A Night on the Orient Express (19 page)

‘Can I help you?’ the assistant asked him. He was Italian, in an immaculate suit, with chiselled cheekbones. He looked as if he had stepped from the pages of a magazine.

‘I’m looking for a souvenir, for my . . .’ For my what? What was Emmie to him? ‘Companion,’ Archie managed finally. Companion was just the word.

‘Are you on a special trip?’

Best not to even try and explain.

‘Just general sight-seeing,’ he told him.

The assistant nodded sagely. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

‘Well, we have a huge range of gifts, at all prices. Just let me know if you want to look at anything.’

Archie looked at scarves, and pens, and salt-and-pepper shakers. He was tempted by a Limoges porcelain box, then was rather taken by a silver guard’s whistle on a string. Actually, he rather fancied that for himself.

And then he saw the perfect thing. A copy of Agatha Christie’s
Murder on the Orient Express.
It was a special hardback edition, with an ornate cover embossed with gold. He remembered reading on her application that Emmie liked Agatha Christie. Archie was not a great reader, but even he could see the appeal of a book like this. As a souvenir, it was perfect. He bought it, and it was placed in a special Orient Express carrier bag, and he felt rather pleased with himself.

When Emmie finally emerged from her cabin half an hour later, his jaw dropped. She wore a silver beaded dress with a fringed hem, suede shoes with a Louis heel and long black velvet gloves, all topped off with a flapper-style cap that shimmered with sequins. Her face peeped out from underneath, transformed with silver eye-shadow and dark-red lipstick and the longest eyelashes Archie had ever seen.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said admiringly. ‘Is that one of your creations?’

She touched the hat.

‘It’s part of my Gatsby collection. Is it too much?’ she asked, laughing. ‘I wanted to get into the spirit.’

‘You look incredible,’ he told her.

He thrust the gift bag at her.

‘I bought you a present,’ he said. ‘A souvenir . . .’

She pulled out the book and gasped. ‘It’s beautiful – the most beautiful book I’ve ever seen.’ She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. She smelled of sugar and cherries. ‘Thank you.’

She held out her arm and he took it. A little jolt went through him.

Time for a drink, thought Archie. Very definitely time for a drink.

They made their way through three carriages before reaching the bar car. There was a long, curved counter from where drinks were served, with every bottle imaginable on the shelf behind. Two white-jacketed barmen were busy making cocktails, scooping ice into shakers, slicing fruit, pouring multi-coloured concoctions into chilled glasses.

In front of the bar was a grand piano; the pianist acknowledged them with a welcoming smile as they walked past to find a seat. Mirrors and brass lamps enhanced the art-nouveau style, and the atmospheric lighting added to the sense of sophisticated luxury. They sank into a pair of chocolate-brown armchairs facing each other across a little table.

The head barman, in a white jacket with gold braid, came to help them with the very difficult business of choosing what to drink.

‘Oh!’ said Emmie, looking down the extensive list. ‘It has to be an Agatha Christie cocktail. We can’t come on board the Orient Express and not raise a glass to her. What’s in it?’

The barman’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

‘Well, it is a secret, but it contains an ingredient from each of the countries we travel through on our way to Venice. There is kirsch, for example, and anise, and champagne, but more than that I cannot say.’

‘Well, I agree we should definitely try it,’ agreed Archie. ‘Could we have two?’

Minutes later, they each had a heavy crystal glass filled with a light green liquid.

‘Well,’ said Emmie. ‘I guess we should propose a toast to Agatha, for the greatest train story ever written.’ She grinned. ‘I can’t help thinking how much she would have loved our story – the reason for us being on here. I mean, nobody would guess, looking at us. Would they? We look like a normal couple.’

‘Do we?’ The thought made Archie feel a little warm under the collar.

Emmie took a sip of her drink, pronounced it delicious, then leaned forward to ask Archie about himself.

‘So you live on a farm?’

‘Yes. Well, I live on my parents’ farm. I’ve got what was once one of the workers’ cottages.’

‘It sounds idyllic.’ Emmie was enchanted.

Archie shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s full of cobwebs and spiders and mice and dust and the wind howls through it. And we can’t have double glazing because it’s Grade Two listed, which is a complete pain in the neck. And the insurance is astronomical because it’s thatched . . .’

