The Girl at the Bus-Stop (24 page)

They heard whistling as Rudge walked in, rubbing his hair with a towel. He stopped in his tracks and looked across at the sofa to see a nude Becky sitting astride a naked Gale Buckingham.

‘Re-enacting a chapter,’ he said with a grin, ‘or are you just pleased to see one other?’

 
As Gale Buckingham headed home to Eton Place in a taxi with the draft chapter one of
Starstruck
in her handbag, Rudge and Becky stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette.

 
‘I suppose you think it’s all
 
a big joke what happened with Gale,’ Becky said, sounding aggrieved.

‘Not really,’ replied Rudge, lighting a cigarette, ‘but looking on the bright side, she did leave you a rather nice cheque.’

‘I don’t want her money. I just want to get the bloody book finished and get it over to the publisher. Now I’ve got to print out chapter one and start again with the corrections. I was really enjoying going through it as well.’

 
‘We can do it together if you like,’ Rudge suggested, ‘let’s start where you left off, then go back to chapter one at the end.’

‘Okay, but not today,’ she replied, ‘I’ve had enough. Shall we get dressed up and go out somewhere for dinner? I’ve got an invite for the opening night at a new place in Covent Garden.’

By eight thirty, Rudge was holding the door open for Becky to
Mutton Jeff’s Brasserie
, the latest over-priced trendy restaurant serving London’s wastrels. They were greeted by the proprietor, the celebrity chef, Christo Robespierre-Blanc, whose real name was Christopher Robin White. He’d sold his father’s Wimpy Bar franchises two years before to open his first pretentious French restaurant in the King’s Road,
Le Plaque
Carrée
Blanche
. In stark contrast,
Mutton Jeff’s
claim to fame was that it only served Shepherds’ Pie. It was geared towards office workers, desperate for somewhere new and trendy to have lunch.

They were shown to a table at the back, close to the door to the kitchens. A waiter brought them complimentary glasses of red wine. Rudge looked half asleep as he gazed around the candlelit minimalist converted clothes shop. He nudged Becky every time he recognised someone famous.

‘That’s that bloke of
Eastenders
, see him?’

‘I’m none the wiser, I never watch it.’ replied Becky, ‘It’s all shaven-headed pseudo-gruff Cockneys pretending to be the Kray twins.’

‘I think he’s been in other things as well,
Emmerdale,
or was it
Coronation Street
?’

‘Do you actually watch all that crap?’ said Becky, with a genuine look of concern.

‘Not really, but my wife does all the time,’ he said, ‘and it was usually during dinner. The rubbish plots, crap acting and constant high pitched utterances of ‘Hi
ya
’ had a sort of subliminal effect on me. It permeated my sub-conscious, so I could follow it without actually watching any of it.’

‘I should take more interest in TV I suppose,’ said Becky, ‘then I’ll know who I’m talking to when I get invited to this sort of thing. I only recognise one bloke, the owner, and that’s only because he does adverts for instant meat stock.’

‘That’s his credibility blown out of the water then.’ said Rudge, ‘I only hope he can cook Shepherds’ Pie properly.
 
I’m looking forward to a decent portion too, none of these designer starvation rations, I’m ravenous.’

A photographer stood in front of their table and held his camera up to his face.

‘Big smile please, Ms Caine, thanks,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and let’s move you in a bit closer so I get your father in as well.’

Becky was still laughing long after he’d moved to another table. Rudge’s lower lip stuck out like a rubber beak.

‘It’s not funny,’ said Rudge, ‘I thought I was getting fitter and looking younger, but obviously I was wrong.’

Having no menu for the guests to select from, the meals were served en-masse by a troupe of efficient waiters. They were wearing uniforms of black waistcoats, tee-shirts, Levi jeans and long white aprons.

‘Typical,’ said Rudge, looking down at his plate, ‘look, there’s hardly enough on the plate to keep a sparrow alive. I’ve had bigger in-flight meals.’

Becky was already tucking in to hers and licked her lips as she savoured each mouthful.

‘It’s absolutely delicious though,’ she said.

‘Let’s wolf it down and put the plates on the floor under the table,’ said Rudge, ‘they might think they’ve forgotten us and bring some more.’

Despite Rudge and Becky enjoying three helpings of the main course, they were still hungry and looking forward to dessert. Sherry trifle was served in tiny dishes the size of a beer mat, and Rudge looked down at his in disappointment.

‘It’s no wonder these trendy bloody chefs make so much money,’ he said, poking at his minute sweet with his dessert spoon, ‘they could have saved on the washing up and just served it on the spoon.’

‘Shall we hide the dishes and look all innocent again?’ Becky replied with a smirk.

‘Better not,’ said Rudge, ‘I’ve just put my foot on the dinner plates under the table, and I think I’ve broken them.’

