“Anyway, glad you could make it,” he told Keeley. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had made it to one of his book events. She always sounded interested when he mentioned his public engagements, but when it came to it, there was always something more pressing she had to do. He had almost given up inviting her.
“I’m dying to meet Wanda Duvall,” she confessed, her eyes straying to the other table. “Speaking of which, won’t be a minute.”
Without another word, she defected to Wanda’s side of the room. Dylan scuttled off after her, like an eager puppy. If she had thrown him a ball he would have fetched it for her, and grown a tail to wag in her face.
“For heaven’s sake,” Jock muttered, forgetting to smile, as the next fan handed him a book to sign.
It probably didn’t do his image any harm that he was feeling irritable. The meaner he acted, the more they seemed to like him. Nobody cared for manners anymore. Image was everything.
Keeley returned a bit later and perched on the edge of his table. Robbie sat underneath the table, nibbling his sandwich like a gerbil. The smell of blue cheese wafted up at him and lingered in the air, mingling with Keeley’s tangerine perfume.
“You know, I still find it weird coming to one of these things without Mum,” said Keeley. “You know she’s still waiting for an apology.”
“Well, she’ll be waiting a long time,” Jock told her, folding his arms.
But her words sprinkled doubt into his mind. Had he been too hard on Mum? It had been a tough decision to cut her out of his life. But if he hadn’t done it, she would be sitting right here, running the show. It would not be his night, it would be hers. Sure, it would have been nice to have her opinion on how to handle the crowd. She was better with people than he was, but it was also irritating, the way she constantly corrected him, or leaned over and straightened his tie. Tonight, he hadn’t even worn a tie. Hah!
His new readers asked a lot more questions than the old ones had. The old ladies who used to come to these things had been full of compliments, telling him what a nice young man he was, and how he reminded them of their son, or grandson, or even, great grandson. They would tell him proudly how they had correctly guessed the murderer in his mystery stories, or if they had liked the bit about the crossbow. But these new readers, they were much more tricky. Constantly asking him questions about things he hadn’t really put any thought to. Why hadn’t his protagonist tried to hang herself in her bedroom, rather than the garage? What was the hidden significance in the detective’s choice of spearmint gum? What did the dead bird symbolise?
He felt like he was a piece of meat that everyone wanted a slice of, and some of them cut way too close to the bone. They were all pulling at him, tugging him in different directions. Nobody simply said they liked the book and left it at that.
“How’s the new book coming out?” they kept asking. “What’s it about?”
He did his best to sound mysterious and elusive, as opposed to terrified and clueless. Because the fact was, he had no idea what the new book was going to be about. Every idea he came up with turned to poo on the paper. He might as well throw his laptop away and get a job as an ice-cream man, as he had wanted when he was seven. At least then he would be happy.
He felt drained by the end of the evening. He was thankful when the shutters came down and the manager whipped all the empty wine glasses away. He had sold a respectable number of books, but Wanda’s table was completely empty. He couldn’t believe the nerve of her, pushing hardbacks on fans who had already bought her entire backlist. She was quite the saleswoman, Wanda. It was a talent he had not been blessed with.
He packed up his table while Keeley polished off the last of his wine. The remaining books needed to be packed up and sent back to the publishers. The bookseller wasn’t willing to stockpile his books at the shop.
“See y’all at the tandoori,” Wanda called as she waltzed out the door. The room immediately emptied, as her adoring fans followed her into the street. Jock packed away his remaining books in silence.
Robbie was still under the table, nestled at his feet like an Irish Wolf Hound. Jock gave him a nudge and he sat up sharply, banging his head on the table.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s finished,” Jock told him, slipping on his coat.
“Finished?” Robbie emerged from under the table, rubbing his head. “We’ll be off then?
“Yup,” Jock said, waiting impatiently while Dylan hunted about for his left shoe.
“I’m sure I had it,” he said.
“Of course, you had it! You came out in it.”
“Did I? I thought I might have left it in the kitchen back at your place?”
“Here it is,” Robbie said, pulling it out of the wastepaper bin, where someone had helpfully tossed it.
Keeley waited outside, leafing through one of Wanda’s books as she puffed on a cigarette. Water from the gutter dripped down onto the pavement beside her, forming a small puddle for Robbie to blunder into as they moved off down the street.
“Shall we get some beers?” Robbie asked as they passed the off-licence.
The place where they were going for dinner wasn’t licensed to serve alcohol, but you were allowed bring your own.
“Best not,” said Jock, with a glance at Dylan.
“What, no wine?” Keeley looked put out.
“Dylan’s an alcoholic,” Jock whispered.
“Oh!” Keeley looked at Dylan with new interest.
By the time they arrived, Wanda and her entourage had taken over most of the tandoori, spreading out like mushrooms on a newly-mowed lawn. Wanda’s groupies listened intently as she regaled them with tales of drinking tequila from a snake’s mouth and riding wild horses under the heat of a thousand suns.
“There are no tables left!” Jock fretted.
Every booth was taken, as was the little table by the door that normally held a vase of flowers.
