Free A Night on the Orient Express by Veronica Henry Page B

charm, how to give people what they wanted, and to get people to do what he wanted. She’d been impressed, captivated – but, she reminded herself, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.
    She sat back down at the table. Next to her place was the pile of presents her friends had bought her. Carefully chosen baubles and trinkets and luxuries that touched her heart. Danny had given her nothing, but that was no great surprise. He probably wasn’t the kind of man who presented women with thoughtful tokens. And they’d hardly been an item long enough for her to merit so much as a card. Not that they were even an item, technically . . .
    Everyone at the table was chilled out, drinking their Limoncello and lattes, gossiping, enjoying their midweek excursion. It was nearly eleven.
    ‘I suppose I ought to go soon,’ said Imogen to Nicky. ‘I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn.’
    ‘Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you,’ Nicky replied. ‘You jammy thing. A night on the Orient Express? Your grandmother is such a genius. What an amazing present.’
    ‘I know,’ said Imogen. ‘Though it would be more fun if I was going with someone.’
    ‘Don’t knock it. I’d give anything for a couple of nights away on my own. I can’t think of anything nicer. And you’re staying at the Cipriani . . . total heaven.’
    Imogen had to smile. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. I’m spoilt.’
    She was. She knew she was. The train ticket and the night at the hotel weren’t even her proper present. She was supposed to collect that when she got to Venice. A painting, called The Inamorata. One that someone had been keeping for Adele for the past fifty years. Imogen hadn’t had time to think about it since her grandmother had sprung the surprise on her at breakfast.
    Nicky was picking at the remains of cake on her plate. ‘I think your grandmother feels guilty about selling the gallery. I think that’s what it’s all about.’
    ‘She needn’t feel guilty. I keep telling her that. I should have moved on years ago.’
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
    Imogen was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to her friend.
    ‘I’m think I’m going to go to New York.’
    Nicky’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Where did that come from?’
    ‘I’ve got a long-standing job offer. From a gallery in Manhattan that specialises in British art. Oostermeyer and Sabol. They’ve told me any time I want to come over and work for them, I can. It’s an open invitation.’
    ‘Oh my God.’ Nicky’s eyes were round. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. What’s taken you so long? I would kill to go to New York. Anything to get away from Shallowford.’
    Imogen was surprised. ‘I thought you were happy with your lot?’
    Nicky sighed. ‘It’s not all about the house of your dreams and a Range Rover Evoque, you know.’
    ‘No,’ said Imogen. ‘I didn’t think it was. But I thought you were content?’
    ‘I’m never going to go anywhere or do anything, am I? I’m stuck doing the school run and making Nigel’s supper for the next ten years, by which time it will be too late. Not like you. You’ve got the world at your feet. New York, Imo . . . I mean, wow.’
    ‘You’ve got your job. You love your job!’
    ‘What – writing up details for houses that no one in their right mind would want to live in? Breaking the news to people that their sale has fallen through? Telling people that their house is actually worth a hundred thousand pounds less than they think it is?’
    Nicky slumped back in her chair. She looked slightly green, whether from envy or too much cake and wine Imogen couldn’t be sure. She took a sip from her own glass. The wine was warm and slightly oily by now, but she needed it to take the edge off the shock of the decision she’d just made.
    Because Nicky was right. Shallowford sucked you in and drained you of all your ambition. It was picture-postcard perfect on the surface, but when she looked around the table, there was