A Night on the Orient Express (6 page)

He loved the feeling of the silk as it slithered through his fingers. He loved the colours and the patterns. Swiftly, his particular eye divided the scarves into yes and no, gradually whittling them down, pushing his rejections back to the assistant with a shake of his head. All the while he had Sylvie in his mind’s eye, her face as she opened it. They had never believed in ridiculously extravagant gestures. A scarf was what she wanted and what she would expect and what she would get. Yet it had to be absolutely right.

‘This one,’ he nodded decisively. Sometimes the choice made itself, and today it was like that. Emilio Pucci. The colours were subtle but striking, the pattern bold but intricate. Swiftly he made the transaction, and watched with pleasure as the scarf was folded and wrapped in tissue then slid into a special box.

He never bought a card. He always found an old photo, one that meant something to both of them, then messed about with it on his computer, customising it, adding a slogan or a message. Then he would print it out, hand colour it, and sign it with a fine Rotring pen – Riley, and just one kiss. Sylvie kept his cards in a shoe-box. She had never thrown one away. From the very first, which had been decorated with Letraset. A pile of almost fifty, he imagined now.

He took his package and wandered back through the store, stopping in the Food Hall to buy a slice of game pie and some gooseberry chutney that would do for his lunch. He had never been a big eater, but what he did eat had to be good. He didn’t see the point of burdening yourself with excess calories. So many of his friends now bore the consequence of hedonistic gourmandising. They would be unrecognisable from their twenty-year-old selves, but he was pretty certain that he had more than just a glimmer of his youthful self in his appearance.

He left the store, emerging into the bustle of the Brompton Road, pushing through the crowds on the pavement until he reached the kerb. Riley never drove anywhere these days. It wasn’t worth the expense, or the hassle of keeping your eye on the speed limit or how much you had drunk, or fighting for a parking space. If it was good weather and within the Circle Line, he walked. He would happily walk as many as five or six miles to a meeting or a lunch and then back again. It kept him fit, and he mostly went through the parks, even if it meant his journey was a little longer. If the weather displeased him, however, he took a cab. Today was one such day. There was a light mizzle, fine but persistent, so he raised an arm. A minute later he was tucked in the back of a taxi, homeward bound.

They were hurtling at speed around Hyde Park Corner when Riley saw a car pull out in front of them. The driver was either an optimist or an idiot. There was no way the cab would be able to stop in time. He didn’t see his life flash before him. He saw only her face, as it had been the very first time he glimpsed her, her brows furrowed as she read her magazine.

‘Sylvie,’ he said out loud, before he heard the terrible crunch of metal on metal, and the bag he was carrying slipped from his fingers.

H
ospital waiting rooms, no matter how calming the colour scheme or distracting the artwork, always left you feeling the same. Archie had been in enough now to know nothing could quell the anxiety, although Jay seemed to manage to stay quite cheerful while they were waiting. It was always Archie who watched the clock, who chewed his fingernails, who jumped when Jay’s name was called.

Today’s wait was interminable. The white board indicated that appointments were running thirty minutes behind. Not long enough to leave the hospital and go and do something useful. Of course not. You were trapped, just in case they caught up with themselves or there was a no-show and your appointment was moved up. It was a pity they didn’t have time to go for a pint, although he supposed it wouldn’t look good, Jay turning up to the consultant reeking of beer.

But at this stage of the game, did it really matter?

He looked over at his friend. Jay was flicking through a magazine, stopping every time something caught his eye. He seemed able to find plenty to keep his attention. Archie wasn’t a great reader, and he certainly wouldn’t have found anything to fascinate him in the pile of old
National Geographic
s and women’s magazines left out for patients. He was far too preoccupied to be distracted by photos of polar bears and recipes for blueberry cheesecake.

Jay looked up, sensing he was being watched.

‘Tell me about your ideal woman, Archie.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Archie.

‘Your ideal woman. Describe her to me.’

Archie rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not doing one of those awful quizzes?
If you score mostly Cs then you’re a psychopath with narcissistic tendencies
. . .’

Jay shook his head.

