A Night on the Orient Express Read Online Free PDF Page A

pronounced it with an exaggerated accent.
    ‘I don’t,’ she said.
    ‘My wife is very wealthy. Lucky for me.’
    ‘That’s awful.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To marry someone for their money.’
    ‘I never said I did that. I married Rosamund because she was ravishingly beautiful. And far cleverer than I am.’
    Adele suddenly felt insufficient. She felt sure she would pale in comparison to Rosamund.
    ‘So what do you bring to the party?’ she riposted.
    He laughed. ‘My sparkling wit. And a touch of glamour. I’m an art dealer. I bring starving artists home for dinner and six months later they are fetching more money for their paintings than they could ever have dreamed of. Rosamund gets a kick out of being part of that.’
    ‘So what are you doing here?’
    ‘I was driving back from Cornwall. I had to go and give one of my protégés a pep talk. And I can never pass a sale without looking in, just in case.’ He picked up his glass and looked at her. ‘What were you doing there?’
    She didn’t know what to say. ‘It was something to do.’
    She looked down at her plate. She wanted to tell him how empty she felt, how useless, but she thought he already knew.
    When she looked up, he was surveying her critically.
    ‘I think what you need, Mrs Russell,’ he told her, ‘is either a job or a lover. Or both.’
    She put down her knife and fork. This was too close to the bone. She stood up. ‘I have to go.’
    He feigned disappointment. ‘Oh, now, don’t be offended.’
    ‘You’re very rude.’ She was scrabbling in her purse for a pound note, to pay her share of the lunch. She pulled one out, her hand shaking.
    ‘Why is it people think you’re being rude, when you’re just speaking the truth?’ He looked up at her. His eyes were laughing.
    She put the pound note on the table. ‘Goodbye, Mr Molloy.’
    He bent down to pick up the painting, which he’d propped against the table leg. ‘Don’t forget this.’
    ‘I don’t want it.’
    ‘I bought it for you.’
    ‘You can sell it.’
    ‘I can indeed.’ He pushed it towards her. ‘I can sell it for ten times what I paid for it.’
    Adele tried hard not to look surprised. ‘Then do so.’
    ‘But I want you to have it.’ He frowned. ‘I tell you what. Give me your final bid – the amount you went up to. That would make it an honest transaction. You can take it away with impunity then.’
    Adele hesitated. ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Come on. You can’t say fairer than that.’ He was puzzled.
    She shook her head. ‘I can’t. I don’t have the money.’
    He looked at her in awe. ‘You bid for it without having the money?’
    She shrugged. ‘Yes.’
    He threw back his head and laughed. The other diners in the restaurant looked round, alarmed.
    ‘That’s fantastic. I admire your spirit. Please. Take the painting. I can’t think of a better home for it.’
    Adele stood for a moment. Actually, she thought, why shouldn’t she take it? If he was so keen for her to have it? It was a beautiful painting. And she felt that taking it from him would prove something. What, she wasn’t quite sure, but maybe that she wasn’t the dull provincial housewife he obviously thought her to be. So she picked up it.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And goodbye.’
    As soon as she got home, she threw off her coat, dropped her handbag and ran up the stairs to change. She put on a full-skirted dress with tight sleeves, in a coral that she knew suited her colouring. She added the string of pearls William had given her for her thirtieth birthday. She admired their lustre as she applied her make-up, making herself perfect. She dabbed Shalimar at her neck – the Yardley from her handbag had long since faded.
    Then she went downstairs to put on the supper, pour two whisky and sodas, and wait for her husband to come back so she could tell him the day’s curious events.
    Only William was late. Six o’clock came and went, then seven, then eight . . . by which time she had drunk both