by Stuart David
Her phone buzzed.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet that’s a text from my boss. See if he needs me back early . . .’
She picked up her bag and started fishing about in it till she located her specs, then she squinted at the screen of the phone through them, still shovelling the pasta in as she read.
‘It’s a Prada suit, hen,’ I said. ‘It costs a bomb, but I’m sorely tempted. It’s giving me the sweats. I think I might need you to go in there and . . .’
She held up her hand. ‘It’s the bride-to-be,’ she said. ‘Talk of the Devil. I’d better answer this, Peacock. She’s got herself in a right flap. Get to work on that pizza, I’ll just be a minute.’
The wee thumb of fury went into action as she held the phone up in front of her with one hand and forked away at the pasta with the other.
The waitress drifted by and asked if everything was all right and could she get us anything else.
The wife told her she was fine. I waited till she was fully engrossed in her typing again, and then whispered to the lassie to bring us a wee basket of bread, if it wasn’t too much trouble. By the time Bev finally laid her phone back down on the table, I’d the fried egg between two suitable slices and I was starting to feel a bit more human again. It was a tad lacking without any brown sauce, but the yolk was soft enough to keep the whole thing from being prohibitively dry.
The wife didn’t even clock it. She was so wrapped up in whatever had been going down between herself and Wilma that the whole enterprise went blissfully undetected.
She chewed quietly on the remainder of her linguine, staring off into space with a slight frown on her face, still wearing the reading glasses – her eyes comically magnified by the lenses.
‘About this suit, Bev,’ I said after a while. ‘I was thinking you could maybe come and take a look at it. After work or something.’
‘Eh . . .’ she said. ‘Oh . . .’ She peeled the specs off and shoved them in her bag. ‘Wilma says she’s got the jitters. She says she’s having second thoughts.’
‘About the dresses?’
‘The what?’
‘The dresses. She’s having second thoughts about the dresses?’
‘What dresses?’
‘Your dresses.’
‘My . . .? Oh. No. About the whole thing. About the wedding. She wants me to go round there after work to help her work out what to do. She says she’s got the jitters. She’s freaking out about the commitment.’
The fried egg suddenly didn’t taste quite as magnificent as it had a minute before. In fact, it had more or less turned to ashes on my tongue, as I’ve heard them say. A far from pleasant experience.
I shoved the rest of it in and just swallowed it whole. ‘She’s pulling out?’ I said. ‘For real?’
‘She seems to be thinking about it,’ the wife said. ‘She sounds in a right mess.’
‘What did you tell her?’ I asked. ‘Did you tell her it’s just normal? Last-minute doubts. It’s pretty normal, eh?’
‘I told her not to do anything hasty. I told her we’d have a right good talk about it tonight. When I’m finished work.’
This was big – I had to admit that. In fact, it was a full-on nuclear disaster. If Wilma went through with her mad plan and cancelled the wedding, I’d be fucked. My entire livelihood relied on this wedding going ahead. No two ways about it.
‘Oh, look at your plate,’ Bev said then. ‘Peacock, you’ve still hardly started.’ She reached across the table and tore a chunk out of my pizza, and stuck it on her own plate.
‘What’s keeping you?’ she said. ‘Come on, hurry up!’
‘I think I’ve lost my appetite,’ I said, and she wolfed down the bit of pizza she’d pinched. Then she looked about the place for the waitress and waved her over.
‘Can you just bring me my breadsticks while he’s still eating?’ she said. ‘He’s driving me daft. I’ll never make it back to work in time if I don’t get started on them now.’
‘Not a problem,’ the waitress said. ‘Did you enjoy the linguine? Was it okay for you?’
‘It was divine,’ the wife said. ‘Absolutely delicious.’
