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A tale of love and betrayal - the complete second draft of my British romance novel |
Chapter 3 Back in her seat, Sara found the old bloke to be much friendlier than before. Perhaps it was the prospect of being stuck here with her for God knows how long or simply the fact that they’d broken the ice over her sketch. But though he kept her engaged in conversation, her thoughts constantly flipped back to the hot guy. God, she’d turned into Cam from Good Luck Chuck, so clumsy that she couldn’t take a step without stumbling or open her mouth without sticking her foot in it. Twice she’d acted barmy in front of the guy, and his cold rejection left no doubt about his feelings towards her. He wouldn’t even take her hand when he obviously needed help. A middle-aged man in a blue uniform and hi-vis vest entered the carriage and raised his hands for attention. ‘On behalf of the East Coast Main Line Company, I apologize for the delay and that sudden stop. Because the snow ahead is too deep to safely traverse, we have received permission to reverse back to Retford.’ The passengers let out a collective groan. ‘What are we supposed to do there?’ asked a lady. ‘I have an important meeting in Edinburgh,’ complained a man. The man in uniform forced a smile. He’d likely faced similar complaints in other carriages. ‘We’re making emergency accommodation arrangements.’ Great! That probably meant camp beds and tinfoil blankets in some school sports hall. She took out her iPhone. It was already past the time she promised Mum she’d be home, and she’d arranged to meet Chard later. Sara pressed the power button, but the screen remained black. Because her phone was a few years old, the battery was naff and didn’t last long. She rummaged around inside her handbag only to discover her charger was missing. Casting her mind back, she realised she’d left it plugged into the socket in her kitchenette. She turned to the old bloke. ‘Sorry to impose, but my phone’s dead. Any chance I could use yours to make an important call?’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t have a mobile.’ She was gobsmacked that someone wouldn’t own a mobile in this day and age. She supposed it must be a generational thing. ‘Not your fault. Do you have the time?’ He checked his wristwatch and frowned. ‘Quarter to ten.’ Sweet Mary, it was even later than she expected. Mum must be frantic. The carriage groaned and began to move. She glanced out at the snow-covered fields gliding slowly past as the train transported her farther and farther from home. *** Rupert stared out the window at the passing snow-covered houses and streets of the market town. Though long after the usual rush hour, vehicles packed the roads going nowhere quick. Abandoned vehicles littered the curbs so covered with snow he could no longer tell their make or model. He grunted. All it took for the UK to grind to a complete halt was a few inches of snow. He pulled out his mobile and placed a call. ‘Captain?’ answered Rupert's personal secretary in a gruff smoker's voice. ‘Bentley, please inform my grandfather that I shall not be returning home tonight. The train has been delayed, so I plan to stay overnight in Retford.’ ‘Would you like me to arrange accommodation, sir?’ ‘That might be easier to organise on the ground. I shall assess the situation and get back to you if I require assistance.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ ‘Has that other matter been dealt with?’ Bentley paused longer than usual before answering. ‘I have agreed the wording of your joint press release with Miss Murgatroyd's PA. As you agreed with Miss Murgatroyd, her PA will communicate with her contacts within the media community this evening and ensure your statement reaches the right people for favourable press coverage tomorrow.’ ‘But…? ‘Forgive me, Captain, but I simply don’t trust Miss Murgatroyd’s PA. He is not a gentleman.’ Rupert chuckled. ‘Don’t fret, Bentley. It’s a simple statement, and once it is released you won’t be forced to deal with Abigail's PA ever again.’ ‘I really hope so, sir.’ Ending the call, Rupert returned his attention to the scene outside. Ahead, a three-story, brick building loomed over the tracks. An illuminated sign advertised it as the Retford branch of Holiday Hotel Express. He hated the poor aesthetics of rooms provided by global hotel groups that looked the same from Windsor to Timbuktu. However, since his injury, he had come to appreciate the easy access, level floors, and spacious lifts provided by such structures. The train rattled past the hotel and pulled into the small Victorian railway station. On the platform, passengers stamped their feet and huddled together, their breath creating clouds like the steam locomotives of old. The large windows of the waiting room revealed standing room only. Rupert scratched his beard. The conductor promised accommodation, but Rupert had been through enough emergency situations to recognise when a situation was beyond salvation. He did not doubt the railway company would eventually find a room for everybody, but that might not be until the early hours of the morning. He did not wish to stand for hours in the cold. More to the point, he doubted he could. He allowed the other passengers to disembark ahead of him. Upon exiting the carriage, he ignored the crowd on the platform and headed towards the station exit. Though the snow could not reach him under the station canopy, the bitter wind found a way. His knee ached from the cold before he took ten steps. