A Night on the Orient Express (11 page)

‘You’re amazing.’ Simon leant in and kissed her. ‘If it had been Tanya, I would never have heard the end of it. She’d have beaten me over the head with it for the rest of my life.’

‘Maybe that’s why you love me,’ said Stephanie drily.

Simon touched her arm. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

He turned, and went to pick up her case. Stephanie watched him. She had no reason to disbelieve what he had told her, yet she couldn’t help feeling the tiniest chink of doubt. Was that really why he had gone round? Or did he still have feelings for his wife, and had grabbed the opportunity to go and see her? Tanya was stunning, tempestuous, a handful. The sort of woman who broke men’s hearts for a pastime. Although Simon protested that he had fallen out of love with her years and years ago, Stephanie knew that you could still love someone who treated you badly. Even when you’d found a replacement. And
I don’t know what I’d do without you
wasn’t the sort of thing you said to someone you’d lost your soul to. It was the sort of thing you said to a reliable cleaning lady.

Stop it
, Stephanie told herself. Where on earth was this paranoia coming from? Of course Simon loved her. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? And it was probably because she was nothing like Tanya. Tanya: who dressed provocatively and flirted outrageously and took cocaine in the loo at dinner parties even though she knew it would ruin Simon’s career if it ever got out, because Tanya was, above all else, selfish.

Simon was probably relieved to have someone calm and sensible and trustworthy by his side. And she wasn’t
that
boring, Stephanie chastised herself. Starting your own café and having people queue out of the door every lunchtime wasn’t boring. She thought of her café window with pride – the giant pistachio-studded meringues, the raspberry tartlets, the legendary brownies – everything piled high, higgledy piggledy to the onlooker but actually just so, proportions and colours and amounts exactingly calculated so the display looked its absolute enticing best . . .

Tanya, Simon told her, was only good at spending money.

Besides, Stephanie thought with a minxy grin, she had fifteen years on Tanya. She might not be quite so glam, but she didn’t need Botox.

She brushed her misgivings to one side. She wasn’t going to sulk. Simon had given her an explanation, and an apology, and that was enough.

Victoria to Calais

I
t was the crispest of April mornings: still cold, but optimistically bright, the kind that filled your heart with joy at the thought of the warmer months to come. People blinked at the dazzling sun as they emerged from the Tube into Victoria Station and spilled out onto the concourse. Pigeons pecked for crumbs amidst the scurrying feet and litter. Train announcements boomed out over the heads of the commuters, the words floating up into the tiny puffs of white cloud in the blue sky, never to be heard again.

Archie strode under the departure board, past all the people with upturned faces waiting for their platform to be announced. He had a battered leather Gladstone in one hand, and an ancient Burberry mac that had belonged to his grandfather slung over his right shoulder. He was wearing a Tattersall check shirt and a silk tie and corduroys – he hoped he was smart enough. He didn’t want to wear his dark suit. It had had enough wear over the past couple of weeks, what with all the trips to the solicitor and, of course, the funeral. He didn’t care if he never saw it again.

Across the crowded platform, he could see the lounge where passengers waited for the English rake – the Pullman that would take them to Folkestone. There they would cross the Channel to Calais, where the Continental rake, comprising the historic wagons-lits, would await them. An elegant couple, arm in arm, were about to walk in. She was in golden, calf-length fur, while he was sporting an immaculately cut Savile Row suit. Archie watched as the door was opened for them by a uniformed steward, and they slipped inside.

He wasn’t ready for this. He looked around to see if he could find a bar open. Just a quick Scotch, to give him some Dutch courage. Anyone would need a drink in this situation, surely? Although . . . did he really want to turn up with booze on his breath and start slurring? He’d had no breakfast, after all. He’d just get a coffee from one of the booths, take five minutes to gather himself.

He bought an espresso and felt the caffeine give him a jolt. Half of him wanted to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation. The other half wanted to turn around and get a taxi straight back to Paddington to catch a train home.

It was so typical of his friend to set him up like this. Jay had been desperate to get Archie married off over the past couple of years, ever since his relationship with Kali had come to an end. Kali had been a feisty, robust Kiwi with a sense of fun and endless energy. After going out for five years, the plan had been for Archie and Kali to go and live in her native New Zealand and take over her parents’ farm, but at the eleventh hour, Archie had bottled it. The love of his own family, his own farm, and his friends combined had been greater than his love for Kali. She had understood, because that’s the sort of girl Kali was, and why he had loved her, but he simply didn’t want to live on the other side of the world.

