The Queen's Margarine (17 page)

High Speed 1– a rather apt description of their time together twenty years ago. She hardly remembered a day in New York when he wasn't tearing from a business-breakfast on to a power-lunch, followed by a shareholders' meeting or financial seminar, until at last he was free to race through drinks and dinner with her, before seducing her in the same urgent, headlong fashion. In fact,
all
New
Yorkers seemed to live at a frenetic pace; even speaking faster than Americans from other cities, and almost proud of being harried, as they hurtled to meet deadlines or close important deals. Carl must be jet-lagged, for heaven's sake, having flown in only yesterday, yet here he was desperate to dash off again. Her dad (the self-same age) insisted on his daily nap and would be knackered after little more than a day-trip to the coast.

‘It's an historic occasion, the guy said' – Carl's voice was speeding up again as he galloped through the story – ‘something to tell your grandkids. So I thought, what the hell, I'll go to the station in person and have a second shot at getting seats. I rushed straight over in a cab and found the place swarming with cameramen and newsmen. They even had an orchestra playing, right there on the platform, and people dressed in Victorian costume. Hell, I didn't waste a second – I knew I had to get us on that train. “Sorry, sir”, they said – just like the first time I tried – “I'm afraid it's fully booked”. But I stood at that damned ticket-window, refusing to take no for an answer, and – would you believe? – two returns came in. It seems some guy's wife had broken her wrist actually on the way to catch the train, so naturally the couple couldn't go. Well, I snapped the tickets up, of course, and the bonus is they're first-class seats, with lunch and free champagne laid on. And talking of champagne, wait till you see the champagne bar! It's the longest one in Europe, and it opened just today. So if we get moving, sweetheart, we'll have time for a quick glass before the train departs. It's leaving at 12.30, and check-in's only half an hour before.'

As he paused for breath, at last, she jumped in quickly, trying to curb the tide of words. ‘Carl, I've told you already, I don't think—'

‘You can't turn this down, Rowena. It's something we'll remember all our lives. There'll never be another first train, so if you refuse to go, we'll lose the chance of being part of history.'

An exaggeration, surely. As far as she could recall, Eurostar had been running for some twelve or thirteen years. Did it really make such an earth-shaking difference for the trains to depart from St Pancras rather than Waterloo? They were both just stations, weren't they, and frankly she'd had enough of stations for one day. Nor did she relish the prospect of travelling at 200 miles an hour.
Essentially a country girl, she preferred life in the slow lane. But what was that to Carl?

Sweeping the lilies from her arms, he tossed them on the ground once more, so he could press his body into hers, so tight and close she could feel its every contour. She was aware that people were watching – casual passers-by enthralled by this romance.

‘It'll be wonderful,' he whispered, ‘not just the train, the whole experience. We can stay in Paris as long as you like. I'll book us in at the
Hôtel de Crillon
. Their suites are just sensational, with antiques and oil paintings and fabulous wood panelling. We can lie in bed all morning, see the sights all afternoon, then back to bed for—'

Resolutely, she pulled away. ‘Carl, I'm meant to be at work tomorrow.'

‘This is more important than work. I just know we have to go, my love.' He ran a seductive finger softly down her cheek; down lower between the buttons of her coat.

His black gaze was mesmerizing, but she forced herself to look down at the floor. ‘And, apart from anything else, I haven't any luggage with me.'

‘Nor have I – my bags are at the Savoy. But we can shop till we drop in Paris. In fact, I'd love to pick out some clothes for you. Remember when we did just that in Bloomingdales?'

She nodded silently. She did remember; still had those stylish dresses, that sexy underwear – the most expensive stuff she had ever owned – kept them as a kind of souvenir. What in God's name must he be thinking of her now, with her scrubbed-clean face and gravy-spotted coat? No wonder he wanted to kit her out from some swanky Paris store.

As if tuning in to her thoughts, he cupped both hands around her face and continued his fierce scrutiny, his eyes dissolving flesh and bone. ‘I haven't told you yet how beautiful you look. You haven't changed in twenty years.'

