A Night on the Orient Express (25 page)

‘Please don’t,’ she pleaded, but she did nothing to remove herself from his grip.

‘Come to Venice with me,’ he said. ‘In the spring. I’m going to visit some clients, see some artists. We can be together. Just you and me.’

She shut her eyes. This was sheer torture. How could she have imagined that Jack wouldn’t put temptation in her way? His ego was too big not to try and lure her back, just to prove he could.

‘Absolutely not,’ she managed.

‘I’m going from Paris. At the beginning of April. That gives you plenty of time to tussle with your conscience and find an excuse.’

He ran his finger down her spine, stopping where her dress began. Then he walked away, back into the throng of the party, leaving her barely able to stand.

Ten minutes later, he and Rosamund emerged from the throng and said their goodbyes.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Rosamund, kissing Adele coolly on one cheek.

‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,’ sang Johnny Mathis.

The final guests left just after midnight. Adele and William left the gallery and locked it. She had arranged for Mrs Morris to come in and tidy up the next day. She would be glad of the extra money to buy her grandchildren’s Christmas presents.

In their bedroom, William chattered about what a success the evening had been, making comments on the guests and the décor, but eventually he too fell silent, sensing she didn’t want conversation.

‘Darling, I’m so sorry,’ she told him. ‘I’m absolutely exhausted and that punch was far too strong. Let’s talk about it in the morning. I am desperate to go to bed.’

In the bathroom she finally let the tears stream down her face, just for a few moments, because otherwise she felt she would die with the effort of keeping them in. She splashed her face with cold water and hoped William wouldn’t notice anything untoward.

Jack had told her he missed her. Jack had told her he needed her. Jack had told her she meant more to him than anyone. Once, those words would have been a dream come true. Now she just wanted to forget them. She couldn’t go back to the turmoil, the torture, the madness.

She curled up in bed, feeling hopeless. She gave herself a strict talking to. It was Christmas. Christmas was for family, and for the boys. She wasn’t to spoil it because she’d been a fool. She was to put her mistake behind her and look ahead to the New Year. There was no need for her to decide what her resolution was to be. It was obvious. Forget about Jack Molloy once and for all and never, ever be tempted to contact him again.

I
t was five o’clock and dawn was thinking about breaking. The sky was gradually turning from deep navy to smoky grey as the Orient Express glided past Lake Zurich, an expanse of tranquillity the colour of the moon. The inhabitants of the houses on its shores were, if they had any sense, still tucked up in bed, as were most of the passengers on the train. Except a very few, who were bad sleepers. Or early risers. Or who had something on their mind.

Beth opened the door of her cabin and crept out into the corridor. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t sleep. Her bunk was perfectly comfortable, but her mind wouldn’t switch off. Over and over and over it all it went. One minute she could convince herself everything was going to be fine, that she had nothing to worry about. And the next she was breaking out in a cold sweat of panic. In the end, she decided to get up.

She sat at the little table at the end of the corridor that was there for passengers to look out at the scenery from. The blinds were down, but Beth lifted the end one carefully. By now, the sky was heading for palest pearl. She put her head in one hand and gazed out, wondering if there was anyone else awake out there. Anyone like her, who was worried sick about something.

It would be five weeks on Saturday since it happened, she estimated. She replayed it over in her head constantly, wishing she could stop at the point of no return and go back again. Where would she stop, she wondered? The point at which she had decided to go out? The point at which she had decided to go back to Connor’s flat? The point at which . . .

What on earth had got into her? She had no time for girls who made idiots of themselves with boys and then got hysterical. Beth always liked to think of herself as sorted. She didn’t get wild crushes. She always kept her head and knew what she was doing, even after a skin-full. She could, after all, drink for England. She and Jamie had put in enough training together. The one thing about divorcing parents was that they didn’t notice when the drinks cabinet was suspiciously empty.

Beth’s friends had persuaded her to go and see Jamie’s band at a pub called the Greyhound. Because it was her own brother, Beth was far from enthusiastic – she could watch them play in the garage at home for nothing if she wanted to. But her friend Zanna was totally obsessed with the lead singer.