Ever since the split, Jay had thrown pretty girls his way. He inevitably had plenty to spare. Archie had dallied with some of them. Occasionally they had lasted more than a few weeks. But since Kali, he had never felt a real spark. They had all been interchangeable, as far as he was concerned, and he wasn’t the type to string someone along if he didn’t really feel anything.

‘I’m quite happy as I am,’ he used to insist, but Jay continued to set him up, regardless. Even from beyond the grave, it seemed. And so here he was, about to meet his blind date. He supposed it could have been worse. The prize could have been a trip to Alton Towers, or Blackpool. Then he really would have had to think about reneging on his promise. At the time, he hadn’t believed there was a remote possibility that he would win, but he’d given his word.

Archie looked at the girl’s profile again and sighed. Emmie Dixon. She sounded nice enough on paper, but apart from anything, this whole rigmarole wasn’t fair on her. He hoped she wasn’t pinning her hopes on some sort of romantic adventure with a happy ending. If she had any sense, she wouldn’t. With any luck, she was just looking forward to the trip, and could see it for the public-relations exercise that it was.

The only good thing was that Not On The Shelf weren’t filming the whole wretched thing. If that had been the case, he would definitely have put his foot down. As it was, he was dreading the photo-call that was the only requirement. Archie was quite self-contained and private and he didn’t like attention.

He could only imagine how much Jay would have relished an opportunity like this. He would have milked it for all it was worth. He was a showman and an extrovert. Archie tried not to imagine him playing up to the cameras. Thinking about Jay was still too painful. He could feel the tension in the back of his neck creep up to the base of his skull. He hoped he wasn’t going to get one of the headaches that had been plaguing him recently. He hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly. His mother was driving him mad, sending him meals to warm up in the microwave. They sat in his fridge untouched, until he threw the contents in the bin and returned the dishes to her, pretending he’d eaten them. He’d lost half a stone in the past month.

He tossed his empty coffee cup into the bin, then headed for the Pullman Lounge. There was a red carpet outside, and two box trees flanking the arched glass door. Above it was a sign reading Venice-Simplon Orient Express.

He pushed the door open. Inside, the lounge was plush, with red walls and a gleaming parquet floor. He looked round at the other travellers as they checked in their luggage at the desk. Everyone was smiling, chattering, wrapped up in the romance and the glamour. They had all dressed for the occasion, and were groomed and coiffed and polished. The air was heavy with scent and cologne and expectation.

As he looked around, a woman in a grey suit surged forward, accompanied by a man with a camera slung around his neck. The woman wore red-rimmed glasses, a great deal of chunky jewellery and a rather predatory smile.

‘Are you Archie Harbinson, by any chance?’

Archie felt cornered. He should deny it. Get away now.

‘I recognise you from your photo.’

Jay was nothing if not thorough. Of course he’d sent a photo.

‘Yes. I am,’ Archie admitted, through gritted teeth.

Her smile grew even wider and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Patricia, from Not On The Shelf. I’m so pleased to meet you. And congratulations. It was a really tough choice – we had hundreds and
hundreds
of entries.’

‘Really?’ All those desperate people out there. Most of whom deserved this trip more than he did.

‘But your profile really stood out.’

‘Did it?’ Archie wondered what on earth Jay had written.

‘It wasn’t about finding a potential George Clooney,’ Patricia went on to explain.

‘Oh. Good. Well, you won’t be disappointed, then.’

‘It was about finding the perfect match. Two people who seemed made for each other.’

‘I see . . .’

‘You and Emmie seemed like dream partners. You were both very clear what you wanted, which always helps.’

What had Jay written? What had he said Archie wanted?

Patricia was nodding at him. ‘We have high hopes of a happy future for you both. We at Not On The Shelf have a
feeling
.’ To accentuate this feeling she balled her hand into a fist and prodded an area somewhere between her breasts and her stomach. ‘And it’s our
feeling
that makes us the success we are. No computer matching for us. Oh no. We go by
gut instinct
.’

