‘Rain, Rain Go Away’, Bobby Vinton, 1962, EMI Columbia
THE AROMA OF viciously fried and battered fish filled the tiny kitchen. Tom sat gloomily at a pullout table watching Roddy bustle about in a black and white pinny that looked suspiciously like half of a kinky French maid's outfit, and a pair of oven gloves emblazoned with the line, ‘souvenir of Arbroath’.
Tom reflected on the latest plan, not that there was much to reflect upon. It had nose-dived. Like the previous one. And not only had he failed to make her miserable, but he'd also lost her to Klinsch & McLeish.
He didn't want her back—she didn't want to stay—but knowing that there existed a piece of paper with her signature on it next to Klinsch & McLeish's felt like divorce, not separation. Sure, they were never going to reconcile, but until today the door had been open. Now it was shut and padlocked.
Roddy knelt at the oven, peered through a dark glass door smeared with the burnt-on fat of a lifetime of reheated takeaways and ready meals, and made appreciative noises at two chunky paper-wrapped bundles inside. With the care of a cordon bleu chef he adjusted the oven temperature a notch. It was Thursday, and on Thursday dinner consisted of a couple of large fish suppers from Mario's.
The notion of a fish supper was peculiarly Scottish, considered Tom. Before he'd arrived in Glasgow the word ‘supper’ conjured for him a plate of food, flavours and textures distinct and in balance, beautifully seasoned, accompanied by a selection of appropriate side dishes, all perfectly cooked. Here, it meant fish. And chips. The latter dished up with what he could only describe as a shovel. It wasn't food; it was heavy artillery. He loved it.
Roddy shook his head gravely and for a moment Tom was sure that the fish suppers had gone the same way as yesterday's steak pie, which had ended its useful life as a burnt offering to the god of blocked arteries.
‘You really turned down Glen Buchan?’ Roddy collected cutlery from a grimy drawer, wiped it carefully on his sleeve and laid two place settings.
‘I don't want to talk about it,’ said Tom.
Roddy studied the wine rack, humming and hawing over his selection to complement tonight's repast, which puzzled Tom since there were only two bottles on the rack, and one of them was vodka.
‘Call him,’ said Roddy, sliding out a cheeky Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Tell him you made a mistake, that you'd be honoured to publish him. Then you can stop all this nonsense with Jane.’
Tom toyed with his knife. There was a stain of indeterminate origin on the stainless steel.
‘But I don't want him. I can't publish Glen Buchan—I hate his writing.’
Roddy unscrewed the wine cap, making a ‘pop’ with his mouth as he did so, then filled two glasses.
‘So, let me get this straight, you only take on writers you love?’
Tom wasn't falling for that one. ‘Writing I love.’
‘How intéressant,’ mused Roddy, ducking down to open a cupboard under the sink.
‘No. No, it isn't. Now can we get back to making Jane miserable? I know, we could force her to read her Amazon page. Or make her go on a “Meet the Bloggers” tour.’
Roddy stood up holding a pair of silver candlesticks, yellow with tarnish. Two stubby ends of candles poked up from their holders. He placed them on the table next to a hulking ghetto blaster that appeared to have fallen through a wormhole from 1985. It wasn't obsolete technology, Roddy maintained, it was vintage.
‘I could show her the review,’ said Tom. Jane's debut had been greeted with overwhelming praise in every quarter, except one. The London Review of Books had dedicated a whole page to an excoriating review. Thankfully, the publication was subscription only and he'd destroyed the office copy before cancelling his own subscription. He was sure she'd never seen the offending article.
‘You wouldn't,’ said Roddy uneasily. ‘Remember Keats.’
‘Again with Keats!’
‘One bad review finished him off. Never wrote again. You want Jane melancholy, not rocking in a corner staring at the wall.’
Roddy shared out the fish suppers from the oven and sat down.
He dimmed the overhead light, struck a match and lit the candles. A soft glow suffused the room. He stabbed the big plastic play button on the ghetto blaster's tape deck and Scottish sadcore drifted across the table.
Tom was suddenly aware that the room had taken on a romantic ambience. He looked slowly from the candlesticks to his friend. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘One of us really needs to get laid.’
There was a crinkle of paper as Roddy unwrapped his supper. He glanced up with an expression of yearning.
‘Oh god, yeah.’
They ate quickly, talking through mouthfuls of orange haddock and salty chips.
Tom paused, a forkful midway to his mouth.
‘OK, here's a thought.’ He made tiny brooding circles with the fork. ‘We could kill her dog.’
Roddy looked confused. ‘I didn't know she had a dog.’
