Fic: Platforms 2/?
Miss Lopez doesn’t mind music. In fact it’s quite the contrary, she’s a big fan, something of a Jazz enthusiast; however when Rachelle Bérry is gracing the company for the umpteenth time with her singing, Santana decides if God were to snatch away one of her senses in the following minutes she wouldn’t mind if he chose her hearing. Either that or her sight because Bérry is gurning something awful, and whenever she tears her eyes away from the young lady they’re immediately snatched upon by Mr Schuester, who seems to be redoubling his efforts to capture her approval.
‘Such passion! Doesn’t she sing well?’
Santana’s on the verge of an acerbic remark, she knows she should hold her tongue but the constant wailing after only two hours on the train, and then the inescapable presence of her father’s watchful eyes, albeit from under a tidy set of curls with a polite smile, has got her on a knife’s edge. Her mouth twitches upwards ready to deliver a line on the mating call of humpback whales when she’s beaten to it, or near enough.
‘It’s a good job I never packed my heirloom ear trumpet because the only comfort I have is partial deafness, even the sound getting to me is making me want to throw myself off this train. I hope to God she’s not going the whole way.’
William’s face turns ashen as the lofty woman from the platform who had assaulted a passerby pipes up from across the carriage.
‘I - I, I’m sorry to hear about your deafness but I assure you Rachelle Bérry’s voice is heavenly.’
‘I’ll take one ticket to Hell then.’
The pretty blonde in the seat next to the old woman smirks and then they’re both chattering away in their own language. Santana decides she quite likes them.
She spends the next hour assessing the other passengers, most of them flit about the carriage, heading to and from the bathroom or to their own private compartments. Two chaps trip by her seat and settle themselves into a booth in a corner, she can barely hear them or see them, but they give off an impression of money, hardly surprising on the Orient, but wasted money, money on tennis jackets, panama hats, champagne, and lazy day punts and picnics through Cambridge or Oxford, or whatever privileged days they’ve spent at college. She can tell they’re that sort, there’s something flighty about them, she’s encountered enough of them in her time to know they’re not remotely interested in her company or any blossoming debutantes. Members of the Wilde club through and through. She can hear a snort of disproval from the Countess and can see the apprehension in Schuester’s eyes, and takes the initiative to excuse herself, heading through carriages until she’s outside her door and collapsing on her bed, the scenery outside catching in the corner of her eye as she stares at the polished oak surfaces of her cabin.
It’s dinner by the time she resurfaces, changed into formal evening wear, her steward had informed her of the times and menu, and so Santana cuts it fine by heading to the dinning carriage mere minutes before serving. Her plan to avoid William is successful however it means she’s sat opposite two of the driest members of society she’s come across, attempting to feign interest she nods along to conversation involving interest rates and lamenting the former days before the war. The two business men are still discussing the day’s events when Santana’s gaze travels over the surrounding passengers. Countess Sylvester is prodding at her food with the conviction of a farmer forking hay bundles, Lady Quinn is disinterestedly fingering the stem of her champagne flute, while William is fawning over Rachelle Bérry whose head is tossed back periodically and thick French accent is providing an irritating hum.
‘How far are you travelling, Miss Bérry?’
‘I’m intending on doing the whole trip Mr Schuester!’
‘Please, call me William.’
Sylvester stabs her meat with more force as she glares at the singer while gruffly muttering into the ear of her blonde companion. Santana can’t say she’s thrilled to hear the news either; she’s secretly hoping the short lady catches a winter cold and loses her voice for the majority of the journey.
Dessert has just been served when the door to the dinning room bursts open, the sudden sound is soon eclipsed by riotous laughter and the chatter of the dinners is silenced, even Bérry’s tirade is cut with the interruption. Santana looks up to see the tall blonde with the red lips from the platform walking purposefully towards to the bar, arm threaded through another of the dancers. It’s just occurred to her that only half of the party had been eating, clustered around a table with their instructor, while the other half are now entering and, alike the first entrance, marching for the bar. The low hum of talk filters back through and it’s as if they had never stilled their laden spoons half way to their mouths to gawp at the young girls. The stuffy business men at Santana’s table shift uncomfortably and side eye one another as the dance troupe busy themselves at the bar, and it’s only another half hour before they retire for the evening, leaving Santana alone. She finds herself following the motions of red lips, forming shapes to sounds she can’t hear, quirking in a smile, wet with a sip of alcohol. They’re obscured every now and then as they whisper conspiratorially to another girl, or secretively to the man at the bar who fumbles with his shaker time and time again in haste to make another for the girl with the bouncing blonde hair, wide blue eyes and those red lips.
She can’t sleep, the motion of the train in the day is one thing, but at night it’s another. She’s permanently jerked by the slight veers of tracks, the sound of chugging fills her ears in the otherwise quiet night and her feet are cold. Deciding to warm herself, and to occupy time, Santana finds herself walking the length of the train. She’s in half a mind to ring for Hudson and request a hot chocolate but she’s not sure she really wants one, so instead she’s peering out into the darkness through a carriage window and seeing her sleepy self reflected back. Pressing on, Santana stills at the door into the next carriage, the noise of stumbling arrests her, hand hovering above the handle. There’s heavy breathing, her pace quickens, is someone hurt? She’s about to fling open the door when there’s a low grunt and the sound of a scuffle, she can hear the breathing getting more laboured but realises there’s two people, an intake of breath is followed too soon by an exhalation. Through the thin line between the side of the blind and the window Santana can make out a tall figure pinning another to the side of the carriage. A glint catches her eye and she realises it’s the golden badge of an Orient staff member, his red waistcoat can only mean he’s a member of the catering crew, it flaps open as he moves with more force. She’s about to turn and leave, because she’s seen enough to get him fired already, but then she can’t stop her curiosity. Shuffling a little so she can get a better look at the girl, Santana feels the jolt in her stomach before she’s comprehended the scene. When she gets back to her cabin she faces a very sleepless night. The sound of the train is drowned out by her ears hearing that caught breath which had hung on red lips.