Chapter 2

      ‘Let me get this straight,’ Daphne says as I sit in her office at Maîtresse, mopping sweat off my face from the rush to get here just-regular-late instead of monumentally going-to-be-fired late. ‘A stranger made eye contact with you, on public transport, in London?’ She screws her face up. ‘What kind of weirdo is this?’

      By the time I’ve finished recounting my tube journey, she’s leaning over her desk, one hand rubbing her pregnant belly and one fanning her face. ‘Oh my God, Ness, I take it all back, he’s not a weirdo at all, he’s Train Man.’ She elongates the middle of both words to make it sound like she’s swooning.

      It might not be the first time I’ve mentioned Train Man to Daphne.

      ‘This is like the start of a chick flick. I’d force you to watch this with me if it came on TV.’

      ‘And I’d humour you and spend the whole film picking apart the inaccuracies, because we all know that happily-ever-afters don’t happen in real life, and those daft romantic films are pure escapism, a million miles away from anything that could ever happen in reality.’

      Daphne is so pregnant that she can barely get comfortable and she shifts in her chair again, still fanning a hand in front of her face, and I’m unsure if it’s because she’s getting hot flushes or because she thinks my morning is so swoonworthy. ‘The universe wants you to meet this man.’

      I knew she’d say that.

      ‘No, it doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve to get his phone crushed by a stampede of people, but that’s as far as it goes. This is not one of your romantic stories.’

      ‘It could be like Sliding Doors.’ She ignores me. ‘Maybe you split in two as the train doors closed and there’s a whole alternative universe where you did catch up with him and—’

      ‘I could definitely do with splitting in two. Would the other one take half my body weight so I’d never need to go to the gym again?’

      ‘You don’t go to the gym, Ness, you just feel guilty for not going to the gym.’ She points a swollen finger at me. ‘And don’t try to divert the conversation. This is something special. In the other universe, the one where Gwyneth Paltrow cuts all her hair off and tells her cheating boyfriend where to go, your fingers could’ve brushed as you handed his phone back and he could’ve halted his plans to immediately take you on a date, and …’

      I glance at the time on my phone again. ‘Well, my alternative-universe self works a lot faster than me. I went down the wrong escalator and got stuck for ten minutes trying to get back up. I bet she didn’t get her toes run over by three separate suitcases either.’

      ‘Your alternative-universe mum is probably already buying a hat. Can you imagine what your mum will say when you tell her about this? She’ll start a national campaign to find this man.’

      ‘That’s why no one is telling my mum in a million years. If she finds out—’

      ‘She’ll love it, just like all our readers will,’ Zinnia says, appearing in the doorway of Daphne’s office. I hadn’t even realised she was listening. ‘I was about to tell you off for being late, Vanessa, and then you come in with an incredible story like this.’

      ‘It’s not a—’

      ‘This is just like Sliding Doors, but it’s real,’ she says, her face lighting up as much as the Botox will allow it. ‘It’s just the sort of romantic story our readers would fall head over heels for.’

      ‘The romantic tale of soulmates torn apart by closing tube doors.’ Daph sits up. ‘What if now you have to find him in this universe and catch up with the other universe or you’ll be torn apart forever?’

      ‘I think that’s pushing it a bit, don’t you? There were no magical sliding tube doors. I’m just not fit enough to chase someone through a train station.’

      ‘Oh, don’t talk about pushing.’ Daph groans and rubs her belly again. ‘And everyone wants love like in the movies, but you never try to find it. Movie characters don’t just sit around expecting love to find them in the most romantic way—’

      ‘Unrealistic way,’ I cut in. ‘Although I wouldn’t mind my hair being as good as a Nineties Gwyneth Paltrow.’

      ‘Yes!’ Daph says. ‘But that’s how it is when you find “The One”. The universe rearranges itself to throw you into each other’s paths. Just like when I met Gavin. Ridiculous, inconvenient, all-consuming love, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw. This could be your chance.’

      Zinnia points a bony finger at Train Man’s phone, which is still sitting in the middle of Daphne’s desk like it might burst if someone pokes it. ‘Can you get into that?’

      ‘No, it’s locked.’

      ‘Well, get it unlocked, woman. How else are you going to get it back to him and feel the sparks of your fingers brushing as you stare deeply into his eyes and fall in lurve?’

      Zinnia is probably a typical magazine editor; picture Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, but with more hair product and brighter clothes. Thankfully she’s a bit nicer than Miranda Priestly, and she runs a fortnightly women’s magazine instead of a haute couture fashion mag, but she only employed me because Daphne persuaded her I had all the qualities needed in a fact-checker, like being fastidious and meticulous, when the only thing I’m fastidious about is making sure there’s not a scrape of Nutella left at the bottom of the jar and I’m definitely not meticulous about setting my alarm in the mornings, and the more days that I underestimate the amount of time it takes to commute through London, the more likely Zinnia is to realise that Daphne was just trying to help her best friend get a job and I’m not actually that good at being a fact-checker. Or at getting here on time.

      ‘You’ve got articles to check piling up on your desk, Vanessa. You could’ve finalised three stories in the time you’ve spent running around train stations this morning. Either get that unlocked and give me something that Daphne can write about, or forget it and get back to work.’

      I should forget it. I should’ve handed it in at lost property in the station and been done with it. I lean over and pull the flat, black phone towards me. ‘I suppose I could ask the IT guy to look at it.’

      ‘Gosh, this is so romantic.’ Zinnia clasps her hands together. ‘Maybe you’ll have some sort of spiritual connection and you’ll just subconsciously know his password.’

      ‘Oh come on, it’s asking for a four-digit code. There are endless possibilities and the phone will probably lock us out after three attempts.’ I pick it up and run my fingers across the blank screen. I would love nothing more than to have a look through it and prove to