A Night on the Orient Express (3 page)

If Adele had had her way, the boys would have stayed on at the village school and then gone on to the grammar in Filbury at eleven, but that was a battle she was never going to win. Tony and Tim were destined for the same schools their father William had been to, in the time-honoured tradition of the British upper-middle classes.

So, she had known the day was coming, she had dreaded it, and now it had been and gone it was even worse than she had thought it would be. She didn’t spend the days lying on her bed sobbing, but her heart felt as empty as the house.

Added to which, the twins’ departure had coincided with William leaving too. Just after they married, the Russells had bought Bridge House because of the coach house attached, which had served as William’s surgery for over ten years. Although Adele hadn’t been directly involved, her role as the doctor’s wife had been one she had taken seriously, engaging on a daily basis with his patients and being concerned with their welfare.

But now William had joined three other GPs to set up a modern practice in Filbury, five miles away. It was part of the NHS drive to make medical care more accessible. It was exciting for him – revolutionary – but it involved so much decision-making, so much more responsibility. So much more time. She barely saw him, and when he did come home, he was burdened with paperwork and reports. When he’d practised from Bridge House, he’d had morning surgery from nine until midday, then again from two until four, and that had been it, apart from being on call to answer emergencies and deliver difficult babies.

And thus Adele felt lonely and useless and rather sad. And, if she was honest, a tiny bit resentful towards her husband. If she was feeling particularly self-pitying, she blamed him for sending the boys away and then abandoning her. What did he expect her to do with her time?

Yet Adele wasn’t really the type to bear a grudge or bemoan her lot. She was a doer, which was presumably why William assumed she could cope. And which was why, at twenty past nine on a Tuesday morning, she had already done everything she needed. She’d walked up the high street to the butcher for tonight’s supper, and bought a punnet of plums to make a crumble – that would take all of ten minutes. There was no housework to be done, for she had Mrs Morris, her daily help. There was a coffee morning up at the town hall but she had a horrible feeling that she might, just might, burst into tears if anyone asked her how the twins were getting on, and that would make her feel foolish. She’d had her dark curls washed and set the day before, and had welled up when the hairdresser had enquired as to their wellbeing.

She picked up the local weekly newspaper and leafed through it for inspiration, although what she imagined might be in there she didn’t know. She noticed there was a country-house sale not too far away. She thought she would go: she was thinking of turning the abandoned surgery into an annexe for house guests, and there might be some furniture there. Without thinking too much about it, she fished in her handbag for a pale-pink Coty lipstick, dragged it across her lips, took her mac from the hook in the hallway and picked up her gloves. It was either that or go and swap her books at the mobile library. They were waiting in a pile on the hall table but the very thought made her faint with tedium.

She went out to her car. A pale-blue A35 saloon. She was, she knew, lucky to have a car to drive. She was lucky full stop. She had the most coveted house in Shallowford, right on the bridge by the river, with a pretty walled garden and a wrought-iron walkway to the door . . . so why did she feel so empty?

There was, of course, one good reason, but she didn’t dwell on it very often because really – what was the point? If she felt it was ironic that her own husband, who had delivered so many of the babies in the town they lived in, hadn’t been there to supervise the birth of her own sons and had therefore not been able to prevent the subsequent damage, she had never said so. William felt badly, of course he did, that he had been so far away on that day. If he’d been nearer then maybe there would be another little Russell to fill the void left by the twins’ departure, or maybe even two. But there wasn’t, so . . .

As she pulled out of the drive and onto the high street, a dreary September rain began to fall. Adele turned on the windscreen wipers, which dragged themselves reluctantly back and forth. It was going to be a long winter.

The country-house sale was about ten miles away, in Wiltshire: it was a rather small, insignificant house and there was nothing of any great value or note in the catalogue. Adele enjoyed buying things at auction – she always preferred to buy antiques, and she loved the drama and competitiveness. It was much more satisfying than going to a department store, for you never knew quite what you might find.