Archie thought if her jewellery was anything to go by, he wouldn’t trust her to pick out a tie for him, let alone a long-term partner. But he couldn’t be bothered to argue.

Patricia took his arm. ‘Let’s not delay things a moment longer. I want you to meet your date.’ She turned to the photographer. ‘Are you ready? I think it’s important to capture the moment they first set eyes on each other. It’s what the other clients will want to see.’

The photographer held up his camera. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘Love is in the air
,’ warbled Patricia as she took Archie’s arm.

Archie suddenly had an image of his blind date’s disappointment when she saw him in the flesh. He steeled himself for the humiliation, inwardly cursing Jay, who he knew damn well was watching him from above. ‘Don’t even think about doing a runner, Harbinson,’ he could hear him say. He let Patricia lead him over to a girl sitting on one of the plush banquettes that lined the lounge.

‘Here we are,’ said Patricia proudly. ‘This is Emmie. Emmie Dixon – Archie Harbinson.’

The photographer began snapping away at the pair of them as the girl stood up. She was tiny, dainty, in a drop-waisted crepe de chine dress the colour of crushed mulberries. She wore it with strings of pearls and a matching cloche hat topped with a creamy, quivering ostrich feather. Beneath it her face was like a little doll’s, with laughing brown eyes and the most kissable cherry-red lips. On the seat beside her was a pile of three hat boxes in pistachio green on which black spidery writing proclaimed: Emmie Dixon, Milliner.

She held out her hand.

‘Hello,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Emmie.’

‘Archie. Very nice to meet you too.’ It tripped off his tongue, for Archie’s manners overrode his lack of enthusiasm. Besides, he was surprised. She was a million miles from what he had been expecting. He supposed he had watched too many episodes of
Blind Date.
He’d envisaged hair extensions and fake tan and a certain amount of leopardskin. Not someone who looked as if she had stepped out of another age.

As the photographer started snapping away, she leaned into him, talking in a low, confidential voice. ‘I bet you’ve been dreading this. I know I have. I absolutely hate having my picture taken.’

‘Me too. But then people don’t often want to take mine.’ Archie was deadpan.

‘Smile for me, if you could, both of you?’ said the photographer.

‘Yes, remember you’ve just met the person of your dreams!’ Patricia was beaming with the excitement.

The two of them turned to face the camera, obliging grins fixed to their faces.

‘Perfect!’ crowed the photographer.

‘And it would be lovely if we could have one of you kissing the other,’ added Patricia. ‘Just on the cheek,’ she added hastily. ‘Just a little peck.’

Emmie bit her lip. Archie could see she was trying not to laugh. She leant in and brushed her cheek against his.

‘This is awful,’ she whispered. ‘Everyone’s staring.’

It was true. They were suddenly the centre of attention, as the other passengers surveyed them with curiosity, wondering if they were famous.

‘Hopefully they’ll let us have a drink in a minute,’ replied Archie.

‘And then let’s have the two of you under the sign,’ trilled Patricia. ‘So we can get the picture into context. It’s going to go up on the website as soon as possible. And on Facebook and Twitter and all of our social media. We might not use computers to matchmake but we are social-media savvy.’

‘Oh joy,’ muttered Archie. There was nothing like being plastered across the internet for posterity. He followed obediently as Patricia herded the three of them across the room. Emmie hooked her arm in Archie’s.

‘Say cheese,’ said the photographer.

Archie grimaced in an approximation of a smile.

‘Cheese!’ said Emmie, and the flash went off.

From across the lounge, Riley observed the proceedings with interest, though he almost couldn’t bear to watch. They were such an intriguing couple, but the photographer was making a terrible job of the shoot. He could just imagine what the pictures were going to be like. Awkward and badly lit and cheesy. The professional in him was desperate to shove the bloke out of the way and show him how it was done. But it would be rude and this was supposed to be his holiday. Riley had a camera with him – he always did; it would be like travelling without oxygen to go without one – but it was for personal use. Yet he still couldn’t quell the urge to make the picture right. He could imagine exactly how he would set them up: the man in profile, gazing at the girl, who would be looking down with a half-smile. You had to find the story. And although there clearly
was
a story, it had been completely blown out of the water by lack of imagination. The two of them looked as if they wished they were anywhere else on the planet, which was the kiss of death for a photograph.