A Night on the Orient Express (9 page)

She turned away sharply. She knew what the feeling was. She remembered it from that night all those years ago, clinging onto him on the back of his bike.

It was desire.

In the end, decorating advice didn’t really come into it, although Danny had by now, on Imogen’s suggestion, painted his living room a deep greeny-grey and installed some halogen lamps, while Imogen had ended up as naked as his former lightbulb.

Now, however, after a few months together, it seemed as if that was all it was: a bit of decorating advice in return for a tumble or two. Imogen walked back into the restaurant. It was just a fling, she told herself. She didn’t mean anything to Danny McVeigh. Of course he didn’t want to come and join her friends for her birthday. That would indicate some kind of commitment. It would mean their relationship meant something. Appearing in public would rubber-stamp them. Conversely, there was no risk attached to a pleasurable but meaningless and clandestine romp on the rug in front of his fireplace.

She tried to block out the image, because it kindled something inside her. Lust, of course, but also something more lasting and pervasive. Hope, perhaps? Hope that their passion meant something more than simultaneous orgasms.

How could it? It was silly of her to read anything more into it than simple animal attraction. He was a McVeigh. That’s all they understood. Even if he had done well for himself, with a business that was thriving and making good legitimate money, it was still McVeigh blood running through his veins beneath the veneer of respectability he had managed to achieve. She’d heard him on the phone to both clients and employees – a man who knew how to charm, how to give people what they wanted, and to get people to do what he wanted. She’d been impressed, captivated – but, she reminded herself, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

She sat back down at the table. Next to her place was the pile of presents her friends had bought her. Carefully chosen baubles and trinkets and luxuries that touched her heart. Danny had given her nothing, but that was no great surprise. He probably wasn’t the kind of man who presented women with thoughtful tokens. And they’d hardly been an item long enough for her to merit so much as a card. Not that they were even an item, technically . . .

Everyone at the table was chilled out, drinking their Limoncello and lattes, gossiping, enjoying their midweek excursion. It was nearly eleven.

‘I suppose I ought to go soon,’ said Imogen to Nicky. ‘I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn.’

‘Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you,’ Nicky replied. ‘You jammy thing. A night on the Orient Express? Your grandmother is such a genius. What an amazing present.’

‘I know,’ said Imogen. ‘Though it would be more fun if I was going with someone.’

‘Don’t knock it. I’d give anything for a couple of nights away on my own. I can’t think of anything nicer.
And
you’re staying at the Cipriani . . . total heaven.’

Imogen had to smile. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. I’m spoilt.’

She was. She knew she was. The train ticket and the night at the hotel weren’t even her proper present. She was supposed to collect that when she got to Venice. A painting, called
The Inamorata.
One that someone had been keeping for Adele for the past fifty years. Imogen hadn’t had time to think about it since her grandmother had sprung the surprise on her at breakfast.

Nicky was picking at the remains of cake on her plate. ‘I think your grandmother feels guilty about selling the gallery. I think that’s what it’s all about.’

‘She needn’t feel guilty. I keep telling her that. I should have moved on years ago.’

‘So what
are
you going to do?’

Imogen was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to her friend.

‘I’m think I’m going to go to New York.’

Nicky’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Where did that come from?’

‘I’ve got a long-standing job offer. From a gallery in Manhattan that specialises in British art. Oostermeyer and Sabol. They’ve told me any time I want to come over and work for them, I can. It’s an open invitation.’

‘Oh my God.’ Nicky’s eyes were round. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. What’s taken you so long? I would kill to go to New York. Anything to get away from Shallowford.’

Imogen was surprised. ‘I thought you were happy with your lot?’

Nicky sighed. ‘It’s not all about the house of your dreams and a Range Rover Evoque, you know.’

‘No,’ said Imogen. ‘I didn’t think it was. But I thought you were content?’

‘I’m never going to go anywhere or do anything, am I? I’m stuck doing the school run and making Nigel’s supper for the next ten years, by which time it will be too late. Not like you. You’ve got the world at your feet. New York, Imo . . . I mean, wow.’

