A Night on the Orient Express (13 page)

Danny felt filled with an impotent rage as he dropped down a gear and roared into the car park, startling passers-by. He was furious with himself. Somehow, he had dropped the ball and not paid her enough attention. Or not the right kind of attention.

In his gut, he knew it was because he hadn’t been to her party. That was the kind of thing that was important to women, for some reason. But he knew it would have been a disaster if he had turned up. It was still too early on. That friend of hers, the estate agent – Nicky – would have looked right through him with her cold and calculating eyes, just as she had when he had come into the office about renting Woodbine Cottage. She’d looked at him as if to say
we don’t rent to scum like you
, only he’d proved her wrong. Which would have given her all the more reason to pull Imogen aside in the toilets and ask if she was mad. Nicky, who’d bagged herself a rich man and who radiated dissatisfaction and unhappiness, wouldn’t have understood what she was doing with him. And they hadn’t been together long enough for Imogen to have confidence in their relationship. She would have seen him through her friends’ eyes. She would have dropped him like a hot potato.

As it was, she had anyway. Even though he’d told her he wasn’t going to go, she’d obviously expected him to. Maybe he should have made his feelings clearer, or outlined his fears? Danny wasn’t used to expressing how he felt. He’d thought that the passion he and Imogen had in bed said it all, but of course, that wasn’t how women worked. They liked it spelt out. They liked concrete evidence, tokens of affections, proof . . .

He should have turned up. He should have swallowed his pride and shown Nicky and the rest of them that he was worthy of Imogen, because he bloody well was. He had a successful business, his past was behind him, his future was . . . well, he could do anything he liked.

As he locked up his bike and ran through the car park, he prayed it wasn’t too late. He pushed people out of the way as he hurtled through the entrance to the station, then through the crowds to Platform 2. He knew that was where the train departed. He saw the glass turnstile. And the train track beyond it.

Empty.

He grabbed a passing guard.

‘The train for Venice – the Orient Express. Has it gone?’

He knew the answer.

‘You’ve missed it by five minutes.’ The guard looked at him. He pursed his lips. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Where’s the next stop?’

The guard looked at his watch.

‘Next stop for passengers is Paris. About nine o’clock tonight.’

Danny stared past him. He imagined getting back on his bike, tearing down the railway track after the train in some crazy James Bond stunt – Imogen looking out of the window, her face radiant with joy as she caught sight of him.

Not a chance. By the time he’d got his bike out of the car park, the train would be long gone.

Paris it was.

‘
T
he thing is,’ said Archie. ‘I’m here under false pretences, rather. My friend entered me in this competition. I think it was his idea of a joke. He filled out the profile and sent it in on my behalf. He had a rather warped sense of humour.’

The Pullman was winding its way through the outskirts of London, past bustling urban high streets and back gardens and allotments on its way to the east coast. From time to time, someone from the outside world waved at the train, excited by its glory, their envy palpable. It never failed to elicit a reaction.

Archie put his glass down on the snowy tablecloth and stared at the bubbles rising.

Emmie was silent for a moment. ‘Had?’

Archie nodded. He cleared his throat. Suddenly it felt rather tight.

‘Yes. He . . . died a couple of weeks ago.’

Emmie looked shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s OK. He’d been ill for a while, so in a way it was . . .’

Not unexpected? A relief? Archie looked out of the window, unable to find the words. He decided he didn’t want to find them. He shook his head.

‘Anyway, I promised him if I won this competition, I would go on the trip. But I’m not looking for . . .’ He looked awkward. ‘I’m not trying to find . . . um . . .’

God, this was embarrassing. He didn’t want to offend her. She was staring at him, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Was she going to be angry? Tell him he’d broken the rules of the competition? Get him thrown off the train? Would he be escorted off by a security guard, only to find his story plastered across the newspapers? Not On The Shelf were very keen on publicity, he could see that, so he could imagine them leaking the whole sorry tale to get some coverage. He should have kept his mouth shut.

‘I don’t want a relationship,’ he finally managed. ‘And I’m terribly sorry if you feel cheated. I shouldn’t have come at all, but as I said, I made a promise.’

