A Night on the Orient Express (17 page)

She went to run herself a deep, hot bath, imagining that she could somehow soak away her sins. She could still smell his cologne on her. She had seen the bottle in his bathroom. Zizonia, by Penhaligon’s. It sent her into a turbulent, troubled reverie. For despite feeling the worst she had ever felt in her life, the memory of what he had done to her was intoxicating. She couldn’t help but relive every dark, delicious moment.

By the time William came home, she felt cleansed but light-headed. She forced herself to eat supper with him. Each forkful was a challenge. She wondered if she would ever be able to enjoy food again. He seemed very pleased to see her, and asked solicitously after Brenda.

‘She’s a terrible fusspot and needs help choosing everything,’ she told him. ‘I think she feels left behind, having been in Kenya for so long, and doesn’t know what she should be buying.’

‘She should buy whatever she likes.’ William could never understand why women agonised over things.

‘Oh, it’s not as easy as that and you know it isn’t. Still, it’s rather fun, helping someone else decorate. Anyway, while I was with her I had the most wonderful brainwave.’ She might as well tell him now. ‘I thought I would open an art gallery. In the old surgery. What do you think?’

Why on earth had she said that? Was she really going to go ahead with this plan? Why not? she thought. She could do it by herself. She didn’t need Jack Molloy’s help. She could start small, build it up gradually. It would give a purpose to her life. A glorified hobby, really, but it could be fun. And who knew where it might lead.

As far away from Soho as possible, with luck.

William put his head to one side as he considered her suggestion.

‘That sounds rather a good idea,’ he replied eventually. ‘As long as we don’t have hordes of people thundering about the place.’

Adele cleared the table, and brought over two bowls of peach melba.

‘I’ll put some figures together and see what it would cost.’ Her hands were shaking with exhaustion. ‘And ask a builder to come and see how easy it would be to convert. I don’t think it would be too much work.’

Despite her fighting talk, she longed for her bed. If she could sleep, then she could escape the horror of what she had done.

‘I think I’ll get an early night,’ she told William, as she squirted Fairy Liquid into the washing-up bowl. ‘Brenda’s spare room looks out onto the road. I hardly got a wink.’

While he was out in the garden, having his evening cigar and looking at the roses, she dived into his doctor’s bag and found a bottle of sleeping tablets. She couldn’t guarantee that Jack Molloy wouldn’t visit her in her dreams. He was already starting to flit around the edges of her consciousness – his dark eyes, his black hair, his ready smile . . . No matter how hard she tried to forget him and what they had done, the images were taunting her.

The next morning she felt better. More composed, and the guilt at what she had done had faded slightly. She decided that everyone was allowed one mistake. She’d had a moment of weakness. These things, she told herself, do happen – although she found it hard to imagine any of her friends in a similar situation. Why couldn’t she be respectable and content, like they were? What on earth had got into her?

She determined to focus on her family. William and the boys. She was not going to lose them for the sake of a dose of excitement, a serving of flattery and a night of . . .

She didn’t want to think about the night. If she thought about the night then her resolve would falter and her thoughts would stray.

That weekend, she and William were due to take the twins out for their first exeat – just an afternoon out, but Adele couldn’t wait to see them. For the first time since her exploit, she woke thinking of them rather than Jack Molloy. As she dressed for the day, she prayed that Jack would have satisfied himself with her seduction, ticked her off as another conquest, and would move on to the next unsuspecting victim without another thought. Meanwhile she was going to bury his memory, pack it away in mothballs like an unsuitable dress she never wanted to wear again.

Adele and William drove the short journey to Ebberley Hall. She was in a state of excitement, and chattered all the way about her plans for the gallery.

‘I had the carpenter in yesterday, to see about making the windows bigger so I can have a display. It’ll be a bit of a mess but he says it can be done. And he’ll put picture rails all around the room, so hanging will be easy. And he can make a proper sign over the front – I thought dark red with gold writing. What do you think?’

‘What are you going to call it?’

