Farce on the Orient Express

I check the time on my fake Rolex, having to hold my hand steady so I can read the numbers clearly. 12:07, as best I can work out on the spindly little hands, that were never that secure anyway. Between my shakes and the bumping of the train, it could be anywhere between midday and twenty past I’d reckon.

I sigh. Close enough. It’s not going to matter what time it is soon enough anyway. Soon enough I won’t get to chose when I eat lunch, if this doesn't work out.

I stand up and dust myself off, trying to get rid of some of the fluff that’s gathered on my cheap static trousers. It’s still the original jacket, but I managed to flog the suit trousers for not a bad amount, which helped towards the cost of this ticket. I just hope it’s worth it.

I open the door to my compartment and almost walk out straight into a woman. I’m still mumbling apologies when I realise who it is.

It’s her. The duchess.

She hasn’t even seen me, didn’t even realise I almost hit her. Too lost in her own high and mighty bubble. For once I don’t mind. It works in my favour.

I check my watch again, desperate to record the time. Will she go out to lunch at this time every day? If so I can use this window for my plan, if only I could be sure what time it actually is damn it-

I pause.

But why wait?

It’s day one of this stupid trip, the first chance. The plan was to spend the first few days coming up with a plan, but now I’ve just been handed the perfect opportunity to get revenge. My luck is finally- finally- turning.

I wait for another person to go by, then step out into the corridor. The train is bumpy, and I sway with it to hide any shivers in my body. Adrenaline is racing now, and I know if anyone sees me they’ll know I’m up to something. Checking there’s no one around I sneak up the corridor, away from the dining car, to the duchess’ room. I get in with the black market skeleton key I brought, which cost as much as the damn berth next door to the duchess. All borrowed money, or scavenged with the sale of the clothes off my back, but it’ll all be worth it if I pull this off.

Inside the room I panic again, but I have to move fast. With clumsy hands I start sorting her things, praying that I put them back in the right place so she won’t know anyone’s been here. It all looks a mess anyway, not at all what I’d expect. Thankfully it doesn’t take long to find something.

A small, black box, tucked into the top drawer of the bedside table. I flick it open and the contents sparkle at me. Bingo.

Sliding the box into my pocket I leave again, and stroll to the dining car with a smug, righteous smile. The stash in my pocket should make back all the money she stole from my company with her belittling reviews. Maybe I can even enjoy the rest of this trip.

I spot the duchess coming into the dining car and pull my uniform straighter. A smile comes to my lips easily, but I have to dial it back and make sure it’s not too predatory. That’s always hard, when I start circling my mark.

Another waiter starts heading towards my target, but I shove him out the way and intercept her.

‘Duchess,’ I croon, ‘may I interest you in the wine list?’

She waves her hand dismissively, just like nobility, and my smiles only grows wider. She doesn’t even look at me, which is perfect. Her insult will bite her later, when she can’t give a description of who served her. If she even realises this is where it happens.

I summon a wine list and step closer- possibly too close- but I’m whispering in her ear, a little, private insider knowledge about the best wines, and of course, those not on the list. She nods appreciatively and gives me a flat smile, and as I’m also pushing her chair in behind her she can’t complain about the proximity.

Just as I start to mention another particularly fine vintage, having finished with her chair, my hand slides into her bag. My words don’t falter as I root around for something, anything, valuable. She’s a damn duchess after all, there’s got to be-

Aha. Bingo. A small velvet bag, with what feels like jewellery inside.

I’ve finished going over the wines, and as expected she picked the second most expensive one, the one I gave the long sales pitch about. I stand upright again, both hands meeting in front of me, my liberated goods hidden behind the wine list. A small nod of my head as I take the rest of her order, then I turn and walk away, pocketing my loot.

I mean, the pay is alright here, but why pass up all these bonuses when they’re presented on a silver platter like this?

The wine is too sweet for my liking, but they say vengeance is sweet, so it seems fitting.

She’s just walked in, completely oblivious to anyone else. The poor waiter has just been dismissed without a second glance, poor fellow. As if my conviction needed any bolstering, this seals her fate.

The duchess must pay.

I take another sip, my years on the stage paying off as I don’t let a hint of my revulsion show. A lesson she could do with learning, if I felt inclined to teach her.

I’ve already done all the stage blocking mentally, but I run through it one last time now that she’s in place. I knew she’d take that seat. The best views, of the scenery and for the staff to see her. She won’t have to wait ten minutes for a damn drink.

I dap my lips with the serviette, leave the last of the revolting wine and stand up. No one rushes to check that my food was okay, but it’s been many years since anyone did. Age isn’t kind to a star. No one is kind to a star, once you start falling.

I faff with my bag at the table for a few seconds, waiting until my unwitting accomplice gets into position. As soon as the waiter is coming back with her drink I move. It takes me ten seconds to cross the space, just like I knew it would. You only fall off stage once before you learn the length of your stride and your pace.

I’m looking in my little clutch bag- hiding the threadbare sections of it behind my hands- and it’s the easiest thing to slam straight into the waiter. I gasp, cry out, apologise, stumble, spin and collapse right into the duchess. The next few moments are a bit blurred. I proclaim a lot of apologies and lamentations for my wine covered dress, but I don’t know what I actually say. I pull half a dozen different quotes from various plays, but thankfully just about stop short of quoting Shakespeare. I’m far too busy working the bracelet on the duchess’ wrist loose. The clasp is fiddlier than I’d expected, and it takes a lot of effort not to just look down. But it comes off eventually, and I can pick myself up and storm off melodramatically to my cabin.

As I leave I try to hear what is said behind me, whether she realises who I am beneath the dyed hair, or if she remembers what she did to me last year, with that scathing review of my first writing credit.

