Emily

Chapter Five

After a fortnight, Rory started getting restless and decided to return to England. We stopped in London and booked in at the Ritz. I must say I did enjoy being rich — it was such bliss not having to look at the prices on the menu.

We were in the middle of dinner, I lingering over a crêpe suzette because it was so delicious and Rory halfway through his second bottle of wine, gazing moodily out at Green Park, where the yellow leaves whirled and eddied away from the wet black branches of the plane trees.

Suddenly he summoned a waiter:

‘I want my bill,’ he said, adding to me, ‘finish up that revolting pudding, we’re going home tonight.’

‘But we’re booked in here,’ I protested.

‘Doesn’t matter. If we hurry, we can catch the sleeper.’

‘But it’s Friday night,’ I said, ‘we’ll never get a bed.’

‘Want to bet?’ said Rory.

We tore across London in a taxi, fortunately the streets were deserted, and reached Euston station just five minutes before the train was due to pull out.

‘You’ll never get on,’ said the man at the booking office, ‘it’s fully booked.’

‘What did I tell you,’ I grumbled. ‘We’ll have to sleep in a cattle truck.’

‘Stop whining,’ said Rory. His eyes roved round the station. Suddenly they lit on one of those motorized trolleys that carry parcels round stations and are always running one over on the platform. It was coming towards us. Stepping forward, Rory flagged it down.

The driver was so surprised he screeched to a halt and watched in amazement as Rory piled our suitcases on.

‘What the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing, mate?’ he said.

‘Drive us up Platform 5 to the first-class sleeper for Glasgow,’ said Rory.

‘You want me to do what?’ asked the driver.

‘Go on,’ said Rory icily, ‘we’ll miss the train if you don’t hurry.’

He climbed on and pulled me up beside him.

‘We can’t,’ I whispered in horror, ‘we’ll get arrested.’

‘Shut up,’ snarled Rory. ‘Go on,’ he added to the driver, ‘we haven’t got all bloody day.’

There was something about Rory’s manner, a combination of arrogance and an expectation that everyone was going to do exactly what he wanted, that made it almost impossible to oppose him. Grumbling that he’d get the sack for this, the driver set off.

‘Can’t you go any faster?’ asked Rory coldly.

The driver eyed the fiver in Rory’s hand.

‘You won’t get a penny of this,’ said Rory, ‘unless we catch that train.’

We gathered speed and amazingly stormed through the barrier unopposed and up the platform. Train doors were being slammed as we reached the sleeper.

‘Put the luggage on the train,’ said Rory to the driver, and strolled over to the attendant who was giving his lists a last-minute check.

I edged away, terrified there was going to be a scene.

‘I’m afraid we’re booked solid, sir,’ I heard the attendant say.

‘Didn’t the Ritz ring through?’ said Rory, his voice taking on that carrying, bitchy, upper-class ring.

‘Afraid not, sir,’ said the attendant.

‘Bloody disgrace. Can’t rely on anyone these days. Expect your side slipped up, one of your staff must have forgotten to pass on the message.’

The attendant quailed before Rory’s steely gaze. He took off his peak cap and scratched his head.

‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ said Rory. ‘I’m on my way back from my honeymoon, my wife is quite exhausted. We booked a sleeper and now you’re trying to tell me you’ve given it away.’

As the attendant looked in my direction, I edged further away, trying to merge into a slot machine.

‘I really don’t know what to say, sir.’

‘If you value your job,’ said Rory, ‘you’d better do something about it.’

Two minutes later an enraged middle-aged couple in pyjamas were being shunted into a carriage down the train.

‘I’m awfully sorry, sir,’ the attendant was saying.

‘You might have thanked him,’ I said, sitting down on the bed, and admiring the splendour of our first-class compartment.

‘One doesn’t thank peasants,’ said Rory, pulling off his tie.