Sheer flattery, of course, and just part of his persuasion technique, yet those lavish compliments had always weakened her defences; worked on her like some potent (fatal) drug.

‘Rowena, we have to get going right now! It's already
eleven-thirty
and if we waste another minute arguing about it, that train will go without us.'

Still struggling between reluctance and desire, she allowed herself to be coaxed into a taxi. Carl found one straight away, of course – another of his skills. However bad the weather, however big the crush, cabs magically appeared for him. Sometimes, in New York, she had imagined he could summon one by will and thought alone.

Once they were sitting side by side, desire began to swamp her doubts. His warm thigh was nudging hers, his hand had crept inside her coat again and already found her breast. Even the smell of him was exciting: that citrus-sharp
Eau Sauvage
he had always worn, in bed and out, and which had become the signature-scent of their affair.

His thumb was dawdling across her nipple in slow, exquisite circles, pausing only for a second as he urged the driver to ‘Step on it!'

No cab was ever fast enough for Carl. She recalled careering down Park Avenue one evening, with him chivvying the driver, as if they were an ambulance or cop-car speeding to some emergency, rather than two lovers headed for dinner at Rossini's.

‘I can't go any faster, guv,' the fellow countered, with a shrug. ‘This is central London, not Le Mans.'

She hid a smile; one secret, shameful part of her hoping that they
would
be too late, then he could whisk her to the Savoy, instead of its French equivalent, hurtle her into bed, scorch her with his kisses. But that would mean chucking away a hell of a lot of cash. First-class tickets on Eurostar wouldn't be exactly cheap. And what about his longing to be part of an ‘historic occasion'? For her, it
was
historic, without any special trains or renovated stations – just the fact of him beside her was phenomenon enough, when she had assumed she'd never see him in her life again. The expression in his eyes was affecting her profoundly – no one else had ever looked at her so blatantly, provocatively, as if seducing her by gaze alone. And his proud, overweening profile and sensuous, open lips were stirring the same emotions that had left her weak and willing at nineteen. And those dark hairs on his wrist, disappearing beneath the crisp white shirt-cuff, reminded her of his hirsute chest, the rough feel of it against her own soft skin; that earthy, animal side of him, so different from his elegant exterior.

None the less, the voice of caution nagged still: why start the thing again, when he would only overrule her on every single issue, just as he was doing at this moment? Paris would be no different from New York. He could keep her waiting in the
Champs-Elysées
with the same infuriating disregard as he had done in 42nd Street.

Yet the tantalizing pressure on her nipple continued to say otherwise; coming up with arguments in favour of the plan. After all, this Paris jaunt would only be a matter of days, not two tempestuous years, and she could insist on going home within the week. Besides, Carl would be on holiday and so surely more relaxed.

Although he seemed anything but relaxed right now, still harassing the driver (whilst continuing his wooing of her breast), and peering at his watch. If she did decide to go with him, then she should be ringing her boss, inventing some illness or excuse; not allowing his hand to glide across to the other breast and caress it in its turn. And still she hadn't the faintest notion
why
he'd got in touch again, or what he was expecting of her: one dizzy whirl in Paris, or a more serious commitment? He hadn't even thought to ask if she was involved with someone else – in fact, hadn't asked a single question about her job or life or circumstances. If such things were of no consequence except as they affected
him
, she'd better disabuse him fast, explain that—

‘Great, we're here!' He leapt out of the taxi, over-tipped the driver, and swept her and the lilies through the station entrance. Her first reaction was a strong sense of disappointment. The place seemed nothing special – indeed, windowless and gloomy, with no sign of any awe-inspiring architecture, just the usual London crowds.

‘This is where we check in,' Carl informed her. ‘But we still have ten minutes to spare, so I want to show you—'

‘Aren't we cutting it awfully fine?' she asked, interrupting
him
, for a change.

‘Don't worry, we'll be OK,' he said, as they manoeuvred their way through the scrum. ‘This part is called the under-croft, and was once used as a beer-cellar. When it was full, it could hold twenty-eight million pints. That's a hell of a lot of beer!'

