Between Friends (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Tom spent the morning shopping in Glasgow. He had the best part of two hundred pounds in his pocket, ready cash. His credit card hit its limit when he had rung the tills for two shirts, a new alpaca sweater and a couple of pairs of chinos, so the notes came in handy for some new loafers and the Ellis Cashmore book on celebrity culture he’d been looking for. The expedition helped to improve his mood, which had not been sunny when he’d woken up to find Carrie had gone.

He needed Carrie to be in his power. Sexually, she couldn’t resist him, that much was obvious – talk about a bitch on heat – but her overnight disappearance did not please him one bit.

‘Coffee please, black and very strong.’

He made the effort to smile at the curvy waitress in the coffee shop in Sauchiehall Street and was rewarded with blushing admiration. If only it was a bit later and they had somewhere to go...

‘What’s your name, darling?’

‘Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat.’

‘Cat. Lovely. More like a sweet little kitten though.’

Outside, it had started to rain. They said that Glasgow was four times wetter than Edinburgh and Tom could believe it. In all his visits to the city, he couldn’t ever remember it being completely dry. Still, the place did have some merits – the shopping was good, and the patter. And, of course, the crumpet.

‘Thanks, Cat.’

He smiled again at the girl as she set down his coffee. He put his hand over hers for a moment and enjoyed the reappearance of the blush. Her backside, as she sashayed self-consciously back to the counter, was worth watching too.

For a few minutes he sat, allowing the world to move around him, drifting through time and place – Jane; Carrie; Serena. Others. Dozens of others, their faces shadowy, their names forgotten, the memory of their bodies vague. He reached into his pocket, slid out a notebook and flipped through it. Names, numbers, notes – reminders of some great nights and some shocking ones. Coded encounters, pseudonyms, real names too. Take AN Other, for example. Code name for Anya Merton. Tom smiled broadly. He had ‘taken’ her, just about every way it was possible. What a night that had been, and Anya such a big star, too. Sadly, her long-term partner had arrived from the States and she’d been unable to give a repeat performance.

He ran his finger down the page. Here was a name, Kate H. He shook his head fondly, his smile broadening. Kate H was a television presenter, the sweet-looking, wholesome girl on a breakfast show whose career had taken off largely because she was married to a ferociously ambitious director. The world would be very interested in what he had to say about Kate H. Very interested indeed.

His mobile rang, interrupting the train of his thoughts. Angela.

‘Hi.’ Tom knew he was sounding tetchy. The audition for
Emergency Admissions
had been just twenty-four hours ago and he had no expectation of a decision yet. His agent’s call bordered on the tedious. ‘What’s cooking, darling?’

Angela sounded breathy. ‘
Tom
.’

‘Yeah?’ He opened a sachet of sugar and absently emptied it into his coffee.

‘You’ll never guess.’

‘You’re right, I won’t.’

Angela could be very irritating. He was not going to play her game.

‘Go on. Guess.’

‘Just tell me, Angela darling,’ Tom sighed, lifting his coffee for a sip with his free hand.

‘You’ve got the part.’

Tom froze, the coffee an inch from his lips. ‘Say again?’

‘You’ve got the part. Mr Darling, the surgeon. In
Emergency Admissions
.’

The cup clattered so loudly on the saucer as Tom dropped it that heads turned. His smile this time was genuine. ‘You’re kidding me? Already?’

‘They
loved
you, darling. Absolutely
loved
you. Left a message on my phone last night after the auditions finished, but I didn’t pick it up till right now. Isn’t it exciting? Gosh. This could be it, Tom. The biggest thing since
After Eden
. Shall I come up to Edinburgh? Go over everything? Celebrate?’

‘Christ, no. I’ll come down.’

‘Really? When?’

He thought for a second. ‘Today. I’m still in Glasgow. I’ll head back to Edinburgh and pack up my things, get a train down. I’ll see you Monday, first thing.’

‘You could come round tonight. To my flat in town? Have just a teensy-weensy private celebration before we sign and seal the deal next week?’ Her voice was tentative with overtones of wistfulness.

‘Why not?’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I’ll call when I get into town. You can congratulate me then.’

Tom snapped off his phone and sat, grinning inanely at the world from the dry shelter of the café. Why not celebrate by shagging Angela? It would make her happy and besides, screwing Carrie last night had done little more than give him an appetite.