‘They’re not even that good,’ Beth told Zanna. ‘They’re like a wannabe Nirvana. But they keep forgetting they’re in Shepherds Bush, not Seattle.’

Like many nights that you don’t look forward to, though, it had turned out to be amazing. Someone had decided that jugs of margaritas were the way forward. At the end, Beth had got chatting to the band’s new bass player. She hadn’t met Connor before, and she was entranced by his grey eyes with the dark rings round the irises, and his shaggy long fringe which he continually brushed out of the way, and the shy, sexy smile that made her feel unsettled.

And when she realised that everyone else was going on to an after-party somewhere, including Zanna, and including Jamie, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to hang back and go home with him.

‘I’m not an after-party person,’ he told her.

‘Nor me,’ she agreed. Even though she so was. But it looked as if they were going to have their own party, for two, so that was OK.

At his flat, he put on a Nick Drake album and tossed her a can of beer. She curled up on the sofa, which looked pretty grubby, but in the candlelight it didn’t matter so much. Especially when he came to sit next to her. Then started to kiss her.

He stroked her and it made her purr like a cat and she stretched out next to him, eager for more. When he slid his hand inside her jeans, she didn’t protest. It was too wonderful. Even now, her skin tingled at the memory. It had seemed so natural at the time.

Afterwards, she had fallen asleep in his arms.

And woken with a sense of dread three hours later. He was out cold on the sofa next to her. The grungy hair she’d found so attractive the night before now just looked slightly matted. She shivered with dawn cold, crawling about in the semi-darkness trying to find her clothes, sick with the realisation of what she had done. She wasn’t usually the sort of girl not to have safe sex. But she’d been so drunk. And she’d been so turned on. She could remember telling him it didn’t matter. How the hell could she have been so stupid?

She sat by him on the bed for five minutes, trying to pluck up the courage to wake him. But he suddenly looked unapproachable. All her bravado and confidence had gone. Her mouth was dry with fear and the salt from the margaritas.

She went into the bathroom. She must have been in there last night, but she couldn’t remember, because if she had seen what was in there she would have been out of his flat like a shot. A turquoise kimono on the back of the door. Bottles of Prada perfume, and lipsticks, and Dirty Girl body scrub and a pink toothbrush.

She stormed back out and thumped him in the back.

‘Ow!’ He looked up at her, indignant.

‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘Chill. She’s away till Tuesday. Some training course.’

‘That’s not the point. If I’d known you had a girlfriend I would never—’

He looked up at her from under his fringe. The grin she had found so alluring last night was now evident as a leer. ‘Yes, you would. You were gagging for it.’

Beth, never knowingly lost for words, didn’t know what to say. Sourness seeped up into her mouth from her stomach, terror mixed with tequila. She burst into tears.

‘Oh Christ,’ said Connor.

‘Get me a taxi!’ she wailed.

‘Get one yourself,’ he told her, and pulled a cushion over his head.

For a moment she stood there, open-mouthed in indignation. No one treated her like that. No one. But he showed no sign of showing her any attention, so she found her bag, and her coat.

She kicked him.

‘Where’s the nearest Tube?’

He looked up. ‘Ravenscourt Park,’ he mumbled, and fell back to sleep.

For days afterwards she waited for Connor to contact her. Nothing nothing nothing. No text, no Facebook message. She didn’t say anything to Jamie. She felt ashamed, and foolish, and she knew Jamie would be furious with her. He usually watched her like a hawk – what she was doing and who she was with – though he hadn’t been so observant that night, she thought ruefully. Her fault – she’d told him she was going back to a mate’s and he’d believed her. If he knew what Connor had done, he’d lamp him. They might fight like cats and dogs at home, but outside Jamie was fiercely protective of his sister.

Every time Jamie went off to a gig, she wondered if Connor was going through the same ritual. Picking up some unsuspecting girl, making her feel like one in a million – then dropping her. Or was he happily back with whoever’s stuff had been in the bathroom? Had Beth just been a one-off, one-night stand? She felt humiliated, and used, and ashamed. She couldn’t talk to any of her friends about it: they’d think she was a skank. Some of her mates were sleeping with their boyfriends, but they didn’t sleep with people they’d only just met . . .

