Okay, so let us start with Gwyneth Ashcroft, daughter of Steven F. Ashcroft and Linda V. Fletcher.
A girl of 20 years, unsure of everything and often forgetful.
She is a university graduate and is looking for a job.
Her mother was a simple hospital nurse, once traveled the world.
Her father was Steven F. Ashcroft, a pilot who now works as a mailman.
A wealthy one.
Her mother told her to go and visit her aunt living in Dover one day and was told to bring her passport along so that she could renew it as well.
“Gwyneth, be a dear and sent your Aunt a present, alright? Something nice like flowers or a basket of bread. Don’t forget to bring your passport, you need to renew it. Oh, and remember, Ashford Station, then get off at the next station.”
So she bought and did so and so.
Her aunt told her a story of Parisian love blah blah
And then she got lost while she was going back.
Wait lah. So apparently she gets back to Ashford, and the midst of the rush hour crowd, she gets pushed into a train. Which she thought was the right one.
She even had her passport stamped before that.
Only when the train entered the Channel tunnel did she realise her mistake.
Okay. So, feeling distraught, she plunked herself into a seat. She messaged her mother and father respectively, who replied with “Have a fun trip” and “Bon Voyage.”
Feeling more anxious and left to face an unknown place, Gwyneth slumped into her seat, slowly looking up to see an amused expression planted on a dashing young man’s face.
Gwyneth was perplexed and insulted as to how such a man was amused and entertained by her problem.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
His voice was husky, a tenor.
Something about him made her blush. Perhaps it was his voice, or his expression.
She didn’t know, but somewhere in the deep folds of what was considered her heart, a dove was released, as though freed.
“I..no. Of course not.”
She turned away, focusing on the mass of green whizzing past the windows, the landscape bathed in a hue of soft gold, the sky darkening into an azure blueish-green.
“Is there anything the matter?”
Again, the voice gently tapped onto her ears, a faint hint of French noticeable in his words.
“I don’t think it concerns you.”
“How can you be so sure.”
“You look troubled, your hands are clammy, your eyes are displaying a forlorn expression. Your thoughts are racing through your mind. You wonder how you managed to get onto the wrong train. And now you’re stuck with no money, no luggage and noone who could possibly help you in a foreign land. Or so I think.”
How could the man ever knew her predicament so precisely? Was he a stalker she wasn’t aware of? A secret admirer?
Of course not, she hadn’t any luck with guys. She had been too busy and caught up with chasing her studies.
Then again, how?
“Are you some sort of a stalker or pervert?”
“Mon dieu! Non, non. I am but a traveller.”