Kept

Elle Field

Kept Copyright © Elle Field 2013

E-edition published April 2013

All rights reserved.

No reproduction without permission.

The moral right of Elle Field to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is
entirely coincidental.

‘They sold it for three million, I heard.’

The woman is incredulous. ‘But they only paid £100k for it.’

‘Everything he does turns to gold. Come on, why else would
Sarah have married him? Don’t you remember when–’

I don’t hear the rest. They’ve passed by me and I hurriedly
search the train platform for the next conversation to use as a distraction.
Instead of hearing about doom and gloom – what I’m really after – it’s another
sickening snippet.

‘Oh yes, she’s the youngest partner there.’

‘It was expected. Didn’t she get a double first from
Cambridge?’

‘Only one in her college who did,’ is the smug reply I hear
as I board the train. I have no doubt as I sit down that Mrs Double First
probably also found the time to play the French horn in the orchestra, debate
beautifully, appear on
University
Challenge
and cox the winning team in the Boat Race.
All in one morning.

It gets worse. Escaping into the empty train carriage
doesn’t mean I’m now free of the suited successes because I can still see them.
Those people on the platform, the ones tapping away on their
BlackBerrys
, they are the people who can laugh carefree and
happy with colleagues, or legitimately be absorbed in the
FT,
because
that’s what they
do
. For them, success is as natural as breathing. Those people separated
from me through the glass are the sort of people who make loved ones proud;
they are the people who achieve, each and every day, who always accomplish, and
are never found lacking. Bet they’ve never been caught lacking a ticket
either...

On behalf of today’s
crew, we wish you a pleasant and tranquil onward journey. Thank you for
choosing Golighty Trains.

A pleasant and tranquil onward journey? That would be nice.
I might look like one of those successes on the shrinking platform as the train
slowly pulls me away from Waterloo, from all that is important to me, but I’m
not.

There was no double first for me; there is no chance I’ll
become a partner in a hot-shot firm. Today’s “success” will be surviving this
train journey without getting arrested or receiving a hefty fine I can’t
possibly pay for not having a ticket; yet four years ago I thought I would be
like the suits the train has just whizzed past at Clapham Junction.

Needless to say, it hasn’t quite worked out that way and
maybe I had my glory days when I was eight, beating my best friend Obélix – a
nickname, don’t worry – at disco, winning when life was simple. He’d wear his
horrid purple shell-suit and “borrow” his dad’s Boombox, I’d put on my
favourite ensemble of the week, and we’d dance happily for hours trying to
emulate his hero, Michael Jackson.

In fact, Obélix wanted to
be
Michael Jackson, just as I wanted to be Coco Chanel. We never
twigged they were people. We thought to be a “Michael Jackson” or a “Coco
Chanel” was a job. I certainly know now that I’m no Coco – my life hasn’t
become the Technicolor extravaganza promised in movies, let alone Coco’s
palette of monochrome – but I bet whatever Obélix is doing he isn’t failing.

‘Tea or coffee?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts. I have been
miles away, staring aimlessly out of the window as we leave London, past demons
stirring inside me.

Taking a steadying breath, I turn to the voice and force an
apologetic smile that I’m certain will betray me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I try to say
calmly, certain my voice will betray me, ‘but I don’t have any change.’

Let her think I’m the sort of woman who never carries
anything smaller than a fifty pound
note
or my Platinum Amex card... please let her think that.

‘It’s complimentary in First Class.’ She smiles at me
nicely, her kind green eyes crinkling with the gesture.

I’m afraid I must be staring at her with disbelief on my
face, so much so that she worriedly smoothes her hand over her uniform, then
touches her swept-back greying hair to reassure herself. I, on the other hand,
am panicking. Of course it’s free in First Class. She must
know
I’m a charlatan. I feel my mouth go even drier because I’m
going to be ejected from the train at the next stop and then I’m well and truly
buggered.
 