“This way, please,” the waiter said, leading them towards the kitchen door. While they waited, the restaurant staff set up an extra table, with wooden stools to sit on. It was not exactly prime real estate - they were halfway into the kitchen - but if the choice was this table, or no curry - Jock and his crew would take it. They squeezed into their seats. Then, they were given a couple of minutes to peruse the menu, before the waiter came back, pen poised in anticipation.
“I’ll have my usual chicken tikka masala,” Jock said.
He was a regular here, and normally, the waiter would try to tempt him with the house special, but tonight, he didn’t bother. Jock felt slightly annoyed. What if tonight was the night he’d finally decided to try - he glanced up at the board to see tonight’s special - tandoori octopus. On the other hand…
The service was frantic. Every thirty seconds, a new dish was ferried out of the kitchen, and a stack of old ones carried in. The waiters contorted their bodies in order to squeeze past their table each time, rising up on their toes and making strange expressions with their mouths. The smell of other people’s food was tantalising. Robbie nibbled anxiously on his napkin. He’d be starting on his menu if their food didn’t arrive soon.
And then, it did. Within minutes, their little table was filled with steaming hot dishes. The spicy aroma of tandoori chicken filled their nostrils, the onions, ginger and garlic still sizzling on the plate. Little dishes of pilau rice filled the gaps, and wedges of naan bread were propped on the sides of their plates. Jock’s smoky orange tikka masala was placed in front of him. He poked it with his fork. The chicken looked creamy and succulent, and he could not wait to try it.
“Can I have some extra chillies, please?”
Robbie had a startling capacity for spice. “No taste buds,” he said proudly, as he dug into his madras. Keeley told anyone who would listen about the time he’d got hold of a chilli and eaten it when he was only eight months old.
“He didn’t bat an eyelid,” she said, with as much pride as if her son had got into Oxford U
niversity.
Robbie laid his king prawns on a piece of naan bread, added his extra chillies and then placed another naan on top to make a sandwich. The waiter winced, but bit his tongue.
Jock took one bite of his curry, then immediately downed his pint of water. The curry was meant to be mild, but his mouth felt as though a live volcano had been activated. He tried eating some bread, and then some rice, but there was no relief. He got up out of his seat and rushed off to the toilets, where he held his mouth under the cold tap until the feeling of panic subsided. He imagined holidaymakers fleeing down the hill in their flipflops, as lava spewed from the dark space behind his tonsils. Once he was done, he splashed some water on his face and sauntered back into the restaurant, which was now even more crowded than it had been before. He practically had to fight his way back to the table. He didn’t understand how the restaurant could possibly have found room for more people but they had, adding extra seats to the big table in the middle and creating another table, which was little more than an upturned plant pot. And all these people were Wanda’s fans. They had all come to see her, to hear her. He could not imagine what it would be like to have such devoted fans, people who would eat their dinner sitting at a plant pot, just so that they could sit in vague proximity to their idol. He couldn’t imagine even suggesting going for a curry with his own readers. Should he have extended the invite? Nah, they would all be too miserable to come.
He slunk back into his seat, and attempted a little more of his curry, eating it with large spoonfuls of rice this time, alert to the slightest hint of chilli. He must have bitten one earlier and not noticed. He would not make that mistake again. He ate a large chunk of naan bread and then a tiny morsel of the curry. It seemed OK, so he tried a little more, picking through it carefully, so as not to provoke any more chillies. He was still doing this, inspecting his food with a fork, when he accidentally caught Wanda’s eye from across the room. He blushed as she got up out of her seat and walked over.
“Now, where are my manners?” she asked in that booming voice of hers. “I haven’t talked to you all evening. How are you, my darling? How’s the new book coming?”
Jock swallowed his food and coughed. This was his chance to confide in her. Wanda was a pro, she was bound to have a few tips. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Especially not somewhere so public.
“It’s coming along fine,” he lied. “I’ve got a few bits to iron out, but otherwise I’m happy with it.”
“I’d be happy to read an early draft if you like,” she said. “You being new to the genre and all.”
“Thanks, I’ll let you know.”
She leaned closer, her perfume invading his space. The sweet smell of pollen and lime blossom contrasted with the turmeric and cardamom in the food.
“The girls and I are going to the club down the street after this. Do you want to come?”
“Thanks, but I just want to get the bill and go home,” he admitted. “I’m knackered.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
She produced a bullwhip from her hip and with a flick of her wrist, she brought it down over the waiter’s shoulders. The poor man looked terrified as she reeled him in, but he maintained his cool exterior, as she expertly removed the whip and pinned it back to her belt.
The bill arrived within seconds, along with a dozen After Eight mints. It was as though someone had emptied the entire packet onto the plate. Jock popped one in his mouth and smiled. They were cool and refreshing, straight from the fridge. He took a look at the bill and pulled out a few notes.
“I’ll have to owe you,” Dylan said, regretfully.
“You already do,” Jock reminded him.
He stood up to put his coat on.
“Hey, you’ve cut yourself!” said Wanda.
“What?”
She pointed. There was blood dripping down the front of his shirt.
He looked down in alarm. “Where’s it coming from?”