The waitress picked up Bev’s plate and her cutlery. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said, and she was as good as her word. In two shakes there was a mug full of sugar-coated breadsticks sitting in front of the wife, and a big dish of dipping chocolate, and she was looking like a wean on Christmas morning.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Look at this, Peacock. Look at it. Can you believe it? Here, have one. You can go back to your pizza in a minute. Try one of these first. Just try it.’
She held one of the sticks out to me, and I took it just to get peace.
‘Dip it in the chocolate,’ she said. ‘Come on. I had these that time I was here with Janice. Last month. Oh, you’re going to love these, Peacock. Here.’
She held the dish of chocolate out to me and waved it about.
‘Maybe in a minute, Bev,’ I said. ‘I told you, I’m struggling a bit at the minute. I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘How?’
‘The news about Wilma, thinking of cancelling the wedding. It’s shaken me up.’
‘Aww, you’re an old romantic, Peacock. I knew it. I’m always saying that, amn’t I? You try and cover it up, but I can see it. That’s what I’m always telling Mum. If only she could see you now. Wee Peacock. Off his dinner. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Wilma tonight and everything’ll be fine. Now . . .’
She gave up on wiggling the dipping chocolate beneath my nose and plonked it back down on the table. Then she carefully selected a breadstick from the mug, swithering between two of the longest ones for a bit. And when she was happy, she dipped the tip of her selection into the chocolate sauce, fired the thing into her mouth, and closed her eyes.
‘Ohhh . . .’ she shouted, ‘Oh God! That is heaven.’
She stuck the remaining half into the chocolate and downed that, then she picked up another stick and went through the whole routine again.
‘Here,’ she said, picking up the chocolate dish for a second time. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer again, Peacock. Get that in the chocolate and try it. It’s out of this world.’
We’d a wee audience observing us by this point, so I whacked the breadstick into the sauce just to calm her down, and she stared at me searchingly as I took a bite of the thing.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Impressed?’
I have to admit, it was pretty special. ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘not bad at all, hen. Very nice.’
She dealt herself another one. Same rigmarole. The closed eyes, the inappropriate moaning, the muttered praise. But then, before it was quite time to re-dip the second half, her eyes flew open and suddenly she was staring at me with a big grin.
‘Chocolate inspiration,’ she said. ‘It’s struck me. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.’
I perked up. I assumed it must be regarding the wedding – a way to get the bride back on the straight and narrow. I fired the second half of my own stick into the chocolate sauce, full of new hope, and got wired into it.
‘What have you got, Bev?’ I asked her. ‘You’re looking suitably mischievous, hen. What are we talking about here? What are you onto?’
‘Listen to this,’ she said, ‘it’s perfect. I’m off the hook. All I have to do is encourage Wilma’s reservations – you know, back her up a bit, fill her in on a few examples of the misery you’ve caused me over the years, basically paint her a grim picture of marriage in general, and that hideous meringue of a dress and me’ll be history. Exes. I told you these breadsticks had something special in them, didn’t I?’
She held a new one up to the light as if she was trying to work out where the magic came from, and I felt like the ground had opened up beneath me.
‘Don’t do that, Bev!’ I said. ‘That’s a rotten idea. It’s brutal.’
She laughed a devilish laugh. ‘I’m only joking,’ she said. ‘Well, ha
lf joking. It’s just the chocolate talking. Probably. We’ll see. See how things stand when I come back down to earth again. You have to admit, though, it’s a pretty good opportunity.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But think of the groom. He’s besotted, Bev. This would destroy him.’
‘I thought you said you hardly knew him.’
‘I don’t. But Jinky knows him. That’s what Jinky was saying. This relationship’s saved his life, Bev. From what I hear.’
‘From Jinky?’
‘Aye, from Jinky. Listen, Bev, I’ll think of a way to get you out of having to wear that dress. I’m an ideas man. It’s what I do. I’ll come up with a blinder, I promise. Just try and make sure you talk Wilma down off the ledge tonight, eh? For the groom’s sake? Come on, Bev – have a heart.’
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘What’s going on here, Peacock? What are you up to? Have you got something going on with this wedding?’
