The Girl at the Bus-Stop (34 page)

‘It felt like I was tapped under a collapsed building,’ said Rudge.

‘The look on your wife’s face was priceless,’ said Becky with a chuckle, ‘seeing you lying there like that, it must have looked like you were having anal sex with her sister.’

‘Yes, and with Lydia’s face almost buried between your legs, I bet she thought she’d stumbled in on a Sunday newspaper scandal.’

‘Goodness, she’s a big girl,’ replied Becky, ‘when she fell on top of me I thought my ribcage would cave in.’

‘After the initial shock, my wife did seemed quite impressed with the renovations,’ Rudge said, ‘more’s the pity.’

‘Her new boyfriend throwing her out like that, she must have been well-devastated.’

‘Not as devastated as me,’ said Rudge, ‘I’d just about erased her from memory, and now the nightmares will probably start again.’

‘We’ll never be able to move into your house now,’ said Becky, ‘which is a real shame.’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to,’ said Rudge, putting his hand on her knee, ‘could you really see us living there, Becky?’

‘It did cross my mind,’ she said, ‘but don’t worry about it. We can always find another house.’

‘What, there you mean?’ he replied, sounding less than enthusiastic, ‘In that horrid town full of pound shops, rubbish retail parks, crumbling industrial estates and all the charm of an wheelie-bin?’

‘No chance,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell you where I’d really like to live over a nice latté, and you’re buying.’

‘Good, because my wife’s made it perfectly clear she’s staying put,’ he replied, ‘so I’ll have to get the agent to take it off the market.’

‘I’m surprised she didn’t kick-off about me though,’ said Becky, ‘her husband carrying on with a naked young slapper.’

‘Ex-husband, and don’t forget it was she who did the dirty on me first with that Nigel character.’ Rudge said indignantly, ‘But I think she was more upset with Lydia. She was convinced that we’d been ‘at it’ behind her back for years, it beggars belief.’

‘I suppose Lydia’s free holiday in The Canary Islands with spending money, more than made up for falling out with her sister.’

‘They’re both happy now then,’ said Rudge, ‘did you see my wife’s eyes light up when she saw the size of the living-room telly?’

Becky indicated to turn left and slowed the car down to enter the slip road leading to the Winchester Service Area.

Inside the trendy coffee shop adjacent to the main cafeteria, Rudge carried their drinks over to an empty table looking out on to the car park.

‘Bournemouth?’ said Rudge.

‘Yes, Bournemouth,’ replied Becky, sitting down, ‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since the day you took me there.’

‘It had never occurred to me,’ he said, stirring his coffee, ‘but now that you mention it I suppose it makes perfect sense. We’d be close to the Hotel Cassendre as well, so we can keep an eye on things there.’

‘That’s the other reason why I thought of it,’ said Becky, ‘I’ve had enough of an idle time of things since Raspberry Caine started. It would be nice to do some proper work for a change and get involved in running the charity.’

‘You know something, Becky,’ said Rudge, ‘every day you surprise me, and I’m the luckiest bloke alive.’

‘Yes,’ she said, leaning over the table to kiss him, ‘you are aren’t you?’

After securing the publishing contract for
Wife on Mars
, the days leading up to Christmas found Rudge working closely with an editor to polish up the manuscript, and an artist to design an appropriate cover. Becky was carrying out the same tasks with
Starstruck
, and they spent their working days apart, returning home each evening like a regular couple.

Despite more invitations to attend Christmas parties, Rudge and Becky had opted to spend quiet evenings in the apartment instead. They enjoyed each other’s company, and were happy to shut out the weird world of celebrity altogether.

The one exception was to invite Rudge’s personal trainer, Frankie Gibbs, Harry the driver and Bernie the concierge and their respective partners out for Christmas dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Many of its rich and famous clientele approached Becky during the course of the evening, and showered her with praise on the success of
Disciplinary
Attraction.
 

To the casual observer, the rock stars, actors, TV stars and fashion gurus who showered her with smiles, compliments and kisses seemed like life-long friends or even close family. But Becky neither knew them, and in many cases, even who they were.

‘That’s Greg Rivers from
The Fortunate Few
,’ Rudge said, after she’d enquired.

‘Never heard of them,’ she’d replied, ‘big in the Sixties were they?’

‘Seventies,’ said Harry’s wife, Pauline, ‘I saw them play at The Shepherd’s Bush Empire with Nick Lowe and
Wreckless
Eric.’

‘Oh, now you’re talking,’ replied Becky sarcastically, ‘who can forget, er, what were their names again?’

‘Didn’t Greg Rivers used to be in
Train Wreck
as well?’ said Bernie.

‘That’s right,’ said Rudge, ‘they disbanded after the lead guitarist electrocuted himself at
Knebworth
, and a week later the drummer left to go and find himself in Tibet.’

‘And did he?’ asked Becky.

‘No idea,’ said Rudge, ‘I don’t think he ever came back.’