To his bemusement, she burst into peals of laughter.

‘You have no idea what a relief that is,’ she told him. ‘I’m in exactly the same situation. My sister entered me in this competition. I could have killed her when I found out what she’d done, but then when I won I couldn’t resist. I couldn’t afford a holiday otherwise. And certainly never a trip on the Orient Express.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Honestly. I just thought – what the hell? I’ll go along for the ride. I prayed you wouldn’t turn out to be too much of a monster.’

A monster? He certainly hadn’t been a bundle of laughs. Archie began to feel guilty that he’d been so standoffish.

‘I hope I’m not.’

‘No! No, you’re not. You’re not at all.’

Archie looked at her. Was she just being polite? He really should have the good grace to be a bit more forthcoming, now he knew she wasn’t chasing some romantic notion. He topped up their champagne. It was doing the trick – taking the edge off his tension, and his headache had faded, rather than worsened.

He managed a smile.

‘Well, that’s certainly taken the pressure off. Maybe we can relax a bit, now we know we’re not expecting to find true love. Or, heaven forbid, wedding bells. Which I think is what Patricia was hoping for.’

‘I mean, really,’ said Emmie. ‘What are the chances? Of finding your true love on a website?’

‘The whole idea’s just awful,’ said Archie.

‘I agree,’ said Emmie. ‘But people can’t help interfering. They don’t understand how you can possibly be happy being single.’

‘Quite.’

‘I mean, I love my own company. I don’t want to clutter up my life with another person.’

‘Nor me.’

For a moment, there was an awkward silence as they smiled at each other, both of them keenly aware what a peculiar situation this was. Then Emmie looked down at her lap.

‘Never again,’ she said, her voice rather small.

Archie thought he caught the silvery glint of a tear in the corner of one eye.

‘Oh hell.’ Her voice was strained with the effort of not crying. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t mention it.’

Emotional women always made Archie panicky. He was never sure what to say, and ended up making things worse, not better. He tended to be very practical, and never
quite
picked up on the nuances of whatever it was that had upset them. He tapped his fingers on the table and smiled politely, hoping she would change the subject.

Emmie picked up her glass. ‘But the thing is,’ she leaned forward, confidentially. ‘You can never trust a gambler.’

Archie was slightly nonplussed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I like a flutter as much as the next man. On Derby Day. And the Cheltenham Gold Cup.’

‘There’s a flutter,’ said Emmie darkly. ‘And there’s putting someone’s life savings on a rank outsider.’

‘Ah,’ said Archie.

Before Emmie could divulge any more, the door to the compartment slid open and the steward came in with wild mushrooms on brioche. The two of them waited politely while he served them, and poured them each steaming cups of fresh coffee. By now, the untidy remnants of outer London had been left behind, and the train forged on through the chalk of the North Downs.

As the door slid shut again, Archie picked up the silver jug.

‘Cream in your coffee?’ he asked.

Emmie nodded.

‘I wouldn’t have minded so much,’ she told him, ‘if Charlie hadn’t been such good fun.’

Archie poured a stream of cream into her cup. He was going to get her life story, whether he liked it or not.

‘You’d better tell me everything,’ he said. ‘Right from the beginning.’

It was deepest, darkest November. The frosty ground was seeping upwards through the soles of Emmie’s sheepskin boots, and her toes were starting to go numb. A stall at the biggest winter race meeting in the country had seemed like a good idea, but nothing had prepared her for the cold. Business was brisk – very brisk – which more than compensated for the cost of her tiny pitch. But a five-foot-by-ten-foot canvas tent with an open front did nothing to protect her from the elements. The commentator kept reminding everyone that the going was hard, even though the morning’s frost was melting away, but standing still in near-freezing conditions was starting to become unbearable. Her fingers were so cold she could hardly count out the change.