‘The Russell Gallery, of course. Don’t you think that has a ring to it?’

‘I absolutely do.’ He looked sideways at her and smiled. ‘I think it sounds just the job.’

At Ebberley Hall, they were greeted by two overexcited small boys who seemed to have grown at least two inches each since she’d seen them. She hugged them to her, with their freckled noses and their sticky-out ears and their pockets full of conkers. They were what mattered, these two little beings.

They took the boys to the tearooms in the nearby town where they gorged themselves on scones and cream and jam. After several days of not eating much Adele suddenly found her appetite had returned, and she felt stronger. She bought the boys a gingerbread man each to take back to school.

Leaving them again was torture. As they drove back up the drive she felt filled with dread. It would be four long weeks until half term. At least she knew they were happy there – they chattered non-stop about everything they had done and their new friends. As they put their arms around her and hugged her goodbye – they still hadn’t reached that age where physical contact with your mother was repellent – she felt filled with resolve once again. They were her raison d’être, with their scabby knees and their angelic smiles.

‘Why are you crying?’ Tim asked her, concerned, and she realised that she had tears on her cheeks. She never usually allowed herself to cry when she said goodbye to the twins. She liked to set them a good example.

‘Because I love you very much and you make me happy,’ she told him. ‘Tears don’t always mean you’re sad.’

On the way back to Shallowford, a dreadful emptiness gnawed at her. She couldn’t face the silence of Bridge House.

‘Let’s go out for dinner,’ she suggested to William. ‘Oh, let’s. We haven’t gone out just the two of us, for ages.’

‘I’ve got a heap of papers to look through,’ he told her. ‘I just want a quiet supper and to sit in the drawing room with a bit of Brahms, and look through them. Do you mind if we don’t?’

She did mind. Awfully.

‘No, of course. That’s fine,’ she replied. ‘I’ll do omelettes.’

She couldn’t be bothered to do anything more elaborate, but William seemed perfectly happy with her suggestion.

That night William pulled her to him but she pretended to be asleep. She had never done that before, but she knew if they made love she would unravel. The memories she was trying to suppress were only just beneath the surface. Any physical contact would bring them rushing up again. She needed more time for the memory of the thrill to fade. Instead, she lay curled up with William’s arms around her and prayed for sleep.

A few days further on and Adele’s emotions had entirely recalibrated.

Guilt and shame had faded and the sick feeling that had plagued her went away. The memories re-emerged not as something to be ashamed of, but as a fantasy that she couldn’t quite believe had happened. Her subconscious toyed with her, sending her images when she least expected them. She would be talking to the carpenter and suddenly recall Jack’s warm lips on her collarbone, or the weight of him on her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, blushing, as the carpenter talked about different types of wood for the window frames. ‘Could you explain that again?’

She began to wonder about Jack. She tried her best to put him out of her head, but somehow it wasn’t the cold horror of the morning after she remembered, the wretchedness she had felt on creeping away, only the heat of the night before.

More than anything, she couldn’t bear the thought of Jack moving on to his next conquest, of her having been of no consequence whatsoever. She wanted to be important to him. Or at least know what effect their night of passion had had on him. She wanted him to be plagued by dreams of her day and night, as she was by dreams of him.

Of course, she heard nothing from him. Which was absolutely for the best. And in the meantime, plans for the gallery were coming on apace. The conversion was proving successful. The coach house now sported two bow windows either side of the door. Inside, the space was much brighter as a result, and she had had it painted in a sunny pale yellow. She had revamped William’s old office as well, and had a new telephone line fitted. No one had called the number yet, but she practised saying ‘The Russell Gallery’ when she picked it up.

She was a long way from opening yet. She had little stock – she was going to spend the next three months buying paintings. On the desk was a huge pile of auction catalogues that had been sent to her, as well as catalogues from other galleries so she could compare stock and prices.

Another week on and a catalogue arrived for a sale in Chelsea. It had an interesting variety of lots, and Adele thought she could probably pick up quite a few pictures at a reasonable price. She would go, she decided.

