Chapter 1223

• The Journey--
• Click, click, click. Eva’s heels echoed behind her with increasing frequency as she ran for the train. Like a small boy’s cap gun, she thought, also wondering how there was space for that thought to have intruded into her overcrowded mind. Her anxiety was palpable; her hands shook, her teeth were clenched. She had to catch that train. David’s reaction at breakfast had been as expected. His egg was hard, his toast cold, his tea weak. He hated her going. Thought it unnecessary. A couple of nights away to visit an aged aunt, who had little, if nothing, now to offer. He always measured people on what they had to offer. And it was her second visit in a month. He resented the hold Aunt Millicent appeared to have over her. Thought she had lived an inappropriate life. Might be a bad influence. As if Eva wasn’t a grown woman able to make her own choices. She hummed silently, hoping that she could drown out the sound of his voice, peremptory and bad tempered. And there was no pretence at concern. No, his words and actions made it perfectly clear he hated losing control, even temporarily, over his wife. Didn’t think he should have to be bothered with domestic duties, even for a day or so. As she stepped aboard and walked down the carriage she suppressed the desire to speculate about how it would feel to be free of him. Why raise her own hopes?
• She made her way to the sleeper carriage. Still physically tense, there’d been a subtle change in her anxiety. It had become more anticipatory. From childhood onwards she’d loved train journeys; found them romantic and exciting. She rubbed her left hand against the wool of her skirt, hoping it would absorb the dampness, not leave a mark. She had chosen her outfit with care this morning, once David had left the house. She’d laid a dark wool pencil skirt, a cream silk blouse, patent heels and her Sunday best coat on the bed. Once dressed she’d turned to the mirror. Her skirt clung to her hips; her blouse emphasised her breasts. Eva touched her cheek. Applied make-up. Lipstick, mascara, a slash of black eye-liner. She felt good. A rare emotion these days. Vampish, almost. A latter-day heroine. She’d smiled at her silly fantasies and had left the house.