Peter Dighton gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror at the train station. His brown hair was now a dark steely silver, which matched his blue suit and matching blue tie. The hair was also combed in Cary Grant’s style. Peter twisted this way and that. The suit fit his lithe body perfectly. The aroma of the Acqua Di Parma aftershave he wore was going to drive Sasha wild.
He came out of the bathroom and at that point saw his wife Sasha Forrest walking by. She wore a black linen jacket over a white silk scooped neck blouse that showed just the slightest décolletage, a green emerald cabochon necklace, and a severe black skirt that reached below her knees. Her platinum blond wig was shaped in a hairstyle from 1959…the same hairstyle Eva Marie Saint had worn in North by Northwest, to be precise.
Sasha walked down the train station platform to her first-class apartment alone. From his vantage point at the platform gates, Peter could see that she turned a lot of heads. Whether this was because she was so beautiful, or because she was wearing 1959-vintage clothing – with a great deal of panache- he wasn’t sure. Probably both.
After a few minutes, Peter put on a dark pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and then made his long walk down the platform. Turning no heads at all. He rubbed his cleft-less chin. Well, hell, maybe he was no Cary Grant, but he didn’t look that bad. He entered the train and settled down in the observation car, with its wide, comfy seats and curving glass windows that allowed people to see all of the scenery beyond the glass.
Originally, they’d planned to recreate this scenario exactly the way it had been done in the movie. Peter would have snuck aboard the train without a ticket, and they’d have hired a couple of actors dressed as cops to walk through the train after him. It would certainly have given the scenario a little zing. But then they’d decided they couldn’t risk it, in these terrorist-haunted times. Make the passengers nervous and they might call the real cops.
In the same vein, they’d intended to recreate the first meeting of “Roger Thornhill” and “Eve Kendall,” with him disappearing into a compartment for a few seconds and then re-emerging, but without the cops it would just be silly. So instead they were going to start with the scene in the first class dining room. Which meant he’d be occupying this observation car for another hour, before the first dinner service was announced.
II.
Peter checked his watch, then took a deep breath, rose, and headed for the first class dining car. A steward met him at the entrance. There was a slight grin on his face…Sasha must have primed him.
“Good evening, sir. One?”
“Yes, please.”
“This way.”
The steward led him to a table in the far back, where Sasha sat in solitary splendor, a cup of coffee on the snowy white linen tablecloth in front of her. The steward held out the corridor-side chair so that Peter could slip in to the window seat.
“Cocktail before dinner?” asked the steward stiltedly.
“Yes, please, a Gibson.”
“Right away.” The steward hurried away.
“Well, here we are again,” said Peter, a slight smile on his face, gazing at Sasha. She was gazing right back at him with a smirk on her lips.
“Yes,” she said in her low, husky voice.
He picked up the menu card, which one was to fill out and hand to the waiter. There were only four selections on it. “Recommend anything?” he asked.
“The brook trout. A little trouty, but quite good.”
“Sold. Brook tout.” He said this to himself while filling out his card. “There you are. Thank you.” The steward had returned with his Gibson, and then rushed away with the card. Sasha had paid him well to ensure that they wouldn’t have to wait very long for the trout to be served.
Peter picked up the martini glass – filled with cold water and garnished with a pearl onion, and sipped.
Peter looked behind him in a guilty fashion, then back at Sasha with her unnerving (or at least, it was supposed to be unnerving!) all-knowing smile.
“I know,” he said, touching his horn-rimmed glasses. “I look vaguely familiar.“
“Yes.”
“You feel you’ve seen me somewhere before.”
“Mm hm.”
“Funny how I have that effect on people. It’s something about my face.”
“It’s a nice face,” said Sasha, breathily.
Peter straightened somewhat in his chair, alertly, as if he’d just caught the scent of romance. “You think so?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
“Oh, you’re that type,” said Peter.
“What type?” asked Sasha, raising one of her delightful eyebrows.
“Honest.”
Sasha smiled, a little forlornly. “Not really.”
“Good, because honest women frighten me.”
Sasha smiled again. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Somehow they seem to put me at a disadvantage.”
“Because you’re not honest with them?”
“Exactly.” Peter leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, gazing into her eyes, alert for her reaction. “The moment I meet an attractive woman, I have to start pretending I’ve no desire to make love to her.”
Her reaction was all that he could have desired. She was not offended at all, but rather asked calmly: “What makes you think you have to conceal it?”
“She might find the idea objectionable.”
Sasha smiled. “Then again she might not.”
Peter picked up his martini glass and sipped. He gave Sasha his most charming smile. “Think how lucky I am to have been seated here.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,”said Sasha calmly.
“Fate?” asked Peter, with a slight uptilt of his chin.
“I tipped the steward five dollars to seat you here if you should come in.”
Peter’s eyes brightened…indeed, his whole face brightened. “Is that a proposition?” he asked.
“I never discuss love on an empty stomach.”
“You’ve already eaten,” said Peter, with a glance at her coffee cup.
“But you haven’t,” she said, and lifted her cup.
That was the steward’s cue. He appeared quickly, placed a plate of Brook trout in front of Peter with silent efficiency, and then vanished.