‘Like what?’
‘Hmmm . . .’ she said. ‘You’re up to something. I’d put a bet on it.’
‘You’re havering,’ I said.
She looked at her watch and jumped. ‘Oh, God. Right, I’d better get going.’
She threw her phone into her bag and crammed one last breadstick into her mouth, then she stood up. ‘You’ll have to pay. Have you got your wallet this time?’
I checked to make sure and gave her the nod, and she leant in towards me and kissed flakes of breadstick all over my cheek.
‘You’ll have to get your own dinner tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ll be at Wilma’s.’
‘Just make sure you give her the right advice,’ I said.
‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to wait till I come down off this chocolate cloud to find out what I’m really thinking.’
‘I’m serious, Bev,’ I said, but she was already gone, legging it towards the door.
‘You be sure and leave that girl a proper tip,’ she shouted before she left.
‘Did you enjoy the breadsticks?’ the waitress shouted after her.
‘Out of this world, darling,’ the wife shouted back. ‘Totally orgasmic.’
And then she disappeared out onto the street, leaving a good whack of our fellow diners staring after her as she went.
She’s some boy, the wife.
I was in a bit of a state after she left, I’m not going to sit here and lie to you. The thought that she might nudge Wilma towards calling off the wedding got right in about me. I tried to tell myself it was far from likely, but the worst of it was, I wouldn’t really have put it past her. Not really.
I was just about a nervous wreck by the time the waitress appeared, asking if she could get me anything else.
‘Aww, aye . . . naw . . .’ I said. ‘Just the bill, hen. Just bring me the bill.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, and she started clearing stuff away.
‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘could you put that pizza in a box for me? I’ll take it away and heat it up for my tea.’
‘Not a problem,’ the waitress said. ‘How about you? Did you enjoy the breadsticks?’
‘Aye, they’re good,’ I said. ‘Very nice. I’m probably a bit less mental about them than the wife, but very tasty all the same.’
The waitress nodded. ‘She’s a character,’ she said.
‘She is that,’ I agreed.
I left her a handsome tip to offset the cost of any future counselling that might be required, then – pizza box in hand – I went outside and stood on the pavement, bewildered.
5
Retail therapy – I decided that would be the most effective way to calm my beans about Wilma’s jitters. I’d considered hitting the Horseshoe Bar, but there was the potential for that to go either way. On the one hand, it might very well have had the desired effect and made me forget all about my troubles. But there was also the possibility that a few drinks could focus my thinking even more strongly on the wedding getting cancelled.
It’s a delicate balance – no doubt all down to sensitive chemical reactions and what not. Far too risky at this particular juncture.
So retail therapy it was. Within a few minutes of leaving the restaurant I was standing in front of the shop window on Buchanan Street again, pizza box tucked safely under my arm, transfixed.
The longer I stood there staring at the thing – no doubt looking a bit demented to your average passer-by, with my mouth hanging open and my palms all sweaty – the more I came to believe that if I just went for it and bought the suit, then the wedding would have to go ahead. It’s hard to explain the logic behind it – probably cause it’s totally fucking illogical – but it seemed to make sense to me at the time. If I had a suit for the wedding, then how could there be no wedding? Particularly if the suit in question was that suit. There would have to be a wedding, otherwise what was the point of there being a suit for the wedding?
You see the level of derangement I’d reached by the time I finally wandered into the shop?
Pretty spectacular.
But there you go, that’s the mindset we’re dealing with.
I got myself in a right flap trying to find the thing on the racks once I got inside as well. A panic attack, I suppose you’d call it. Shortness of breath, palpitations, bright flashing lights obscuring my vision. I dropped the pizza box at one point, and just about ended myself as it fell onto the floor beside me, forgetting I’d even been holding it.
‘Can I help you with anything, sir?’ an assistant asked me while I was kneeling down on the floor, closing the box up again, and I treated him a bit like I’d have treated a Saint Bernard coming out of the mist if I’d been stranded on a snow-covered mountain.
