‘I Wish It Would Rain Down’, Phil Collins, 1990, Virgin
‘THAT WASN'T THE PLAN,’ said Roddy.
They were standing near the head of the lunch queue outside Mother India's Café. The pungent aroma of cumin and saffron drifted out of the door onto the street.
‘No kidding,’ said Tom. It was the day after he had barged in on a naked Jane; the image of her standing in the hall was vividly etched in his mind. Regrettably, so was the moment when Willie had called. In that instant it was clear to Tom that he'd outstayed his welcome and not wishing to intrude on what was obviously an intimate conversation he had swiftly departed. He was in the hallway when he heard her repeat Willie's proposal. Married?
He and Roddy had contrived to send Willie on a wild-goose chase so that they could focus on driving a wedge between Jane and her dad. Instead, somehow they'd brought Willie and Jane together. Talk about a plan backfiring.
‘Kind of Wordsworthian,’ said Roddy. ‘Willie's perambulatory journey along the rain-dappled English lanes, reflecting on his place in nature, feeling so wretched that he begins to ponder his very existence and concludes that he needs to make a change. A big married change.’
‘Do I look like I give a flying fuck?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And you can't have dappled rain. Sunshine is dappled. Dapple. Bloody stupid word anyway.’
The queue shuffled forward.
He'd gone to Jane in order to come clean and apologise, although he couldn't remember if he'd actually said sorry. He presumed not. Given what had subsequently happened his act of contrition would have been a sideshow. An apology—no matter how heartfelt—paled beside a marriage proposal. He certainly hadn't confessed to her about his stupid plan. And when he'd opened the familiar glossy black front door to leave her place it had flashed through his mind that it was for the last time. She was moving on. Moving to Klinsch & McLeish. Moving on with Willie.
‘A lifetime with Willie Scott,’ he muttered. ‘If that doesn't make her miserable, nothing will.’
‘Look,’ said Roddy, a note of exasperation entering his voice, ‘I know things haven't worked out for the two of you, but surely you don't really, actually, totally want her to be unhappy?’
It was the cornerstone of their plan. But she was happier than ever—engaged to be married, for god's sake. He had failed. In every previous relationship he had always made them cry, even when he hadn't intended to. So why couldn't he do it to her? ‘It's complicated.’
‘Roddy!’
Tom looked up to see Nicola Ball making her way along the pavement. She waved and Roddy waved back.
‘Is she actually skipping?’ asked Tom.
‘I would say she has a skip in her step, yes.’
‘So … you two?’
‘Yup.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘About what?’
‘She's a writer. I'll grant you the sex can be imaginative—but when you look in her eye you'll always wonder if you're going to end up in her next book.’ Tom shrugged. ‘In the end you're just material.’
He could tell that Roddy wasn't listening to a word.
‘She likes curry,’ he said, smoothing his hair. ‘How many girls do you know who like curry? And not just tikka masala, I'm talking biryani.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘And afterwards we're going to the Art Gallery.’ He nodded across the road at the exuberant red sandstone façade of Kelvingrove Museum directly opposite. ‘To see the Annunciation.’ He gave a beatific smile. ‘Curry and Botticelli—that might be my perfect day.’ Then added after a thoughtful pause, ‘And sex. Obviously.’
Nicola bounded up and the two of them embraced. They nuzzled each other and Tom had to look away.
Her new book was selling slowly, but at least it was selling. However, the numbers were nowhere near the level to extricate him from the hole he'd dug Tristesse into. And barring Nicola suddenly gaining overnight celebrity by committing a series of grisly murders that propelled her onto the front pages, or, in an ironic twist, being knocked down and killed by one of the precious buses she wrote about, they were unlikely to amount to much. Still, he wanted to sign her up for another two books. She wrote beautifully and if he could gently steer her towards a subject more befitting her lapidary prose then he was sure she had a great novel in her. But she was a long-term prospect, and as things stood Tristesse Books was not. He had another meeting with Anna LeFèvre later today when he expected her to bring out the torture equipment reserved for serious defaulters.
Finally Nicola acknowledged his presence.
‘Tom,’ she said, her demeanour turning formal.
‘Nicola.’ He inclined his head in a mocking neck-bow.
‘Lovely news about Jane.’
‘What is?’
She tutted. ‘Her and Willie.’
For a moment he'd forgotten. It came back to him like a punch in the gut.
‘Roddy told me. So romantic. Proposing to her in the rain.’
‘He was in a call box.’ He saw disapproval in Nicola's face; the social compact dictated he go along with the invented story. ‘I'm sure they'll be very happy together,’ he heard himself say.
‘Married writers,’ she mused. ‘Going for long walks to solve tricky plot points, discussing the day's work as they prepare dinner, pillow-talk editing.’ She sighed.
‘Are you kidding?’ he cut across her. Such simpering fantasy could not be tolerated. He would set her straight. ‘Married writers means two utterly self-absorbed people pretending to listen to each other, but only really interested in their own work. Bitter when the other receives a good review, furious when one is invited to a festival but there isn't a place for the other, jealously comparing the size of their royalty cheques. As for pillow talk, try separate bedrooms and most of the sex is imaginary.’
He was out of breath. In the awkward silence that followed his rant the only sound was the snort of air through his flaring nostrils. Why was he so angry? He wasn't sure he even believed what he was saying, but the soft-focus picture Nicola painted had piqued him.
‘Your table is ready,’ said the host at the door.
Roddy linked arms with Nicola and turned to Tom with a rigid smile. ‘See you later then.’
‘I thought we were having lunch?’
‘We are.’ Roddy angled his head towards Nicola.
‘So why have I spent the last half hour waiting in this queue?’ He could feel the anger rising again. ‘What am I—a bookmark?’
‘OK, OK,’ said Roddy. ‘Chill. Come for lunch.’
‘Yes, please join us,’ said Nicola.
She looked petrified. Tom felt his stomach lurch; he hadn't meant to frighten anyone, it had just sort of happened. ‘I'm sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I'll see you later.’ He headed off along the pavement.
‘No, come on,’ said Roddy. ‘Come back.’
‘Can't. Don't know what I was thinking—got a meeting. Nicola?’
‘Yes, Tom?’ she said hesitantly.
‘You are most definitely one of the foremost writers under the age of thirty in Scotland.’ He smiled broadly.
Her face lit up and she burrowed into Roddy with pleasure. He caught the departing Tom's eye and gave him a big thumbs up, mouthing ‘curry, Botticelli and sex’.