Excerpt from Iona Iverson's Rules for Commuting by Clare Pooley, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Was he going to die, right here on the 08:05? Before they even got to Waterloo?

TWO
Piers
08:13 Surbiton to Waterloo

Piers's day was not going at all to plan. For a start, this was not his usual train. He liked to be in the City before the markets opened, but today's routine had been thrown completely off course due to Candida firing the au pair the day before.

Magda had been their third au pair this year, and Piers had held out high hopes for her lasting at least until the end of the school term. Then they'd returned early from a disastrous weekend away en famille to discover Magda in bed with the landscape gardener, and cocaine residue and a rolled-up banknote on a hardback copy of The Gruffalo. Piers might have been able to persuade Candida to let Magda off with a warning, since she'd been off duty at the time, but the besmirching of the children's favorite bedtime story had been the final straw. How can I read that story again without imagining Tomaso exploring Magda's deep, dark wood? Candida had yelled.

Things had gone further downhill when Piers had finally boarded a train at Surbiton, to discover that the only free seat, at a table for four, was opposite the weird lady and her apartment-faced, wheezy dog. Piers didn't usually see her in the morning, but she was an irritatingly familiar sight on his return journey. He obviously wasn't the only commuter who tried hard to avoid her, since she was often flanked by the only unoccupied seats.

Crazy Dog Woman was looking even more ridiculous than usual, wearing a crimson suit upholstered in a tweed fabric that would have been much more at home covering the furniture in a primary school.

Piers did a quick mental calculation on the pros and cons of standing until he got to Waterloo versus sitting opposite the sofa in heels. Then he noticed that the girl sitting next to the empty seat was rather gorgeous. He was pretty sure he'd seen her on the train before. Piers recognized the little gap between her two front teeth-a tiny imperfection that tipped the balance of her face from blandly pretty to captivating. He may even have winked at her-one of those silent moments of communion shared by those attractive and successful commuters who found themselves stranded in a sea of mediocre humanity, like high-performance racing cars in a Costco parking lot.

She was in her late twenties, probably, wearing a tight pink skirt, which he was sure displayed a perfect pair of legs, sadly hidden under the table, with a white T-shirt and a black blazer. She must have some trendy media job that allowed dressing down all week, not just on Fridays. Having some eye candy for the journey swung the balance in favor of sitting down.

Piers pulled out his phone to check on his key positions. He'd lost so much money last week that he needed this week to be spectacular. He sent out a silent prayer to the gods of the markets, while taking a grape from the small fruit salad he'd picked up at the convenience store by the station. He'd spent so long trying to get the kids to eat their breakfast while fending off cries of Where's Magda? We want Magda! that he'd neglected to eat his own. He'd hovered over the pain au chocolat in the bakery section, but Candida had banned him from eating pastries, as she said he was getting fat. Fat?!? He was actually in remarkably good shape for his age. Still, he held his stomach in, just in case, conscious of the girl sitting next to him.

Piers goggled at the numbers on his screen. Surely that couldn't be right? Dartington Digital had been a dead cert. He took a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, then felt something lodge deep in the back of his throat. He tried to breathe, but it just settled in further. He atempted a cough, but it had no impact on the obstruction whatsoever. Stay calm, he told himself. Think. It's only a grape. But he could feel himself being overwhelmed by a wave of fear and helplessness.

Excerpted from Iona Iverson's Rules for Commuting by Clare Pooley. Copyright © 2022 by Clare Pooley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.