- Starting on Monday night, a TV drama by David Nicholls — author of the best-selling novel One Day — tells the story of a couple who begin an affair after meeting on a commuter train. Here, Zoë Folbigg, 37, recalls how she too found love on her daily commute...
Railway romance: Zoe Folbigg, who found the love of her life on the 8.21 from Hitchin, Hertfordshire, to London's King's Cross
And then I saw him, walking calmly, almost as if in slow motion, oblivious, it seemed, to the rain. He looked Mediterranean: olive skin, dark hair, deep brown eyes, late 20s. And he was strikingly handsome. I thought: ‘Gosh, you’re beautiful.’
He did not notice me in the melee of bodies rushing to claim their seats on the train. But in that instant — on the platform of a Home Counties station as I waited for my daily commuter train to London — I know I fell in love.
Each day I took the 8.21 from Hitchin, Hertfordshire, to London’s King’s Cross, to the office where I worked as a writer and editor on a teen magazine.
I recognised the regular commuters. We adhered to our daily routines and although we never spoke to each other — there is a very British aloofness about regular train travellers — we knew each other’s faces. We entered the train by the same door each day; we sat in the same carriages.
But that morning, ten years ago, I broke with habit. I followed the stranger along the platform to the front of the train. It was as if an unseen hand encouraged me. Following felt like the most natural thing to do.
I sat in the carriage — muggy with steaming, suited men — as close to him as I dared and watched him covertly. He looked quite unlike all the other commuters: self-contained, relaxed, and dressed, not in City clothes, but in jeans and a T-shirt.
I took in the generous curve of his lips, the intenseness with which he read. I noted the absence of a wedding ring. I willed him to speak on his mobile so I could hear his voice and glean something, perhaps, about his life. But he remained silent, immersed in his book and oblivious to me.
It seems preposterous when I think about it now, but even then I was picturing my future with him, framing in my mind our wedding, racing ahead to a time when we’d have children.
All of which is curious — absurdly out-of-character, in fact — because until that day I’d been contentedly single. I had a wide circle of friends, a good job and my own house. I was 27 and I felt no compulsion to settle down, and certainly no wild urge to procreate.
So I find it hard to explain why I rushed into the office that morning, unable to quell the impulse to tell everyone about the handsome stranger I now thought of as Train Man.
The days went by, and I always contrived to sit in the same carriage as him. I started to dress more carefully each morning, too. I abandoned my jeans and wore big skirts, flirty heels and cute vest tops.
I got up earlier so I could make my face up at home, instead of squinting into a handbag mirror and applying mascara and lipstick on the train as I used to. My hair — usually wavy and wayward — was now always artfully tousled.
But my efforts were wasted. Train Man did not even glance in my direction. My work colleagues consoled me. They urged me to go out with other men, which I did. And they were invariably sweet, attentive and kind. ‘But they’re not Train Man,’ I’d wail, and after a couple of dates I’d find an excuse not to see them again.
Where it all began: Zoe first cast eyes on her future husband here on the platform at Hitchin railway station
Pretty, but in an unthreatening way, she also seemed quite remote from him. She wasn’t tactile, he wasn’t attentive. I concluded that she could not be his girlfriend and felt comforted.
But the weeks went by and he still failed to notice me. I started to get frustrated. I wasn’t brazen enough to open a conversation with him. I hoped I might encounter him on a late home-bound train instead, when, emboldened by a couple of cocktails, I’d be brave enough to speak to him. But it didn’t happen.
So I resorted to another tactic. Like the heroine of some Victorian novel, I resolved to drop my train ticket near him. I played out the scenario in my mind. I discussed it with my friends.
He would stoop to pick it up; our eyes would meet. We’d smile, I’d make some well-judged and witty remark — the prelude to a sparkling conversation — and that would be it.
But of course, it didn’t happen like that. For starters, it was days before I managed to get a seat close enough to him. Then I worked myself up into such a state of anxiety I was shaking as I finally dropped the ticket at Train Man’s feet.
He picked it up. ‘You dropped this,’ he said. (It was the first time I’d heard him speak. His voice was calm, kind.) ‘Thank you,’ I replied in a squeaky falsetto. The well-rehearsed conversation froze on my lips. I was mute with nerves.
Even so, at work that day I updated my friends. ‘I spoke to Train Man!’ I cried and they gathered round to hear about the latest pigeon-step forward in the journey of our non-existent relationship.
Like the heroine of some Victorian novel, I resolved to drop my train ticket near him. I played out the scenario in my mind. I discussed it with my friends
I was having a drink with one of them in May 2004 — almost a year after I’d first seen Train Man and shortly before my 28th birthday — and consoling her on the death of her mum some months earlier.
The talk turned to Train Man. ‘Life is short,’ she said. ‘Make a move. What have you got to lose?’ Nothing, I thought grimly, except my dignity.
But actually, I concluded, she was right. So I decided to write him a letter. I write for a living; even so, it was tricky to find the right tone. ‘It’s my birthday today and everyone should do something frivolous,’ I wrote, ‘So I’d like to invite you for a drink.’
I wanted to seem light-hearted but also witty; breezy yet intelligent.
It was hard to convey it all in a couple of sentences. I’d noted he was reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel One Hundred Years of Solitude.
‘And if you can’t come I’ll leave you to your Solitude and wish you happy travels,’ I ended. I was pleased with the deft literary allusion.
I included my email address — a phone number would have been too pressing, too eager. And on May 14, my birthday, I prepared to give him the note.
I’d worked out a strategy. I’d wait until we were approaching King’s Cross then casually present it.
