Page 71 of After Felix
“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 meverywell.
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 hand 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.”
