The Girl at the Bus-Stop (11 page)

‘It’s Mr Rudge isn’t it?’ he said with a warm smile.

‘Yes, I’m Rudge.’

‘I’m Frankie Gibb, Mr Rudge. I’m the personal trainer of Mr Granger, the owner of your apartment. Or rather, I was his personal trainer but he’s not been here for months.’

‘I see, so what can I do for you, Mr Gibb?’

‘Frankie, please,’ he replied with a warm smile, ‘and it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Mr Rudge. I was wondering if you’d care to try the facilities in the basement?
 
I can take you through everything in the gym, show you how the equipment works. If you want I can put together an exercise programme for you and recommend a healthy diet.’
 

As the lift door opened, Rudge stood quietly for a few moments before stepping in. He turned around to face Gibb and smiled.
 

 
Becky waited on the stone steps of Gale Buckingham’s elegant four-storey Georgian ‘crash pad’ in Eton Place. Having pressed the highly polished brass bell switch twice, she still hadn’t heard it ring and wondered if it was broken. She was just about to try the huge door-knocker with the angry-looking gargoyle motif, when the huge black door slowly opened. A young lady dressed in a tight-fitting pink and black hooped tee-shirt with matching tights peered around the side of it, the expression on her face about as welcoming as the gargoyle’s.

‘Yes,’ she said snootily, eying Becky up and down with suspicion.

‘I’m here to see Gale Buckingham.’ announced Becky nervously. ‘She’s invited me for afternoon tea.’

‘Oh, of course,’ the young woman replied, and a warm smile instantly melted away her initial frosty look. ‘You must be Raspberry Caine, please come in.’

She led Becky through a vast hall with its busy mosaic tiled floor, antique furniture, exotic ornaments and offered to take her coat.

‘Gale’s in the drawing room,’ the young woman informed her, her voice echoing upwards towards the ridiculously high ornate ceiling. ‘I’ll just hang this up and take you through.’

‘Ms Caine,’ greeted Gale, ‘I’m so terribly pleased you could make it.’

Rising from the Art Deco teardrop-sided turquoise leather sofa, Gale outstretched her arms and gave Becky a theatrical embrace, kissing the air three inches from either cheek.

‘I was pleased to have been asked, Gale. What a beautiful place, it’s like a palace.’

‘It’s been in my family since the turn of the century, twentieth that is,’ she said proudly. ‘My great-grandfather took it in lieu of a gambling debt owed to him. I think some wayward Lord or Duke lost heavily at cards and couldn’t cough-up the necessary readies.’

‘Goodness,’ replied Becky, ‘lucky old great-grandfather.’

Gale led Becky over to the sofa, and beckoned her to sit down, before pouring out two large Sherries into crystal schooners and handing one to her.

‘Yes, he was a banker and used the place when he was up in Town. He was quite a character, and apart from his love of gambling he kept a string of mistresses living here. To the casual observer they were his domestic staff, but behind closed doors they must have got up to all sorts of mischief.’

‘I didn’t think that sort of thing went on in those days.’

‘You’d be surprised Ms Caine. When I was renovating the place I found some crates of paintings and drawings hidden in the attic, all portraits. When I opened them I wasn’t the least bit surprised at why they were kept well away from view for over a century.’

‘What were the pictures of?’ asked Becky, taking a sip of her Sherry.

‘His mistresses of course,’ replied Gale. ‘Several very beautiful young women, some barely girls. They were all painted either naked or semi-naked, indulging in explicit sexual acts involving two, three or even four women.’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘What could I do? My first thought was to destroy them, but then I had second thoughts and putting them back where I found them seemed a better idea. After all, they may have been scandalous and pornographic but they are part of my family’s history.’

‘So they’re now safely back in the attic where you found them?’

‘Not exactly, I had another change of heart. I had them professionally cleaned and they’re now hanging on my bedroom walls,’ Gale replied matter-of-factly. ‘ Perhaps you’d like me to take you up there and show them to you later, Ms Caine.’

Her last words were spoken in a low sultry tine, and her hand dropped lazily on to Becky’s thigh. Becky shuffled along the sofa a little, letting the hand drop on to a cushion.

‘No thanks, Gale,’ said Becky, ‘it’s not really my cup of tea.’

 
Gale looked hurt and took a slug of her Sherry before refilling the glass from the decanter.

‘You do surprise me, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘or should that be ‘Mistress’ Caine or even ‘Ma’am?’

The gushing actress was making Becky feel slightly unnerved, and she was worried that she may let her Raspberry Caine author persona slip.

‘Raspberry Caine is only a pen-name, Gale, my real name is...’

Gale put her hand up to interrupt, and let it drop to rest just a couple of inches from Becky’s knee.

‘No, don’t spoil it for me, child, you’ll shatter the illusion.’

‘Okay, Ms Caine will do nicely.’

‘What a delightful outfit by the way,’ said Gale, her eyes feasting on every inch of the tight-fitting frock. ‘Who’s your designer?’

Becky’s dress wasn’t part of the new wardrobe bought during the expensive shopping trip with Rudge. She’d brought it with her from home, and wasn’t sure if Peacock’s qualified as a label.

