The Central Line

by Saskia Sarginson

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

What if you've already crossed paths with the love of your life?

Cora and Jacob live in London's vast metropolis; he at one end of the Central Line, she at the other.

Their paths have crossed a thousand times without them knowing.

When a chance encounter on the underground brings them together, it seems they're destined to fall in love.

But life has a catastrophic way of throwing up obstacles that could see both their lives unravel. And as events in their pasts begin to pull them apart, Cora and Jacob begin to wonder:

Are they meant to be together, or were they never meant to meet?

What readers are saying about Saskia Sarginson's novels:

'With echoes of David Nicholls's One Day, this romance has just the right mix of heart-melting moments and heart-rending near misses' Good Housekeeping

'Intensely romantic' Sunday Mirror

'A wonderful, heart-tugging romance' Prima

'A raw, emotional book about love in all its guises' Sun

'Heartbreaking' Bella

'Have tissues to hand' Best

Release date: January 20, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

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 signed 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.’

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.

Fran starts to cry. She sniffs, unravelling loo paper to blow her nose. God, look at her! She gives a short laugh. Stupid cow. Crying at something scrawled on a toilet door. She staggers out of the cubicle and splashes her face with water. A blurry stranger confronts her in the mirror: panda eyes, black holes inside a waxy mask of despair, red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She fumbles in her pocket for her mobile and squints at the time. She remembers that she has to get home before Mum. The numbers on her phone blink. She sees she has a missed call from her. Three missed calls. Damn.

*

The dark Shoreditch street smells wet, surfaces luminous with reflections. She smiles at the pretty shapes the puddles make in the road: liquid darkness streaked with rainbow colour. Her eardrums pound with the after-effects of the club’s sound system. It makes everything echoey, muffled, as if she’s underwater. She’s trying to walk in a straight line, stick to the middle of the pavement, but time keeps jumping, and with a jolt she finds herself pressed against a grainy wall, the brick-work damp on her cheek. She begins again, one foot and then the other, staring hard at the cracks in the pavement, hoping to outwit them, the way they persist in moving beneath her. Sneaky little buggers. She giggles. The street lurches onto its side, and Fran staggers, an arm flung out. A woman steps around her, tut-tutting.

When she gets to a crossing, she leaves the kerb without looking, walking straight in front of a car. There’s a screech of brakes and the blare of a horn. She presses her hands over her heart. ‘Whoops.’ She giggles again. Outside a corner shop, three men stand close together like a three-headed monster. She sniffs cannabis. The creature turns its heads in her direction. Fran tenses, makes an effort to stand upright. She moves on, feeling their collective gaze at her back, feeling them pinning her down with sudden feral interest.

‘Oi! Love … need any help?’

Laughter. The horrible laughter of hunters. Even inside the haze of alcohol, she feels a prickle of danger along her spine. Mum goes on at her all the time: ‘When you’re drunk, you’re an easy victim.’ Fran’s heart bangs against her ribcage: a stark drumbeat of fear. Breath hisses in and out of her lungs.

Then the moment is over; she’s already forgotten the rush of adrenalin, only knows how tired she is, how her legs don’t want to keep battling with the shifting pavement, how her eyes are sore and can’t stay open any longer.

An Underground station rears before her, and she staggers down the steps, remembering to swipe her card, and somehow finds a platform. She pushes onto the train with a crowd of other drunks, all of them riding the night Tube with beer cans and winey breath. It’s hot, the air compressed and thin. She finds a seat and collapses onto it, slumping back against the window. Her mobile vibrates in her pocket. Stops and starts again, but she doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t even hear the whine and squeal of the train as it hurtles through the tunnel. Her head hangs awkwardly to the side, legs splayed out in front, hands dangling at her sides. She gives a snore.

She wakes like a drowning person surfacing. Someone is shaking her shoulder. She stares up. She has no idea where she is. There’s a rush of movement, sliding black windows. The world makes no sense. A man is close, too close, his face peering into hers. He frowns. ‘You can’t sleep here,’ he says.

She tries to move her tongue. She remembers that she’s on a train. But the carriage that was so full before is nearly empty. An urgent voice has started up inside her head. It tells her not to talk to strange men. It tells her she was due home hours ago. She thinks she should run away from the man, perhaps shout for help, but she knows her legs won’t be up to the task, and it seems rude to scream. Exhaustion clouds her with a muddled weight of hopelessness. She remembers the words scrawled on the cubicle door.

‘I … I have … a right to be here …’ she mutters. ‘Like a tree.’

He nods, as if he understands.

She blinks, giving herself up to the moment, to fate, as he encourages her onto her feet, hooks an arm around her ribs.

Cora’s face is squashed into the arm of the sofa, her cheek damp with dribble. She wipes it on her sleeve. Sitting up in a rush, she runs her fingers through her hair, encountering something sticky. Crisp crumbs. The TV is still on. She clicks the remote, fumbles for her mobile, checks the time and gasps. Upstairs, she flings open Fran’s door. The bed stands cold and empty. Anger is replaced by anxiety. She takes out her mobile and jabs at it, listening to the ringtone and then Fran’s voice: ‘Hey, leave a message. I’ll get back to you. If you’re lucky.’

Cora shivers. The heating’s off. She stumbles into a pair of pyjama bottoms, pulls an old cardigan on top and goes back downstairs, trying Fran’s number again and again; each time it goes to voicemail. She stands by the sitting-room window and opens the blind so that she can stare into the street, turning her head to look in each direction, hoping to see her errant daughter’s tall frame loping into view, feet laced into her favourite boots painted with red roses and green thorns, her long titian hair a halo under the street lights.