Tom waved the fork meaningfully. ‘She doesn't. We could buy her one … and then kill it.’
Roddy gave an uneasy glance.
‘It wouldn't be a cute dog,’ Tom said, not altogether reassuringly.
Roddy swallowed a bite. ‘You don't think that's a bit, how can I put this …’ He paused. ‘Psychotic?’
But Tom wasn't listening; another idea had sprung from the first.
‘You're right, she hasn't got a dog.’ He grinned darkly. ‘But she does have a screenwriter.’
The fork made more lazy circles as he figured out a plan. He'd tried to sabotage Jane's career, but that had failed. It was time to get personal. Her relationship with Willie was a pillar of her life; if he could topple it then she was sure to descend into melancholy.
Roddy looked alarmed. ‘I'm not helping you kill Willie Scott.’
His voice was a distant buzz. This would work, Tom decided. Willie would fall. He must.
‘It's simple, really. Willie is patently out for all he can get from Jane. He's inveigled his way into her life, moved into her flat, and has persuaded her to let him adapt her novel even though a brief look at his résumé demonstrates how ill-suited he is to the task.’ Disappointment kindled into determination. ‘All we have to do is open Jane's eyes. She will see that she's with a man who doesn't care for her beyond what he can extract from her talent. She will end it with him and be left miserable and alone. The perfect combination to get her writing again.’
Roddy chewed thoughtfully. ‘But if you've proved he was so terrible for her then why would she be miserable about ending it?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Everyone is miserable after a break-up.’
‘Like when you and Jane broke up?’
‘How many times must I say it? We never broke up because we were never together. But just for that I'm eating your chips.’ He reached over and, ignoring Roddy's protests, grabbed a handful from his plate.
He ground the hot chips between his teeth. He couldn't stop her getting together with Klinsch & McLeish, but he was damn well going to make sure she dumped Willie Scott.
A red double-decker bus threaded its way through the city centre, circled George Square half a dozen times and then headed east towards its final destination in Bridgeton. Tom had chartered the bus at great expense for the launch of Nicola Ball's latest, Death of a Conductor, and he intended to get his money's worth. The bus side was emblazoned with a suitably moody poster advertising the novel: an image of a lonely, rain-streaked bus shelter, and the terse log-line: Stop Means Stop.
On the upper deck Tom guided Nicola through a round of interviews with print journalists and literary bloggers. The questions were always the same. Is it based on real life? How much are you like the main character? Listening to her answers, he wasn't sure if Nicola was selling herself or her book, and more to the point, whether these days there was a difference.
He didn't organise a public launch for all of his authors—most of them weren't great in public, either too easily flustered or, frankly, staggeringly dull—but Nicola was young and pretty and at ease in front of a microphone.
‘I'd like to talk about the character of the conductor's widow,’ began the literary editor of The Scotsman. ‘Now, your own mother was widowed in a tragic bus accident …’
Tom tuned out. Jane Lockhart had also suffered from this line of questioning. Too many readers believed what she did was simply raid her family archives and dump her feelings onto the page. But there was so much more art to her writing than that and in his opinion Jane hadn't received nearly enough credit for the alchemy she performed in transforming reality into fiction. With a twinge of regret he remembered that he was one of those who had never said it to her.
The big depot doors rattled apart and the bus grumbled through into a vast shed lined with commercial vehicles decked out in the bright corporate liveries of half a dozen Scottish operators. Corinthian radiator grilles of Leyland Lions and Albion Valiants shone in serried ranks along each wall. The punchline to the joke that began ‘How do you lose a ten-ton bus?’ was right here.
They came to a halt with a squeal of air brakes at the edge of a crowd of invited guests. Tom turned his attention from Nicola to look out the long window. In a space set aside for the event, waiters ferried trays of sparkling wine and canapés between small knots of people significantly overdressed for a Friday afternoon in Bridgeton. He had sent Jane an invitation to the launch, signing it from Nicola in order to ensure her presence. He searched the gathering and saw that his ruse had worked. She was here, and she'd brought Willie. In Roddy's suburban commando speak, the plan was ‘good to go’.
Tom frowned. As well as her useless boyfriend Jane had also brought cupcakes. She balanced the array of sickly coloured treats on a tray.
He disembarked and addressed the guests, saying a few words about Nicola's prodigious talent, which made the young writer well up (a glance at Jane confirmed that his praise had elicited a pleasing shade of green from her, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the coachwork on the Glasgow Corporation omnibus she was standing beside).