‘It’s a competition. I’m going to enter you.’ Jay squinted more closely. ‘Only a week till the closing date.’

He was laughing in a way that made Archie suspicious. He tried to lean over Jay’s shoulder to look at the page, but Jay moved the magazine away from him so he couldn’t see.

‘Go on – what do you look for in a girl?’

‘Me?’ Archie grinned. ‘I’m not fussy, as long as she’s clean and has all her own teeth.’

Jay looked at him thoughtfully. Archie felt uncomfortable. Jay had been doing this recently, going from jocular to serious in the blink of an eye. He found it unsettling. ‘What?’

‘You’re never going to meet Miss Right, are you, hanging around hospital waiting rooms with me?’

‘Miss Right can wait,’ said Archie.

Jay carried on staring at him.

‘You deserve someone special. You do know that?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

Jay tore the page carefully out of the magazine and folded it up.

‘What sort of competition is it?’ Archie was even more suspicious now.

‘Never you mind.’

A nurse stepped out of a door. ‘Jay Hampton.’

The two men looked at each other.

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ asked Archie.

Jay shook his head. ‘Nah. I won’t be long.’ He got up, stuffing the page he had torn out of the magazine into his pocket.

Archie looked down at the grey, institutional carpet, lining his feet up carefully inside one of the tiles. He didn’t have a good feeling. Jay was defiantly optimistic; Archie was filled with dread.

The two of them had grown up on neighbouring farms in the heart of the Cotswolds. Jay’s parents had recently sold up, weary of the tough times that farmers were facing and knowing their children didn’t want to follow them into the business. Archie, conversely, was playing the dutiful son, helping his father run the family farm. They just managed to keep it afloat by selling prime organic lamb and beef, while his mother rented out the courtyard of barns they had converted into holiday lets. This venture had proved such a success that Archie started a business advising other farmers on how to do the same, and set up a farm holiday website through which all the bookings could be coordinated. A couple of girls helped him run it from the farm office, and it was ticking over very nicely. Archie might not be wealthy, but he had a tiny cottage on the farm, and a Morgan sports car, and two border terriers called Sid and Nancy – what more could he want?

Jay, meanwhile, was renting a house with a workshop in the next village where he’d set up in business restoring and renovating old beds. The idea of getting a proper job horrified him, despite his first-class honours degree. He could have done anything, but he wanted to work for himself, to decide what time he got up in the morning, to choose his own hours.

‘Everyone needs a bed,’ he told Archie. ‘And everyone loves their bed. And everyone loves
old
beds . . . brass beds, iron beds, wooden beds. Watch me. I’ll make a fortune.’

Jay had the entrepreneurial spirit all right. He knew just how to market himself. His brochures were lush and stunningly photographed: just the right side of decent yet with an erotic allure. His good looks made him perfect interview fodder for the interiors magazines and the Sunday supplements, and he interviewed well. A Jay Hampton bed became a status symbol, the middle-class must-have to sit alongside the Jo Malone candles and the White Company bedding. The beds were selling as quickly as he could reclaim them from the scrapyard and then work his magic on them, sandblasting and powder-coating them back to perfection. And he was right – he was making a fortune. If Archie hadn’t loved his friend so much, he could have gone right off him, but they were still as thick as thieves, years after leaving school. They suited each other down to the ground. They were wildly different, but they balanced each other out. Jay, maverick and spontaneous. Archie, solid and reliable.

Then Jay went on holiday to Thailand for two weeks of sun and adventure and felt ropey once he got back. Tired. Not his usual energetic self. He had a persistent cough and lost weight. Archie worried about the change in him. He thought that perhaps he had taken things a step too far in Thailand. Jay was always a risk-taker and a thrill-seeker. He did bungee jumps, threw himself off cliffs into the sea, ate unidentifiable food with the natives. Archie wondered if he had picked up some virus on his holiday, and persuaded him to go to the doctor.

‘They’re not easy to get rid of, these bugs. You could do yourself serious damage if you don’t get it seen to.’

Jay phoned him a week later. His voice was bright. ‘You were right, Archie. There is something the matter. I’ve got leukaemia.’

