On some level, they became each other – they joined, like mercury.

That’s not to say they didn’t have their differences. In contrast to Mariana’s privileged upbringing, Sebastian was brought up with no money. His parents were divorced and he wasn’t close to either of them. He felt they hadn’t given him a good start in life; and that he had to make his own way, right from the beginning. In many ways, Sebastian said he related to Mariana’s father, and the old man’s drive to succeed. Money mattered to Sebastian too, because, unlike Mariana, he grew up without it, so he respected it, and was determined to make a good living in the city, ‘so we can build something secure for us and the future – and for our kids’.

That’s how he spoke at just twenty: so ridiculously grown-up. And so naive to assume they would spend the rest of their lives together. They lived in the future in those days, endlessly planning it – and never speaking of the past, and of the unhappy years leading up to their meeting. In many ways, Mariana and Sebastian’s lives began when they found each other – in that instant they first saw each other by the river. Mariana believed their love would go on forever. That it would never end—

Looking back, was there something sacrilegious in that assumption? A kind of hubris?

Perhaps.

For here she was, alone on this train, on this journey they had made together countless times, at various stages in their lives and in different moods – mostly happy, sometimes not – talking, reading, or sleeping, Mariana’s head resting on his shoulder. These were the uneventful mundane moments she would give anything to have back again.

She could almost imagine him here – in the carriage, sitting next to her – and if she glanced at the window, she half expected to see Sebastian’s face reflected there, next to hers, superimposed on the passing landscape.

But instead, Mariana saw a different face.

A man’s face, staring at her.

She blinked, unnerved. She turned from the window to glance at him. The man was sitting opposite her, eating an apple. He smiled.

9

The man continued staring at Mariana – although to call him a man was, she decided, rather generous.

He looked as if he were barely in his twenties: he had a boyish face and curly brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles on his hairless cheeks that made him seem even younger.

He was tall and thin as a rake, dressed in a dark corduroy jacket, creased white shirt, and a college scarf in blue and red and yellow. His brown eyes, partly disguised by his old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses, brimmed with intelligence and curiosity, and contemplated Mariana with obvious interest.

‘How’s it going?’ he said.

Mariana peered at him, a little confused. ‘Do we – know each other?’

He grinned. ‘Not yet. But hopefully.’

Mariana didn’t reply. She turned away. There was a pause. Then he tried again.

‘Would you like one?’

He held out a large brown paper bag, bulging with fruit – grapes, bananas, and apples. ‘Take one,’ he said, offering it to Mariana. ‘Have a banana.’

Mariana smiled politely. He had a nice voice, she thought. She shook her head.

‘No, thanks.’

‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘Positive.’

Mariana turned and looked outside, hoping that would end the interaction. She could see his reflection in the window, and watched him shrug, disappointed. He was, apparently, not quite in control of his long limbs – and ended up knocking over his cup and spilling it. Some of his tea went on the table, but most landed in his lap.

‘Bloody hell.’

He jumped up, pulling a tissue from his pocket. He mopped up the pool of tea on the table, and dabbed at the stain on his trousers. He gave her an apologetic look. ‘Sorry about that. Didn’t splash you, did I?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

He sat down again. She could feel his eyes on her. After a moment, he said, ‘You’re … a student?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Ah. You work in Cambridge?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Then you’re … a tourist?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ He frowned, evidently perplexed.

There was a pause. Mariana gave in, and said, ‘I’m visiting someone … My niece.’

‘Oh, you’re an aunt.’

He looked relieved to have placed Mariana in a category. He smiled.

‘I’m doing a PhD,’ he said, volunteering the information, as Mariana didn’t seem about to ask. ‘I’m a mathematician – well, theoretical physics, really.’

He paused, taking off his glasses to wipe them with a tissue. He looked quite naked without them. And Mariana saw, for the first time, that he was handsome; or would be, when his face grew up a bit.

He put his glasses back on, and peered at her.

‘I’m Frederick, by the way. Or Fred. What’s your name?’

Mariana didn’t want to tell Fred her name. Probably because she had the feeling – flattering but also unnerving – that he was trying to flirt with her. Apart from the obvious fact he was too young for her, she wasn’t ready, never would be ready – even thinking about it felt like a sickening betrayal. She answered with strained politeness.

‘My name … is Mariana.’

‘Ah, that’s a beautiful name.’

Fred went on talking, attempting to engage her in conversation. But Mariana’s responses became increasingly monosyllabic. She silently counted the minutes until she could make her escape.

When they arrived in Cambridge, Mariana tried to slip away and disappear in the crowd. But Fred caught up with her outside the railway station.

‘Can I accompany you to town? On the bus, perhaps?’

‘I’d rather walk.’

‘Great – I have my bike here – I can walk with you. Or you can ride it if you prefer?’

He looked at her hopefully. Mariana felt sorry for him, despite herself. But she spoke more firmly this time.

‘I – prefer to be alone. If that’s okay.’

‘Of course … I see. I understand. Perhaps – a coffee, later? Or a drink? Tonight?’

Mariana shook her head and pretended to check her watch. ‘I won’t be here that long.’

‘Well, perhaps I can have your number?’ He blushed a little, and the freckles on his cheeks burned red. ‘Would that be—?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘I don’t think—’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Mariana looked away, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m not discouraged. We’ll meet again soon.’

Something about his tone made her feel a little irritated. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, we will. I foresee it. I have a gift for that sort of thing, you know – runs in my family – foresight, premonitions. I see things others do not.’

Fred smiled and stepped onto the road. A cyclist swerved to avoid him.

‘Watch out,’ said Mariana, touching his arm. The cyclist swore at Fred as he rode past.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a little clumsy, I’m afraid.’

‘Only a little.’ Mariana smiled. ‘Goodbye, Fred.’

‘Until we meet again, Mariana.’

He went over to the row of bicycles. Mariana watched as he got on his bike and cycled past, waving at her. Then Fred turned the corner and vanished.

Mariana breathed a sigh of relief. And she began walking into town.

10

As she made her way to St Christopher’s, Mariana’s anxiety grew about what she might find there.

She had no idea what to expect – there might be police or press, which seemed hard to believe, looking around the Cambridge streets: there was no sign that anything untoward had happened, no indication a murder had even taken place.

It seemed remarkably peaceful after London. Barely any traffic, the only sound was birdsong, punctuated by a chorus of chirruping bicycle bells as students cycled past in black academic gowns, like flocks of birds.

Mariana had the feeling, a couple of times, as she walked, that she was being watched – or followed – and she wondered if perhaps it was Fred, having doubled back on his bicycle to tail her, but she dismissed the thought as paranoid.

All the same, she glanced over her shoulder a few times, to make sure – and of course no one was there.

As she neared the college, her surroundings grew more and more beautiful with each step: there were spires and turrets above her head, and beech trees lining the streets, shedding golden leaves that collected in piles along the pavement. Long rows of black bicycles were chained against the wrought-iron railings. And above the railings, boxes of geraniums enlivened the red brick college walls with splashes of pink and white.

Mariana glanced at a group of students, presumably first-years, intently studying the posters attached to railings that were advertising events for Freshers’ Week.