A Night on the Orient Express (20 page)

Simon took a deep breath, trying to keep a lid on his temper.

‘Jamie, I know you think I’m a loser because I’ve got Adele on repeat on my iPod, and maybe I’m not
down
with the
happening
bands, but I know when someone’s spinning you a line. There is no guarantee that you’ll be paid, for a start. Worse, you might incur massive costs. There is no protection – this guy could throw you off the tour after three days if he felt like it—’

‘You don’t know any of this. You haven’t spoken to him.’

Simon looked pained. ‘Trust me, Jamie. I know.’

‘Yeah, yeah, sure you do, because you’re, like, Richard Branson all of a sudden?’

Simon leant back in his chair. His eyes went very cold. Stephanie shivered slightly. She’d never seen him like this.

Jamie ploughed valiantly on.

‘Anyway, Keith’s already promised to check this guy out. He’s got a friend who used to engineer for Pink Floyd. Or something.’

Keith was Tanya’s boyfriend. He always had a handy friend who knew everything there was to know about everything.

Simon nodded. ‘So Keith knows your plan, does he?’

Jamie realised he’d made a tactical error.

‘Well, I was kind of telling Mum and he heard. And he offered to help.’

‘Which was kind of him,’ Stephanie interjected. ‘Maybe he can put your mind at rest, Simon?’

Simon’s expression said that he doubted it very much.

‘In that case, maybe you should think about moving in with your mother, if they’re so much more supportive.’

‘You know what? You’re just jealous,’ Jamie told him. ‘You hate it when someone does something you can’t do. Doesn’t he, Beth?’

Beth had been keeping very quiet through the whole debate. Which was unusual. She shrugged. ‘Leave me out of this. I don’t want to get involved.’

Simon tightened his lips.

‘I’m not saying any more. You’re eighteen. You’re an adult. It’s your call.’

‘I was hoping you’d be pleased for me.’

The waiter was approaching the table to clear their plates, which had now been abandoned. He hesitated, seeing they were in heated debate, but Simon leant back and indicated with a wave of his hand that he should go ahead.

‘Can we change the subject? I’d like to enjoy the rest of my dinner, if that’s all right with you.’

Stephanie glanced over at Beth, who made a face, as if to say she had witnessed this kind of scene a million times. Jamie put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. Simon reached out for the wine bottle but the waiter beat him to it, refilling both his and Stephanie’s glasses.

Stephanie looked down at the table. This wasn’t banter anymore. This was proper arguing. She couldn’t believe how dictatorial Simon was being. He didn’t seem to want to hear Jamie’s side of the story. She understood his misgivings, but she thought he was being unnecessarily harsh. She knew he expected high standards from his children but she’d never seen him this draconian. It unsettled her.

And she felt very awkward. People in the carriage were aware that there was a dispute going on. She could see them looking over. It wasn’t fair to spoil other people’s enjoyment of their meal.

What she needed to do right now was jolly things along. She wasn’t going to let the issue drop; she would tackle Simon on it when they got back to the privacy of their own cabin. The dinner table wasn’t the place for a family row, and she thought both Jamie and Beth look stressed enough.

She picked up the menu.

‘Who’s going to have dessert? I am definitely going for the chocolate fondant. With salted caramel sauce.’

She smiled round, hoping against hope that Simon would pick up on her cue.

‘That sounds perfect,’ he said. ‘Bethy? You’re a chocoholic.’

Beth shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘Nor me,’ said Jamie, chucking the menu back onto the table and sitting back in his seat, sulky.

Simon gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘We could be arguing like this at home,’ he said. ‘For nothing.’

Stephanie cringed inwardly. The situation was incredibly awkward. Jamie caught her eye and she gave the tiniest of shrugs to indicate she had no idea what to do.

Jamie flushed and looked down at the table.

‘Actually,’ said Jamie, ‘go on. I’ll have the fondant thing. It sounds awesome.’

Stephanie watched for Simon’s reaction carefully. To her relief, he smiled at his son, grateful for his cooperation.

