Janice nodded. ‘We have about fifty cases of champagne in the guard’s van. That’ll keep them going. And I’ll speak to Cody about bringing the entertainment forward.’
Their can-do spirit was exactly what Amy needed, and she felt a little of the weight lift from her.
The guard came and introduced himself. ‘I’ve checked all the carriages, ma’am.’
‘No one else is hurt, are they?’
‘Young lady in the bar. I think it’s only whiplash, but better safe than sorry.’
Amy’s mind was full of imaginary headlines: ‘Fashion Sweetheart Dies in Rail Smash, Magazine Editor to Blame for Everything’. ‘Why is this happening to me?’ she whispered under her breath. Her rational mind was trying to tell her that it was all just bad luck and could have happened to anyone, but Amy wasn’t really listening.
It was another twenty minutes before the ambulance arrived. The blue lights and the siren sent another wave of panic through the guests, with some of them asking if they could get off the train. The guard made several announcements keeping everyone up to date with what was happening; the police had also arrived and were attempting to remove the vehicle from the crossing, but no one knew how long it would be before they were allowed to continue their journey.
‘I’ve contacted the coach firm who were supposed to be picking us up in Oxford,’ he told Amy. ‘They reckon they can be here within an hour.’
‘That’s something,’ said Amy, glancing at her watch. The event was due to start at any moment. There were a few dozen guests who had chosen to go straight to the venue, and who would now be rattling around in the grandeur of Blenheim with nothing but a plateful of canapés for company. Douglas Proctor was one of those going by car, thanks to the proximity of his weekend retreat to Blenheim; she could only imagine his face when nobody showed up.
Ahead of her, Louisa was being stretchered into the ambulance. Amy could see the front of the train, its buffers barely feet away from a Volvo estate, still diagonal across the tracks.
‘God, that was close,’ she whispered, and David nodded, his eyebrows raised, clearly imagining his own headlines.
Amy approached the ambulance and peered inside. Louisa’s eyes were open, and she managed a weak smile.
‘You gave us a fright,’ said Amy, touching her hand.
‘Are you coming to the hospital, miss?’ asked the paramedic.
She glanced towards the train and the guests inside, then back to Louisa, frail and alone. She had no choice.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said David.
Chapter 30
Louisa needed stitches and a night in hospital for observation. By the time Amy and David got back to Notting Hill, grey light was creeping into the sky and the birds were beginning to sing. David dropped his jacket on the banister and zombied his way into the bedroom, where Amy heard the whoomph as he fell onto the mattress.
She herself knew she couldn’t sleep. She kept running the night over and over in her head, wondering if she had done the right thing abandoning the party to take care of Louisa. She knew the older woman was grateful for everything she and David had done, keeping her company in A&E until her daughter, who lived in Devon, had been able to get to the hospital. Morally it had been the right decision; she only hoped Douglas Proctor would see it that way. Louisa was one of the most powerful women in the fashion industry, a former president of the Fashion Council and founder of the Exmoor chain of boutiques, which had started in the sixties with a single shop on Bond Street but was now one of the biggest fashion e-retailer powerhouses in the world. That alone should have been enough to excuse Amy from the party, but you never could tell with the MD of Genesis Media.
She walked through to the kitchen, flicking on the li
ghts and firing up the coffee machine. There was little point sleeping now anyway: she’d have to go straight into the office and begin the mop-up operation. Flowers to be sent, sponsors to be reassured, bills to pay.
‘Hell to pay, more like,’ she muttered, picking up her phone as it buzzed.
‘Amy Shepherd?’ asked a male voice, unbearably perky at this time of the morning. ‘Derek Morgan at the Chronicle.’
Amy’s heart fell. She had been expecting Juliet or Janice with sisterly words of support. She fought the urge to just hang up. She knew she’d have to face up to it sooner or later.
‘Derek, how can I help?’ she said, not even questioning how he had her number.
‘We’re running a piece on the biggest party that never was,’ he replied.
Amy considered a terse ‘no comment’, or even better, ‘bugger off’, but knew she needed to do her best to spin the story in her favour.
‘I’m not sure that’s quite accurate, Derek. It was just smaller than we expected. Getting Louisa Bourne, one of Britain’s most important exporters, to hospital was more than worth compromising the scale of the event for. She’s fine, by the way, if you’re asking.’
‘Great, great. And any comment on the rumour that it cost the company five million pounds?’
Amy gave a polite laugh. ‘I think you’ve been misinformed. We didn’t take over Blenheim Palace in its entirety.’