She could hardly hear what he was saying for all the noise and bustle. They had now come to an arcade of shops, and, suddenly, she caught her first glimpse of the roof – magnificent, as Carl had claimed.

‘Come on!' he said, propelling her up a flight of steps. ‘We'll see it better from upstairs.'

At the top, she stopped dead, gazing in admiration at the huge iron struts and girders soaring up, up, up, above them, like the vault of a great secular cathedral, and painted an unlikely ethereal blue. The sheer scale of the arch was breathtaking; instantly raised her spirits, as did the triumphant music playing on the station. Building and music seemed to match: both grandiose, declamatory, uplifting.

Carl's eyes followed hers. ‘They said this was the inspiration for Grand Central Station back home. I must admit I didn't know that.'

For a moment, she was transported to New York again, and they were sitting in the Oyster Bar, sharing a platter of bluepoints – the same impressive architecture, the same imposing companion, the same crowds and noise and jostle.

‘Apparently, the whole of the glass roof was covered with black bitumen from the Blitz,' he explained, still acting the proficient guide. ‘That newscaster was saying how it all had to be scraped off, before they inserted eighteen thousand panes of
new
glass.'

He, the New York visitor, was showing her – the native Englander – the sights of her own capital; reeling off facts and figures she ought to know herself. How had he picked up all this information in one scant hour this morning? But that was typical. Carl was always perfectly briefed, whether explaining the construction of a building, or the history of some monument. Whereas she was just an out-of-touch provincial, too caught up in petty local matters, to take an interest in the wider world of London.

In fact, she had barely digested the architecture, when he began steering her through the throng again. ‘Quick! There's something else you have to see.'

They paused a moment first, to watch the orchestra – some thirty or forty string-players, the women dressed elegantly in
black; the men in smart white jackets, and the dashing young conductor exuberantly waving his baton. The music was so yearningly beautiful, she longed to stay and listen, but Carl was tugging at her hand again, making for a gigantic statue of two embracing lovers. The figures veered so huge and high above her, they seemed to have transcended the mere human scale and belong to a race of giants.

‘The sculptor who made this,' he said, ‘wanted it to reflect the romance of rail travel. Do you think he's succeeded, sweetheart?'

Without waiting for her response, he positioned himself in the exact same pose as the bronze titan looming over them: his arms wrapped around her waist, his forehead touching hers. ‘That's how big I feel,' he whispered, ‘when I hold you close like this.'

What could she reply? In truth, she found the statue almost repellent. No way could she relate to such colossal beings, their faces high above her; the woman's protuberant calf muscles bulging in an unattractive fashion; her stiletto heels unnaturally large and lethal. And the man was no less cumbersome – a fatuous rucksack on his back, his ugly trousers clinging to his legs and bum, in a way more crude than sexy. Moving her head away from Carl's, she peered up at the statue again. Was it some sort of warning to her – that she was overreaching herself; didn't really belong with the superior sophisticate who had brought her to this place? She had always been a small-scale person, petite in build and height, modest in her expectations, content with a quite lowly job, and living all her life in a tiny Devon village that didn't boast so much as a pub. So what was she doing here in this city of eight million, with a man of six-foot-four, whose ambitions were prodigious (as was his bank account)?

‘Perhaps it'll become like our Statue of Liberty,' he was saying. ‘Something famous and iconic.'

There wasn't time to speculate. Already he was urging her on, weaving through the crowds, with her in tow. Half of London seemed to have gathered here: sightseers and tourists, cameramen and television crews, ordinary commuters, whole families with prams and even picnics.

‘Three minutes to check-in,' he said, glancing at the huge station clock. ‘Just time for a quick glass of
Moët
.'

She doubted it – especially when they reached the Champagne Bar and saw how packed it was. There didn't seem the slightest chance that they would be served within three minutes, let alone have time to drink the stuff. However, if she persuaded him to try; suggested they sit at one of the tables until a waiter was free to take their order, it might be as good a way as any of ensuring that they'd miss the train. Or was that downright mean?