A Night on the Orient Express (12 page)

Instead of intruding, Riley sat down and enjoyed the tableau. The girl was exquisite. She’d never make a model – far too short, far too curvaceous – but she had a warmth and radiance that drew the eye. And the bloke was good-looking in a slightly dishevelled, Richard Curtis-movie sort of a way, with a mop of flyaway chestnut hair he kept pushing back from his eyes. His lack of vanity, of course, made him all the more attractive. Riley could see he was finding this pantomime torture. Many people hated being photographed, but this guy really loathed the limelight. Riley wondered why on earth he was putting up with being ordered around by that ghastly woman in the grey suit, and whether the two of them were actually going on the train. Maybe he’d find out more about them on the journey. He knew from experience that was half the fun of going on the Orient Express – the people-watching. He and Sylvie had spent years speculating, surmising, making up stories . . .

Sylvie. He looked at the clock. Less than twelve hours now until she was due to board the train in Paris. It was extraordinary, at his age, that he could feel so excited about seeing someone he had known for so long. Despite everything that had happened recently, he felt young. As young as the couple he’d been staring at, and as full of hope.

It took a brush with death, he thought, to make you realise how lucky you were. He’d been flung across the back of the taxi when it had hit the other car. Of course he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt. Had he been in a less sturdy vehicle, he might have come off far worse. He was lucky to get away with just damaging a kidney through the impact. It had been painful and debilitating, and he had felt helpless in the hospital during the two weeks it had taken to ascertain that it was still functioning and that he wasn’t going to lose it. Day after day he had lain in excruciating agony while they drained the blood off, and only one thought had got him through it.

The moment he was released from hospital he got straight into another cab.

‘Bond Street,’ he told the driver.

It was time to do what he should have done years ago.

The Pullman, resplendent in chocolate and cream livery, basked in the April sunshine on Platform Two, smug in the knowledge that it was quite the most magnificent train at Victoria Station that day. People hurrying to and from the more prosaic commuter trains cast admiring glances, wondering if one day they might be lucky enough to pass through the glass turnstile, as a steady stream of passengers was now doing. The sense of occasion was palpable: everyone seemed to have a spring in their step, eager to get on board. In front of the train, white-jacketed waiters and gold-buttoned stewards awaited their passengers, confident in the knowledge that everything had been done to ensure the first leg of their journey was special, until they finally climbed on board the wagon-lits of the Orient Express in France.

Archie escorted Emmie, his arm in hers, along the platform. He was in too deep now, he thought. There was no escape. He’d put her straight as soon as he could, he thought, his eagle eye seeking out the carriage they had been allocated. There it was, flagged by a crested sign. Its name, Ibis, was emblazoned on the side. She was the oldest of the carriages, once used as part of the glamorous Deauville Express in the twenties, transporting decadently wealthy Parisians to the casino. Who knew what scandal and secrets lay inside her?

Inside, the dining car was like the most luxurious restaurant. The shining marquetry depicted medallions of Greek dancing girls. Tables of two or four were laid with pristine tablecloths, the chairs upholstered in pale-blue upholstery. Bone-china plates were flanked by gleaming silver cutlery, and a range of crystal glasses, etched with the Orient Express crest, stood to attention.

As the passengers were shown to their tables they were each handed a Bellini, a luscious concoction of fresh peach juice and Prosecco, a taste of Venice to come. They sank into their seats with sighs of satisfaction and anticipation. Bags were stowed overhead in the luggage racks, newspapers unfurled, excited texts with accompanying photographs were sent. It was another world, a step back in time and away from reality.

Archie and Emmie were shown into their own private compartment at the end of the carriage with an etched glass door that shut them off from the rest of the passengers. The two of them slid onto the cushioned banquettes, upholstered in cream and blue and complete with snow-white antimacassars.

‘This is amazing. This is so amazing,’ breathed Emmie, wide-eyed at her surroundings.

‘Yes,’ agreed Archie, despite his cynicism. It was impossible not to be impressed.