‘I will too,’ he said. ‘Bethy, you can have a taste of mine. The desserts on here are legendary. You really shouldn’t miss out.’

Peace, it seemed, was for the moment restored.

Y
et again, Imogen marvelled at Adele’s ability to know just what would appeal to her. This was a far more civilised way to travel to Venice than battling with the Heathrow Express and the inevitable delays of air travel. She was utterly charmed by the compact perfection in her cabin. She was only going to be on the train for twenty-four hours, but she unpacked properly, hanging up her evening dress on one hook and her nightdress on another, putting out her evening shoes, placing her wash things in the little cupboard containing the sink, and finally squirting a spritz of Jo Malone room fragrance into the air – the scent of Pomegranate Noir always made her feel at home straight away wherever she was.

She was just settling down to write a list of what she would need to take to New York with her – Imogen was a great believer in lists – when there was a knock on her door. It was the steward, Robert.

‘Would you like me to bring you an aperitif while you get ready for dinner?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I think I’ll just have some wine with my meal.’

‘OK.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘This is your table. You’re in the Cote d’Azur car. It’s my favourite. You’ll love it.’

She took the slip from him. For a moment, she wondered about asking to have dinner brought to her cabin. She could please herself, not even dress properly, just have a couple of glasses of wine and then go to sleep. She wasn’t being reclusive or anti-social: it was genuinely what she wanted to do.

But that would be shunning the spirit of the Orient Express. The essence of the trip was dressing for dinner and enjoying the ambience, even if she was on her own. She was being lazy. She should jolly well make the effort, she told herself. Adele would be horrified to think she’d holed up in her cabin with her slippers on.

As a consequence, she pulled the stops out getting ready. She teased her shoulder-length hair into glossy curls and rubbed shimmering lotion all over her body before putting on her dress – an emerald-green Grecian maxi dress with a plunging neckline that she knew she had the cleavage for. The dress skimmed her figure and settled over her curves, revealing just enough to be tantalising. At her ears she placed a pair of diamante chandeliers, and the crystals sparkled in the soft light thrown out by the cabin lamps. She added no other adornment; the dress and the earrings complemented each other perfectly.

As she bent to pick up her beaded evening bag, she heard a text arrive. She felt her stomach contract and turn over. Was it from Danny? She couldn’t pretend to herself that she didn’t care. The text had invaded her little bubble. She had felt safe in her cabin, as if the real world was a million miles away. She should have turned her phone off. But now the text was sitting there, waiting to be read. Taunting her.

How’s life on board? Have you met a handsome stranger? xx

It was from Nicky.

Imogen tapped out a quick reply.
Gorgeous! No handsome strangers yet but there’s time xx.
Then she turned the phone off and put it back in her day bag. Of course he hadn’t texted her. Why on earth would he? Her letter had been final. It had left him no room for negotiation. She would never hear from him again for as long as she lived.

She had to take a few moments to gather herself before leaving the cabin. She felt a bit shaky. She had thought herself so in control and so invincible. She had felt so sure about her future and where she was going.

‘You’re going to live in New York,’ she reminded herself. ‘And you and Danny wouldn’t have worked in a million years.’

It was fast becoming her mantra.

The Cote d’Azur dining car took Imogen’s breath away. The seats were upholstered in smoky blue and the windows were hung with silver-grey curtains, setting off the Rene Lalique glass panels. The lamps inside the carriage bathed the passengers in a rosy glow as liveried waiters passed amongst them, seamlessly ensuring their every need was met, each one as charming and handsome as the next. Outside, the night wrapped itself around the train as it pushed on down through France towards Paris, occasionally flashing through a small town, a reminder that there was another world out there, a real world.

Around her, other guests were already seated at their tables. Most of the men were in black tie. The women were radiant in the flattering lighting, dressed in silk and satin and velvet. Diamonds flashed on fingers and rested on shimmering décolletés. Ruby lips and flashing eyes spoke of intimacy and secrets and promises. There was a gentle hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the popping of a cork. An occasional laugh; fingers entwined across a table. There was a sense of celebration and romance and indulgence.