As Archie spoke he could see the cottage in his mind’s eye. It was basically falling down around his ears, but there never seemed to be the time to do anything about it.

‘It’s got to be better than a one-bedroom flat on a grotty council estate in Hillingdon.’

‘You don’t look as if you live somewhere like that.’

‘No,’ said Emmie. ‘I try to forget I do as much as I can. But thanks to Charlie, I’m going to be stuck there for a while.’

A cloud flittered across her face. It dawned on Archie that Charlie’s betrayal had had long-term consequences for Emmie beyond the emotional.

‘I’d swap for a centrally heated flat in a heartbeat. It’s bloody freezing. Sometimes there’s ice on the inside of the windows in winter. Actually, I need to get to grips with it. But I haven’t had much time lately . . .’

He noticed he had already finished his cocktail. It had slipped down rather quickly.

‘Another?’ he asked Emmie.

‘I haven’t finished this one yet. I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid. But you go ahead.’

Archie signalled to the barman to bring him another. It would help ward off the sense of gloom that was threatening him again. Talking about home had reminded him of Jay and here, in the bustle of the bar, amidst the camaraderie, he felt a heightened sense that his friend was never going to come back. This was exactly the sort of occasion that Jay would have adored. He could imagine him lining up the cocktails, chatting to the other passengers, grilling the staff about what it was like to work on the train. He’d have been firm friends with everyone by the end of the evening.

Archie finished his second drink before Emmie had finished her first.

T
he Stones were dining in the Voiture Chinoise, glamorously intimate with its creamy yellow ceiling and black lacquer panels, inscribed with a menagerie of animals – elephants, monkeys, alpine sheep and a pair of whales. Stephanie felt a squiggle of pride in her stomach as she sat down at the table opposite Simon.

Jamie was on her left, next to the window, and Beth was opposite him. They looked, she decided, like the perfect family, the men in their suits, and she and Beth in their little black dresses. She supposed the more cynical observer would work out that she was unlikely to be the matriarch, unless she’d been a child bride or had an awful lot of plastic surgery, but she didn’t care.

Simon was feeling very jovial. He’d spent most of the afternoon poring over the map in their cabin, trying to identify exactly where they were on their journey by the landscape outside, and getting excited when they passed another train.

‘Did nobody tell you?’ he laughed to Stephanie, ‘about my trainspotting tendencies?’

Stephanie put a hand on her chest in mock panic.

‘Oh my God – I’d never have come if I’d known I was going to be trapped on a train with a trainspotter.’

‘He’s not kidding,’ said Jamie. ‘He spots planes too. He’s got a plane-spotting app on his phone.’

Simon groaned. ‘Jamie. You promised not to give me away.’ He held up his hands in helpless defence. ‘We live near the flight-path. So I like to know what’s flying over. What’s wrong with that?’

‘You’re an anorak, Dad,’ Beth told him. She pointed at him. ‘Even worse, you
have
an anorak. That beige thing you wear.’

‘It’s a ski jacket.’ Simon feigned indignation. ‘And it’s off-white.’

Beth shook her head.

‘Beige anorak.’

‘Beige anorak,’ agreed Jamie. ‘With an elasticated waist.’

‘And a hood.’ Beth indicated a hood with her hands.

The two kids fell about laughing.

Stephanie couldn’t stop herself either. Simon crossed his arms.

‘Well, if I’d known I was going out for dinner with the fashion police . . .’

Stephanie leaned over and stroked his arm.

‘It’s OK. I love you. Anorak, trainspotting manual and all.’

‘Good!’ Simon held the wine list at arm’s length, then looked at Jamie and Beth with an arch expression. ‘I’m guessing you both want lemonade to drink? As you’re behaving like children?’

Stephanie was about to protest that they should be allowed to have wine when Simon grinned and ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé. She sat back in her seat, wondering if she would ever acclimatise to family banter: the constant teasing, the verbal parrying and thrusting. She was still never quite sure when anyone was joking or if they really meant it. It was a learning curve, that was for certain.