She stared around. ‘You can just imagine what went on here years ago. Strangers on a train. Their eyes meeting across the compartment.’ She looked around her, eyes shining. ‘How many people have fallen in love in here, do you think?’

Archie was nonplussed. ‘I have no idea.’ In his head, people were using the train to get from A to B. He felt awkward. Emmie was obviously a girl who lived for romance. Maybe she really did have her hopes pinned on Archie? She’d filled out the application, after all. She was obviously looking for a partner. Why else had she entered the competition? His mouth went dry with panic. He’d have to come clean.

As he was about to speak, a steward appeared, immaculate in a crisp white shirt, black tie and black jacket, proffering a bottle of Bollinger.

‘Compliments of Not On The Shelf, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ Archie said, and raised an eyebrow at Emmie. ‘Might as well start the journey in style.’

He wasn’t sure what the champagne would do for his headache, but it was kill or cure.

With perfect timing, the stationmaster blew his whistle. They sat back in their seats and looked out of the window as the train started up and slid graciously out of the station. On the platform, those left behind waved furiously until the track curved around and the engine was out of sight. The bottle opened with a satisfying pop, and the steward poured them each a glass of champagne with expert precision, the bubbles glowing golden in the sunshine as they headed over the Thames and past the towers of Battersea power station.

‘Well,’ said Archie. ‘Here we are.’

The two of them clinked glasses. Emmie smiled, but Archie couldn’t quite look her in the eye.

‘Before we go any further,’ he said, ‘there is something I really ought to tell you.’

D
anny didn’t understand how anyone coped with London – the traffic, the congestion, the queues, the jams. Even on a motorbike, which meant he could weave in and out of the traffic, it was taking him far longer than he expected. The A4 had been chock-a-block. He thought his heart was going to burst with the frustration.

He wasn’t usually given to dramatic gestures. The truth of it was, nothing had ever mattered to him before. Not like this. But after all this time, now he had come so close, he wasn’t going to let her go.

He’d never told anyone, but he had been utterly captivated by Imogen when he was at school. She was so quietly confident, so sure of her way in the world. Not brazen, like so many of the girls. The ones who met his eye boldly and made it clear what they wanted from him weren’t the ones he wanted. But Imogen, who had no real idea of her presence and the effect it had – he couldn’t describe the feelings she awoke in him. Maybe if he’d paid more attention in English he could have found the words, but all he knew was that it was like a fire inside, a flame that he couldn’t put out, no mattered how hard he tried.

He didn’t think she even noticed him. He watched her whenever he could. Bent over her hymn-book at assembly, one of the few who actually bothered to sing properly, her red lips mouthing the words. In the corridor, her regulation green jumper baggy, as was the fashion, yet still managing to cling to the curve of her breasts. In the cafeteria, where she unpacked her lunchbox with precision: sandwiches on granary bread, flapjack that looked home-made, a rosy red apple. Everything about her spoke of a life that was a million miles from his. She was cared for – not spoilt or pampered, but looked after and protected. He longed to be her protector, but the idea was laughable. He almost couldn’t bear the torture, the daily knowledge that a girl like Imogen would never be interested in him as she brushed past him on the stairs, oblivious, leaving behind that clean, lemony scent.

Until he had found her on the road that night, after a party, drunk, bedraggled and abandoned, and it was the first time he’d ever felt in a position of strength, as if he had something to offer her. He had never forgotten the feeling of her warm body pressed against his back as he drove her home. He remembered the expectation, the moment when he thought she might have asked him in. He saw the desire in her eyes, but of course she didn’t. He’d tried to be as chivalrous as he knew how, but he knew he’d never be invited over the threshold of Bridge House. That night he had accepted he would never be part of her life, and tried to erase her memory.