There was a large patch of blood on his shirt, and yet, when he pulled it up, there were no visible cuts or marks. Maybe he’d brushed against something sharp on the way back from the loo.
“This is weird,” he muttered, running his hand over his head, ears and nose.
He glanced at Dylan with suspicion, but Dylan looked as puzzled as he was.
Sunday
The sun glared at Jock, beaming its bright white light through the little gaps in his bedroom blinds. Groggily, he rolled over. His pillow felt damp and tacky. He sat up sharply. It was soaked with blood, little clots of it dotted here and there on the pillowcase.
He touched his nose, but it didn’t appear to be bleeding or crusty. He got out of bed and went and stood in front of the full-length mirror. He twisted this way and that, but there was no obvious source of the bleeding. He went back to the pillow and sniffed. It definitely smelt like blood, salty and metallic. He peeled off the pillowcase and carried it through the lounge. Dylan and Robbie slept side by side on the sofa, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He almost asked them about the blood on his pillow, but they both looked to be peacefully asleep and he felt a bit foolish. Of course, the blood wasn’t a joke. That would be too weird, even for Dylan. But if it wasn’t Dylan, then where on earth had it come from? He delved into the recesses of his mind for an explanation, but it didn’t come to him and that disturbed him all the more.
He stalked through to the kitchen and stuffed the pillow case into the washing machine. He’d have to round up some more clothes to go in with it, but he’d get to that later. He was too tired to think straight. He needed tea.
There was a copy of Writer’s Week on the counter, and he thumbed through it as he waited for the kettle to boil. The magazine was packed with grinning people who were proud to have sold their first novel or in some cases, just a short story. They all had wisdom to share, even the ones who had barely written anything.
“Write what you know. Write what you read. Get that first draft down quickly. Don’t edit it until you have it down.”
Jock threw the magazine down in disgust. Was there a world shortage of original ideas?
He poured his tea and drank it too soon. The heat burned the back of his throat and he spat it out into the sink. He drank a glass of tap water instead. To his annoyance, the tap continued to drip long after he had turned it off. He turned it tighter, but it didn’t make a difference. It went on and on.
“Morning,” Dylan called from the doorway. He walked stiffly into the kitchen as though he had a rod up his back.
“You know, the armchair pulls out,” Jock told him. “It would probably be more comfortable than that old sofa.”
“Probably,” Dylan agreed, in a detached manner, as if it the matter was purely theoretical.
“There’s some eggs and bacon in the fridge, if you’re hungry,” Jock told him.
“Are you cooking?”
“I suppose so.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a cup of tea to go with it?”
Jock pushed his own cup towards him.
“Ta, mate.”
Dylan glanced at the washing machine. A corner of the pillow case was hanging out.
“What’s that? It looks all bloody.”
“Er, yeah. I found some blood on my pillow.”
“More blood?”
“Yeah.”
“Nosebleed?”
“No. I don’t know.” Jock tilted his head. “It wasn’t you, was it? Bit of a coincidence, this weird stuff happening only after you came to visit.”
Dylan pressed his hand against his heart. “I swear on Shirley Bassey’s life, that I have had nothing to do with this, and you know I don’t joke about Shirley.”
Jock met his eyes. “No. No, you don’t.”
He swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling, and concentrated on the more familiar one. Despite their massive dinner the night before, he was hungry. He woke Robbie and dispatched him off to the corner shop, in search of provisions.
After a
ridiculous breakfast of ham, eggs and toast, Jock left the dishes for Robbie and Dylan to clear away, knowing full well that they would do nothing of the sort. Not until he’d asked them the requisite seven times, anyway.
“Work to be getting on with,” he said pointedly, as we went off to his room.
Once inside, he opened up his laptop and checked his lottery numbers. He hadn’t matched a single number this week. He stared at the results with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had really thought that this week would be his week, after all, he never won anything. Wasn’t it about time? Of course, on an intellectual level, he knew the odds of winning were astronomical, that he was more likely to drop dead than win, but he expected to win all the same. He had an almost religious belief that it was going to happen. The big win was always just around the corner, patiently waiting to whisk him away to an easy, stress-free life.
With a loud sigh, he opened up his work in progress. His terrible, stinking work in progress that was about as original as a doorstep. The only reason he hadn’t deleted it was that he was terrified of blank pages. He couldn’t bear the thought of staring at all that nothingness, like the millions of grains of sand that formed the flat, white expanse of the desert. It was easier to keep tacking sentences and paragraphs onto what he had written already, and hope that he would eventually come up with something interesting, something that would bring the whole work to life.
To that end, he decided he should brainstorm and write the first thing that came into his head. He could always go back and edit it later, like the numpties in Writer’s Week suggested. If it worked for them, then why not for him? With all his years of experience, this should be like child’s play. He started writing, his mind struggling to keep up as his fingers flew over the keys. After five minutes, he stopped and scanned the page, reading the words with disgust.
“Lampshade, shaggy carpet. Broken lid on the laundry basket. Bin. Did I remember to put my bin out?”
The Perfect Friend Page 2