‘You’ve got your job. You love your job!’

‘What – writing up details for houses that no one in their right mind would want to live in? Breaking the news to people that their sale has fallen through? Telling people that their house is actually worth a hundred thousand pounds less than they think it is?’

Nicky slumped back in her chair. She looked slightly green, whether from envy or too much cake and wine Imogen couldn’t be sure. She took a sip from her own glass. The wine was warm and slightly oily by now, but she needed it to take the edge off the shock of the decision she’d just made.

Because Nicky was right. Shallowford sucked you in and drained you of all your ambition. It was picture-postcard perfect on the surface, but when she looked around the table, there was something of the Stepford Wife in all her friends. If she didn’t get out now, she never would. And if there was anything worse than being a Stepford Wife in Shallowford, it was being a spinster.

New York, however, would open up a whole new world. Imogen and Adele had done a lot of work with Oostermeyer and Sabol over the years, sourcing paintings for them and shipping them over. They’d visited them several times and built up a great working relationship. It was gratifying that they thought so much of her skills, thought Imogen. Although, as Danny had so shrewdly guessed, she had plenty of other contacts who would give her a lead, surely a spell in New York was the ultimate adventure for a thirty-year-old woman? Imogen wanted a new challenge. And in her heart of hearts, she thought it was probably best if she got far away from Danny McVeigh while she still could.

Determined that she had made the right decision, she drained her glass and stood up. She still hadn’t packed. If she was going on the Orient Express, even if it was on her own, she wanted to look a million dollars.

The next morning, not long after dawn, Imogen’s taxi crawled along the pitted track that led to Danny’s cottage. In her hand she held an envelope. After sending an email to Oostermeyer and Sabol, she had stayed up until two composing a letter to him.

Dear Danny
,

I’m writing this because a text seems a bit impersonal but I know if I see you in person my resolution will vanish.

Yesterday I was thirty, and I made a few decisions. It seemed the right time.

The most important of these is that I have decided to take up a position with a gallery in New York. I’ll be leaving as soon as I get back from Venice. I should have left Shallowford a long time ago, and now I am it’s terrifying. Terrifying but exciting.

I know we only have the tentative beginnings of a relationship, and I am not sure it would survive the distance, so I think it’s probably better if we make a clean break. The past few weeks have been the most wonderful fun, and for that I thank you. I hope you understand.

Think of me in the Big Apple, a small town girl in the big city.

With lots of love

Imo

Wonderful fun? She laughed at her own understatement. Danny had made her feel like no man had ever done before, but she knew it was only a novelty, the thrill of being the gangster’s moll, a sexual frisson with no real depth. How many times had she and her friends fantasised about him in the common room? Although at sixteen their imaginations hadn’t stretched quite as far as what she and Danny had done . . .

She read the letter again. It sounded so stiff and stilted and uptight. She wondered what she could have done to soften it a bit, make it less formal. She sighed. She could spend the rest of her life writing and rewriting it. The important thing was to tell Danny it was over, because it wasn’t fair to string him along. Not that he would care, probably.

She stared at his cottage for a moment. With its pointed roof and gables and arched windows, it was like something out of a fairytale, just waiting for a princess or a woodcutter or a lost maiden to come along. There was nothing coming out of the chimney but she could still smell last night’s woodsmoke in the chilly air. She got out of the car and picked her way along the moss-covered path in her high heels until she reached the door. For a moment she imagined him, naked and warm under his duvet. It was so tempting just to bang on the knocker. In five seconds flat she could be under the duvet with him, wrapping herself around him, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Better still, she could persuade him to come on the train. He could be packed and ready in ten minutes. The thought of it made her heart race. Danny McVeigh, pulling her towards him in the intimate confines of their cabin, those rough hands on her torso—

Stop it, Imo
! she told herself. There was no room in her life for a rebel with a motorbike and a smile that could do untold damage to her heart and mind. She posted the letter through the letterbox, turned tail and fled.