When Tom arrived back at Marta’s cottage in Portobello, no-one was at home. He began to shuffle his few belongings into his case. Socks, underpants, some papers and books, his
Glass Ornament
script, a sweater. Anything else? He bent to check under the bed, spotted a book half hidden among some discarded rubbish. It had been kicked almost out of reach. Irritated, he burrowed into the narrow space to reach it.

Unnoticed, his pocket notebook slid first one inch out of its resting place, then another, and as he made the final lunge for the errant book, it finally slid among the crumpled tissues and screwed up wrappers and lay there, hidden.

The doorbell rang. Shit. He’d hoped to get away unseen. He backed out of the narrow space and peered out of the window. A plumber’s van was parked in the road outside the cottage. Not so bad, then. The bell pealed again, its note insistent. Tom picked up his case and wandered downstairs. He still had to find his fedora.

‘Yeah?’

‘Morrison, plumber.’ The man standing there was short and rotund, with thinning curly hair and bad teeth.

‘So?’

‘Here to mend the washing machine. Mrs Davidson not in?’

‘No.’

Tom stared at him. Marta had said something about a washing machine the day he’d bumped into her at the café, hadn’t she? She’d given him the key intended for the plumber. He stepped aside, opened the door. No skin off his nose.

‘Come on in then.’

The man headed to the kitchen, obviously familiar with the layout of the house. Tom left him to it and glanced around. This was where he had come in that first day. Funny, it seemed an age ago now. Marta had arranged that charming little dinner, designed to surprise all her guests. It had done that all right. He’d seen the shock on Jane’s face in an instant and Carrie had been scarcely less able to hide her dismay. There had been a few minutes when he’d wondered whether coming to Edinburgh had been a good idea, but then it had all become such fun. Free fun at that. He hadn’t had to pay a penny for a bed since he’d arrived at Marta’s, hotels included. Not bad going.

He’d tossed his hat here that first day, onto the hall stand, but there was no fedora there now. Living room? Nope. Kitchen? Already the washing machine was in the middle of the floor.

‘All right, mate?’

Getting a grunt in return, he scanned the kitchen. Nothing. In the bathroom he spotted Jake’s iPod and pocketed it. Fedora? Not in Jake and Marta’s bedroom or en suite, nor in the airing cupboard. When had he had it last? He stood, thinking. Downstairs there were noises of hammering and clattering.

Jane’s house. Yup. That was it. Definitely. He’d arrived in the damp and left in the sunshine and had forgotten to put it back on. Unlike him but hey, he’d had other things on his mind.

One thirty already. He’d need to speed things up a little if he was to get a train south, but he was reluctant to leave his favourite hat in Edinburgh and besides, if Janie was at home there was always the chance of a little more fun. He put his key on the hallstand, raided the contents of the change pot one last time – with a net gain of four pounds eighty-three pence – and closed the door behind him. It had been a cool place to stay but he wouldn’t be writing any thank-you letters.

‘Tom!’

‘Hello, Janie. On your own?’

Jane was looking even skinnier than he remembered.

‘Neal’s due home any minute.’

She was lying. He could always tell.

‘Great. I’m not staying long anyway. I just came for my hat.’ He could see it, behind Jane, precarious atop a bundle of coats and jackets and what looked like a bedraggled duck. ‘And to say goodbye.’

She stepped aside hesitantly as he inched assertively forward.

‘G-goodbye?’

‘You heard, darling. G-g-goodbye.’

He imitated her stutter cruelly but with great accuracy. Bending, he took her wrist in one hand and hooked up her chin with the other.

‘Now my darling girl, what is it you’re so afraid of? You always were a little mouse.’

A stifled, inarticulate sob was the only reply.

‘Jesus, Janie, what’s to be scared about?’

He nudged her away from him and studied her.

‘Hard to believe you’ve got three kids. You’re such a little scrap of a thing yourself. What kind of a mother are you, Jane? What do your kids make of you, hey? Do they run rings round you?’ He laughed. ‘Bet they do. And yet you thought you could make a decent fist of mothering back in the day?’

Again the flicker of the eyes. His gaze intensified.