‘Coffee?’ she chirps conversationally. Is she trying to
catch me out?

I nod, preparing myself for the probing questions that will
expose me as a fare dodger and make today just that little bit worse.

‘It’s just–’ Here it comes. ‘You seem a little dazed.
Judging by your tan, it’s jet-lag. Am I right?’

Sympathy
. I sigh
audibly with relief, hoping she will decode it as the weariness of a First
Class paying traveller. ‘Yes,’ I say thankfully. ‘I would usually crash after a
flight back from
Australia
, but I
need to rush home to my parents...’

‘Oh no.’ She gapes at me. ‘Nothing
too
serious, I hope?’ I grimace at this, which she interprets in
her own way. ‘You poor thing.’

I smile tightly in response, but part of me hopes she will
tell her colleagues to leave the weary-looking tanned lady alone, the
grieving
woman. It will help make this
ticket evasion easier if they do; my nerves are already shot to pieces...

As the nice trolley lady walks down the rattling train after
pouring my coffee with sympathy I do not deserve, I take a grateful sip.
Following a week of denial trying to cling to my London life, I painfully
realised I only have
one
place to go
– back to my childhood home. This is non-negotiable – unless I get kicked off
the train – and I’m not heading there because of a parental heart attack,
although they may feel severe discomfort when I land on their doorstep. I’m
heading home for good. Because I have messed up. Spectacularly.
 

It’s going to be a stark contrast to the life I’ve left
behind now I can no longer afford the luxury of choice. Ha! I can’t afford
anything
. I will have to learn to make
do – a task that may prove to be as arduous as a drinker going cold turkey.

As I sip my lukewarm train coffee – it’s no La Esmeralda
blend – and admit my stupidity caused this, I experience a fierce determination
to overcome this. I don’t want to be this girl, the one Piers called a spoilt,
superficial monster. Not that I can afford to be her anyway, but that’s not the
point.

I wasn’t always spoilt and superficial though. A fuzzy image
of a girl travelling economy on budget airlines swirls in my mind but I quickly
dismiss it since it doesn’t correlate with the woman I have become. Without
one, there would never have been the other. Funny that.

I’ve lost my confidence, I’ve lost everything, but
confidence is the key to success. Right now I
have
to channel that, regain some confidence, because a man is
looming over me.

‘Miss?’ he says.

I glance up in surprise, like I’ve only just seen the ticket
inspector. In reality, I have beadily watched his approach from the opposite
direction to the nice trolley lady. There’s no chance he knows my parental lie
so only I have the power to convince him.

It’s show time.

‘Have you got your ticket, please?’

I wonder if it’s Ian Jones from the tannoy announcements,
Ian Jones who informed me I would need a ticket before I boarded this train or
face the wrath of Golighty Trains and quite possibly the British Transport
Police, too.

Despite my coffee acceptance, I do not possess a ticket and
I’m already close to buckling under the pressure and admitting to this as he’s
wearing an authoritative-looking peaked navy-blue hat with a shiny emblem. Hats
plus my in-bound childhood equals a figure I must not trifle with. But, I’m no
longer a child. Grown-up time.

‘Yes,’ I scathingly reply.

It is important I act haughty and peeved like he has
disturbed me from very important thoughts. These could be thoughts dreaming up
a new million pound merger that will regenerate a local community
and
keep the shareholders happy.
Significant
thoughts. Haughty and peeved
people get away with lots, you see. Successful people, the people who sit in
First Class, act like this all the time. He should be harassing fare-dodging
youngsters, too caught up with their BBMing to bother buying a ticket.

I try to forget that I used to enjoy dodging fares as a
teen, and completely bypass that I’m actually as bad, if not worse, because I’m
an adult who should know better. With my lax attitude to grown-up
responsibilities, it’s unsurprising that I don’t.