‘Yes he did,’ said Bernie, ‘he was on
I’m A Celebrity get Me Out of Here
a couple of years ago. I’d not seen him on anything in thirty years, and he was still the only one on there I knew.’

‘Who was that big bloke who came up to us,’ said Becky, ‘the one with all the gold chains round his neck and a watch the size of Big Ben?’

‘Johnny Player,’ said Harry, ‘he used to be a comedian, you must remember him. He did that game show where all the contestants are really thick.’

‘That narrows it down to about fifty shows then,’ said Frankie, laughing.

‘When are we going to see you on the old
gogglebox
, Becky?’ asked Pauline.

‘Me, hopefully never,’ she replied, ‘it would frighten the life out of me.’

After the meal, Rudge managed to get the three men alone at the bar to give them their Christmas boxes in sealed envelopes. At the table, Becky handed over gift-wrapped presents to their partners with a warning not to open them until Christmas day. At the end of an enjoyable evening, chauffeur driven cars arrived to drive them all safely back to their homes.

On Christmas Eve, Becky evicted Rudge from the apartment at just after midday so that she could begin her preparation for the following day’s feast. It was her first attempt at cooking a turkey with all the trimmings, and Rudge would have hampered her progress.

‘I never quite understand what they mean by that,’ he said, as she was pushing him out of the door, ‘all the trimmings sounds like the bits you had to cut off the bird to get it into a cookable condition.’

‘Just get lost, Rudge,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you have some last minute shopping to take care of, or just wander around the shops and treat yourself. Whatever you do, don’t come back too early. I don’t want to see you until at least seven o’clock.’

Rudge disappeared into the crowds ambling along Bankside, and climbed the steep steps to Southwark Bridge Road. He nipped into a café, ordered himself a coffee and made some telephone calls. Half an hour later he was standing on the pavement near the start of Southwark Bridge, as Harry’s brother-in-law, Cedric, pulled over in his Ford Transit van. Rudge climbed into the cab and shook Cedric’s hand, and the vehicle moved off into the heavy traffic en route to Piccadilly.

By ten to five, the last of the Fortnum and Mason Christmas hampers Rudge had bought had been dropped off at the final homeless shelter on his list, along with the final three carrier bags of rolling tobacco and cigarette papers.
 
As the van pulled up outside Rudge’s apartment block, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope and handed it to Cedric.

‘That’s very kind of you, Reuben,’ said Cedric, ‘but I don’t want anything, thanks all the same.’

‘But it’s for fuel and your time,’ said Rudge, ‘I didn’t expect you to run me all over the place for free.’

‘Why on earth not?’ he replied, ‘If we can’t put in just a little bit of effort this time of year to help the less-fortunate, then civilization’s heading straight to hell in a dustcart.’

Rudge wished Cedric a happy Christmas, and climbed out of the van. He walked towards the steps to the apartment building, and Cedric wound down the driver’s window and called him back.

‘Take a look at that poor sod over there down by the river,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen him knocking about for the past couple of weeks or so, when I’ve been delivering round here. Give him your envelope, Reuben, and here’s another twenty quid to add to it.’

Rudge took the money from Cedric and tucked it inside the envelope. He waved as the van pulled away, and walked past The Globe towards the river. The pathways were quieter now as the serious business of Christmas was already under way. The usual hordes of office workers and coach loads of tourists were long gone from the riverside, and there was an eerie sense of emptiness as if the city had suddenly stopped working.

 
Rudge stood behind the man, who was leaning against the safety rail. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his grubby overcoat, and he gazed into the rippling ink-black water.

‘Excuse me,’ said Rudge, touching his arm, ‘are you okay?’

The man turned around slowly, his head bowed and his expression a picture of misery. Despite the dirt encrusted face, scruffy beard and spectacles held together by sticky tape, Rudge recognised him immediately. He’d lost quite a bit of weight, and he’d parted company with his usual air of pomposity, but there was no mistaking Dave Banstead.

‘Can you spare a couple of quid for Christmas,’ Banstead said meekly, ‘I wouldn’t normally ask, but I’ve got no choice.’

‘You don’t recognise me, do you, Mr Banstead?’ said Rudge.

Banstead raised his head slowly and looked into Rudge’s eyes, shaking his head.

‘Rudge,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Reuben bloody Rudge, dear me, what are you doing here? Up in town for the day Christmas shopping?’

‘No,’ replied Rudge, ‘I live in London now, what about yourself?’

‘Me too, well sort of.’ he replied, ‘Not long after you left Einstein & Unger, they got taken over and I got the sack.’

‘How?’ asked Rudge, trying to sound surprised.

‘Apparently I’d left my previous employer under a cloud, something about shagging a roll of bubble-wrap in the Despatch Bay,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘which was completely untrue of course. It was just a malicious rumour started by my assistant manager at the time, Charles Heath. I found out that he’d been having an affair with my wife, Carrie, and not content with taking her away from me he wanted my job as well. The bastard even moved into my house and became step-dad to my kids.’