Not Another Happy Ending (20 page)

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.

‘What do you want?’

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?’

‘Uhh …’

‘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?’