In the meantime, the other nagging worry wouldn’t go away. Beth looked out at the lake. It was immense. She thought about walking into it, walking and walking till the water went over her head. She could sleep forever then, and all her worries would vanish.

The door next to her cabin opened, and out came Stephanie, wrapped in her dressing gown.

‘Hi.’ Stephanie smiled at her. She was whispering. ‘Are you OK? How long have you been out here? You must be freezing.’

She rubbed Beth’s shoulders. It was a gesture of affection. It made Beth want to cry. She looked up at her.

‘I think I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Oh my God. Why had she said that?

Stephanie tucked her hair behind her ears and knelt down beside Beth, who was now weeping into her hands, her elbows on the little table.

‘What do you mean? How do you know?’

‘I’m two weeks late. I’m never late. Never.’

Stephanie took in the information. ‘Ok. So . . . who . . . how . . . when?’

Beth wasn’t about to divulge the more intimate details.

‘You so don’t need to know all that,’ she told her.

She tried to wipe her tears away but they wouldn’t stop.

‘Oh you poor thing. Come here.’ Stephanie reached over and gave her a big squeeze. ‘So are you sure? Have you done a test?’

Beth shook her head. ‘I haven’t dared.’

‘It’s really early days, right? You need to find out for sure, if you are or you aren’t. And then . . .’

Beth put a hand on her non-existent tummy. ‘Don’t even go there with the termination thing. I couldn’t do it.’

Stephanie’s face was a mixture of sympathetic and pained. ‘No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to.’

‘You want to bet?’ Beth looked defiant.

‘Of course they won’t. They’ll just help you make the best decision that’s right for you.’

Beth shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

She was starting to panic. Her voice was getting louder. The last thing they needed was people starting to pop their heads out of their cabins to see what the kerfuffle was. It was still only just past five o’clock.

‘Let’s go to the bar,’ said Stephanie. ‘We can talk in there. We’re going to wake everyone up otherwise.’

Beth acquiesced, somewhat wearily, and the two of them made their way up the train, padding along in their slippers. The bar was, not surprisingly, empty and the grand piano stood silent – it was strange seeing it so quiet, after such merriment the night before. A steward appeared, not remotely flustered that they needed attention at this hour of the morning, and offered to bring them hot chocolate.

‘Perfect.’ Stephanie smiled her thanks and turned back to Beth, who was huddled in her seat, miserable. How well she remembered the misery of teenagedom. How every problem appeared monumental and insurmountable, and everyone seemed to be against you. Not that she’d ever had Beth’s particular problem. She’d had friends who had, though. Everything had always turned out all right in the end.

‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘It’ll be OK.’

Two tears squeezed themselves out. Beth wiped them away with her sleeve.

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she said.

‘First, we need to find out if you really are pregnant.’ Stephanie knew the staff on board were obliging, but it was unlikely they could rustle up a pregnancy-testing kit at this hour of the morning. ‘We’ll have to wait until we get to Venice.’

‘But I must be,’ moaned Beth. ‘I’m never late. And I did have . . .’

She shut her eyes tight at the memory.

‘Unprotected sex?’ Stephanie prompted.

‘Yeah,’ Beth managed. ‘With Jamie’s bass player. After a gig. He doesn’t want anything to do with me now . . .’

‘Jamie’s bass player? Where was Jamie when this happened?’

‘He didn’t know anything about it. Honestly. It’s not his fault. Don’t tell him. He’ll go mad. He’ll kill Connor.’

‘Connor?’ Stephanie’s tone was grim as she said his name. ‘That’s the one who’s got them the deal, right?’

‘Please. Don’t tell anyone. Anything.’

Stephanie felt responsibility settle itself onto her shoulders, stifling and claustrophobic, like a too-tight sweater. Whatever she said and did now would have an effect on everything: her relationship with Beth, her relationship with Simon, Simon’s relationship with Beth . . . Family life, she was starting to realise, was an intricate and complicated affair. You had to be answerable to every action, everything you said. And what of Jamie in all of this? Surely if he knew about this revelation it would affect his decision?