A Night on the Orient Express (35 page)

Breakfast the next day was excruciating. Archie blamed his silence on the grappa.

‘The stuff always gives me a headache,’ he said, but his head felt fine. It was his heart that was in agony.

He ate as many of the sweet bread rolls with strawberry jam as he could, just to give himself something to do. Emmie pulled her roll apart and scattered the crumbs on the ground for the tiny birds to peck at. They had barely spoken. She was clearly puzzled by his mood, but he didn’t know what to say to justify his gloom.

Now it was almost time to leave, he couldn’t bear the thought of going back home. The idea of that wretched cottage and all the work that needed doing to it made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to think about the farm, or the business. Or a life without Jay to phone him up and drag him down to the pub, or flip up to Twickenham to watch the rugby. But he didn’t have any choice. He and Emmie would have to make their way to the airport straight after breakfast. No doubt they would say a stilted goodbye at Heathrow, and make an arrangement to meet for lunch that they wouldn’t keep. And she would slip through his fingers and he would never see her again, and he would disappear back to the farm and become a recluse, just as Jay had predicted, because without Jay to galvanise him his social life would wither. And he would get duller and duller by the day, less like the person he wanted to be, and he would no longer feel the little bit of warmth Emmie had injected into his life, the little bit of optimism, the feeling that there was something more out there.

The airport was crowded, brimming with people reluctant to leave the splendour of the most ravishing city in the world and return to normality. To roads and traffic and prosaic bricks and mortar, to places where the sun didn’t dance on the water and turn the buildings to gold. The magic evaporated as soon as they walked through the doors and began to look on the departure board for their check-in desk. Emmie was subdued and rather agitated, repeatedly checking for her ticket and passport and searching in her handbag. As she stood in the queue for the check-in she twisted her fingers round and round.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and round. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said suddenly. Then she blushed, and looked away.

Archie felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t think. Everything was so confusing. And then he thought he heard a voice: that dry, bemused tone.

‘For heaven’s sake, Harbinson. Just get on with it.’

Archie felt his heart start to beat faster. ‘What?’ he whispered.

This time, he definitely heard the reply.

‘Go for it. You’re only here once. Trust me on that one.’

Archie dropped his bag on the floor and turned to Emmie. ‘I don’t want to go back either.’ As the next passengers were checked in and their baggage disappeared into the black hole, the queue shuffled forward. ‘So let’s not.’

Emmie laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that be amazing? In our dreams.’

‘It doesn’t
have
to be in our dreams, though, does it? We could make it reality.’

Emmie looked at him, perplexed, as they reached the check-in desk. She put down her hat-boxes on the conveyor belt. The check-in girl smiled up at them. ‘Can I have your passports, please?’

‘Wait.’ Archie stopped Emmie from handing her passport over. She frowned. He put his hand on her arm. ‘Let’s go back. Let’s go back to the hotel, Emmie.’

‘I can’t. I have to get back.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve got hats to make. Appointments. Stuff to do . . .’

‘Are you telling me one more week would really make a difference?’ Archie demanded. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Em, but it’s only hats. Surely your customers won’t mind. Come on. You only live once. If the past few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that.
Carpe diem
and all that.’

Emmie bit her lip and looked away. Her cheeks were burning pink. ‘I don’t have that kind of money, Archie. You know that. I can’t afford to stay on.’

‘I’ve got the money.’ He had no idea what it was going to cost, but he’d find the money if it killed him. ‘We’ll have the penthouse suite, if it’s available.’

The people in the queue behind were getting restless. The check-in girl was looking irritated. ‘Excuse me. Do you want to go on this flight or not?’

‘No, we don’t,’ Archie told her. He picked up his and Emmie’s bags and her hat-boxes from the conveyor belt. ‘Come on.’

Emmie stared at him open-mouthed. ‘We can’t just . . . not go home. We can’t . . .’

‘Why not?’ Archie felt filled with courage and determination. He could feel Jay cheering him on from above. He felt giddy with recklessness and spontaneity. And something else. A big burning ball of heat inside that was driving him on.

‘You’re mad.’ She looked incredulous.

‘I’m not mad,’ retorted Archie. ‘This is the best idea I have ever had in my life.’

‘I haven’t got enough clothes!’ she protested.

‘We can buy clothes.’ Archie strode across the airport, Emmie half-running after him.

‘I’ve got a dentist appointment on Tuesday,’ she protested. ‘And I need to pay my TV licence. And tax my car . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It will still all be there when you get back. What matters is living for the moment. For now.’ He turned to her, laden with the luggage. ‘I don’t want to go back to the farm, and deal with a load of paperwork. I want to have an adventure. I want excitement. I want . . .’

He looked at her. He couldn’t judge her expression. But he knew this was the moment.

‘I want you,’ he told her.

She stood very still. Archie looked down at the floor. It was the most impulsive thing he had ever done. The biggest risk he had ever taken. The sound of the crowds around him roared in his ears. The airport announcements babbled in the background, incoherent. He shut his eyes. He wished he could spirit himself away. Bloody Jay, he thought, egging him on.

‘OK then.’

Her voice was so low and quiet he barely heard it. He opened his eyes.

‘What?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

She stepped forward. He dropped all the bags and the hat-boxes. She threw her arms around his neck.

‘It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,’ she told him.