He toasted his young charge and passed her into Sophie Hamilton Findlay's capable hands. When she was safely ensconced behind a tower of hardbacks at the signing table, Tom snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and prepared to initiate the plan, which Roddy had bestowed with the name ‘Kill Will’.
‘Ah, the number 15 to Meiklewood.’ Roddy ambled up and cast a wistful look at the destination board on the front of a green and white sixty-seater. He creased his brow. ‘Where the fuck's Meiklewood?’
Tom ignored him. He tracked Jane through the crowd as she passed out cakes from her tray. ‘She's still baking,’ he said sullenly.
Roddy held up his fingers in the sign of the Cross. ‘Back, cupcakes of Satan!’
‘You don't understand,’ said Tom. ‘Baking is bad. Baking is the writer's dirty little secret. First, it involves lots of time-consuming measuring and many, many bowls. Then they have to keep checking the oven so they can't possibly write anything in between, and clearing up all those bowls takes ages. Before you know it, the afternoon has disappeared. But, most importantly, people eat their cake and instantly appreciate what they've done. So, although they've written absolutely nothing all day, it makes them feel productive.’
Roddy shook his head. ‘Devious bastards.’ He took a sip of wine and glanced at Nicola. ‘Though she's a nice kid. Bet she doesn't know one end of a slotted spoon from the other.’
Tom frowned. ‘Surely it's obvious.’
‘Well, yes, but … I was just trying to make a point. About Nicola not being a devious baker.’
‘I'm not even sure you use a slotted spoon in baking.’
‘All right! God, I really don't care. I was just remarking upon what I perceive to be the amiability of Nicola Ball. Nice kid.’
‘Kid? She's not much younger than you.’
‘Yeah, but you know. I'm a man of the world, me. I couldn't see myself with a girl like that.’ His voice rose to a strangled pitch. ‘Could you?
‘No,’ agreed Tom, barely listening.
Roddy tutted. ‘Thanks. Thanks very much.’
‘What did I say?’
His eyes widened. ‘She's coming over. Don't look!’
‘Roddy, what the hell are you on about?’
‘Tom?’ Nicola stood before him, a hand on one hip, an indignant flash in her eye.
‘Yes, Nicola?’
‘I was just propositioned by Tiny Tim's Crutch.’
‘That's disgusting,’ sputtered Roddy.
‘It's the name of a literary blog,’ Tom explained.
‘Oh.’ He lowered his head and took another sip of wine.
Nicola was still cross. ‘He's a pervert. And not in a good way. He's the one who mailed me his socks. I don't know why you invited him.’ She huffed. ‘I hate these things.’
‘Yes,’ said Roddy, clearly unable to stop himself, ‘I prefer the old Routemaster Two Seven Six Oh, myself.’
Nicola and Tom turned slowly to face him.
‘It's a bus joke,’ he shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
Tom was about to change the subject when Nicola piped up. ‘No, no, I get it,’ she said gazing at him. ‘It's just, I've never met anyone else who made a bus joke before.’
Tom watched in disbelief as the two of them stood in a silence full of potential. Roddy and Nicola? What was happening here?
‘Typical,’ said Roddy, gawping at Nicola, ‘you wait a century for a vintage bus …’
‘Then ninety-three of them come along at once,’ she finished.
Both of them smiled.
So bewildered was Tom by the romance blooming before his eyes that he almost missed Willie wandering off from Jane's side. She was on her own. Now was the time to strike.
‘OK. Here goes.’ He drained the glass and thrust it at Roddy, adding with a smirk, ‘Don't forget the golden rule.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Roddy snapped back. ‘I'm not her publisher, remember?’
‘What's the golden rule?’ Nicola asked innocently.
‘Uh, nothing.’
‘And if you break it,’ she smiled coyly, ‘do you get punished?’
Roddy swallowed hard.
With a bemused puff of his cheeks, Tom struck off into the crowd.
‘Hello, Jane.’ He shot out of the press of people like a shark after a particularly succulent seal.
He snatched a cupcake from her tray and took a bite.
‘I'll tell you what I don't want,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of sponge, screwing up his face and slapping the half-eaten cake back on the tray. ‘I don't want a cupcake.’
He flicked a nod towards Willie, holding court amidst a clique of pretty young women in dark, tailored suits. ‘I wonder what the collective noun for a group of publicity girls might be? A release? A puff?’
‘A buzz,’ said Jane.
He snapped his fingers. ‘Very good. See, not so stuck for words after all.’
She threw him a reproachful look. Which was good, he thought, since in order for his plan to work he had to aggravate Jane to the point where she would take action. Roddy had informed him, rather unkindly he maintained, that he would have little trouble accomplishing that particular feat.