Today, it didn’t take her long to assess the lots. There was a great deal of ugly furniture of an indeterminate age – all the good stuff must have gone to family – but amidst the cumbersome wardrobes and endless sets of china she spotted a painting. It was a seascape, rather wild and abandoned, and she loved the colours: the bruised purple and silver. It was sombre and foreboding, but she felt that it suited her mood, somehow. She could feel its brooding quality roll off the canvas. And she knew that the most important thing about a painting was that it should make you feel something. She loved it. She was pretty sure it would go for next to nothing so she decided to bid for it.

The auction itself was in a tent in the garden, as none of the rooms in the house was quite large enough. It was cold and windy and she was starting to think perhaps she wouldn’t bother at all, but it started to pour with rain again and she decided she would get wetter going back to the car, which was parked in an adjoining field, than going into the tent. She held the auction catalogue over her head and ran in.

The chairs were terribly uncomfortable, not helped by the fact that the floor, covered in coconut matting, was uneven. She huddled inside her coat, clutching the now-sodden auction catalogue. She’d marked the picture she was interested in, and written the price she was prepared to go to beside it – not a great deal. After all, it would need cleaning, and reframing. She had mentally hung it over the desk in the morning room where she wrote her letters. She would be able to look at it and imagine herself breathing in the salt of sea air.

Her eyes wandered over the bidders while she waited for her lot. A man walked in, his expression a mixture of exasperation and annoyance with himself for being late. He scanned the room to see if he recognised any competitors. His eyes settled on Adele and he held her gaze for a moment.

A ripple of something ran through her. It was as if she recognised him, although she knew absolutely she’d never seen him before. She shivered, but not from the cold. His gaze slid away and she felt momentarily bereft. He sat down in a spare seat and studied the catalogue intently as the auctioneer raced through the lots. Nothing was achieving any great price.

Adele felt tense, poised, as still as a hare just before it takes flight. She was intrigued. The man stood out amidst the rest of the tweedy, shabby audience, who were mostly ruddy-cheeked and covered in dog hair. It wasn’t a large enough sale to attract London buyers, but his was a singularly metropolitan presence. The cut of his coat with its fur collar, the cravat at his neck, the curl of his hair all marked him out as a city dweller. He was tall, his face rather severe, with dark eyebrows. You couldn’t fail to notice him. He had presence.

Adele breathed in, imagining his scent. It would be sharp, manly, exotic – something fluttered inside her. She put her hand up to her curls – the rain would have done nothing to help them. She hadn’t put a full face on when she left this morning, only the lipstick, and now she wished she had. At least her mac, which was relatively new, covered up the rather dull blue dress she was wearing: she hadn’t bothered to change, not even her shoes – she had on the rather clumpy lace-ups she had put on to walk to the butcher earlier. She thought longingly of the emerald boat-neck sweater hanging in her wardrobe that brought out the green in her eyes . . .

Surreptitiously, she bent down and fished in her handbag to touch up her lipstick, then opened the bottle of Yardley’s English Lavender she kept in there. She dabbed some on her wrists, then re-emerged. He was still there, lighting a cigarette, looking slightly bored, as if he were there out of duty, having to humour some aged aunt by accompanying her. Yet Adele could see no such companion.

The auctioneer raced through the furniture, then the cutlery and china, before finally arriving at the paintings. He ploughed through third-rate hunting scenes and dingy landscapes then came to a halt at the one Adele was waiting for. She felt the usual excitement that precedes entering into the bidding. If the other lots were anything to go by, she would have no competition.

‘An attractive seascape, signed by Paul Maze and dated 1934. Who’s going to start the bidding for me?’

He swept an experienced gaze around the room and Adele raised her catalogue. He acknowledged it by pointing his gavel at her, then gave a cursory glance to see if there were any counter-bidders. He clearly wasn’t expecting any.

