The Girl at the Bus-Stop (8 page)

‘Do you have a partner, Ms Caine?’ asked a rather plump effeminate-sounding man in a gold lamé jacket resembling a boxer’s robe.

‘Not at the moment,’ Becky replied, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious, ‘why, are you offering?’

There were polite titters amongst the guests, and Becky felt a little more relaxed. A rather stern-faced and butch-looking woman with short-cropped red hair wearing a pin-striped man’s suit, pushed her way to the front and put her hand up.

‘If you did have a partner, Ms Caine,’ she asked, looking smug, ‘would it be a man or a woman?’

There was silence, and all eyes were focussed on Becky. She looked around at the faces surrounding her, and waited a few moments before replying.

‘They both have their drawbacks.’ she said, with a teasing smile. ‘With one I’d have to wait hours to get into my own bathroom, and with the other I’d have to deep-clean the bog before I could use it.’

The laughter was considerably louder and more appreciative this time, but the butch-woman wasn’t going to up her interrogation just yet.

‘In your novel, Ms Caine, there are more far more lesbian BDSM encounters than heterosexual ones.
 
So what can we read into that?’

‘You can read into it what you like, it’s a story,’ replied Becky irritably. ‘Many of the female characters show dominant tendencies towards both sexes. But from a purely commercial aspect , if you have beautiful naked women getting their arses whipped by other beautiful women, it’s bound to sell more books.’

‘Do you indulge in BDSM yourself, Ms Caine?’ asked a young man near the back.

Before Becky could reply another question was fired at her from the side.

‘Ms Caine, do you prefer to dish it out or receive it?’

‘What about flap-clamping, Ms Caine?’ said the butch-woman. ‘You describe it so exquisitely that you must have an awful lot of expertise in that area.’

Scott Jarrold came to her rescue by stepping in front of her, and putting his hands in the air to stem the flow of questions.

‘I’m sure Ms Caine will be delighted to answer more questions later on,’ he said assertively,
 
‘but if I can just interrupt to tell you that the buffet is now open, and we also have the delightful Camden Quintet to keep you entertained with some fine jazz. Thank you.’

As the guests moved towards the huge spread laid out on several tables, Becky slipped out of the room and into the hotel foyer. She spotted Rudge talking to an elderly woman near the reception desk.
 
He was looking very smart indeed, with a new hair style and a designer lounge suit. He smiled at her as she approached.

‘The star of the show,’ he exclaimed, ‘Mrs Foster-Crabtree, allow me to introduce Ms Raspberry Caine.’

Mrs Foster-Crabtree turned to look at Becky and offered her a gnarled hand.

‘Delighted I’m sure, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘I haven’t read your book, but I’ve been told its jolly good. Is it one of those raunchy bodice-rippers?’

‘Not exactly,’ Becky replied, ‘a bit more contemporary.’

‘I do so like a good nineteenth-century bawdy tale. They usually feature a humble but handsome young farm labourer, who, having fallen hopelessly in love with the squire’s daughter, is warned-off by her powerful father for being too low-class for the likes of her. Later he is horse-whipped by the squire’s henchmen, and handed over to The Press Gang. He works his way up through the ranks in the Royal Navy becoming a captain, and a hero of The Battle of Trafalgar, returning home five years later with wealth and status by the bucket load. In his absence, the love of his life has been forcibly married to Jasper Thorneycroft, the ne’er-do-well son of a wealthy industrialist. He’s a gambler, a womaniser and an all-round blackguard who treats his new bride appallingly, raping and beating her on a regular basis’

‘Blimey, you should have a go at writing novels yourself, Mrs Foster-Crabtree’ said Becky, sounding impressed.

‘Then our hero comes to her aid,’ the old lady continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘and beats ten bells of crap out of the evil Jasper, who then hires some thugs to do away with our man. The plan backfires and Jasper is brought to book, but a last minute plea from our hero saves him from the hangman’s noose to face transportation to The Colonies instead. He drowns whilst trying to escape from the ship, and his young widow is now free to marry the love of her life.

‘We really should be taking notes,’ suggested Rudge.

‘Their first embrace is followed by heavy snogging and the ripping-off of clothing. Naked, they finally get down to business and in the throes of passion she screams like a Banshee as he hits the right spot. After a prolonged bout of pure unadulterated lust, they lie exhausted in each other’s arms, and swear their undying love for each other. The squire welcomes him into the family, and after the grand wedding and all that bollocks, they live happily ever after in wealth and contentment.’

‘Very good, Mrs Foster-Crabtree,’ said Rudge, applauding softly. ‘The way you told that story, well, it was almost like we were there.’

‘Nonsense,’ she scoffed, ‘they’re all written to the same basic formula, that’s why people like them. It’s like a tried and tested recipe with just the right ingredients of injustice, physical abuse, nudity, sex and violence all mixed together and cooked to perfection so we’ll always keep coming back for more.’
 

 
‘I’ll see if I can get a copy of my book for you.’ said Becky. ‘I can’t promise you those specific ingredients, but I’ll sign it for you if you like.’

