be first in line to sign up to Game On—the revolutionary new mobile communication app everyone in the biz was excited about.
Zoe clicked on the Let’s Get Personal column, flipped the phone so the words were nice and readable and read out loud.
“‘Frankston Line.’ That’s us. ‘Carriage Three.’ Ditto us. ‘To the Bewitching Brunette in the Beauteous Beanies.’”
Zoe paused a moment for drama before lifting her gaze to Evie’s knitted beanie. One of the billion she’d knitted herself. For she really was a fan of patterns.
Today’s was silver, with a rainbow pom-pom on top. It didn’t exactly go with her interview outfit—pea coat over black top and slouchy black pants with fake zips and pockets—all belonging to fashion-plate Zoe, as even computer-nerd Evie wasn’t about to turn up to an interview in a Han Solo “I Know” T-shirt, boyfriend jeans and Converse boots—but it did the job.
Zoe said, “Now, hold on to your hat, my friend, because this is going to blow your mind. It says:
New to your orbit, I find myself struck
By your raven locks, your starlit eyes. What luck
That I find myself able to see you twice a day.
A beacon in a sea of strangers. I must say
Your sunshine smiles are my good morning.
Your evening sighs my goodnight.
If I had the courage I’d say hello.
Till then I remain alone in my delight.
From Your Appreciative Admirer.
“Wow,” Evie mouthed.
“It’s you!” Zoe cried. “You are the Bewitching Brunette!”
The schoolboys looked up again, their eyes unglazing this time, enough to give Evie a second glance.
“Well, isn’t she?” Zoe asked the boys, waving her hands up and down as if Evie were the prize in a game show. “If this poem wasn’t written for you I’ll eat your beanie.”
Evie tugged off her beanie and shoved it under her butt cheek. Only to have to deal with long strands of dark hair now crackling with static as they stuck to her face.
So, she did have a thing for beanies. She ran naturally cold. Her mum had been the same, needing blankets all through summer. Calling Evie Froglet because of her constantly chilly feet. But it was her granddad who’d taught her how to knit. He’d also taught her how to tie her laces, fix a tractor, cook a perfect steak. To follow her curiosity wherever it might lead her.
Zoe went on. “Lance, for all his good points, is not a romantic man. Telling me my backside looks hot in certain dresses is about as schmaltzy as he gets, bless him. Keeping in mind Lance is a pretty good marker for the average guy, can you see any man on this train who does look capable of writing poetry?”
Together they looked. At the scruffy schoolboys now poking wet fingers into one another’s ears. The dour gang of goths hanging morosely near the door. The harried working dads with their crooked ties and tired eyes.
As one they turned to the dashing, Byronesque gentleman in the impeccable suit lounging in his seat, reading a book.
Evie swept a hand self-consciously over her hair. It crackled so loudly she quickly put her beanie back on. “Poetry or not, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why on earth not?”
Evie took her wallet out of her backpack, found a small, crinkled bit of paper and handed it over to Zoe.
“A fortune cookie fortune?” Zoe deadpanned. “From your birthday dinner last week?”
Evie nodded.
“And what does this have to do with Hot Stuff and his undying love for you?”
“Read it.”
Zoe did. “‘Bad luck comes in threes. Monkeys, though, they come in trees.”’ After which she burst out laughing. “I...can’t...even...”
Evie plucked the piece of paper out of Zoe’s shaking fingers and shoved it into the coin compartment of her wallet. “Ever since I read that stupid fortune things have been weird.”
“Weird how?” Zoe asked, wiping her eyes.
“Think.”
“Your job!”
“And the sudden losing thereof. The very next day.”
“The day after your birthday? You didn’t tell me for a week!”
“Because as I stood in the office watching the police take away the computers, you rang to tell me Lance was coming home. You were happy. And rightly so.”
Evie knew it was nonsensical, but it felt good to finally be talking about it. Hopefully it would relieve the persistent pressure that had been sitting on her chest since the night of her birthday.
“‘Bad luck comes in threes,”’ Zoe said, scratching her chin. “Losing your job was number one.”
“Having to move out is number two.”
“I told you, you don’t have to—”
Evie flapped a shut up hand at her friend.
Zoe buttoned her lips. Then promptly unbuttoned them. “There are rules to fortunes, you know. You have to have eaten the entire cookie, I think. You can’t tear the paper. And once you tell someone it no longer comes true!”
“Zoe, it can’t ‘come true’ because it’s a computer-generated missive stuck in a random dry cookie.” Evie slowly shook her head. “And yet, I feel like it would be remiss of me not to keep an eye out for falling pianos.”
Zoe nodded sagely.
Not that Evie was taking it lying down. No, sir. There was the Game Plan interview. One she would never have had the nerve to go for if she hadn’t been desperate for work. She was too young, too inexperienced, her only long-term tech job having been for a company who were under investigation for embezzlement and fraud.
Or more specifically Eric—the son of the managing director and her ex-boyfriend—who had pilfered her every last dollar before attempting to flee the country.
Zoe coughed. Then burst into laughter again.
The schoolboys squirmed and sank deeper into their seats, no doubt embarrassed by the loud twenty-somethings in their midst. One perked up enough to realise they were at their stop, and in a rush and flurry they gathered their huge, dirty, dishevelled bags and snaked their way to the doors right as the train lumbered to a halt.
While the carriage emptied