She leaves a text message. Where are you? Call me! BTW you weren’t supposed to go out. Remember?!!!

Another: Call me! Just tell me you’re okay!

Another: Where ARE you? Please let me know that you’re all right. I’m worried.

She waits at the window. No floral boots stomp into view. They live in a quiet side street. There is little passing traffic, few pedestrians, especially at this time in the morning. She gives up her post to pace the house. She thinks of calling Helena, but it’s 2 a.m., and it’s not really an emergency. She reassures herself that Fran goes out all the time and is often home late; on the other hand, Cora has no idea where she is or who she’s with, never mind that she’s not supposed to have left the house in the first place. But most of all, she has an instinct that something’s not right.

She wanders around from room to room, not bothering to switch lights on, padding through shadowy spaces. In the kitchen, she opens the fridge, staring into the lit-up interior. Why is she looking at jars of pesto and a bag of carrots? She shakes her head. She makes another cup of tea and carries it around with her, not drinking it.

She tries to think what Andrew would say, and it’s almost as if she can feel the weight of his large hand on her shoulder. She knows exactly what the expression on his face would be: patient, knowing, hiding his own small fear for Cora’s sake, because of course he’d be worried too. He just wouldn’t show it. Andrew took charge of situations – always knew what to do. A man of action. A man who’d climb a ladder in a storm to fix a leaking roof. She listens hard, as if she might catch his voice, but there’s another sound. Knuckles on wood, the rap-rap of their metal knocker. Fran! She must have lost her keys.

Cora yanks the door wide. Relief flares. Her daughter is home. But she’s not alone. Fran leans against a man, her head tilted back, eyes rolling. Her mouth is a smudge of red; strands of hair stick to her cheeks. Cora stares at the wreck of her child, and fear slides quick and cold through her body. Then her gaze moves to the man who’s holding her up. He’s taller than her lofty daughter. He has untidy wavy brown hair, skin that looks as though he spends time outdoors, and startling hazel eyes. Something about him tugs at her memory – as if she knows him from another part of her life. But nothing tangible comes to her. He must just have one of those faces.

She shakes her head. Why is he sober and alert when her child is a drunken mess? She tightens her lips with distrust. His expression seems deliberately neutral. She can’t read it at all.

‘What are you doing with my daughter?’ she demands. ‘Who are you?’

‘Jacob,’ he says, tightening his grip on Fran’s arm and using his other hand to clasp her waist, preventing a sudden slither downwards. They look intimate leaning against each other.

Cora steps forward. ‘I can manage now.’ She shoves him with her elbow as she positions herself between the two of them. He lets go immediately, stepping off to the side, and Fran’s entire weight descends on Cora’s shoulder, unbalancing her.

How could Fran have done this to herself? What made her do it? Or who? Cora peers up at the stranger from under the drooping body of her child. Is he Fran’s boyfriend, or someone she met in a club? It occurs to her that he’s at least ten years older than her daughter. The realisation angers her even more. ‘How dare you bring her home in this state!’

A flicker of something crosses his face – irritation? Surprise? But still he lingers, hesitating on the doorstep as Cora attempts to guide Fran inside. ‘Go away!’ she tells him. ‘We don’t need you.’ But her daughter is heavy, and has no control of her limbs. She steps on Cora’s bare toes in her heavy boot. Cora gasps and staggers, stopping just inside the hall, leaning Fran’s weight against the little table.

‘She was passed out,’ the stranger says. ‘Fast asleep. I found her on the night Tube.’

‘What?’ Cora cranes her neck round to look at him.

‘A tree … a star …’ Fran murmurs, and laughs.

‘Here, let me help you.’ The man steps across the threshold, takes Fran’s arm on her other side, slides it across his shoulders, and together they get her into the sitting room. They lower her onto the sofa, where she sprawls, grinning up at them. ‘Hello!’ Her eyelids close. Her complexion is the colour of old Brie.

Cora straightens and pushes her hair out of her eyes. Fran smells like a brewery. She catches another tang on her breath: the whiff of vomit.

‘The Tube?’ she asks. ‘You found her on a train?’

‘The Central Line,’ he says.

She gives a small gasp. ‘Oh God.’ She screws up her forehead. ‘You … haven’t spent the evening with her. You don’t know her at all?’

He clears his throat. ‘No.’

‘I see.’ Heat rages into her cheeks. ‘Thank you … for rescuing her. I’m … I’m so sorry to have taken up your time.’ She breathes slowly, trying to prevent the oven of her body switching into overdrive.

‘No.’ He holds up a hand. ‘No need.’

‘I’m Cora,’ she says, standing up straighter. ‘And this is my daughter. Fran. Francesca. She … she’s not always like this.’ She gestures towards her child lolling with mouth agape and eyeliner smeared across her cheeks, and becomes aware of her own baggy PJ bottoms, the saggy grey cardigan drooping around her thighs. She puts a hand up to her hair and finds more greasy remains of crisp crumbs inside the tangles.

‘Of course not.’ His forehead is crinkling earnestly. ‘She’s young. It’s Saturday night.’

‘Yes,’ Cora says, gratefully.

‘Well.’ He nods, his movements slow as he takes a step backwards and turns. ‘Goodnight.’

And just like that, Cora thinks, Fran’s been got out of yet another scrape. This time by a stranger – someone she won’t even remember tomorrow morning, let alone thank.

‘Wait!’

He turns back at the threshold, expectant.

‘Um.’ She swallows. ‘I’d like Fran to thank you herself.’

He glances at the comatose figure on . . .