wasn’t sure if she imagined the groan from the man on the train.

‘Right then, when you’re ready.’

Alice fumbled with the backing track she’d downloaded. She’d practised getting it ready so often but now she was so nervous she could hardly hold her phone, let alone get it to do what she wanted. Eventually she was ready. She stood tall, took a deep breath, tried not to look at her audience, opened her mouth and sang with as much emotion as she could muster, channelling her hero, Amy Winehouse.

‘He left…’

Alice sat in the pub looking at Tim, the ticket collector, and thinking about what he’d just said. He’d watched her from the end of the carriage but couldn’t look at her up close because he was shy around girls he liked. He was good-looking, slim, could do with a haircut, and one of his hands was misshapen, as if he’d been in a fight and broken it, but ages ago. He took a sip of his lager and looked like he was struggling for something to say. She felt sorry for him. She’d never understood why people were shy. She was an extrovert, loved being the centre of attention and never had trouble talking to anyone. If she felt awkward she tended to talk more, not less.

‘Why do you work on the trains?’ she asked.

‘It’s a good job, pays quite well. Get to move about a bit.’ There was a hint of red creeping up his neck. Alice wanted to take his hand and tell him she wouldn’t bite, but it might make him feel more self-conscious.

‘But you want to be an artist, right?’

He shrugged and made a sound that could have been the beginning of a laugh. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘What sort of stuff do you do?’

‘People mainly.’

‘Are you any good?’ Alice hoped he didn’t want her to look at any of his stuff. If it wasn’t in a magazine, she wasn’t interested. Shame he didn’t want to be a writer. She’d loved the Twilight books and read all of them several times. That writer had made a fortune. And Pauline de Winter, of course – she’d be rolling in money. Alice wanted to be rich.

‘I dunno. I don’t let anyone see it. I’m still learning, I guess.’ The blush crept a little higher and he swallowed hard.

Alice thought he looked like he was outside the headmaster’s office waiting for a caning. Poor thing. Still, she quite liked it. Most good-looking guys were so aware of it they didn’t make any effort, they just expected to be admired. She wanted to hug this one and tell him she’d make everything all right for him.

‘Sorry, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’ She noted his relief and went on. ‘We can talk about me instead!’ She laughed so he knew it was a joke, and was pleased when he did too. He had lovely eyes. ‘What you said about me singing, did you mean it?’

‘What bit?’

‘About not giving up.’

‘Of course I did. I mean, I’ve never heard you, but I reckon if you want to be a singer, you gotta sing.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah. I don’t think I could stop even if I wanted. I sing all the time, even on the loo.’

The blush reached Tim’s cheeks, and Alice giggled. ‘Sorry – too much information!’

He took a crisp and looked over her right shoulder.

‘My mum sang. She was a child star in films and TV. Everything handed to her on a plate. She tells me I’ve got the talent and all I need is to find an agent to promote me. Aim high, she says. Reach for the stars. It’s easy for her to say when she doesn’t reach for anything except the TV remote and the wine bottle these days.’ Alice realised she was getting heated and stopped.

‘My dad’s a drinker too,’ said Tim.

‘Maybe we should introduce them!’ Alice laughed. She looked at Tim again and caught him staring at her. He blushed crimson, and she couldn’t help herself; she took his hand. ‘It’s okay, you know, I don’t mind you looking at me. Actually, I quite like it.’ In fact, she liked it a lot. He wasn’t just a ticket collector; he was trying to be an artist, and he was kind and a good listener, and even though they’d only just met, he’d been really nice and encouraged her. He’d made her realise