‘Oh, would you my dear?’ she said with a smile. ‘I’d be so grateful. My collection of signed first editions on E-Bay is the only thing that keeps the wolf from the door these days. Just put “to a very dear friend” rather than my name, and your signature underneath of course.’

After finding a copy of the book for her, Rudge made their excuses and they moved away and found two comfy armchairs tucked away from view and ordered coffee.

‘How’s is going so far?’ he asked. ‘I hope it’s not been too traumatic for you.
 
I heard you standing your corner in there just now, and my word, Becky, you certainly know how to handle yourself.’

‘Well I just said what I thought, really, and I had to put that ginger dyke in her place.’

‘That was Kat Katkins,’ said Rudge, ‘she’s a feminist novelist who writes post-Armageddon type futuristic novels about women dominating the world.
 
I’ve seen her photograph many times glaring at me from the backs of her novels in the charity shop, so
I recognised her straightaway.’

‘She was a bit scary, but apart from that it’s been a bit
wierd
. I don’t know who any these people are, but they just come up and kiss me on both cheeks like I’m supposed to know them or something.’

‘It’s your book launch, so they want everyone else here to think you’re a dear friend,’ explained Rudge. ‘If you’re flavour-of-the-month they want to be seen in your company, and don’t want to miss out on getting up-close-and-personal with a rising star.’
 

‘Rising star, me, do me a favour? When they start gabbling on about writing, I can’t understand half of what they’re talking about.’

‘They just want to try and impress you with their literary knowledge and understanding. I bet most of them can’t write for toffee, but it doesn’t seem to stop them from putting themselves across as experts.’

The waiter brought over their tray of coffee and placed it gently on the table. Rudge slipped him a five pound note and he bowed ingratiatingly as he backed away, like a flunky in a
Sinbad
film.

‘There are a few famous faces here as well,’ remarked Becky. ‘I don’t know their names, but I’ve seen them on the telly and in films. It makes you wonder if they’ve got anything better to do, I mean it’s not as if the book is a literary work of art is it.’

‘Thanks for that,’ replied Rudge, ‘but I know what you mean. They were probably invited by the publisher and if there’s free booze and a buffet up for grabs, why not?’

‘I suppose we’d better go back in,’ she said downing her espresso in one gulp. ‘I’ve got to do some book signings shortly and I’m dreading it, I feel such a fraud.’

‘Nonsense, you’ll be fine,’ replied Rudge, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Don’t forget to sign them as “Raspberry Caine” otherwise it could be rather embarrassing.’

‘Don’t worry, ‘she said, easing herself from the armchair, ‘I’ve been practicing signing on the room service menu.’

‘You’d better keep it then. If all goes well it might be worth a few bob on E-Bay one day.’

Rudge stayed close to Becky as they mingled with the guests, occasionally stopping to nibble at the buffet and replenish their champagne glasses. Scott Jarrold eventually found them and ushered Becky over to a table, on which lay two stacks of hardback copies of
Disciplinary Attraction
. On the wall behind was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Becky’s head superimposed on a woman’s body. She was dressed in a revealing leather bra, G-string, thigh-length boots and carrying a lethal-looking whip.

‘Look at that silly bloody photo of me,’ Becky whispered to Rudge, ‘I don’t remember giving permission for that.’

‘No, I did, sorry,’ replied Rudge, ‘it was a last minute thing they cobbled together. There just wasn’t time for a proper photo-shoot.’

‘My tits are not that big,’ she complained.

‘You know what they say, more than a handful’s a waste’

‘You’d need to be wearing a baseball
mit
with hers, they’re like melons.’

Becky sat down at the table, and after a few minutes the first guest approached as if paying homage to some royal personage. Some were either just shy or too much in awe of Becky to even speak to her. She’d scrawl out her practiced signature on the inside page of their copy of
Disciplinary Attraction
, smile warmly and they’d walk away looking happy.

It was the turn of an elegantly dressed, middle-aged fading beauty to step forward and hand her copy over to Becky.

‘Could you put, “To Gale Buckingham, a dear friend”, Ms Caine,’ she instructed. ‘It’s a bit of a cheek I know, but having read your marvellous novel only last night I feel that we already know each other intimately.’

‘Okay,’ said Becky smiling ‘is that “Gale” as in Force Ten, or A-I-L?’

‘Like the wind of course, darling,’ she replied looking hurt, ‘do you not recognise me?’

Becky glanced up from the book and studied her for a few moments with a bemused look on her face.

‘Sorry, no, should I?’ said Becky, ‘Do you work for the publisher?’

Gale Buckingham looked slightly embarrassed, and
 
she glanced round at the people within earshot.

‘You’re so teasing me, Ms Caine,’ she said softly, ‘I’m
the
Gale Buckingham, you know, the well-known film actress.’

‘Sorry, I’m none the wiser,’ Becky replied, ‘but there you go, Gale, one signed and dedicated book. Who’s next?’