A Night on the Orient Express Read online

  Praise for Veronica Henry

  ‘This is great fun and I raced through it . . . nicely written, with an interestingly flamboyant family of well-observed characters at the centre of a pacy narrative . . . it’s entertaining and very readable’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Exuberant novel of love, lust, hopes and dreams’

  Woman & Home

  ‘Glam yet emotionally astute . . . a sparky absorbing read which fizzes with life and zip’

  Mslexia

  ‘A perfect summer delight’

  Sun

  ‘A great and absorbing read with a storyline that will certainly keep you hooked until the final page’

  Chicklitreviews

  ‘This sweet book would be a great beach companion. ****’

  Star

  ‘The book is first-class chick-lit and a great beach read’

  Sunday Express

  ‘A riotous summer romp’

  Closer

  ‘Warm and brilliantly written’

  Heat

  ‘A great summer read. Veronica Henry’s creation of a clever web of characters, each with their own story to tell, makes this a real page-turner’

  Cornwall Today

  In memory of Samuel George Bright

  1927–2013

  Veronica Henry

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Veronica Henry

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Before the Journey

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  The Pullman

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Orient Express

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Venice

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Afterwards

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Travel Tips from Veronica Henry

  About the Author

  By Veronica Henry

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  This book was a sheer delight to research and an utter joy to write, but it would not have been possible without the help of Anna Nash at the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, whose support and generosity for the project knew no bounds. Thank you, Anna. Thank you also to her successor, Emma Wylde, for her help and enthusiasm. I raise a glass of champagne to you both.

  Thanks are also due to Rupert Aarons, our steward, and Walter Nisi, the head barman, who looked after my husband and me whilst on board the train and made it a journey never to be forgotten. Also, the team at the Hotel Cipriani for a magical stay.

  The book was only enhanced by the eagle eyes and whip-cracking of my agent Araminta Whitley and editor Kate Mills, who both made sure it stayed on track and arrived at the station on time. Their guidance is appreciated more than they can ever know.

  Big thanks too for your input – and much laughter – to Peta Nightingale and Sophie Hughes at Lucas Alexander Whitley. Working with you both is a dream.

  For advice on what to see and do and where to eat in Venice, I am grateful to Rebecca Watson of Valerie Hoskins Associates and Mark Lucas of Lucas Alexander Whitley.

  I am also grateful to Claire McLeish, Alice Wilson and Ilana Fox for being the most amazing friends over the past year. *Oscar-style tears and gushing*

  Thanks also to my husband Peter for allowing me to drag him back to Venice on a second honeymoon – tough, but there was no other man for the job!

  Finally, eternal gratitude to Susan Lamb for her vision and determination, but most importantly her kindness.

  Prologue

  As the clock chimes midnight, in a siding just outside Calais a train sits waiting under a still sky. Above it the moon glimmers, bathing it in a silvery glow. The carriages are empty, but for the ghosts of passengers walking up and down the corridors, their fingertips gliding along the marquetry, their scent mingling in the stillness of the air. The faint trace of piano music floats away into the black velvet night, weaving its way amidst whispers and promises. For here a thousand stories have already unfolded, stories of love and hope, of passion and heartache, of reconciliation and parting.

  There are eleven sleeping cars, three dining cars and a bar. In a few hours’ time, these silent carriages will burst into life as the train is prepared for its journey. No surface will be left unpolished. The cutlery and glassware will shine. Not a speck of dust or a smear of grease will remain. The livery will be hosed down until the metal gleams. Every wish, every need, every possible whim is considered as the provisions are brought on board, from the tiniest pats of creamy butter to bottles of the finest champagne.

  At last, the staff will stand to attention under the gaze of the train manager, their uniforms pristine, ready for the final inspection before it leaves for the station.

  On the platform, the waiting passengers shiver slightly. Whether from the crispness of the air or the excitement of climbing on board the most famous train in the world, who can say? Either way, their stories are waiting to be told.

  Here! Here it is. The first glimpse of the Orient Express as it slides regally towards the platform. The sun bounces off the mirror-bright glass of the windows as the station master strides forward. There is a satisfying whoosh as the brakes are applied, and the train comes to a halt, purring, resplendent, proud – yet somehow welcoming. Who can resist such an invitation?

  Come. Gather up your belongings. Wind the scarf more tightly round your neck; pull on your gloves and your hat as you take your lover’s arm.

  Hurry – your seat is waiting . . .