The object of her intrigue had not offered up a single bid on anything as yet, so she was surprised to see him look up for the first time and nod at the auctioneer, who smiled his acknowledgement.

Adele raised her bid accordingly. She didn’t mind that she was in competition. It was good to know someone else was interested in her potential purchase. Her opponent nodded his raised bid to the auctioneer, and she could feel her blood warm as her competitive spirit kicked in. The bidding quickly turned into a battle. The rest of the room was agog: this was as spirited as the sale had got all morning. The auctioneer was enjoying himself. He’d had no real momentum until now. As sales went, it was lacklustre. Lots had been knocked down at ridiculous prices to whoever could be bothered to cart them away.

Until now. The bids flew back and forth, not a moment’s hesitation, getting higher and higher. Something in Adele wanted the painting more than anything. She was determined that it should be hers. She felt almost murderously protective of it. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were flushed.

Her counter-bidder sat on the other side of the tent, unperturbed, unruffled, his face showing no emotion. She wondered if he knew something that she didn’t. What piece of inside information did he have? Was the painting by some undiscovered genius? Was it a long-forgotten masterpiece? Or did he have a personal reason for wanting it? How high would he be prepared to go?

She suddenly realised that the next bid was with her and she had gone more than four times over her original limit. She had several guineas in her handbag, for William had given her the housekeeping in cash the day before, but she didn’t have enough money with her if she was successful. Nor did she have their chequebook – it was sitting in her writing desk. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to admit to the auctioneer she couldn’t pay. She mustn’t, simply mustn’t, go any further.

‘The bid is with you, madam.’

She waited. It seemed to take an age for her to say no. She desperately wanted to continue but she didn’t have the means. Could she leave her wedding ring, she wondered? All eyes were on her, including the auctioneer’s. Except, of course, her rival’s. He was coolly leafing through the rest of the catalogue without a care in the world.

She would be utterly mad to carry on. In the end, all she’d be doing was paying far too much for a painting that was good, but not exceptional.

She shook her head. Seconds later, the gavel came down. Her rival didn’t bother to look up from the catalogue. She was aggrieved that the painting that should have been hers had gone to such a bloodless buyer. She wasn’t usually a bad loser, but she felt nettled. She gathered up her things and edged her way out of the row of seats, excusing herself as she stepped on countless toes.

Outside, the damp air clamped itself around her. She was far more unsettled than she should have been. It wasn’t because of the painting itself. She couldn’t help feeling that there had been something personal about the counter-bidding. That man hadn’t wanted her to have it. The set of his shoulders had spoken volumes. He had ensured the painting was never going to be hers.

She decided to go and have something to eat in the nearby town, where she remembered there was a very nice hotel. She could lick her wounds over lunch, then take a leisurely drive home and try and forget the incident. It was only a painting, after all.

At the hotel, she shook out her rain-sodden mac, hung it in the cloakroom and checked her appearance in the mirror. She saw wide green eyes with pretty eyebrows, and a hairdo that yesterday had been sleek and bouffant but was now beyond hope. She smoothed down her dress, adjusted her stockings, and made her way into the dining room.

She took a table by the window that looked out onto the high street. The rain had stopped, and a persistent sun was trying to nudge its way through the cloud. She ordered her lunch and made a list of things she needed to do: send the boys a bulging bag of mint humbugs, their favourite sweets, then write them a long letter each to go with them. She had a couple of dresses she wanted re-worked by the local dressmaker: dresses she liked but that needed an update. And she wanted to send an invitation to their newest neighbours for supper. She and William were very sociable, and Adele jotted down the names of two other couples she thought the newcomers might enjoy meeting. In fact, maybe she would make it a cocktail party – that way the newcomers could meet as many people as possible in one go. Gradually her pique at the morning’s outcome faded.

She looked up as the waitress arrived to bring her whisky and soda: she had needed something to warm her, as getting so damp had chilled her to the bone. But it wasn’t the waitress.