‘Aye,’ I said, tucking the box back under my arm and getting to my feet. ‘Aye, you certainly can, son. I’m having a hell of a time here. I’m trying to find that suit you’ve got in the window. I came in and tried it on earlier, but I can’t find it for the life of me now.’
He looked me up and down and came to the conclusion that my current outfit met with his approval, despite the pizza – as well it might.
He spoke to me in something not much louder than a whisper. ‘We’ve moved those into the back, sir. Too many fly-by-nights roughing them up with grubby fingers. What size are you looking for? Forty-inch chest? Thirty-three-inch inside leg?’
I gave him the exact statistics and he nodded appreciatively, with his eyes closed.
‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back. Have a look at our new line in shirts while you’re waiting.’
So I did just that.
He took his time coming back, the boy. I’d had a good mooch about amongst the shirts, deciding I might as well treat myself to one of them into the bargain. Then I’d started rummaging amongst the suits they had out on the peg, with a vague promise to myself that if I could find anything substantially cheaper than the one in the window I’d at least consider trying it on. There was a brown and yellow thing that was passable, and as I pulled it out to have a proper look, the edge of the hanger whacked somebody standing next to me, and before I could even turn to apologise he was saying, ‘Now, you’re a man who knows a thing or two about haute couture. Maybe you could help me out. How do you think this one would look on me?’
And when I turned and clocked the guy – fully registered who it was I was dealing with – I have to admit I felt more than a tad miffed. Are you ready for this? Can you believe whose potato-like face I was staring into? Eh? Fucking McFadgen. The brave detective. As bold as brass, holding up what looked like a bowling club blazer – navy blue with a daft wee crest on the breast pocket – smiling at me for all the world as if we were the best of pals.
‘Aww, for fuck’s sake, Duncan,’ I said. ‘Come on, gie’s peace, pal. I’m busy here. This is serious business, McFadgen.’
But he just kept offering me the cheesy grin. ‘Small world, eh?’
‘Suspiciously small,’ I told him. ‘What are you after this time? Come on. This co
nstant surveillance is getting to be beyond a joke.’
‘This is purely a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Honest to God. I’m just in looking for something to wear to the police social.’
‘The what?’
‘The police social.’
‘What in the name of fuck is that?’ I said. ‘Police social? That’s the first time I ever heard those two words in the same sentence, let alone jammed up against one another. What the fuck is a police social?’
‘A wee party. A dinner dance-type thing. They happen about every six months. I’d just as soon give it a miss, but Liz loves them. So I’m trying to find myself something to wear.’
‘In here? Is this a regular supplier of the McFadgen wardrobe?’
He shook his head. ‘First time in,’ he said.
‘I’ll bloody bet it is,’ I said. ‘You’re full of shit, McFadgen. But fair enough, let’s see it. What is it you’re considering?’
He held the blazer up in front of him again. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m feeling quite intimidated in here. How does this look? Is it me?’
‘This event,’ I said, ‘this fictional social . . . whatever you’re calling it . . . is it fancy dress?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is there a theme? Pimps and prostitutes? Something like that?’
‘It’s a dinner dance, I told you. Smart evening wear.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Then, naw, it doesn’t look right. If there was some kind of mad theme, then maybe. But otherwise . . . here, sling me that and I’ll pick you out a couple of alternatives.’
It was a stick-on that the whole thing was a set-up. He was in there to start badgering me about Dougie Dowds again – there was no doubt in my mind about that. But I had the idea that if I sent him into the dressing room with a couple of jerkins I could maybe give him the slip. So I picked out a couple of the most inappropriate jackets I could find and handed him them.
‘Away and try these,’ I said. ‘That’s closer to the sort of thing you’re needing with a build like yours. And your unique complexion. There’s the changing rooms behind the shoes there. Away and see if they fit.’