Jamie waited judiciously until everyone was tucking into their main course: a Charolais roast fillet of beef with a tarragon mousseline sauce. Simon had chosen a bottle of Gevry-Chambertin to go with it, and Jamie made sure his dad had drunk half a glass before he broached the subject. It was important with adults to hit them with tricky propositions after they’d had something to drink, but not too much. You needed to get them when they were relaxed, but not reactionary. It was a skill.

‘Dad . . . I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.’

Simon carried on cutting his beef. He smiled over at Jamie for reassurance.

‘Go on.’

‘Our new bass player. Connor? He’s got some amazing contacts. And he got this manager guy to come and see us the last time we played. We got an email from him. He’s offered us a tour. A European tour, supporting this really great band he represents.’

Stephanie reached over and touched his hand.

‘Jamie, that’s amazing. That’s fantastic. Why didn’t you say before?’

Simon didn’t say anything.

Nor did Beth. She was looking from Jamie to Simon, a wary look in her eye. She sensed trouble.

Jamie looked awkward. ‘Because – the tour starts in October.’

Simon put his knife and fork down and looked at his son.

‘When you go up to Oxford.’ His tone of voice was not congratulatory.

‘Yeah. Basically, yeah.’ Jamie grabbed his glass. ‘The thing is, Dad, we’ll never get a chance like this again. You don’t get offered tours like that. And this guy knows his stuff. He manages some really great bands.’

‘Like who?’

‘Well, no one you’d have heard of.’

‘Really?’ Simon’s tone was dry.

‘That’s more of a reflection on you than them.’ Jamie’s quick repartee demonstrated why he’d managed to get a place reading jurisprudence.

‘And who are the band you’re supporting? Have they got a recording deal?’

Simon was employing his barrister skills too. Closing in.

‘Not yet. But they will have by the end of the tour. They’ve got a massive fan-base, and a huge following online, and they’re supposed to be doing the soundtrack to this new TV show—’

‘All of this is guaranteed, I presume?’

‘No, Dad – it’s not
guaranteed.
There’s no such thing as a guarantee these days. You have to put in the graft first – get the live following. Then it all happens. And if we can grab a piece of that, then we might be in luck too. The tour’s all set up. We just have to pack our toothbrushes and go.’

Simon nodded thoughtfully.

‘Except for the minor detail of university starting at the same time.’

There was silence. Stephanie sipped her wine. Beth drew circles on the table in the breadcrumbs that had fallen from her roll.

Jamie swallowed. ‘I want to defer for a year.’

Simon was shaking his head.

‘Out of the question.’

Jamie gave a heavy sigh. ‘Why not? What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is you’ve already had a gap year. The problem is you need to get on and get qualified. The problem is the guy is stringing you along—’

Jamie slammed his glass down.

‘You always have to know best, don’t you? Why are you so obsessed with me following in your footsteps? Why can’t I do what I want? It’s my life.’

Stephanie noticed the people at the adjoining table were looking over at them. She put out a placatory hand. ‘Jamie. It’s OK. You don’t have to get upset—’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? When Dad’s refusing to take what I want to do remotely seriously. Of course I’m upset.’

Simon remained the picture of calm.

‘I thought you wanted to do law? That’s what you’ve been working towards for the past few years. And you’ve done very well – extremely well – to get into Oxford. And you want to throw it all away because some guy with a Svengali complex has set up a third-rate tour and thinks you lot are gullible enough to swallow everything he says—’

Stephanie felt she had to intervene. ‘Simon – you don’t know all of this. You’re being unreasonable.’

Jamie turned to her.

‘Yeah. Thanks, Stephanie. At least you’ve got some faith in me.’

Simon pointed at his own chest.

‘I have total faith in you. Total faith in you and your ability to become a great lawyer. I have no faith whatsoever in some fly-by-night turning you lot into the next big thing. Because unless you haven’t noticed, Jamie, the music industry is officially dead. There’s no money in it.’

‘Maybe I’m not in it for the money?’

‘Oh, right, so you’re in it for the grotty hotel rooms and endless journeys in the back of a transit van.’

‘Jamie’s allowed to have dreams, isn’t he?’ Stephanie ventured. ‘Maybe he should try it. Oxford can wait.’

‘That’s just the point. It can’t. I know how the business works. He needs to get on with it.’

‘One more year won’t make a difference,’ said Jamie.