But this man – this potential
Ian Jones
– doesn’t know this. For all he thinks, for all he
should
think, is that I am a
respectable-looking woman in First Class with a ticket. That I am a respected
member of the community. No,
pillar
of the community.

 
‘Can I see it then?’

He is interrupting my profound thoughts of teenagers who
suffer on trains because of their age and the assumption that they might not
have a ticket. Teenagers, ones wiser than me, could probably take these
prejudiced adults to the European Union and win, which is more than I could do
at their age, let alone now. Crikey, I’ve been so
limited
lately. It surprises me that one simple question has
erupted a flurry of debate in my usually dormant mind about prejudices.

He treats me to what he must think is a winning smile and to
some it would be. Under different circumstances I would have found this man
attractive – he’s tall and tanned with a smattering of deep freckles across his
cheeks, his light blue eyes are crinkled in the corners – but under these
circumstances he is sorely mistaken. So much so, I feel like replying no and
sticking my tongue out. As every mile passes and I inch closer, I am reverting
back to a former self once lost to me.

With the man still looming though, I icily ask why he needs
to see my ticket.

‘Well, ma’am,’ he says, politely clearing his throat with a
little nervous cough and a pause which suggests I am beginning to rattle him –
people are usually so compliant after all. ‘It’s–’

He pauses. I bet he’s recalling his
Employees’ Handbook.
The page which instructs him to deal with
difficult passengers. I experience an illicit thrill from this. I can’t believe
how placid I’ve been of late, how exciting it now feels to be
causing a scene
. This is turning into
quite the dramatic week. But, considering my circumstances, I probably
shouldn’t be revelling. It doesn’t require a criminal mastermind’s brain to
realise I really shouldn’t be drawing attention to myself right now.
 

‘It’s my job,’ he finally decides to tell me as my heart
lurches in cold dread. ‘I have to check that all ticket holders are in their
correct seats with the correct tickets.’

Definitely handbook regurgitation. He holds out his hand
expectantly. I would find that rude but really it’s just deferential to my plan
of ticket evasion. I know I’m on the home stretch though; I can do this.

‘Are you implying I’m in the wrong seat?’ I ask through
gritted teeth, my voice rising and rattling off the train carriage – no easy
feat given the pounding of the train against the tracks. ‘Do I look stupid? Do
you think I am incapable of finding my
own
seat?’

He has the grace to look unsettled by my accusation. We both
know this is not about me being in the right seat.

He takes a swift, sharp look at me and he’s clearly torn. He
tries to be subtle as he scopes me out from top to toe, but he’s a man – subtle
is not in his lexicon. Hopefully he clocks the expensive-looking, long blonde
hair. Then again, men never notice hair, do they? Piers never did.

I catch his eyes flickering downwards. I believe he notices
the toned, tanned body and the modern dress sense... OK, fairly toned. I have
let myself go a little these past few weeks as eating well went out of the
window in favour of copious amounts of Milka Daim. See! I am beginning to deal
with my failings.

He maybe clocks my classic beige Burberry mac and the Louis
Vuitton
Boétie
GM
bag nestled beside my towering white and black Mary Janes. The heels are
vampish, yet somehow refined, but also a similar style to the shoes that got me
into this trouble in the first place – a fact I find very fitting and oddly
comforting.

His eyes travel back up to my face and I hope he is doing
what most people do – like the nice coffee lady did – I hope he is assuming. I
hope he is adding up all the various bits and pieces that comprise me to
calculate
my
answer.

Sometimes, such as if this works out, I like it when people
calculate and... I’m in luck! I’ve passed my GCSE in deception! To say I am
relieved is an understatement. The last thing I need is to be caught out and
booted off the train because
I
just need to get home
. Not that it is my
home. I’ve left my home – was kicked out of it in fact by the man who is supposed
to love me. What I’m actually doing is fleeing to my former home, y’know
once upon a time
. In a strange way it
feels like I am returning to the scene of a crime; I know I should feel like
I’ve just left one.