For a moment she quailed, feeling unusually self-conscious and alone. Then she slid into her seat, her head held high, and picked up the menu. Outside, the banlieues of Paris began to flash past the window. They were stark and depressing: not a great trailer to the romance of the city itself. Tower blocks and concrete and graffiti were lit up by the harsh streetlights. Imogen thought perhaps this bleak landscape suited the mood that had suddenly settled upon her far better than the Paris that was for lovers.

T
here was nothing more romantic than looking out for someone at a train station, thought Riley. Airports didn’t cut it in nearly the same way, with their inevitable delays. There was something so much more immediate about a train. As the Orient Express started to slow down on the outskirts of Paris, his heart speeded up. He fiddled with the catch on his window, pulling it down so that he could lean out and get a glimpse of her as soon as he could.

At last, they slid into the Gare de l’Est with its magnificent domed glass roof. A huge clock, its face luminous and its numbers black, showed time ticking away. How many more seconds until he saw her? He thought he would explode with impatience.

And then suddenly there she was, on the platform. A tiny figure, dressed in an oversized mac, Capri pants and laced-up sneakers, her hair in a chignon, a trademark scarf around her neck. So French. So Sylvie.

As the train drew to a halt, Riley left his cabin and hurried down to the door, where Robert was already helping Sylvie on board, carrying the faded red carpet bag she had brought with her for as long as he could remember. No matter where she was going, or how long for, it was all she ever took, and it was always big enough, holding her extensive collection of clothes – a mixture of couture items given to her by doting designers, and other people’s cast-offs that she gathered wherever she went. She had at least five of Riley’s jumpers, several shirts and innumerable pairs of socks, as well as a pair of his striped pyjamas she habitually slept in.

‘Sylvie. Darling.’ He held her tightly in his arms, breathed in the scent of Havoc.

‘Riley . . . !’ She was laughing with happiness. The way she said his name still made him glow with pleasure. Her accent was ludicrously Parisian, even though she had spoken more English than French for most of her life.

She held him at arm’s length and frowned, peering at him in the light of the corridor. ‘But you are so pale. You don’t look well. What’s going on?’

‘I had an accident. But I’m OK.’

‘An accident? What kind of an accident? You didn’t tell me.’

‘No. Because I knew you would get straight on a plane. But I’m fine. I promise you.’

‘
Completement fou
.’ She held her hands up in a gesture that supported her statement, and rolled her eyes at Robert. ‘He’s completely crazy, Robert; what can I do with him? He needs a chaperone. Are you tired with your job on here yet? You could be Riley’s chaperone . . .’

Robert smiled. ‘I never tire of my job on here. You know that. You ask me every time.’

This was true. It was a ritual. Sylvie was always trying to get Robert to leave and look after her apartment in Paris. Luckily for him, he had never succumbed. Sylvie had whims, and didn’t always consider how they might affect other people or if they were in any way practical. It was, of course, part of her charm. Robert was wise enough to see through it, but he was fond of her nevertheless.

She dug in her handbag and handed him a box of Ladurée macarons with a smile.

‘Pistachio and lime and salted caramel. All your favourites.’

‘Thank you.’

It was another of Sylvie’s traits. To make you feel as if you were never far from her mind.

Riley put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Come on. You must get ready for dinner.’

He exchanged a fleeting look of complicity with Robert before whisking her off to their cabin.

It took Sylvie no time at all to get ready; as an actress, she was used to quick changes. From her bag she produced a black Balmain evening dress – silk with a slashed neck, long sleeves and a full skirt. The dress must have been as old as she was, but it still fitted like a glove. She pulled her hair out of its knot and shook it loose, dabbed scent behind her ears, and applied a deep red lipstick. She turned and held out her arms for Riley’s inspection. She was silhouetted against the train window, Paris receding behind them, and he was taken back to that day on the Tube. He only had to narrow his eyes a tiny bit and she was sixteen, with her blonde fringe and dark eyebrows and that defiant pout, posing . . .

The day, he realised now, that he had fallen in love.

‘Will I do?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Riley, and he felt in his pocket for the tiny box. ‘Come on, our table’s waiting.’