Ironically, it was being arrested that was the making of him, when a bungled job meant he ended up taking the rap for two of his brothers. They already had form and would have got much stiffer sentences, so he did the noble thing, but it was a shock when he got sent to a young offenders’ institute. He supposed they were making an example of him. In the end, he only did a few months, but being inside was a real wake-up call. Danny realised that in the grand scheme of things he wasn’t bad at all, and never wanted to spend any more time at her Majesty’s pleasure – because next time round it would be a real prison. The institution was bad enough. He was able to look after himself, but you could never be off your guard. The worst thing was the boredom. Time dragged, and frustration gnawed at him until he thought he would scream. At which point he discovered the opportunities available to him and, with the help of a tutor, started a course in business studies.

Once he was let out, he didn’t carry on. Danny wasn’t interested in qualifications, but it had given him a taste for a legitimate business. Something wicked inside him saw the humour in becoming a security consultant. He didn’t go back to Shallowford because he feared his reputation would go before him, so he settled in the Thames Valley, near Reading. He started small, knocking on doors and offering to install home systems. After five years he was in demand, specialising in pubs and restaurants, teaching landlords how to spot if their employees’ fingers were in the till. His turnover doubled, tripled, quadrupled. And Annabel, a glamorous fifty-something landlady from a Thameside gastro-pub, let him into her heart. She was raucously posh, fearless, passionate, ruthless, and he learned from her, hungrily.

He was surprised how much simpler it was to be straight. There was no ducking and diving and bobbing and weaving. You did a day’s work for a day’s pay and that was it. When he visited his family – as infrequently as he could, though he wanted to make sure his mum was all right – they thought he was mad and had gone soft. They laughed at him for paying his taxes and not signing on, but at least he had a clear conscience. And actually, he was better off. He might have to work for the money he had in his bank account, but it was better than scamming and nicking and scrounging and constantly watching your back. And he found he got more pleasure from spending his own money than the ill-gotten gains he was used to.

And then Annabel had gently ended their relationship. She was selling up, moving to the South of France, and although she was very fond of Danny, she didn’t think their bond would survive the move. He was sorry, but not devastated. Annabel had given him confidence, and if not a taste then at least a curiosity for the finer things, but he knew only too well she was far from being the love of his life.

Somehow the time seemed right for him to move back to his hometown. His mum was getting old. She suffered from lupus, and none of his siblings could be bothered to help. He had no intention of moving back into the heart of the rabble, but he wanted to be able to check on her on a regular basis.

A friend of a friend had told him about the cottage on the Shallowford Manor estate. He didn’t think he would get it, as he had no references, but he’d struck a deal with the estate manager. It turned out that the manor house needed a security update. Danny got the contract, and a six-month renewable lease on Woodbine Cottage.

He couldn’t believe how happy it made him. The peace was incredible. He stepped out of his front door at night and looked up at the stars above, breathing in the freezing air, and felt a glow of contentment. The only time in his life he had been alone like this was when he was in prison, in his cell. But that had been different. An imposed, enforced alone. Not the kind that made you feel free. He cut wood for his log burner, and bought a book that helped him recognise the stars. He got a scrappy ginger kitten because he was sure he’d heard mice in the roof. He called him Top Cat, after his favourite childhood cartoon. He cut down on his drinking, and felt better for it. He bought an acoustic guitar, and tried to play along with his favourite songs. He was no great musical talent, but he enjoyed it. Gradually, he felt as if the real Danny was emerging. He was no angel – he still had a wild streak, an urge for danger – but he felt as if his energies were being put to more constructive use.

And then, that afternoon, he had glimpsed Imogen through the window of the gallery and something told him this was his only chance. What was the worst that could happen? He knew she wasn’t seeing anyone else. One of the few advantages of living in Shallowford was you could find out anything you wanted about anyone. He was a man now, not a callow schoolboy. He knew that if you didn’t ask, you didn’t get.

And he’d got her. By some miracle, he had got the girl of his dreams. She lit up his house with her warmth and her laughter. He felt safe when he woke up with her in his arms. Safe and sure and happy for the first time in his life. Optimistic that he had a meaningful future. He had thought she felt it too.

But then, mind-blowing sex did that to you: made you feel as if you had more of a connection with someone than you really did. It covered up the fact that deep down you had nothing in common. Imogen had obviously woken up to that sooner than he had. She was the one who had drawn the short straw, after all.