More and more memories are emerging as my destination gets
closer; worryingly they are distorting my thoughts and feelings. I do not like
this side-effect – the past should be left in the past – I know it’s not going
to be left there any longer.
Great
.

The ticket inspector takes one last glance at my profile,
then smiles. Obviously the handbook doesn’t cover this type of incident and
he’s had to rely on his instincts. Thank goodness they like me.

‘Not at all, ma’am. Enjoy your journey.’

With that he continues down the carriage to seek evidence
that the train company has managed to fleece some idiots out of almost £150 to
sit in this severely-lacking First Class compartment, and I allow myself a
little smile tinged with relief that I have not been caught out. Not this time.

I’d like to think my outfit helped things, that my keen eye
for a bargain and experimental ways made him believe me because I looked the
part. I would feel smug but it only reminds me that there’ll be no more Michael
Vinn shoes or Peter Pilotto dresses, that it will be Cheap Monday jeans and
sale shopping at
Topshop
from now on with a rummage
through the Kensington High Street Oxfam if any special occasions arise.
Doubtful, there’s no one left to socialise with where I’m heading to and I’ll
definitely be nowhere near Kensington.

When it comes to fashion, I know I am shrewd and willing to
take a risk. It’s the only chance I did take, the only confidence I have,
although Piers, my boyfriend… my
ex
-boyfriend,
he had enough confidence for...

Stop this, Arielle. Stop this,
right now
. I know I’ve messed up with Piers, honestly I do, but I
know that doesn’t apply to fashion. My life truly is over when I mess up the
clothes I wear, even if these clothes aren’t entirely legit.

Take my Burberry mac. Came from
eBay
. It cost its original owner close to a four-figure sum; it was
mine for a bargainous £182.54. A quick trip to the dry cleaners and it looked
pristine. I like to think it sits smugly amongst my full-price macs, probably
because it’s like me – like how I feel around Piers’ friends – a cheap shop
dummy surrounded by richer, more sophisticated models.
Painful
.

Moving on. That Louis Vuitton
bag by my feet? I’ll admit something
really
naughty here: it’s a fake. Yes. A fake. Just like me. To the
well-trained eye observing the entire package, they don’t question whether it’s
genuine or not, despite it actually being an AA counterfeit from LA’s Santee
Alley,
the
place to go for knock-off
goods. Admittedly, I do have many genuine handbags but I get an illicit thrill
from fooling people and it’s not just handbags I limit this to.

Those shoes next to my knock-off goods? Bought from one of
those low-budget shoe shops, one not even classed as
high street
. No one I know would ever dream of setting foot in
there, so they’ll view them as “rare” because they can’t spot them in Harvey
Nics
or on NET-A-PORTER.COM. Ironically this makes them so
designer they must be
exclusively
so.
Not bad for a cheap pair of shoes, huh, though I must confess they are pinching
my feet ever so slightly. Nothing and I mean nothing, beats butter-soft Italian
leather when it comes to foot comfort.
 

Anyway, that brings me to my dress: I had no choice here. I
borrowed it from my friend seeing as circumstances have made my fabulous
wardrobe leave my possession. This is a
Chloé
shift dress that got a little too tight for Lydia in her post-Nigel
binge. Her pain became my gain.

All in all, I have achieved an expensive look at a fraction
of the associated price. People take one look at me and assume I must be worth
it. They see the overall lie told on the outside because they don’t realise
every item, like every person, has its own inner story. The only answer that
springs to their narrow minds is that I am stacked. Conditioned. I am a
designer babe and I am worth it.
Go Team
L’Oréal
!

In this instance, I am overjoyed. I have dodged a fare and a
fine I cannot possibly pay, I accept the worth the ticket man accredited to me.
A superficial judgement? Fine by me.
 
Unfortunately, I realise it was a clothing assumption of this nature that
set me on this troubled path in the first place – the reason I met Piers, the
reason I am now on this train going back
there
.