After the meal several diners were moved, clearing an area in the centre of the dining room for a dance floor. The Camden Quintet hastily set up its instruments in readiness to entertain the diners with jazz and blues.

‘We’ll have to take it in turns to go out for a smoke,’ said Rudge, ‘otherwise someone will nick our table. I saw that woman over there from GMTV eyeing it up.’

‘Well I’ll go first, and if you see one of the waiters buzzing round I could murder a decent cup of coffee.’

Becky stood outside on the pavement and lit her cigarette. There were several other guests standing around smoking and chatting. She looked to see if any were famous, but none of their faces registered. She moved to the side of the building to stand out of the chilly evening breeze. A glamorous-looking woman hurried out of the restaurant and walked up to her.

‘Ms Caine, I thought I recognised you.’

Becky wondered if it was an autograph hunter, hoping that the woman had her own pen as she didn’t have one with her.

‘Hello,’ said Becky, transferring her cigarette to her left hand and holding out her right.

The woman ignored the hand, and lit up her own cigarette.

‘You don’t recognise me do you, Ms Caine?’ she said with a smile, ‘Or should I call you Lady Penelope? The last time we met, you ripped my blouse off.’

Becky looked at her again closely, and nodded as she recognised her. It was Jilly Genevieve, the naked woman handcuffed to the pillar at the party.

 
‘Nice to see you again, Ms Genevieve, I didn’t recognise you with...’

‘...my clothes on, I know.’ she interrupted, ‘I had a chat with Gale Buckingham earlier, she ‘phoned me to warn me about your new book.’

‘What do you mean, warn you?’ Becky replied.

‘If you’re intending to name and shame me, think again.’

‘Gale’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick, ‘she said, ‘I had no intention of using...’

‘Here,’ said Jilly, handing over an envelope ‘that’s the same amount as Gale paid you. I’ll be round first thing in the morning to make sure you delete mine and my husband’s name and pick up the draft copy of my chapter.’

‘There’s really no need for this,’ said Becky offering the envelope back to her.

‘I don’t want to hear another word from you,’ Jilly replied, ‘You may be the new to our world, Ms Caine, but that’s no excuse for this.’

‘I don’t want your money,’ she replied, ‘here have the fucker back.’

‘No, you keep it,’ she snapped, ‘but I get to choose the new names’

‘I don’t want any money from any of you,’ said Becky tearfully, ‘it’s all just a misunderstanding.’

‘I insist,’ she said with a smile, ‘it’s worth every penny. I did think you might use Ginny Guinevere instead, it’s close enough for people to know it’s me.’

‘I don’t get this,’ said Becky, ‘why do you want people to know it’s you?’

‘That’s easy,’ she said, leaning forward to kiss Becky on the cheek, ‘I like to be of service, so the more people know about my little needs the better.’

A few moments later a car pulled up at the kerbside and without another word, Jilly Genevieve climbed in the back and it drove away at speed. After finishing her second cigarette, Becky rejoined Rudge at the table and dropped the envelope in front of him.

‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ he said, lifting the package.

‘Jilly Genevieve,’ Becky said quietly, ‘insisted on giving me all that cash so that I’ll change her name out of
Starstruck.’

Rudge lifted the envelope and looked inside before dropping it on the table again.

‘There must be fifty grand in there,’ he said, ‘if this carries on you’ll be a millionaire before the week’s out.’

Becky drank her coffee looking miserable.

‘I don’t want her bloody money, and I tried explaining to her that it was just an innocent mistake. Now she wants me to use a name similar to her real one, so everyone will know it’s her anyway.’

‘Just like Gale,’ said Rudge, ‘but I wouldn’t worry about it, it’s not as if they can’t afford it.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Becky said angrily, ‘I was just trying to help you out by writing the sequel, now thanks to Gale the word is out.’

‘We’ll return the money, simple,’ he said, ‘it’s not as if we need it.’

‘I wouldn’t want it even if I was on my uppers,’ she replied, ‘I don’t like any of them particularly, but I don’t want them to think some sort of sleazy blackmailer.’

Rudge poured out some more coffee and looked pensive for a few moments.

‘It seems to me like they want to be recognised in the book,’ he said, ‘which sounds barmy to us, but it probably gives them a big thrill.’

The live music was well under way, and several people got up to dance as the waiters finished clearing the last of the tables. A man walked across the crowded dance floor, easing his way between couples and stopped in front of their table. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a cheque, slapping it down in front of Becky.

‘Which chapter am I in?’ he whispered to Becky, ‘I’ve just spoken to Jilly on the ‘phone.’

‘Chapter seven,’ replied Becky, so if you pop round tomorrow I’ll change the master copy and give you the printed draft. Ms Genevieve knows the address, and try and think up an alternative name.’