  NOT ON THE SHELF

  Matches made in heaven for over twenty years

  Sign up to our website for your

  chance to win the trip of a lifetime

  Have you despaired of ever meeting the right person? Are you convinced there is no one out there for you? Are you tired of friends trying to set you up with someone, your cheeks aching as you smile away the evening, bored rigid?

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  We will match up the perfect couple from the entries, and they will go on the ultimate blind date: a night on the Orient Express from London to Venice.

  Enjoy breathtaking scenery as the legendary train takes you on the journey of a lifetime. Sip cocktails in the bar while the grand piano serenades you, then have a sumptuo
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  Profile Questionnaire

  EMMIE DIXON

  AGE: 26

  OCCUPATION: Milliner

  LIVES: London

  FAVOURITE QUOTE: The most important thing is to enjoy your life – to be happy – it’s all that matters. (Audrey Hepburn)

  WHO WOULD PLAY ME IN THE FILM OF MY LIFE: Maggie Gyllenhaal.

  ME IN 50 WORDS: I like to work hard and play hard. I love dressing up. I think life is an adventure and I never want to stop learning. I’m a city girl but I love escaping to the country. I believe in making your own luck, which is why I’ve entered this competition.

  A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS: Violet creams, fireworks, good manners, picnics, snowmen, Agatha Christie, log fires, strawberry daiquiris, Saturday-morning brunch, wrapping presents.

  MY IDEAL PARTNER IN ONE SENTENCE: I want someone who will surprise me and make me laugh, who is kind, and who knows how to have fun.

  NOT ON THE SHELF

  Profile Questionnaire

  ARCHIE HARBINSON

  AGE: 28

  OCCUPATION: Farmer

  LIVES: Cotswolds

  FAVOURITE QUOTE: Who let the dogs out?

  WHO WOULD PLAY ME IN THE FILM OF MY LIFE: Colin Firth

  ME IN 50 WORDS: I love my farm but I love the bright lights as well. I can’t cook to save my life and I’m a bit of a scruff but I scrub up well. I value loyalty over everything. I might come across as shy but deep down I know how to party.

  A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS: Walking the land with my border terriers Sid and Nancy, Sunday lunch in the local pub, my vintage Morgan, Billie Holliday, the West End at Christmas, sunrise, the first cup of tea of the day, mojitos, socks warmed on the Aga, dancing.

  MY IDEAL PARTNER IN ONE SENTENCE: I want someone to take care of, to make me laugh, and to keep me warm at night (my cottage has no central heating).

  Before the Journey

  One

  Adele Russell didn’t much care for telephones. They were, of course, a necessity. An integral part of daily life. She couldn’t imagine being without one but, unlike many of her friends, she spent as little time on the phone as possible. She liked eye contact, and to be able to read body language, especially when she was doing business. There were so many opportunities to be misunderstood on the phone. It was harder to say the things you really wanted to say, and so much could be left unsaid. And one rarely allowed oneself the luxury of silence: a moment to ruminate before replying. Perhaps this was a hangover from the days when a telephone call was an indulgence, when one kept the imparting of information to a bare minimum, conscious of the cost?

  Adele would have preferred to have today’s conversation in person, but she didn’t have that option. She had put the call off for long enough already. Adele had never been a procrastinator, but burying the past had taken such a supreme effort of will at the time, she was reluctant to unearth it again. As she picked up the phone, she told herself she wasn’t being greedy or grabby or grasping. She was simply asking for what was rightly hers. And it wasn’t as if she even wanted it for herself.

  Imogen. Her granddaughter’s image flickered in her mind for a moment. She felt a mixture of pride and guilt and worry. If it weren’t for Imogen, she would be leaving Pandora’s box firmly shut, she thought. Or would she? Once again, she reminded herself that she had every right to do what she was doing.

  Her finger, with its brightly painted nail, hovered over the first zero for a moment before she pressed it. She might be eighty-four, but she still kept herself groomed and glamorous. She heard the long tone of an overseas ring. While she waited for it to be answered, she remembered how many times she had phoned him in secret all those years ago, heart pounding, nose filled with the telephone-box smell of stale smoke, pushing in the money as the pips sounded . . .

  ‘Hello?’ The voice was young, female, English. Confident.

  Adele ran through the possibilities: daughter, lover, second wife, housekeeper . . . ? Wrong number?

  ‘May I speak to Jack Molloy?’

  ‘Sure.’ The disinterest in the speaker’s voice told Adele there was no emotional involvement. Probably a housekeeper, then. ‘Who’s calling, please?’

  This was just a routine question, not paranoia.

