by Lily Morton
He laughs, his face lively and engaged and so gorgeous that my breath catches, and I have to cough to conceal it.
His eyes sharpen, but luckily the car slows, and I look out of the window in time to see another small station with a train waiting and… I rub my eyes and look again. Yes, it’s still there.
“Why is there a brass band and a welcoming committee waiting on the platform?” I ask faintly. “Just how important are you, Max?”
He laughs loudly, his whole face alight with mirth and glee. “Look closely,” he says.
I stare at the band and the men dressed in blue uniforms with gold piping and then past them to the train. I’m perplexed until one of Max’s long fingers taps my chin and directs my gaze towards the name on the train.
“Oh my fucking Lord,” I say faintly. “It’s the motherfucking Orient Express.”
“I do so adore your command of the English language,” he says happily. “Welcome to our home for the night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Felix
Max thrusts a handful of notes at the driver and steers me forward with a hand at my lower back. I try to ignore the heat and tingles it sends down my spine.
“What is happening?” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth and then smile at an attendant who offers me a glass of champagne. “How lovely. Thank you,” I say serenely to him—as though someone hands me champagne every minute of the day—and he nods, giving another glass to Max, who attempts not to laugh.
Before I can ask another question, a silver-haired man comes towards us, dressed in a blue-and-gold uniform. “Monsieur Travers?” Max nods, and the man smiles. “Your cabin is ready if you’d like to follow me. Your belongings have been put in there for you.”
“What belongings?” I whisper.
Max only shakes his head and offers that enigmatic smile, so I follow the man, Max’s hand still keeping me company at my back. We climb onto the train, and I feverishly take in details. The corridor has shiny walnut panelling and low lights. Sepia-coloured blinds adorn the windows. It smells expensive—like new carpet and old money.
“This is most definitely not the 10.59 to Basingstoke,” I whisper.
Max smiles. We follow the steward down the narrow corridor past open doors that offer glimpses of lavishly appointed cabins and snatches of happy chatter in several different languages. Finally, he fetches up at a door, which he opens and stands back to let us through.
I walk in and stand with my mouth agape. “This is so gorgeous,” I say breathlessly.
The steward gives Max some instructions and information about dinner reservations, so I feel free to explore and begin opening the little cupboards that line the walls.
The compartment is small and panelled with more of the polished walnut, this time with a delicate flower design etched into it. There’s a long banquette covered in a blue and pink patterned velvet, and a small table pulled up to it on which rests a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two long-stemmed flutes. I spot a door and open it to reveal a sink with shelves rising up on either side that are packed with everything you could need. There’s even a white leather wash bag. I unzip it to find an array of costly-looking products.
Max’s voice comes from behind me. “I’m going to presume that wash bag is vanishing into your luggage at some point, Felix.”
I jump guiltily and turn to find Max. The steward has left, the door to the room closed behind him.
“It’s monogrammed,” I whisper. “Of course, I’m taking it.”
“Ah, I’ve missed your kleptomaniac ways. It was a little like dating Fagin but without the irritating children and the garret home.”
Max looks both excited and nervous at the same time, as if he’s unsure of my reaction. No wonder, because even I’m unsure of it. Should I blow up at him for arranging things without consulting me, or just scream in excitement? I opt for a dignified sort of middle ground.
“Going to tell me what’s happening now?” I say, proud of my mild tone.
He sits down on the ornate banquette and says, “We’re taking the Orient Express to Venice.”
“What the hell?” I breathe, falling into the seat next to him. “Why?” I exhale noisily. “What the hell?” I repeat.
“You know, Felix, this is the first time I’ve ever known you to be speechless when you didn’t have my cock in your mouth.”
I glare at him. “And even then I still had enough spare room in there to have gargled champagne and recited the national anthem.”
He throws his head back to laugh and then he sketches a salute. “God save the Queen,” he says in a very solemn voice.
I can’t stop my smile. His laughter fades away, and he stares at me intently.
“What is it?” I say nervously. “Oh my God, is my hair a mess?”
He shoots a glance at my mop and his mouth twitches. “Not at all,” he says smoothly. “It looks much the same as normal.”
“A mess, then,” I say gloomily.
After another staring session, I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “Why?”
He looks adorably awkward. Maybe even shy?
“I’ve accepted a last-minute speaking arrangement in Venice,” he confesses. “I just thought it would be nice for you if we travelled this way.”
“Wouldn’t it have been quicker by plane?”
“You haven’t travelled to many places, and I wanted to do something special for you,” he says almost stubbornly.
“Why?” I ask again.
“Do you really want to know?” His eyes have gone dark and mysterious.
I take a shallow breath. I can’t do this. I’m not ready for another conversation where he tries to persuade me back into bed even though he’s still in love with someone else.
Before I can answer him, there’s a whistle and the sound of slamming doors. The band begins to play loudly as the train pulls away. I abandon all dignity and race to the window, looking out eagerly. Several people wave to me from the platform, and I wave back.
