Chapter 6
I leave Sabrina to unpack my suitcase, feeling slightly uneasy about what she might find, like the range of feminist serial-killer thrillers I tossed in at stupid o’clock this morning after ditching all the romances I’d previously packed.
Titles like: How to Slay on Your Wedding Day and Homicidally Ever After , a couple of tomes I bought tongue-in-cheek to make Miles laugh in the lead up to our big day.
I hope Sabrina doesn’t get the wrong idea what with him plunging to his death down the gap and all…
I head towards the noise, passing through the dining carriage, where gingerbread people hold trays of colourful Christmas cocktails aloft.
‘Can I offer you a Mistletoe Margarita or perhaps a Jingle Juice?’ says a staff member dressed as the reindeer Rudolph, complete with bulbous red nose.
‘Thanks,’ I say, with a laugh at the festive drink names and the wild staff costumes.
They really have gone all out in making the atmosphere Christmassy and fun, if a little kitschy.
‘A Jingle Juice please.’ I take the proffered glass and sip.
It tastes like fruity punch mixed with Moscato, cranberry juice and fresh mint.
The dining carriage is packed with guests enjoying a range of Christmas canapés. ‘Can I tempt you with a smoked salmon blini or madeleines with lemon curd?’ I take a salmon blini, popping the bite-size morsel into my mouth, enjoying the rich crème fraiche layered with the saltiness of the salmon.
A woman wearing a ballgown, an actual ballgown, is parading up and down the small area, as if she’s a catwalk model.
Is this a fashion show for guests? It seems unlikely.
I try to edge past her, but she spins and flicks her hair, which manages to catch me straight in the eye.
My vision blurs, then doubles as I rub at the sting.
A few steps away, a man in a suit lays prone on the plush carpet, camera in hand, encouraging her.
‘Katya, darling, tilt your chin… Smize, the way the model Tyra Banks does, smile with your eyes.’ Smize?
! What fresh hell is this? Are they simply passengers taking up almost all the thoroughfare to get pics for the ’gram?
Ah, these must be the influencers Sabrina alluded to.
By the hostile glares directed their way from other guests, they’ve been taking up the walkway for quite some time.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, failing to get around the woman’s elbow as she drops her hip and poses once more.
She totally ignores me. I tap her on the shoulder and motion for her to move so I can get past.
With a frustrated sigh, she says, ‘Wait until Igor gets the shot.’
Being nomadic by nature, I run across people like this all the time. The trick is not to give an inch, or next minute they’ll act like they own the place. The rules are, there are no rules when it comes to travel photos.
Once at the Colosseum in Rome, I waited patiently for my turn at a photo platform to capture the arena backdrop.
When I finally got to the front of the line, a horde of people pushed past until I was smack bang at the back of the queue again.
A little war cry was needed that day, one that defies all rules of language.
It’s a dog-eat-dog world in tourist-land.
‘No. Igor is the one who should wait, for me and all the other passengers to pass,’ I say haughtily, ‘then you can continue your photoshoot.’ I give her a stiff smile, even though I’m not exactly in a people-pleasing mood.
I nudge her to the left and step over Igor’s large frame.
Honestly, they couldn’t have picked a tighter space for their photos.
Also, they could have done this in their cabin.
Igor is determined not to move a muscle or give up his position on the ground, so it’s not surprising that I manage to catch his leg with the heel of my boot.
‘Ow!’ he cries out.
‘You’re a tripping hazard, mate,’ a sixty-something man with an Australian accent says. ‘Move out the way before someone gets hurt, please.’
Igor’s face is like thunder as the rest of the passengers make their feelings known.
Could either Katya or Igor be the person with the extreme wealth?
Somehow, I don’t think so. They’re too showy, too theatrical, as if they want all eyes on them, and aren’t stealth-wealth types more discreet, less flashy?
I’m sure these are influencers who’ll be posting up a storm.
I make a mental note to check out #TheWinterWonderlandExpress online later.
I keep moving to the lounge carriage, which is far less crowded with only a handful of guests partaking in an activity making Christmas cards.
There’s a cute little post box to send their creations.
Miles would have scoffed at such a twee activity, whereas it appeals to me.
But right now I want to investigate what else is on offer along each carriage.
Another gingerbread person pops up and asks if I’d like to join in.
I politely decline. ‘Where’s the bar?’ I’d read up on the recreations area, which sounds like a lot of fun if you’re a game nerd like me.