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the pretty woman arguing with the train conductor. As he limped past, her brown eyes flicked towards him. He ignored her gaze. She had already witnessed how pathetic he was, and he had no desire to be further embarrassed. Outside the station, he was pleased to note the pavement to the hotel had been cleared and gritted. The hotel entrance was in sight a mere hundred yards away. He could walk a hundred yards. Bracing himself, he hobbled along the pavement, watching for patches of ice. As he progressed, his knee throbbed. The icy wind stung his cheeks, and the hand on his stick grew numb. His teeth chattered, and his stylish clothes did little to stave off the Arctic chill. After what felt like a century, the hotel’s automatic entrance doors swished open, and he stumbled inside. The beige interior had been designed by an architect obsessed with cubism, but the warm lobby was a welcome contrast to the cold outside. A short distance across the shiny tiles stood a wood-panelled reception desk. As Rupert approached, a young man in a blue shirt and tie glanced up and smiled. ‘Good evening, sir.’ ‘Good evening. Could I trouble you for a room for the night?’ ‘You’re in luck. We have one room remaining, though I’m afraid it isn’t a single and costs ninety pounds.’ ‘The price isn’t a problem.’ Rupert handed over his credit card. The receptionist returned his credit card together with a key-card and receipt. ‘You’re in Room 311. Johnson will show you up.’ A grizzled porter in a neatly pressed uniform bustled over. ‘Can I help you with your luggage … milord?’ Rupert’s credit card did not advertise his title. ‘How—?’ ‘I recognised you from your picture in Hob Nob magazine.’ ‘Ah.’ Johnson had sharp eyes and shiny boots. Rupert suspected he was an ex-serviceman. ‘I am travelling light, so no bags, but thank you.’ The entrance doors slid open, admitting a blast of frozen air. The pretty woman from the train trudged inside, dragging her battered suitcase. He supposed she had come to the same conclusion about the train conductor’s promises. Her bedraggled hair clung to her face, sprinkled with glittering snowflakes. Despite her thick coat, she was shivering. ‘I believe that lady needs assistance more than I.’ Johnson looked her up and down, seeming unimpressed with her attire, then offered her a tight smile as he moved to help. She waved him away and addressed the receptionist. ‘Hello. Can I get a single room for tonight, please?’ The receptionist shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, there are no vacancies.’ Her beautiful eyes flicked to Rupert and the key-card in his hand. ‘He got in.’ He felt like he should offer his support. ‘This lady is in a vulnerable condition. Don’t you have anything at all? Perhaps a room set aside for staff.’ ‘No, sorry. We have no room at all.’ Johnson nudged him and winked. ‘It’s against hotel policy, but some gentlemen do bring ladies back to their rooms. Rupert was momentarily appalled by Johnson's suggestion but then realised it was not a completely bad idea. He had paid for a twin room. Where else could the woman stay? ‘Johnson, why don’t you help the lady with her suitcase.’ He knuckled his forehead and leapt into action. The woman blinked in surprise. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘I have a twin room,’ said Rupert. ‘We can share, if you don’t mind. I can’t leave you stranded.’ She blushed. ‘B-but I don't even know you.’ He gripped his stick a little tighter. Naturally, she did not wish to share a room with a cripple. He felt foolish for even suggesting it. But where could she go? He glanced at the reception desk and licked his dry lips. Why was he such a fool? He placed the key-card back on the reception counter. ‘Let the lady have the room.’ ‘No,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘Where would you go?’ He gestured to the nearby sofa. ‘I shall weather the storm out here.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I can’t let you do that.’ He snorted. ‘I have experienced worse conditions.’ If he could survive Afghanistan, he could spend one night sleeping rough in Retford. ‘What about your leg?’ He shrugged. She examined his face, then sighed. “I can’t do that to you. You’re right. We can share.’ THE LATER CHAPTERS ARE PASSKEY CONTROLLED. PLEASE CONTACT Christopher Roy Denton  FOR THE CODE. |
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