When I turn back, Max is watching me with something I’d call tenderness.
“Thank you,” I finally say.
“You don’t mind?”
I shake my head. “It’s a bit of a moot point anyway, seeing as you’ve stolen me away and are holding me captive on a luxury train.” My hand strays towards my phone so that I can capture this epic moment on social media. I remember to answer his question. “How could I mind? I mean, you’ve whisked me away on the Orient Express. I don’t even want to think how much this is costing you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says smoothly. “It’s a present.”
“We don’t give each other presents,” I say.
“Well, we should, in my opinion.”
“Well, buy me a pint, not the bloody Orient Express.”
“Darling, in the spirit of honesty, it’s just a cabin, and we don’t actually own the train.”
“Don’t call me darling,” I say automatically. “This cost far too much, Max. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just don’t say anything serious.” He leans forward in his seat.
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be with me like you used to be.”
“That’s over and done. We can’t be that again.” The words are broken glass in my throat.
“I know,” he says passionately. “I know that, Felix,” he repeats in a gentler tone. “I just want you to be the way you were when you talked to me without barriers. When we would laugh and talk, and you didn’t look at me as though you hated me.”
My heart hurts at the emotion in his voice. “I’ve never hated you.”
He cocks his head. “Really?”
I sigh. “Well, okay, for a whole week I did actually wish that you’d collapse and man-eating crabs would devour your helpless body slowly and painfully until you died screaming my name and begging for mercy, but that was a very long time ago.”
“Okay, that’s not in the least distur
bing,” he says in a valiant fashion.
“I’m not the same person I was then,” I remind him. “There are a few years that have gone by.”
“I’m not the same, either,” he says fervently. “And someday you’re going to recognise that.”
“Am I?”
He nods, stubborn and beautiful and still my Max.
I look at him thoughtfully. I can’t deny I want our old interactions back too. To be able to sit and talk, to laugh with him again and snark without the bitterness. Maybe we can do this. Perhaps this time away from the real world is what we need.
He must see he’s wearing me down because he smiles radiantly, looking suddenly much younger.
“I’m not making any promises, but we can try,” I say quickly.
“That’s all I want.” His tone is a bit too innocent.
I narrow my eyes. “So where’s your cabin?”
“Ah well, this is our cabin,” he says. He gestures at the space around us. “Isn’t it scrumptious?” My mouth drops open, and he says, defensively, “It was the only cabin left. It was short notice, so I had to take what they had.”
“So, this isn’t some convoluted plot to get me to share a bed with you where I’ll realise the error of my ways and shag you all the way to Venice?” I enquire.
His eyes flare, but he shakes his head primly. “Of course not, Felix. I don’t know what you take me for. This isn’t the plot of an eighties romance novel.”
“It’ll be the plot of Murder on the Orient Express if you try anything,” I warn him, and my mouth can’t help its twitch of happiness at the sound of his laughter.
He isn’t laughing so much when we arrive back at the cabin after an early evening drink to change for dinner.
“What the fuck?” he breathes in disgust, gazing at the beds that have been put down while we were away.
“Ooh, bunk beds,” I say happily, patting the immaculately turned-down beds and feeling the thickness of the mattress and the plumped pillows. The cabin is warm and cosy with the blinds pulled down against the night, and the white bedlinen glows in the light from the lamp. “I haven’t been in one of these since a youth hostel in the Lake District.” I shoot him a wink. “I seem to recall doing some of my best work in a bunk bed. Bagsy being the top.” I continue my survey of the room, and exclaim, “Oh, my God, they’ve given us slippers. And look at these blue and white robes! They’re gorgeous.”
“Surely you haven’t got room on the boat for more bathrobes. You must have them from half of the hotels in London.”
There’s a small box of chocolates on my pillow, and I stuff one into my mouth, closing my eyes for a second in appreciation. Bliss. “I have to say that part of my attraction to you in the past could possibly have been rooted in the fact that you didn’t book rooms that paid by the hour,” I say with my mouth full.
He laughs as he leans against the wall, his body swaying lazily with the movement of the train. He shoots the beds an aggrieved look. “I thought we’d have a proper bed.”
“That we’d have to share,” I say in a sing-song voice. “Oh dear, the best-laid plans of rats.” His mouth twitches, and I laugh. “You really need to start listening to the details, Max,” I say tauntingly.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters. He straightens. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”
My laughter immediately dies as worry rears its head. We’d shared cocktails in a carriage filled with costly-looking people earlier. “It’s rather posh here, isn’t it?” I say haltingly.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Of course,” I say with conviction. He doesn’t move, so I wave my hands at him. “Didn’t you want to change so we wouldn’t be late?”
“We won’t be going anywhere unless you tell me what’s wrong,” he says steadily.
“We can’t be late on the Orient Express.”
“Oh, yes, we can. You’re more important than a load of strangers, and they’ll wait for us.” His arrogant tone shouldn’t make my heart warm as much as it does. “Tell me,” he commands.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I confide. “We passed people going for dinner, and they were all in suits and ties and even evening dress. It’s so… So posh.”