Around her was a U-shaped arrangement of trestle tables covered in hats. Hats in every shape, size and colour which she had trimmed with feathers, ribbons, sequins, fur, lace, vintage brooches: anything she could lay her hands on. Race-goers were by their very nature an extrovert and hat-loving breed, it seemed, and the hats were going like hot cakes. She had sold more than twenty, and lots of people had taken her card offering a bespoke millinery service. These people were her target market, sure enough. Perhaps, after years of being a mere shop assistant, she was one step closer to realising her dream.

‘Here. You look half-frozen. This might warm you up.’ She turned to find a tall man in a navy cashmere coat with a velvet collar pressing a paper cup of hot chocolate into her hand. The scent of brandy pervaded the steam. She supposed it was unwise to accept a drink from a total stranger, but now she had smelt it she couldn’t resist, and the warmth of the cup brought comfort to her numb fingers.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind. I’m so cold I don’t think I’ll ever feel warm again.’

‘Your lips are almost blue,’ he told her. ‘Do you want me to take over for a few minutes while you go into the grandstand and warm up?’

She frowned. She could hardly waltz off and leave the stall in the hands of someone she had never met.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to run off with any of your hats. I’m not sure they’d suit me,’ he grinned. He had smiling, twinkly eyes and a cheekiness to him that was immediately disarming. ‘And you’ve got your takings with you.’

She had a moneybag tied round her waist stuffed with the cash she had taken so far. It wasn’t a good look – she felt like a market trader – but there was only one of her, so she couldn’t risk a till. She looked more closely at the man. Why was he offering to help her?

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m up on the last race. I want to quit while I’m ahead. The only way to stop myself putting another bet on and losing the lot is if I’m stuck here. You’d be doing me a favour.’

That should have told Emmie everything she needed to know. Yet there was something about the man she found trustworthy, and she desperately needed the loo. She smiled.

‘Ten quid off if people buy two,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Take your time,’ he told her. ‘Grab something to eat. I can recommend the hot pork rolls.’

She pushed her way through the crowds into the grandstand, wondering if she was mad, if she would come back to three empty tables. Somehow she thought not. He couldn’t pack up all her hats and make off with them in ten minutes – it had taken her more than an hour to lug them from her car. And where would he sell them on?

She was surrounded by throngs of people, all slightly the worse for wear, milling from the bar to the totes and back again. She had to queue for ages in the bathroom, and by the time she got to the hot pork roll stand they had sold out, so she bought two hot sugary doughnuts instead and felt her strength return.

When she got back, her Good Samaritan was doing a spectacular sales patter, charming potential customers with his spiel. She stood by, impressed, while he sold a pair of green fedoras decorated with pheasant feathers to what was clearly a mother and daughter.

‘I’m impressed,’ she told him.

‘I’m Charlie,’ he told her, and she laughed.

‘You really did do me a favour,’ he went on. ‘I was going to put my money on Dipsy, and he fell at the fourth fence. So I’m quids in – four hundred, to be precise. And I sold five hats.’ He looked inordinately proud.

‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘I know exactly how,’ he said. ‘Come out to dinner with me.’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a good feeling,’ he told her, and her cheeks blushed rosier than the cold air had already made them. He was charming, there was no doubt about that, and he had that twinkle in his eye, and he was obviously well off – his cashmere coat and expensive suede brogues told her that. Not that Emmie was the type to go for money, necessarily, but she felt a little comforted by the fact he had a certain polish.

He helped her pack up all the hats she hadn’t sold, and the trestle tables, and put them in the back of her car, then whisked her off to a thatched pub where he procured a table by the fireside. Emmie was conscious that she was only in jeans and layers of T-shirts and jumpers, but she’d managed to find a tube of lip-gloss in her handbag, and stolen a brooch off one of her hats to put on. Not the ideal outfit for a first date, but the best she could do, and he had seen her at her worst so he obviously didn’t mind.

Charlie was a property surveyor – ‘deeply dull; it means I run about all day with a tape measure looking for rising damp’ – and he made her laugh. All evening he cossetted her, forcing her to finish all her chips and then have sticky toffee pudding, as it was the pub’s speciality.

‘Of course I fell for him,’ Emmie told Archie at this point. ‘It seemed too good to be true. He was my white knight. He was everything I needed. He was kind, loving, supportive, fun . . .’