  ‘Tell him it’s Adele Russell.’

  ‘Will he know what it’s about?’ Again, routine, not interrogative.

  ‘He will.’ Of this she was certain.

  ‘One moment.’ Adele heard the speaker put the phone down. Footsteps. Voices.

  Then Jack.

  ‘Adele. How very lovely. It’s been a long time.’

  He sounded totally unfazed to hear from her. His tone was dry, amused, teasing. As ever. But all those years on, it did not have the same effect it once had. She had thought she was so grown up at the time, but she had been so very far from grown up. Every decision she had made had been immature and selfish, until the very end. That’s when her journey into adulthood had really begun, with the realisation that the world didn’t revolve around Adele Russell and her needs.

  ‘I had to wait until the time was right,’ she replied.

  ‘I saw William’s obituary. I’m sorry.’

  Three lines in the newspaper. Beloved husband, father and grandfather. No flowers. Donations to his favourite charity. Adele spread her fingers out on the desktop and looked at her wedding and engagement rings. She still wore them. She was still William’s wife.

  ‘This isn’t a social call,’ she told him, sounding as businesslike as she could. ‘I’m calling about The Inamorata.’

  There was a pause while he processed the information.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. His tone was light, but she sensed he was crestfallen by her briskness. ‘Well, it’s here. I’ve looked after it for you with the greatest of care. She’s ready for you to collect. Any time you like.’

  Adele felt almost deflated. She had been ready for a fight.

  ‘Good. I shall send somebody over.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was genuine disappointment in his voice. ‘I was hoping to see you. To take you for dinner at least. You’d like where I am. Giudecca . . .’

  Had he forgotten that she’d already been there? He couldn’t have. Surely.

  ‘I’m sure I would. But I no longer fly, I’m afraid.’ It was all too much for her these days. The waiting, the discomfort, the inevitable delays. She had seen enough of the world over the years. She didn’t feel the need to see any more of it.

  ‘There’s always the train. The Orient Express . . . Remember?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Her tone was sharper than she intended. She saw herself, standing on the platform at the Gare de l’Est in Paris, shivering in the yellow linen dress with the matching coat that she’d bought in the rue du Faubourg the day before. Shivering not from the cold, but from anticipation and anxiety and guilt.

  Adele felt her throat tighten. The memory was so bittersweet. She had no room for it, what with everything else. She had enough emotions to deal with right now. Selling Bridge House, where her children had been born and brought up, selling the gallery that had been her life, contemplating her future – and Imogen’s: it had all been most unsettling. Necessary, but unsettling.

  ‘I’ll send someone over in about three weeks,’ she told him. ‘Will that be convenient?’

  There was no reply for a moment. Adele wondered if Jack was going to be difficult after all. There was no paperwork to support her claim
. It had just been a promise.

  ‘Venice in April, Adele. I would be the perfect host. The perfect gentleman. Think about it.’

  She felt the old anxiety tug at her insides. Perhaps she wasn’t as immune as she thought? He’d always done this to her – made her want to do things she shouldn’t do. In her mind’s eye, she was already at his door, curiosity having got the better of her.

  Why would she want to put herself through the turmoil again? At her age? She shuddered at the thought. It was far better to keep it in the past. That way she was in control.

  ‘No, Jack.’

  She heard his sigh.

  ‘Well, you know your own mind. Consider it an open invitation. I’d be delighted to see you again.’

  Adele gazed out of the window that looked onto the river. A strong current, swollen by the March rain, rippled between the banks, sweeping along with a certainty she envied. Taking a step into the unknown was a risk. At her age, she preferred to know exactly where she was.

  ‘Thank you, but I think perhaps . . . not.’

  There was an awkward silence, which Jack finally broke.

  ‘I suppose I don’t need to tell you how much the painting’s worth now.’

  ‘It’s not about that, Jack.’

  His laugh was the same.

  ‘I don’t care if it is. It’s yours to do with what you will. Though I hope you won’t just be selling it to the highest bidder.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured him. ‘It won’t be going out of the family. I’m giving it to my granddaughter. For her thirtieth birthday.’

  ‘Well, I hope it gives her as much pleasure as it’s given me.’ Jack sounded pleased.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘She’s thirty? Not much younger than you were—’

  ‘Indeed.’ She cut him off. She would have to be brisk. They were straying into sentimentality. ‘My assistant will telephone you to keep you informed of the arrangements.’ She was about to end the conversation and ring off, but something made her soften. They were both old. Chances were they wouldn’t live another decade. ‘You’re well, I hope?’