“Go and look in the wardrobe,” he says. I stare at him. “Go on,” he prompts, and I cross to the small cupboard, opening the doors to view what’s inside.
Our clothes have been neatly unpacked, and my eyes are drawn to the suits hanging there. One is Max’s—a black Armani dinner suit that flatters his body as if it was designed for him—but the other one must be mine. It’s an Alexander McQueen evening jacket and vastly different from Max’s, as it’s made of burgundy jacquard patterned with black roses. It’s beautifully dramatic and has been paired with a black shirt and black trousers. Everything appears cut to a skinny fit which I know will flatter my body. The sheen of the fabric tells me that it’s hideously expensive and has been chosen by someone who knows me very well.
I run one finger down the sleek fabric and glance at Max. He’s watching me with the softest expression I’ve ever seen on his face. I swallow hard.
“You?” I ask. He nods. “How?”
“I know your body, Felix. It hasn’t changed much.”
“You remember?” I whisper.
“I will never forget that body of yours.” His fingers make a languorous movement in the air, and my dick twitches as if he’s caressing me. The silence stretches and lengthens, and then he shakes himself like a big dog.
“Get ready,” he instructs me. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Why? You’ve seen everything there is to see a million times.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice has a hushed quality, almost a reverence to it. “Not nearly everything. That would take a lifetime.”
Within the blink of an eye, a smile appears on his lips, and he’s once again the confident and assured man I know.
“I’ll get dressed in the bathroom of the carriage,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. I’ll be the one wearing a pink rose and a very fetching sling.”
“You’ll need another one if you try any funny business,” I advise him darkly.
My smile dies when he leaves, and I catch my reflection in a mirror. I look the same as always—my face is thin and angular with full lips and big eyes topped by a mess of tumbling black waves. What’s unfamiliar is the light in my eyes. I haven’t seen it since the day I left Max in Cornwall. Seeing it there now worries me… It makes me feel as though I’ve been living only half a life without him in it.
“It’s just a reflection,” I say out loud. “The lighting is funny in here.”
The words mean nothing, and I know it even as I say them.
A few hours later, I reel behind Max as we walk back along the narrow train corridor, our bodies swaying to the rhythm of the train. Dinner was amazing. We ate tender lamb chops sautéed with a mustard sauce, after which he had the cheese board, and I indulged in a rich lemon cake that was so lovely I could have eaten ten of the same.
What had been even more wonderful was Max’s attention on me. It was a bit like my best memories of our past, only better because this time there were no shadows in his eyes, and he seemed to see only me, listening to me talk and laughing loudly, his expression happy and content in a way it never was before.
After dinner, we went to a carriage with comfortable seating and tables with fresh flowers and lamps glowing in the low light. A pianist played old tunes, and groups sitting with their after-dinner drinks chattered happily.
Max was immediately recognised. The combination of his good looks and fame as a journalist and thriller writer was irresistible, and soon he was at the centre of an admiring crowd, all clamouring to hear his stories.
But tonight was different from the usual Max-adoration scene. He hadn’t lost his fascination with people, and returned as many questions as he was asked, but during the hours we spent in the carriage, he never once lost contact with me. His h
and was always at my back or on my shoulder, a constant reminder of his presence. He also drew me into the conversations, so I never once felt left out.
I stop in the corridor, suddenly remembering something he’d said.
“You okay?” he asks, looking back, breaking off from humming one of the tunes we’d heard tonight. I think it’s the old Frank Sinatra classic, “The Way You Look Tonight.”
“You introduced me as your friend,” I say before I can think about it.
“You sound surprised.”
The window next to us has been pulled halfway down, and I lean against it, staring blindly out at the dark countryside flashing past and feeling the wind blow my hair back. “I suppose I am.”
He leans against the wall next to me. “I don’t know why. You are my friend. At one point, you were my best friend.”
I shake my head wryly. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were,” he says. “It was only when you were gone that I realised it.” He shakes his head. “Come on. I fancy a brandy.”
Back in the cabin, I let him pour me a brandy from the bottle on a side table. I eye him as he sips his own small snifter.
“You’re not drinking much,” I say idly, settling into the small chair while he takes the lower bunk. “You hardly drank at dinner.”
He shrugs. “I don’t drink much anymore.”
“Why?”
“It was getting to the stage where I’d have had a problem on my hands if I carried on.”
The words make sense, but I have the strongest sense of duplicity. I guess I’ve never lost my strange ability to read Max Travers. I try to think of something sensible to say. Something empathetic. “Bollocks,” I say instead.
He chokes on his drink, and I watch with satisfaction. When he’s finished coughing up a lung, he asks, “How do you always know?”
“I just know when you’re stretching the truth, Max.”
“You’re the only one who knows me,” he says steadfastly.
I laugh. “I can’t be. There must be another man who can do the same. I’m a twenty-something twink from London, not a fucking unicorn.”