She was deluding only herself. She knew perfectly well Jack would be there. She had seen the catalogue on his desk herself. But she told herself she could cope with seeing him. She was a businesswoman now.

Nevertheless, she put on the red suit with the fur collar she had bought from Hepworths which made her look even more like Elizabeth Taylor than usual. She told herself it was because she wanted to look strong-minded and independent, but she knew it fitted her tiny waist to perfection, and her legs were shapely underneath it, and her breasts were creamily inviting beneath the fox fur.

She bid successfully for five paintings, and felt a sense of euphoria as the auctioneer took her details and arranged for delivery. As she signed the paperwork, she smelled a familiar scent. Zizonia. It was heady and enticing. She turned, and Jack looked down at her.

‘Quite a spending spree,’ he remarked.

‘I’m opening the gallery,’ she told him. ‘I took your advice.’

‘Then we should have lunch to celebrate.’

She didn’t demur. They could discuss her new venture, she told herself. There were still lots of things she wasn’t clear about and he had years of experience.

By mid-afternoon she was in his arms, then his bed, then over her head.

Calais to Venice

W
aiting for a new wave of passengers always gave the staff on board the Orient Express a frisson of stage-fright. It sent a crackle of electricity up and down the train that they all felt. Each time, there was a sense of anticipation that was just like waiting for the curtain to go up. Would everything run smoothly? How would the passengers react? Would the journey fulfil their expectations? There was also the camaraderie and pride, as well as an element of competition, since each steward on board the train wanted to feel that the passengers in their carriage were better looked after than the next.

The steward in charge of Sleeping Car 3473 checked his cabins one last time. She had been built in Birmingham in 1929, and started service in the Train Bleu, a luxurious train linking Paris with the Riviera. Anyone who was anyone flocked to the Casino in Monte Carlo on her, and to the playground that was the Cote d’Azur. The glamour of those days still lived on. Sometimes, he thought he could hear the laughter and the music, smell the scent of Chanel and Gauloises as the passengers racketed south to the sun.

Now she had been restored to her former splendour and had joined the Orient Express. From the tiny bunk where he slept at one end, to the bathroom at the other, all joined by an intricate garland of flowers in a marquetry frieze that entwined its way around the cabins and along the corridors, this was his domain.

He knew the cabins in his care were pristine, but he wanted to make sure. The day he stopped bothering was the day he would leave, for this job was all about perfectionism. He never tired of the routine. Each cabin was a stage of its own, waiting for a new drama to unfold. And for the next twenty-four hours, he would be embroiled in the passengers’ stories. People could never resist pulling him into their lives. Over the years, he had dispensed advice, reassurance and hangover cures in equal measures. No story was ever the same.

Satisfied that everything was just as it should be, the steward slipped into his royal-blue frock coat with the gold buttons, set his cap carefully onto his curls, then checked his appearance in the mirror with pride. This was his world, his life, and he wouldn’t change it for anything.

He stepped onto the platform and took his place next to the other stewards as they lined up to greet the newcomers in front of the long line of blue and gold cars, the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits. Happily, the sun was shining. As the first of the people destined for his carriage made their way forward, he stepped towards them with a smile.

‘Hello, I’m Robert. I’m going to be looking after you on your journey. Welcome on board the Orient Express . . .’

Stephanie and Simon followed Robert onto the train, exchanging surreptitious grins of glee. The corridor stretched out before them, a row of windows to one side, and a row of identical doors in shining blonde wood inlaid with delicate marquetry on the other. Robert unlatched the door to their cabin and they stepped inside.

The cabin was tiny – not much bigger than their en-suite at home, Stephanie guessed – but it was perfectly appointed. The far wall was taken up by a picture window to gaze out of at the passing scenery. At right angles to it was a wide seat upholstered in rich tapestry and padded with cushions. Opposite that was a tiny table laid with crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice-bucket. The carpet underfoot was soft; the walls were the same highly polished wood as the corridor, and their luggage was already stowed overhead in the art deco luggage rack.