Page 70 of After Felix
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 averylong time ago.”
“Okay, that’s not in the least disturbing,” 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 cantry,” 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 isourcabin,” 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 ofMurder on the Orient Expressif 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 thefuck?”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 theroom, 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 toshare,” 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 thedetails, 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 belateon the Orient Express.”