‘So …’ he said, commencing his attack, ‘two writers living under the same roof, how's that working out? I imagine it's fantastic: sharing ideas, the ebb and flow of discussion. Willie must be … a great boon.’
He could see immediately that Jane didn't recognise the description of her boyfriend.
‘Yes. Yes he is,’ she said.
It was a game attempt to cover her unease. Emboldened, he pressed on. ‘And what does the Big Man make of the new novel?’
‘You're right—it's not fair to ask you.’ He started to move off. ‘I should ask him.’
A look of panic flashed across Jane's face and she shot out a hand across his path. ‘He loves it,’ she said quickly. ‘Just loves it.’
Tom saw in her expression that she knew she'd oversold Willie's unconditional ardour. She attempted to shore up the lie. ‘Naturally, he has notes.’
‘Naturally.’
He signalled to a passing waitress and plucked two more glasses of wine from her tray, offering one to Jane, who declined with a brusque shake of her head.
‘A buzz of publicity girls,’ he repeated in an admiring tone.
There was another phrase on the tip of his tongue; a French one. He had lived here so long that his native tongue sounded odd in his own head, showing up like an unexpected member of the family. The British had adopted this phrase, perhaps, he speculated, because it was a peculiarly French concept.
He was about to deliver the coupe de grâce.
He touched the glass to his lips, felt the cold wine and then the prick of bubbles on his tongue.
‘Willie has not asked to read one single page of your novel, has he?’
A gratifying red flush coloured Jane's throat. ‘He's … he's very busy with his screenplay.’
‘Ah yes, the adaptation. How's that going?’
‘Terrific. It's going terrific … ly.’
He gave a small laugh. ‘You don't know, do you? He doesn't discuss it with you.’
She was irritated now. ‘What's your point?’
‘He's using you.’ He was aware that his voice had grown loud. Roddy had cautioned him not to shout and he knew it wouldn't help to get angry. He tried concentrating on his breathing. It sounded like an angry rasp.
‘Using me? That's rich, coming from you.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he fumed. ‘I checked and the last script of his someone actually made was an episode of Rain Town.’
‘There's nothing wrong with writing a soap,’ she said defensively, though evidently a tad embarrassed. ‘And it was the Christmas episode.’
Why was she with this waste of space screenwriter? Tom wondered. Never mind what he thought about Willie, why would she do this to herself? She drove him insane. Out of the corner of one eye he was aware of Roddy shaking his head in a warning—don't lose it, don't lose it.
Too late. He lost it.
‘Willie Scott's writing career peaked sometime around 1998,’ he raged. ‘He is a talentless hack without a brain or conscience who doesn't give a damn about you. Even your novel has become about him!’
The last syllable of his tirade sailed down the long line of buses and echoed back from the depot wall at the far end. An appalled silence descended over the party guests. A lone speaker, aware that his voice was the only one in the room, swiftly petered out.
Even the smiles of the publicity girls froze on their shining faces. Willie emerged from their midst, his expression twisted into a grimace, and marched over.
Tom opened his arms in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Hey. Big Man. No harm done.’
Willie didn't break stride.
Tom swallowed. ‘Yet.’
‘Willie, no!’ yelled Jane, but it was too late.
Willie dipped his right shoulder and then his fist split the air. There was a crunch of bone as the punch landed against Tom's cheek. As his head snapped round he glimpsed Jane's horrified expression, which gave him a fleeting sensation of pleasure, right before someone turned out all the lights.
He dreamt he was aboard the number 15 bus to Meiklewood. In the dream Jane was driving. She looked cute in a peaked cap. Roddy and Nicola were a couple of school kids kissing in the back seats. He was ordering them to stop, quoting reams of what sounded like bus company policy. In the dream he looked down to see he was wearing a jacket with a column of polished brass buttons and his hands clutched a ticket machine. He was the bus conductor. Alarmed, he glanced at Nicola. She smiled wickedly. He knew how this novel ended.
Jane jerked the steering wheel, the bus swerved and he lost his balance. The force of the turn flung him through the open rear door, tumbling out onto the road. As the hard tarmac filled his vision he felt something cold and solid against his forehead.
Tom sat up with a start. He was on the open top deck of one of the buses in the now empty depot. Below, waiters cleared away the remains of the launch party. In the seat beside him Jane sat holding a cake to his forehead, lending weight to his suspicion that he had yet to wake up from the dream.
‘Is that fruitcake?’ he ventured.