‘I don’t know who this is by,’ she said, lifting the skirt’s hem slightly as if it held a clue, ‘probably a child slave-worker in China.’

 
‘Very good, Ms Caine, I’ll have to remember that one.’ Gale replied, ‘You know I absolutely love your writing. It’s such a refreshing change to read something so edgy, brimming with such colourful characters seeking their own truth. My favourite chapter is fourteen, it just felt so me. Do you know what I mean?’

Despite her good intentions, Becky had only skimped through the book. She flushed slightly, desperately trying to remember if she’d even reached chapter fourteen.

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ she replied with a nervous smile.

‘What’s your personal favourite?’ Gale asked in a low sultry tone. ‘I bet it’s chapter fourteen too, I just know it.’

‘Not really. You see when you write a novel you don’t have favourite bits. It all sort of comes together as one big, you know, whatsit.’

She gulped at her sherry and felt her neck glowing pink.

‘I so know what you’re driving at, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘I suppose it’s rather like making a movie. Everything is shot in small separate chunks by various units, the bigger picture only known to the director. Finally it all comes together in the cutting room to give birth to a glorious single entity, a beautifully crafted masterpiece.’

‘Quite,’ replied Becky, ‘a bit like the components of a car being individually manufactured by car component manufacturers, and then being bolted all together to build a complete, you know, car.’

‘That’s such a good analogy, Ms Caine, and in the case of your novel it’s turned into a vibrant and beautiful bright red Ferrari,’ she replied with a chuckle, ‘with quite a sting in its tail.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Becky, not really knowing what else to say.

Gale placed her hand lightly on top of Becky’s, and tossing her head back, strands of her long bottled auburn hair draped wantonly across her crease-free forehead. Becky looked down at the many rings adorning the wrinkled fingers, quickly trying to work out their market value. One diamond looked so big she thought it must be costume jewellery, until Gale spread her fingers and shook her hand slightly to let its sparkle shimmer.

‘I see you’re admiring my rings,’ she said, admiring them herself, ‘the big one is the Star of Accra, a present from my first husband.’

‘It’s beautiful, he must have really been in love with you,’ replied Becky, resisting the temptation to follow through with, ‘it must be worth a few quid.’

‘Sadly, it wasn’t a match made in heaven,’ said Gale wistfully. ‘We’d only been married a month when I caught him in his dressing room on the set of
Fidelity Castro
fucking not one, but two make-up artists. That’s the trouble with actors they always have to indulge their pleasures to the point of gluttony whether its girls, boys, booze, drugs or self pity.’

‘Was he famous then, your ex?’

‘Infamous would be more apt,’ she said shaking her head, ‘Clifford Cord.’

‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him, Gale. Has he ever been on the telly?’

‘Of course he has,’ replied Gale, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘He was a star of stage, screen, television and many a divorce court in his heyday, but before your time obviously. I didn’t follow his career much in its later years, not after what happened in the Gents lavatories at St Pancras. The newspapers had a field day that week.’

‘Why, what happened?’

‘I’m sorry but you’ll have to Google it, Ms Caine. I couldn’t bear to relive all the gory details,’ she replied with a shudder. ‘Suffice to say it put paid to his dreams of a knighthood, and he was “let go” from the long-running West End production of
The Cubicle
, I mean,
The Crucible
.’

‘I see,’ said Becky, ‘so what became of him?’

‘Don’t get me wrong he was never an angel, but this one unsavoury incident was the catalyst I’m afraid and effectively ended his glittering career. The last time I saw him he popped up on my television screen in an episode of
Casualty
. He was playing
an elderly alcoholic with a dark secret, now there’s irony for you.’

There was a knock and a few moments later the double-doors opened. An old lady dressed in a Victorian-style maid’s uniform pushed a tea trolley into the room and over to a small dining-table in the square bay window.

‘
H’arternoon
tea
h’is
served, Madam,’ said the old lady, struggling with her words in an attempt to sound genteel and refined. ‘Would you like for me to partake in the pouring of said beverage, Madam?
H’or
would you and the young lady ‘ere prefer to ‘
elps
yourself?’

‘We’ll manage thank you, Rose,’ said Gale rising from the sofa, ‘I’ll ring if we need anything else.’

‘Very good, Madam,’ replied Rose, almost curtseying.

She turned and left, closing the doors silently behind her.

‘I don’t believe it, you’ve got a maid, Gale,’ said Becky, joining her at the table. ‘Posh or what?’

‘Absolutely essential for someone like me, Ms Caine,’ she replied handing a plate to her guest. ‘When domestic skills were handed out I wasn’t even in the queue I’m afraid.’

‘Tell me about it,’ smiled Becky, ‘my flat looks like a clumsy burglary.’

‘I do so hate fending for myself, and I’m such a bitch if other people can’t do things properly for me. I’m known as the “drama-queen diva” by many unkind souls in my profession.
 
Old Rose has been here since my mother was young, but at one time I had seriously thought about replacing her with a younger model. One of my friends has just landed herself an absolute honey. A six foot four Scandinavian hunk, who’s all muscle tone and manners and he doubles as her chauffeur too.’