Only the slightest tremble in Jay’s voice indicated that he might be scared.

‘Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, to be precise. I’m in hospital right now. I need blood transfusions, tests, probably chemo . . .’

‘Shit. Which hospital?’

Archie had needed no second telling. Within an hour he was at his friend’s bedside. The doctors worked well and swiftly. Jay was, by all accounts, lucky to have come in when he did.

His body was no longer making enough healthy red blood cells and platelets and his white cells were unable to protect his body from infection. The condition was about as serious as conditions get. The prognosis wasn’t good, but he was in the best place, with the best doctors. Jay was amazing throughout the whole ordeal. He was brave and optimistic and uncomplaining, without a trace of the bitterness Archie thought he deserved to feel.

The only thing Jay did that Archie didn’t approve of was to tell his current girlfriend that one night in Thailand he’d slept with another girl.

‘You didn’t,’ said Archie. ‘I know you didn’t.’

‘Unless she thinks I’ve betrayed her, she won’t leave me.’ Jay was adamant. ‘And I don’t want her to feel she has to stick with me because of this disease. I wouldn’t want to stay with me. It’s tedious. She needs to get out there and find someone else.’

And of course the girl did leave him, because she felt justified after his confession. And Archie felt he was the only person left who really understood Jay and his fears after that. He watched his friend grow weak and frail through the endless transfusions and chemotherapy, and was amazed at how his spirit was never crushed, how his eyes still danced even when they were heavy with drugs and painkillers.

For a while, Jay had seemed to bounce back, until just over a month ago. He had started feeling unwell again, and the cough that had been so persistent the first time around had returned. He was tired, too. Jay had insisted he was simply under the weather, and had refused to tell his parents anything was wrong. Archie admired his optimism, but knew there was a point at which optimism became foolishness. He had forcibly marched him to the GP. Jay had been fast-tracked, referred back to the consultant alarmingly quickly.

Now, Archie felt helpless as he waited for the verdict. The clock seemed to tick painfully slowly. If everything was OK, he would take Jay for a slap-up lunch to celebrate.

It felt like a lifetime, but it was only ten minutes when Jay emerged from the consultant’s office. His face was white against his shock of dark hair.

‘Ok, Archie,’ he said. ‘I can’t put it off any longer. It’s time to tell Mum and Dad.’

‘What is it?’ Archie felt a terrible fear squeeze his heart as he looked at his friend.

‘I’ve got to have a transplant,’ Jay told him. He gave a tired, sad smile. ‘A bone-marrow transplant. As soon as possible.’

A week later they were back at the hospital. By some miracle, a match had been found. Jay had deteriorated in the seven days since the news, but his spirits were still indomitable. He made Archie drive him to the hospital in his Morgan. The roof was down and the sun shone on them as they navigated their way through the gingerbread houses that had defined their youth. They passed so many landmarks. The village hall where they had first got drunk on local cider at the Pony Club disco. The fields that hosted the point-to-point where they learned the vagaries of betting, invariably losing. Their favourite pub, the Marlborough Arms, where they had enjoyed illegal lock-ins and games of darts and flirted ferociously with the local girls.

Archie was terrified. He wanted to tell Jay how much their friendship had meant to him, but he knew that would be admitting defeat, so he offered him an Extra Strong Mint out of the glove compartment instead. They were meeting Jay’s parents at the hospital. Archie was like another son to them, just as Jay was to Archie’s parents. He was dreading seeing them.

Jay was drumming on the dashboard, beating his fingers along to Counting Crows. The music defined them. They’d been to see them so many times over the years. Every song reminded Archie of the road trips they’d spent together, the fun they’d had. He felt a lump in his throat. He stared at the road ahead as it snaked its way towards the next village.

Jay suddenly turned the music down.

‘You’ve got to promise me one thing,’ he said. ‘If I don’t make it.’

‘You’re going to make it,’ Archie told him firmly.

Jay looked at the horizon for a moment. Winter was just starting to soften into spring: buds and shoots were springing in the fields and hedgerows.

‘Yeah, well, if I don’t, you’re not to hole up in that cottage of yours. I know what you’re like.’