‘I’m assuming you had the thing adopted?’ he said with enough force in his voice to make her stagger back a step. ‘I half thought you might be stupid enough to keep it. I had an insane fantasy that you might even try to bring it up yourself, but you wouldn’t have had the guts for that, would you? What would that strait-laced man of yours have said about that? Huh?’

Again the shiftiness in the eyes, and a subtle change in her expression that gave him pause for thought. ‘Or did you change your mind and have the termination?’

Jane’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

‘You did, didn’t you? Well, well, well. Little Janie, who would have thought it? And Neal so firmly against abortion, he was telling us all.’

‘You won’t—’

It was barely a whimper. He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek and felt her move away from him, startled, like a wild thing.

‘Won’t what, Janie darling?’ he said, softly. ‘Won’t tell your man?’

That was it. He could see it in the way she slid her eyes away from him and looked at the floor, trembling. She was terrified that her husband would find out the truth. He laughed lightly and shook his head slowly, tutting under his breath.

‘He doesn’t know, does he? Oh Janie, Janie, Janie. A secret, eh? And such a very big one.’

‘There’s no secret. Neal and I have no secrets.’

‘Oh really? Is that right? You know, I think I’ll check with Carrie. Best to be sure of one’s facts, don’t you think? Especially when it’s my child we’re talking about.’

‘Carrie knows nothing!’ Jane’s voice was frantic. ‘You mustn’t ask Carrie. She doesn’t know anything about it!’

Tom reached up for his hat, put his on his head at a jaunty angle.

‘For friends,’ he said easily, ‘it seems to me that you girls are oddly lacking in the usual array of female confidences. You never told Carrie about the baby? Such a very big thing in your life, surely? And did Carrie ever tell you about our affair?’

He turned to go, then paused and looked back at Jane.

‘No? Do you know, I thought perhaps she hadn’t,’ he said shaking his head as if in wonderment, his voice mocking. ‘Friends, eh? Friends.’

He went out into the cool Edinburgh afternoon, smiling at his own joke. By the time he had reached the garden gate he was humming.

Oh, life was good. Thanks to Marta he had found a wonderful hornet’s nest to stir and with a bit of luck it could prove to be a profitable one. And thanks to dear Marta he had landed a part that might well be life changing.

Angela was waiting, legs akimbo, in London, and in a matter of weeks he should be a household name, thanks to
Emergency Admissions
.

Yes, life was good.

Behind him Jane stood exactly as he had left her, both hands on her throat, her mouth wide open, her face drained of all colour.

Getting a last-minute flight was expensive – but what the hell, he could afford it now. Tom slid through the security checks at Edinburgh airport in a cloud of euphoria. He could hardly stop smiling.

‘Your birthday, is it?’ the burly woman pulling the trays through the x-ray machine asked. Her mouth was curled in an unlikely rictus that approximated a grin.

‘No, but you can pat me down any time, darling,’ Tom flirted, not allowing even her Rosa Klebb looks to deter him.

‘I wish.’

He winked at her and collected his belongings. Belt, passport, wallet, small change, phone, noteb— Notebook? Where was his notebook? Tom felt feverishly in his pockets for his precious journal. He must have packed it. Lifting his case, he retreated to a corner of the security area and started to rake through it. Socks, pants, all that, but no notebook. It was absolutely not among any of his belongings, nor in any of his pockets.

He crushed everything back into his case and stalked into the departure lounge. He had to find the notebook. Apart from all his precious records, it had a stack of pawn tickets tucked inside it, each with his name and London address – traceable and incriminating.

Think, man.

Yes. He’d had it in the café in Glasgow, definitely.

Quickly he searched for the phone number, found it, dialled, schooled his voice to calmness. ‘I was in your café this morning. Is that Cat, by any chance?’

‘Aye, this is Cat.’

‘I’m Tom. The guy in the corner? We had a chat.’

‘Aye, I remember.’

Her accent was much broader than he remembered. He tried to tune his ear in and persisted.

‘Cat, sweetheart, I believe I left my notebook in your lovely café. Do you have it there?’

‘I dinnae think so. Haud on a wee minute.’

He waited. In the background he could hear voices, their conversation too distant for him to make out, then she was back on the line.

‘Naw. Sorry. It’s no’ here.’