‘Who cares?’ he asked. Around them passengers looked askance as he picked her up and whirled her round. Eventually he put her down and picked their luggage back up. She had to run to keep up as he strode out of the doors they had only recently come in through. Five minutes later, they waited for the waterbus to take them back to the city, hands entwined.

‘Hey,’ grinned Emmie. ‘We need to email Patricia.’

‘God, no, she’ll only want photographs,’ groaned Archie.

‘It’s only fair,’ insisted Emmie. ‘After all, if it wasn’t for Not On The Shelf . . .’

She laid her head on his shoulder.

Archie didn’t reply. It was nothing to do with Not On The Shelf. That had just been the conduit. He drew Emmie towards him, tucking her into him to protect her from the breeze that was blowing across the water. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he whispered, and imagined Jay up above, sitting on a cloud, a twenty-first-century Cupid, raising a glass to the two of them with a satisfied wink.

Later that afternoon, Riley drove the motorboat that came with the palazzo back from the island of Burano, where he and Sylvie had had lunch at their favourite fish restaurant. She’d also bought a bolt of the lace the island was famous for, and was uncharacteristically coy about it, tucking it away at the bottom of her bag.

‘Don’t ask questions,’ she warned, pointing at him, and Riley grinned.

Just before the landing where their boat was moored, they drove under a tiny bridge. On top of it stood a couple, locked in an embrace, kissing as if they would never stop, completely unaware of anything else around them. Riley’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised them. It was the couple from the waiting room. The ones who’d been subjected to that terrible photo shoot. The ones who’d wished themselves a million miles away.

‘The hat girl,’ said Sylvie, and smiled, keeping yet another secret for another day.

Riley killed the engine, grappled in his bag for his camera. He was a pro. He was ready in seconds. He framed them perfectly as the setting sun exploded into a ball of fire, gilding them in a pool of molten light.

‘That,’ he said to Sylvie as he clicked the shutter, ‘is the money shot.’

A
dele had been working tirelessly all week, sorting out what she was going to take with her from Bridge House when she finally left.

Nicky had brought a couple from London to view the house, prior to it going on the market officially. They had fallen completely in love with it and made a more than generous offer. Compounded by the fact that they had given Adele as long as she liked to find somewhere else to move to, it had left her with little choice but to accept. They had been charming, with a lively young family as well as three teenagers from the man’s previous marriage, so they were planning to use the coach house as separate accommodation for when they descended. Adele felt she would be leaving her home in good hands, and although she was wistful – of course she was – she had always been adept at knowing when it was time to move on.

It didn’t matter to her, though, now she knew that Imogen was going to be all right. Her granddaughter had come back from Venice lit up from the inside. Adele had been a little shocked by her revelation, but once she had met Danny properly her fears were allayed. Adele, of anyone, could recognise true love. She could tell it from infatuation. They were a team, outlining their plans to her, bubbling with excitement and enthusiasm, their sentences playing leapfrog with each other: Imogen was going to move into Woodbine Cottage, then open a consultancy in London, with a small office-cum-gallery. They had plans to develop a specialist art security consultancy too, pooling their skills and contacts.

And they were going to hold a huge opening party to reveal
The Inamorata
to the world at large: her unveiling would be the perfect way to garner publicity for the new businesses. The picture would remain the jewel in the crown at the gallery, never for sale, but enticing customers and the curious alike to come and view the lost Reuben Zeale masterpiece. The art world would be abuzz with speculation and intrigue.

Imogen had made sure her grandmother didn’t mind being on display to the world in this way, but Adele had reassured her. After all, there was no one alive now who would recognise the model for
The Inamorata.
She felt certain that most of the people in Simone’s who had been aware of her affair with Jack had passed on by now, and even if one of them was still alive, and recognised Adele, then so what? It proved nothing. Celebrating this work of art was more important than protecting her privacy; Adele felt sure of that. The affair had been a lifetime ago.

As she passed through the hallway with a pile of old paperbacks to run up to the charity shop, the post plopped onto the doormat. On top of the usual bills and catalogues sat a white envelope with spiky black writing and a foreign stamp. She stood staring at it for a moment. She remembered a letter from years ago, a letter in pale turquoise ink that had changed her life forever.

All she could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock in time with her pulse. Eventually she set down the box and picked up the envelope. Suddenly she couldn’t open it fast enough, hungry for the words.

The letter was brief. Adele, usually so composed, felt the breath squeezed from her body and the peppery sting of tears. She read it again, three times over, but there was no need to search for hidden meaning. It was all there, his heart, right there on the page. No games, no pretence.

She walked into the morning room. What she was about to do wasn’t foolhardy or reckless. She had no choice. She couldn’t go to her grave without seeing him again. Hearing his voice and feeling his touch. It wasn’t a betrayal. She and William had shared a wonderful life together. Their love had been enduring and authentic. Once she’d left Venice, she hadn’t let her affair with Jack taint their marriage a moment longer. William had slipped away knowing that Adele’s love for him was strong and true. Her decision wasn’t going to change that.

She picked up the telephone and dialled, almost without stopping to think. In fact, it was important that she didn’t. If she started thinking about dates, commitments, details, she would never do it. There would always be a reason not to.

The phone was answered almost immediately. ‘Venice Simplon Orient Express.’

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’d like to book a ticket. A ticket to Venice, on your next available trip . . .’

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