The waiter asks if she’d like more wine, and she says yes.

I can’t find a pawn broker soon enough for her damn stupid jewellery.

How the other half lives, indeed. This place is incredible, and extravagant, and utterly ridiculous. No one needs this much, and the fact that most of my fellow passengers take it for granted is horrific.

That being said… god it does feel nice to be pampered. I could definitely get used to having a butler. Just don’t tell my old university socialist group.

It’s been a struggle to pull myself out of my ‘compartment’- that feels such an empty word for what it- but I know that I have an ulterior motive for being here. Given such a perfect opportunity has presented itself, it would be a crime to waste it.

I leave my cabin and head up the train, not down. Up to where the even posher nobs reside, and straight away I feel like cubic zirconia in a cabinet of diamonds. I play my excuses over and over in my head- got turned about, so sorry, isn’t weird that the train keeps moving as we sleep haha- but I only pass one man, and he’s too self-absorbed to notice me. I sense a slight kinship with him too; though his jacket is very luxurious, his trousers are far cheaper and a little short for him.

The duchess’ cabin isn’t hard to find. I stand at the door, brown unlabelled envelope in my hands. Inside are just half a dozen pictures, but they’ll be enough to stop her slamming ‘women of easy virtue’ in all the papers. Not only is that ridiculous thinking in this day and age, but it’s highly hypocritical of her when her brother is more than happy to make use of such women.

Not that I am a woman of easy virtue. He had to work hard to get to the point when we were taking those pictures. Dates, meals, flowers… I had thought it was genuine. Kinda. Not marrying serious, but at least mess-about-for-a-year or so. I didn’t expect him to get bored straight after he’d gotten freaky.

More fool him; he didn’t stick around long enough to make sure I’d deleted all the photos. And now his prissy big sister can see them all, in all their glossy, X-rated glory.

I fiddle with the edges of the envelope. All my friends have said I should try blackmail, actually get something back for the heartbreak and… yes, humiliation. I was used. Not that badly, and truth be told I don’t regret it. I just regret how invested I’d gotten. But I don’t need the money, and it seems like that’s just asking for trouble. I’m not in these photos, they can’t be traced to me. I even spent one very uncomfortable fifteen minutes huddled over the last photo machine in the local pharmacy, trying to print them off without anyone around me seeing what they were of, all so they’d be no trace of them on another system.

No, blackmail is hassle I don’t need. Besides, I still have a copy of the photos. I can always come back later and blackmail the family, if I do need to. No point burning all my cashpoints, right?

I bend down to slip the envelope under the doorway, leaning on the door as I do.

The door swings open.

Oh. I hadn’t expected that.

I check up and down the corridor again. No one around, still. A quick look won’t hurt, right? Just to see what she’s like, behind closed doors. Or at least, behind doors that really should be closed.

I slide inside, but don’t have the courage to close the door behind me. One quick look, that’s all. Not that there’s much to see. All boring, dark cases, not shiny or fancy. I open the nearest case on a table and freeze.

Jewels. Jewellery. So many sparkling things.

My fingers dance over them, and they feel so cool and enticing that I get goosebumps. Then a thought creeps into my head.

I could just… take my payment. Skip the blackmail bit, leave the photos and take some jewels in exchange for silence. That would work, right? That’s not theft, not really.

I don’t have a pen on me, but I guess if I leave the photos in the box it’s obvious what I’ve done. I pick a few of the most appealing gems, put the envelope in their place and close the box up. With the jewels in my pocket and step out, closing the door behind me.

I grin as I head back to my cabin, ready to stash my goods before lunch. This has been quite an eventful trip.

This place is full of idiots. How do this many idiots have enough money to get on this train?

I pull out my compact mirror and check my make-up. First that was that damp cloth of a man in the corridor, cowering like the sky was about to fall. Then the waiter, who seemed to be all hands, but not in either a ‘lawsuit’ or ‘let’s get into bed’ kind of way. Then that stupid woman who managed to cover herself in my wine. And, oh look, here comes another one, coming in to lunch unfashionably late and grinning the Cheshire cat. Either that or she has the most incredible gas.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do surrounded by so many morons for so many days. Most of the time I can hide in my cabin, but if every meal is like this one I’ll be exhausted. And then there’s the entertainment, and the manager was so insistent that I’ll have the best seats that it seems a shame not to go along. What’s the point of being here for all these freebies if I’m going to hide away and not make the most of it?

I’m supplied with another glass of wine, which I take without looking at the mouse serving it and start drinking straight away. It tastes alright, I suppose. How the hell would I know? I normally try not to drink too much while I’m working, it’s only asking for trouble. But this is supposed to be more of a vacation than a job, despite… well, everything. Old habits die hard, okay?

The waiter is still watching me like a hawk, probably hoping for a generous tip, the stupid grinning woman keeps looking towards me like she wants an autograph and the cowardly man appears to be doing his best to ignore me while at the same time keeping an eye on me. Normally when someone does that it’s because they’re trying to check you out without getting called out on it, but he’s not once looked at my cleavage. Which is a pity, if you ask me. This finery does make me look very fine indeed. And no one looks at anything but the clothes.

Even if the finery does come from a theatrical wardrobe sell off. Fancy clothes are fancy clothes, and no one is brave enough to call a duchess out for her jewellery looking a little tacky and glassy. No one notices her jewellery is a little tacky, because it’s on a duchess so of course it’s the real thing, why wouldn’t it be, and besides, staring at a duchess is rude. Especially a duchess renowned for her privacy, her sharp tongue and her abhorrence of being photographed, one that very few people know what she looks like.

This train is full of idiots, which really is a good thing for me. If there was a brain cell onboard, they would’ve spotted me for the grifter I am.