I knocked before I'd fully thought through my leading line. So unlike me.

I'm a senior journalist for Women's Health. I'd been writing a regular column in national publications for over a decade. Proofreading and peer reviews were also part of my repertoire. Networking with celebrities from around the world was no foreign to me than my own palms.

But for a very telling reason, I was questioning the surety of my own presence on this 'stranger's' doorstep.

Nine days ago, I'd begun my day like most others. A grande Paul's coffee cup in one hand and a Metro newspaper in the other. I preferred paper copies to scrolling the news on my phone as it made me feel nostalgic for the days of frantic editing, seldom seen around the office these days.

I arrived at Tring station and entered the ticket hall. Reaching into my mac pocket as I neared the barrier, I drew my travel pass to board the six thirty seven train to Euston. I futilely tapped the card reader for the seventh time acutely aware I was being watched.

"Hi, Jeremy?" I'd said, brandishing my ticket ignoring the enquiries queue line. His National Rail uniform hung loosely off his lanky frame and I frowned as his head and uniform shook before he continued speaking to other customers. Two minutes remained when I'd finally managed to inquire about my faulty ticket.

"Your ticket's expired ma'am. I'll not permit you onto the train unless you buy a valid one." I scowled under my breath and restrained myself from screaming at the lady in the ticket booth. Not that it would have been undeserved.

I doubled speed down the stairs and reached the train as the conductor blew his final whistle pips. Flustered and a hot mess, I boarded the train. Only advanced ticket purchasers were allowed to sit in the First Class section of the train. Instead, I reluctantly joined the second class passengers. The smells in the carriage were overwhelming. The windows were closed intensifying the deathly mix; babies, bacon, the beginnings of body odour already seeping through.

The bitterness of a rich Arabian coffee blend.

Then it hit me. I'd left my cup on the desk during the commotion this morning. Thirty minutes later a passenger who'd been writing in a red book stood from their seat.

"Alight here for Ashford International, and services to other destinations." The overhead intercom announced.

I stumbled as a man roughly brushed passed me, jogging my arm and bumping me into disembarking passengers. I pulled my metro and spilt books from being trapped in the door as they closed.

Later, I realised something didn't belong to me. The red journal. The inside cover read: "I'm forgetful. Here's my address." Within, quaint observations of an out-of-his-league woman. The likeness of my disastrous day to the last entry was uncanny. They'd concluded, "...can words deliver love?"

So here I was, 'investigative journalist', at a stranger's door.

The door opened.

***

500 words for the Ambassadors #aimtoengage month long contest for ChickLit

Words flow better when I have time to write...