‘Yes,’ said Jane.
‘I detest fruitcake.’
‘Frozen.’ She rapped it against the seat in front to demonstrate. ‘It's for your head.’ She pressed it there again.
He winced.
‘I'm sorry about Willie. He shouldn't have hit you, even though you did deserve it.’
‘He caught me off guard. Usually I don't go down after the first punch.’ Tom considered his chequered past; it wasn't the first time he'd provoked a jealous boyfriend to violence. ‘Usually it's about the third or fourth.’ Still dazed, he looked around, taking in the open deck. ‘How did I get here?’
Jane continued to tend to his injury. ‘I made Willie carry you.’
Tom recoiled. ‘No you didn't.’
‘What's wrong now?’ she sighed.
‘It's not very manly …’ he complained, ‘being carried upstairs by another bloke.’ Then an unmanly thought occurred to him. ‘He's not still here, is he?’
‘Relax. I sent him out—to cool off.’
He glanced down, noticing her handbag open on the floor. ‘What's the capital of Ethiopia?’ Was not what he intended to say, but he'd been distracted by the book poking from the top of her bag. He took it out.
‘1001 Tricky Trivia Questions? What's this for? Your dad hasn't …?’ He liked Benny Lockhart. He hadn't wanted to, knowing how he'd walked out on Jane, but Benny had turned out not to be the monster he'd built up in his head. He was a hard man who'd softened around the edges, and he carried a burden in the sacks beneath his eyes; a taciturn man, animated only when talking about Jane, or his beloved pub quiz. Next to his daughter it was the most important thing in the world to Benny. What was the capital of Ethiopia? That was going to niggle him. Tom looked into Jane's face. ‘You're on the team?’
‘We're in the finals, actually.’
Tom swayed in his seat still woozy from his battering. Jane reached out to steady him. He felt her hand touch him. It was a good feeling to be here with her like this.
‘Jane. There's something I need to tell you. Something I've never said before …’
He was finding it difficult to focus and currently there appeared to be two Janes, both of them annoyed. He knew he had a plan—something devious and clever he was sure—but at that moment he couldn't remember exactly what it involved. He didn't know what he was going to say next, which felt oddly freeing. And a little dangerous.
‘Ah, no. No I … what I meant to say was … is … Happy Ending … at the end, when things became … y'know … with us and the title and … I never told you … the book. It's good.’ This was going really well. He was fascinated to hear what he had to say next. ‘No, it's … better than that. It's like la musique triste. The saddest music I've ever heard.’
He could sense something in the air between them like a charge before a lightning storm. In that split second he felt connected. To everything. The world spun on a shifting axis, the poles flipped. The moment surged with possibility.
‘What the hell was that?’ Jane stood up abruptly. Her expression curdled, as if she'd swallowed something nasty. She took a wary step back into the aisle. ‘What are you up to, Duval?’
‘I'm not up to anything,’ he protested, just as it all flooded back to him. Kill Will. Ah, oui. So, yes, technically she was quite correct. He was up to something, had invited her here expressly in order to be up to something. But not just then. What he'd said about her novel, he meant it.
‘All this “It's like sad music” crap, and trying to put doubts in my head about Willie.’
He could see she was reaching for something to unlock his odd behaviour.
‘Why would you do that …? Unless …’ A fog lifted. ‘Oh, wait a minute, I know why. I'm onto your little scheme.’
Oh, shit. ‘You are?’
Her mouth coiled into a smirk as she delivered her brilliant deduction. ‘You want me back.’
He unclenched. She was off target. Way off target. But he could tell that she believed she'd scored a direct hit and ploughed on.
‘Well, if you can hear me through the obvious concussion, pay attention.’ She paused, winding up for a big finish. ‘It's. Never. Going. To. Happen.’
He laughed. Couldn't keep the derision out of his voice. The very idea!
Hang on.
‘I have a concussion?’
She flung out a finger pointing to the stairs. ‘Off. Get off this bus.’
He swayed to his feet and took an exploratory step into the aisle, testing his balance. The deck seemed to rock like a sailing ship in distress. He locked onto Jane's angry face, in part for a fixed point to steer by.
‘You really think I'd want you back …?’ he said. ‘Why? Why would I do that to myself? You're distant at the best of times and when you're writing you're utterly self-absorbed. Sometimes I thought your characters were more real to you than I was.’
Curiously, at that moment he saw Jane jump, then turn and direct a low whisper at an empty seat. The girl clearly needed help. Well, she could find it from someone else.
‘So, no, Jane,’ he said, walking away. ‘I do not want you back.’