But when the moment arrived I froze. Train Man was sitting by a door, immersed in his book and I couldn’t find the courage to break into his reverie. It seemed presumptuous — ridiculous even — to disturb him.
Why had I even thought it appropriate? He’d just think I was some weirdo. I walked past him, cursing my cowardice — the moment wasted.
Happy couple: Mark moved into Zoe's house after a couple of days and in 2008 they gave up their jobs - he was an account manager for a marketing company - to spend a year travelling the world together
Ten days later — the note, by now, a little crumpled — the chance presented itself again. I found a seat close to Train Man. It was a Friday. The conditions were propitious. A full weekend stretched ahead in which I could lick my wounds and brush myself down if he ignored or rejected me.
I was shaking with nerves, my legs quaking and jellied, as the train drew into King’s Cross. I walked towards Train Man. I proffered the note.
‘Excuse me, can I give you this?’ I whimpered. Train Man started to blow his nose, suddenly and furiously. He didn’t hear me.
The rest of the carriage had though. Every head, it seemed, swivelled in my direction. I’d broken an unwritten code. I’d spoken to a fellow commuter.
‘Sorry?’ said Train Man, looking confused. His eyes were streaming. He was sneezing. But, I concluded, he looked as gorgeous as ever.
‘Can I give you this?’ I repeated. By now our fellow commuters were riveted by the unfolding tableau. ‘Yes, sure,’ he said, looking baffled, and I thrust the note in his hand and scuttled off into the next carriage.
There I slumped into a seat, exhausted by the tension.
Train Man kept me waiting all day before emailing his rejection. It was a kind let-down. He said how brave I was, but that he had a girlfriend. Of course he did. Guys like him do.
How could I have been so presumptuous, so arrogant to think he would even look at me?
‘Sorry, I seemed out of it. I had hay fever,’ he wrote. ‘Have a great birthday,’ he added. Of course, it wasn’t even my birthday any more. I was crushed; devastated.
My friends consoled me but my heart felt pummelled, bruised. And I visualised the excruciating embarrassment I’d feel on the train on Monday when I saw Train Man again.
Only he wasn’t Train Man any more. He had a name. It was Mark. And he had a girlfriend.
That weekend, I counselled myself. ‘You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of,’ I told myself in my best teen mag agony aunt tone. That Monday on the train I tried to seem nonchalant.
Mark and I exchanged awkward smiles: his out of kindness, mine to let him know I wasn’t a bunny boiler.
I was tempted to move to another carriage but, thinking that might make things worse, I continued as before, and we still didn’t speak. I went on first dates that never made it to a second. I hoped to see Train Man tipsy on late trains home so we could talk. But we never did.
The weeks stretched into months. I tried, without success, to wipe him from my mind.
Adventures: Mark proposed to Zoe, appropriately, on a train journey in Australia, from Darwin to Adelaide. It was dusk; they were crossing the Red Desert. Outside, against a darkling sky, kangaroos hopped
In that instant, it was as if a grainy grey world had become bright with colour. I felt a flush of pure elation. Within five minutes, I’d told 15 people that Train Man had asked me out.
I wondered, for a split second, if I should play it cool. But I couldn’t. I emailed back. ‘I’d love to go for a drink. How about tomorrow?’
So that is how we found ourselves, on January 29, 2005, at the Coopers’ Arms in Hitchin — the town where we both lived — on our first date.
We sat at a table by a crackling fire. He looked gorgeous. Then I discovered he was as dear, as kind, and just as lovely as I’d hoped. We talked easily, fluently and about everything. He told me he’d had only one girlfriend for 11 years — they’d met at school, but grown apart. I hadn’t been the cause of the break-up. The relationship had already been crumbling that morning I’d seen her with him on the station platform and doubted they could be partners because they seemed so aloof.
So I was actually his first ever date, he told me. And he smiled. We talked about the music we liked, our shared love of travel, the Inca Trail we’d both walked. I went to the loo. ‘I love him,’ I told the mirror, my giddy face looking back at me, smiling. I’d spoken the words out loud.
We went back to his flat. We talked into the night, through to the first chink of dawn light and beyond. And as the man he was — caring, kind, patient and sweet — unravelled before me I knew we would never leave each other’s sides.
Wedding day: Zoe and Mark, her Train Man, were married in April 2009 in a tithe barn in the village of Tewin, Hertfordshire, on a day of spring showers and sudden sunshine
And so it turned out. From that day, nine years ago, Train Man and I have been together. He moved into my house after a couple of days and in 2008 we gave up our jobs — he was an account manager for a marketing company — to spend a year travelling the world together.
Mark proposed to me, appropriately, on a train journey in Australia, from Darwin to Adelaide. It was dusk; we were crossing the Red Desert. Outside, against a darkling sky, kangaroos hopped.
‘Will you marry me?’ he asked and the answer — as I’d known it would be on the first day I saw him — was ‘yes’. He had no ring — we improvised with a little shell with a hole through it we’d found on a beach in Indonesia — but that night, in the buffet car, everyone on the train celebrated with us.
We were married in April 2009 in a tithe barn in the village of Tewin, Hertfordshire, on a day of spring showers and sudden sunshine.
I wore a vintage Thirties gown and a Mexican mariachi band played. My dad, the poet John Gohorry, wrote a poem for us about our meeting on the train. Everything was perfect, as I always knew it would be.
Our first son, Felix, was a honeymoon baby. Max was born a year later. Mark and I go to work on different trains now — I’m in the office only two days a week, the rest of the time I work from home — but I still feel I’m on the journey of a lifetime.
I love Mark, just as much as I predicted I would. And to this day, I still call him my Train Man.
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