Moments later, the cab made its way back down the rutted track. The motion made her feel a little sick. Imogen leaned back in the seat and shut her eyes. They felt gritty from lack of sleep, but it didn’t matter. She could relax on the Orient Express – curl up in her cabin and go to sleep if she wanted.

Adele was absolutely right: she needed a couple of days to herself, in unashamed luxury, to recharge her batteries and consolidate her future. She had worked incredibly hard over the past few months in the run-up to the sale of the gallery, and she hadn’t realised how exhausted she was. It was amazing how her grandmother knew just the right thing to do. She was going to miss Adele being part of her everyday life, yet Imogen knew it was time for her to make her own way in the world.

She didn’t look back. If she had, she might have seen Danny, still fuzzy with sleep, open the front door and gaze after her in bewilderment. In his right hand was her letter, the envelope ripped open and discarded. As the cab disappeared out of sight, he stepped back inside, crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it into the fireplace, where it sat amidst the cold grey ashes and the half-burned logs of the night before.

S
hut your eyes and count to ten
, Stephanie told herself.

Simon was going to have a total fit if he saw his daughter. Stephanie realised she was going to have to deal with the situation, even though she tried to avoid disciplining the kids. They weren’t exactly children anymore, and anyway it wasn’t her place. Whether she would start to feel it was her place once the next few days were over was another thing. In the meantime, she hated interfering. Even more so when she was standing in her dressing gown and Velcro rollers and was supposed to be ready herself in less than fifteen minutes.

She looked in despair at the girl standing in front of her on the landing. Beth was dressed in a tight T-shirt, tiny cut-off denim shorts, fishnet tights and pink patent Dr Marten boots. Her blonde hair was backcombed and tied in a side ponytail.

Stephanie took a deep breath.

‘Beth, you look amazing, but there’s no way they’ll let you on the train wearing that.’ She kept her voice as casual as she could. ‘The dress code is smart casual. And I know it’s a pain but it’s not fair on your dad. You know he’ll freak.’

She felt she couldn’t have been more conciliatory.

Nevertheless, Beth crossed her arms. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’

‘No, it’s not. You’ve got some lovely dresses.’

‘They all make me look fat.’

Stephanie sighed.

‘How could you look fat? You’ve got a great figure. Look at those amazing legs. I would kill for those legs.’ Beth’s legs were endless; Stephanie’s were not. ‘Come on, let’s have a look and find something that isn’t going to give your father a heart attack.’

She wasn’t going to have time to do her hair properly now, but it was more important to get Beth sorted.

‘I still don’t get why he organised this trip. Who wants to be stuck on a train for all that time? Why couldn’t we have gone to Dubai or somewhere? Or the Caribbean? That would have been cool.’

‘There wasn’t time to go that far.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Beth looked at her knowingly. ‘The café. Don’t want to be leaving
that
alone for too long.’

Stephanie didn’t rise. She guessed it was tough when your dad finally found a replacement for your mother and moved her into the family home, so she tried to excuse Beth’s monstrous self-centredness. The girl was sweet underneath it all, but she was used to getting her own way and not thinking about anyone else. That’s often how you turned out when you had divorcing parents, because their knee-jerk reaction was to spoil and indulge their kids to cover up the guilt – leaving other people to deal with the aftermath. She didn’t want to bring Simon into the argument – he didn’t deserve any more hassle; he got enough from his ex-wife Tanya – but she definitely needed to get Beth out of that outfit.

‘Beth – babe – come on. Please?’

Beth rolled her eyes. Stephanie caught the scent of a recently smoked Marlboro Light mingled with some sweet and heavy pop-star-branded scent.

‘I don’t even know why you’re bringing us with you,’ said Beth. ‘Surely you’d have more fun on your own?’

Stephanie looked down at the striped runner that ran the length of the corridor and counted to ten. Yep, she thought, at this rate they probably would. She wasn’t going to say that, though.

‘The whole trip is about us all having some fun together.’