You can’t turn back now, she told herself firmly, even as she realized she was looking up longingly at the Departures board in the station to see what time the next train left for London. That would be completely pathetic. Riseholme Station, half an hour out of Leeds, had had a major makeover: where previously the facing platforms had been bare wastelands of old shuttered offices whose doors were locked and bolted, their paint crumbling, they were now bright and inviting little café outlets called Pumpkin or Dee-Vine, serving coffees and calorie-counted chicken wraps. Deeley bought a cappuccino, even though the chubby, pink-cheeked girl behind the counter admitted to her, embarrassed, that they only had half-fat milk. ‘We don’t get much call for skim,’ she mumbled, taking in Deeley’s appearance with a mixture of admiration and envy. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ ‘I used to be,’ Deeley said, taking the coffee and dropping a pound in the tip jar; the girl’s eyes opened wide with appreciation.