Peter took up knife and fork and began to debone the fish. He looked up from under his lowered face and said, “Don’t you think it’s time we were introduced.”
“I’m Eve Kendall. I’m 26 and unmarried. Now you know everything.“
“Tell me, what do you do besides lure men to their doom on the Twentieth Century Limited?”
“I’m an industrial designer.”
“Jack Philips. Western sales manager for Kingby Electronics.”
“No, you’re not.” Said Sasha with a slight smile. “You’re Roger Thornhill, of Madison Avenue. And you’re wanted for murder on every front page in America. Don’t be so modest.”
Peter’s tanned face hardened to teak. “Oops.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”
“How come?” demanded Peter.
“I told you. It’s a nice face.”
Peter relaxed. “Is that the only reason?” he asked softly.
“It’s going to be a long night.”
“True.”
“I don’t particularly like the book I’ve started.”
“Ah.”
“You know what I mean?”
“Let me think….” Peter raised his eyes upward as if thinking, then grinned. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
She took a cigarette pack out of her purse, pulled out a cigarette, placed it between her lips. [At this point the steward, Sasha’s $100 bill in his pocket, stood in front of the duo to block the view of the rest of the people in the dining room. Sasha had assured him that it was a fake cigarette and wouldn’t give off any smoke, so that was alright. But they'd prefer it if some irate passenger wouldn't make a fuss after seeing her light up.]
Peter pulled out a book of matches, lit one, and held it across the table to light her cigarette. She placed her hand on his while she lit her cigarette, then left it there. He started to take his hand away to blow out the match himself, but she put subtle pressure on his hand with her own, to bring it close to her own mouth, where she blew it with a long breath…sending her warm breath over his hand.
He gazed at her, while she stubbed out the fake cigarette. The steward, his favor completed, walked away again.
[They had to have that scene, thought Peter, even if it did cost them an extra $100 to bribe the steward. That was one sexy, sizzling hot romantic gesture, which people couldn’t do anymore thanks to this ridiculous ban on cigarettes in public places! Jeez, talk about sexy...he'd gotten hot just watching that scene.]
“I’d invite you to my bedroom if I had a bedroom,” Peter said.
“No roomette?”
“Nothing, not even a ticket. I’ve been playing hide and seek with the Pullman conductor ever since the train left New York.”
“How awkward for you,” said Sasha.
“Yes, isn’t it? No place to sleep.” Peter put a lot of pathos into that phrase.
“I have a large drawing room, all to myself.”
“Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?” said Peter. Then he continued. “No luggage.”
“So?”
“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of pajamas, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Sasha rose to her feet, and headed down the corridor. Peter tossed a few bills on the table as an extra tip for the steward (the meal would be charged to Sasha’s drawing room) and headed after her.
Once in Sasha’s compartment, Sasha lowered the upper bunk, and Peter climbed into it. Once stretched out on top – just a little cramped because of his six foot length in a six foot space, he said, “Tell me, why are you so good to me?” In the movie, Grant had invested that line with some humor, because he'd been closed up in the bunk for several minutes while the police searched for him.
Sasha said, “Shall I climb up and tell you why?”
Peter grinned.
At this point, the movie faded out, and faded in with Thornhill and Kendall fully dressed again, standing up and embracing and caressing and kissing. The hour or so in between was only hinted at.
Sasha slipped out of her pumps, her skirt, her blouse, her bra and panties, and then climbed up into the top bunk, where Peter had divested himself of his clothes as well, with some impressive gymnastics to do so. Now they lay side by side, with the ceiling just a few inches above their heads.
Peter pushed Sasha over onto her back and then straddled on top of her, resting his chest against her breasts, his legs on either side of hers. He started by nibbling at her neck, first one side then the other, then moving on to her ears, then finally his lips sought her mouth.
Simultaneously, he moved his knees inside her legs and nudged them apart, as his cock was standing at attention. He entered her slowly, and she arced her back a little bit at the pleasure of it. Then she chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” he murmured.
“I’m just thinking that our source material has let us down,” Sasha murmured breathily. “Surely they would have been having their fun on the lower bunk. Helluva lot more room.”
“Oh,” murmured Peter, beginning to thrust himself into her with short, economical movements. “You don’t think I can bring you to climax in this little six foot long torpedo tube?”
“Mmmm?” said Sasha, lost in the enjoyment of what he was doing. She raised her hands to the nape of his neck and began to play with the hair there, winding it around her fingers, giving it two little tugs, then releasing it to start all over. Only the closer she got to climax, the faster the windings, the quicker the tugs.
Peter enjoyed the feeling of her body beneath his, the writhings of her hips and her knees and her ankles as she sought to get him deeper into her. She was breathing heavily now, and so was he. He could feel himself ready to pop, but he didn’t want to cum too soon. They didn’t often climax together, but he wanted this to be one of those times.
Only…it was…going to be.a little…difficult…if she didn’t..start…getting…
“I’m cumming,” he told her.
“I’m almost there,” she gasped. “C’mon, c’mon.”
He started thrusting deeper and quicker, grunting now, groaning, and then he was cumming but she was shuddering with pleasure herself.
“Ah, god,” he said a few seconds later, still lying on top of her, still within her.
“That was sweet,” murmured Sasha.
“Very sweet.”
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