Read Ten Stories About Smoking for Free Online Page A

stuttered, then stood up for no
good reason. There was a pause, a long one. Eventually, I asked her how she’d got my number.
    ‘You’re on the Internet,’ she said.
    ‘I’m on the Internet?’ I said.
    ‘Everyone’s on the Internet,’ she said.
    I asked her what she wanted. She asked if I was with someone. I said no, not really. She told me she’d booked us a hotel. I asked where. She said Swindon.
    ‘What’s in Swindon?’ I said.
    ‘I will be.’
    ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I mean—’
    ‘Oh come on,’ Angela said, ‘we both know you’re going to say yes, so why waste the time?’

    I had never been to Swindon before, and all things considered, it is unlikely I will ever go to Swindon again. On the train, there was something about the look on the
passengers’ faces, a certain kind of blankness. I burrowed into my seat and took out a newspaper, but realized I’d read it all at breakfast. Instead I went to the buffet car and came
back with some Chinese nuts and a can of Bass. In the silent carriage, I apologetically opened the can and crunched the snacks. I tried the crossword, but couldn’t concentrate on even the
simplest clue.
    We arrived and in the midst of a stream of impatient commuters, I made my way out of the station. The line for the taxis was long and I waited behind a couple recently reunited by the 17.04 from
Cardiff. The woman had her hand in the man’s back pocket, and he was kissing her. Even in Swindon, I thought, train station kisses are the most romantic of all.
    Eventually I got a cab, and the driver tried to engage me in conversation – something about bus lanes – but I ignored him and looked out the window, hugging my overnight bag to my
chest. Swindon looked like a business park that had got out of hand. There was an eerie, almost American sadness to it; the entertainment parks, the shopping malls, the parades of smoked glass
office blocks, their windows reflecting the dying sun. The hotel was at the intersection of several arterial roads, a squat building cowering against the flow of traffic.

    The hotel lobby was shockingly bright, decorated with plasticky blonde wood. The receptionist – a young man with ginger stubble – was sullen and gittish. I told him
there was a reservation in the name of Fulton and he puffed out his cheeks.
    ‘Yes, that’s correct, sir. However, the reservation appears to be for a Ms Fulton, sir. And we require the person named on the reservation to be present before any party can
take possession of their room or rooms,’ he said.
    ‘Did Angela not put my name down as well?’
    ‘Evidently not,’ the receptionist said and waving his hand answered the ringing telephone.
    I stood there not knowing exactly what to do. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the receptionist said into the receiver, ‘would you mind holding for one moment, madam?’ He turned to
me.
    ‘Sir, why don’t you wait for your friend in the bar?’ he said, pointing to some double doors. I picked up my holdall and followed his outstretched arm.

    The bar was just as plasticky and woody, and just as garishly lit. There was a drunken party of young women sitting around a huge round table and three Japanese businessmen
silently drinking Stella Artois. I ordered a gin and tonic. It felt like the right kind of drink to be seen with by an ex-lover – from a distance it could easily be sparkling water. The
barman was sullen and gittish. He tried to get me to order some olives. I ordered some olives.
    Angela arrived soon after. She looked older, but in a good way. Her hair was kinky and her eyes fizzed like Coca-Cola. She stood at the bar and drank the remainder of my gin and tonic.
    ‘Say nothing,’ she said and took me by the hand.

    The bedroom was brown and cream and functional. She sparkled in her silver dress and pushed me against the wall. For a moment we were twenty again. She guided us both back to a
time when we didn’t need to worry about interest rates and love