There are board games and cards tables, chess and other pursuits to pass the time.
I love games, cards and quizzes. But chess for one? Gah.
A roving staff photographer jumps out of nowhere and chirps, ‘Here for your happy snaps!’ It’s a little disconcerting, like she’s been lying in wait for her first victim. ‘Would you like to pose for a photo in front of the Christmas tree? It’ll be a great memento to take home.’
A great memento of my honeymoon for one – I think not. Before I can politely decline, the influencer couple are hot on my heels, jostling me out of the way.
‘We’d like professional photos.’ Katya snaps her fingers and Igor jumps into action, switching on the spotlight on his phone. He barks an order to me, of all people. ‘Hold this over us, would you? Not too close. And not too far away.’
Is he for real? Like I’m some kind of groupie of theirs. Of course, I don’t want any photographic reminders of my honeymoon for one, but now that these two are shoving their way in, fight mode is activated and I might just be petty enough to pose just to make them wait.
I’m about to blurt some choice words when Jasper makes his way over, and my knees almost buckle at the sight of him.
It’s the intensity of his eyes framed by thick brows, and when he locks his gaze onto mine, I swear the earth stops spinning.
How did I not notice his full, kissable lips?
Golly, this is not good. Not good at all.
You cannot lust after someone when you’re one day post break-up.
The day after your aborted wedding, even. It’s obscene!
It’s probably not even lust. Just desperation at the thought of being alone in my honeymoon happy snaps.
‘Shove over, Igor,’ Jasper says in a jocular tone.
It doesn’t surprise me he’s made Igor’s acquaintance already.
I bet most of the passengers have bumped into Igor and Katya, because they’re not exactly good with spatial awareness.
‘I’d love a photo with you by the Christmas tree, Aubrey, if you don’t mind?
’ Jasper winks and it sends a shiver down the length of me.
I must be so desperate for affection I’m losing control of my capacity to function as a regular human.
‘Umm,’ I say, trying to think of an excuse but coming up blank. ‘Sure.’
‘Then Igor and Katya can have their turn, eh?’
Igor playfully slaps Jasper on the back as if they’re the best of friends. ‘Sure, sure, comrade.’
Comrade?
It’s interesting how Jasper’s sudden appearance has changed the dynamic with Igor and Katya. Is it his off-the-charts charisma that appeals to people? It’s grossly unfair that hot people have it so much easier in life.
Jasper slips his hand into mine and positions me in front of a Christmas tree decorated with Swarovski crystal snowflake ornaments that bathe us in prisms of rainbow light.
Katya pushes Igor in the back and next minute he’s holding an iPhone spotlight above us.
It’s all too much. My head feels like it’s going to explode.
‘Lift your chin,’ Katya directs me. I fight a grimace.
Poser I am not. In fact, I’d say I’m a failure to my entire generation when it comes to posturing.
I’m not all that comfortable when a camera is trained on me; my facial muscles seize up, I blink at the wrong time, or I’m caught with my mouth open at some weird angle when they yell ‘Say cheese!’
‘You are such a gorgeous couple!’ the photographer gushes, her lovestruck gaze trained directly on Jasper.
I’m no expert on photography, but how is she going to take any photos if she doesn’t lift the camera to her eye and press a button or two?
So in light of her ogling the poor man and so blatantly, I don’t educate her about the fact we are absolutely not a couple.
Jasper pulls me closer, probably so I’m actually in the shot, as the camera is now trained more his way than mine. Typical. The photographer is going to cut my head off.
‘I’m a sucker for travel mementoes. You should see my magnet collection.’
I replay the words to look for the joke, the euphemism, but find nothing. Is he legit talking about a magnet collection or am I missing something?
Jasper does not look like a guy who collects magnets. Collects a bevy of women vying for his attention, maybe. I struggle to think of a response. ‘Magnets are cool, but have you ever seen a souvenir spoon collection?’ Ooh, good one, Aubrey! Kill me.
He groans good-naturedly. ‘Oh God, my mum was an avid collector of souvenir spoons back in the eighties. They still hang in a wooden cabinet in pride of place in her dining room.’
I laugh. ‘My mum was the same. It was the go-to back then if anyone went on holiday, to bring a precious spoon back as a gift. It makes you wonder who thought, “Ah, souvenir spoons, that’ll take off!” And it actually did.’