mascara. As usual, it took longer to unclog her handiwork with a lash comb than it did to put it on in the first place. Five minutes. 'Aagh,' squealed Jane, giving herself a last slick
58
of perfumeless Mum and a powerful blast of Chanel No 19. Three minutes. She rushed into the kitchen and uncorked the half-botde of champagne for Dutch courage. Shame I never got round to the food, she thought, eyeing the reproachful mass of pasta as she knocked back an entire flute in one.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. Heart thumping, Jane opened it to find Tom waving a bottle of Moet. 'By way of apology, as you wouldn't let me take you out,' he grinned. 'And it's cold, so we can drink it now.'
As Jane sloshed it unsteadily into two glasses. Tom went straight to the bookshelves. 'What's this like?' he asked, selecting Callaghan: The Man and The Myth and The John Major I Knew.
'Not what you'd call a racy read,' said Jane. Even Nick had struggled with the Major book.
'But then,' she added, 'I'm not the one to ask. Politics isn't really my thing. Nick gets cross with me because he says all I care about are Cherie Blairs skirt lengths.'
'Cherie Blair's skirts are a crucial issue,' said Tom gravely. She had no idea if he was teasing her. 'Nick's away, I take it?' Was that a gleam in his eye? 'How did you know?'
'Elementary, my dear Jane. After you'd been up - and rightly, too - to complain about me, I simply put my ear to the floor and listened.' He grinned at her and emptied his champagne glass down his muscular throat.
'Yes. He's in Brussels.' She explained about the caravan-ners' fondue party. Tom raised an eyebrow.
He moved on from Nick's books to her own. Jane sent up a rare, silent prayer of thanks to her absent boyfriend for not allowing her room for her collection of bonkbusters. Those had been relegated to piles on the floor beneath the
59
shelves while Nick had conceded a few inches of the shelves themselves to the battered old volumes of Keats, Yeats, Eliot and Shakespeare Jane had studied at university. Books that she still opened now and then to remind herself that she had once had a brain.
'It's when I read Yeats that I realise how hopeless it is to try and be a writer,' Tom sighed.
'Are you a writer, then?' Jane gasped. 'How romantic. What are you working on?'
Tom looked amused. I'm not sure it's all that romantic.'
Jane mentally kicked herself. How could she have sounded so jejune?
'It's about this serial killer driving around the Aberdeen ring road,' Tom elaborated. 'He's had a few lines of coke, his necrophiliac Alsatian's asleep in the back, and the man's bored, so he suddenly decides to follow this car and see where it's going. When the car stops at a service station, the killer gets out and does the business, as does the dog. This seems quite fun to them, so they start following another car at random, then strike again when it stops, then start following a van to see where that's going. And so on and so on until the man and the dog eventually drive off the Humber Bridge.' He stopped, and looked triumphantly at Jane. 'It's a sort of metaphor for our violent, haphazard society and the random nature of the choices we make in life. And death.'
Jane's heart sank. It sounded horrible.
'It's sort of On the Road meets In Cold Blood, so I thought I'd call it Cold Road? said Tom, beaming. 'What do you think?'
Jane screwed up her courage. 'To be honest, not much,' she said. 'Ghasdy, actually. I can't bear books like that.' She regretted it the moment the words left her.
60
Tom turned back to the bookshelves. Jane noticed his shoulders moving up and down. He was evidently struggling with his feelings.
'I'm so sorry,' she gasped, touching him on the arm. 'I didn't mean
Tom whipped round. His eyes blazed and his mouth quivered. Jane realised he was laughing.
'That plot,' he grinned, 'was suggested by my agent the other day. He told me that that's the sort of thing I would have to start knocking out if
58
of perfumeless Mum and a powerful blast of Chanel No 19. Three minutes. She rushed into the kitchen and uncorked the half-botde of champagne for Dutch courage. Shame I never got round to the food, she thought, eyeing the reproachful mass of pasta as she knocked back an entire flute in one.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. Heart thumping, Jane opened it to find Tom waving a bottle of Moet. 'By way of apology, as you wouldn't let me take you out,' he grinned. 'And it's cold, so we can drink it now.'
As Jane sloshed it unsteadily into two glasses. Tom went straight to the bookshelves. 'What's this like?' he asked, selecting Callaghan: The Man and The Myth and The John Major I Knew.
'Not what you'd call a racy read,' said Jane. Even Nick had struggled with the Major book.
'But then,' she added, 'I'm not the one to ask. Politics isn't really my thing. Nick gets cross with me because he says all I care about are Cherie Blairs skirt lengths.'
'Cherie Blair's skirts are a crucial issue,' said Tom gravely. She had no idea if he was teasing her. 'Nick's away, I take it?' Was that a gleam in his eye? 'How did you know?'
'Elementary, my dear Jane. After you'd been up - and rightly, too - to complain about me, I simply put my ear to the floor and listened.' He grinned at her and emptied his champagne glass down his muscular throat.
'Yes. He's in Brussels.' She explained about the caravan-ners' fondue party. Tom raised an eyebrow.
He moved on from Nick's books to her own. Jane sent up a rare, silent prayer of thanks to her absent boyfriend for not allowing her room for her collection of bonkbusters. Those had been relegated to piles on the floor beneath the
59
shelves while Nick had conceded a few inches of the shelves themselves to the battered old volumes of Keats, Yeats, Eliot and Shakespeare Jane had studied at university. Books that she still opened now and then to remind herself that she had once had a brain.
'It's when I read Yeats that I realise how hopeless it is to try and be a writer,' Tom sighed.
'Are you a writer, then?' Jane gasped. 'How romantic. What are you working on?'
Tom looked amused. I'm not sure it's all that romantic.'
Jane mentally kicked herself. How could she have sounded so jejune?
'It's about this serial killer driving around the Aberdeen ring road,' Tom elaborated. 'He's had a few lines of coke, his necrophiliac Alsatian's asleep in the back, and the man's bored, so he suddenly decides to follow this car and see where it's going. When the car stops at a service station, the killer gets out and does the business, as does the dog. This seems quite fun to them, so they start following another car at random, then strike again when it stops, then start following a van to see where that's going. And so on and so on until the man and the dog eventually drive off the Humber Bridge.' He stopped, and looked triumphantly at Jane. 'It's a sort of metaphor for our violent, haphazard society and the random nature of the choices we make in life. And death.'
Jane's heart sank. It sounded horrible.
'It's sort of On the Road meets In Cold Blood, so I thought I'd call it Cold Road? said Tom, beaming. 'What do you think?'
Jane screwed up her courage. 'To be honest, not much,' she said. 'Ghasdy, actually. I can't bear books like that.' She regretted it the moment the words left her.
60
Tom turned back to the bookshelves. Jane noticed his shoulders moving up and down. He was evidently struggling with his feelings.
'I'm so sorry,' she gasped, touching him on the arm. 'I didn't mean
Tom whipped round. His eyes blazed and his mouth quivered. Jane realised he was laughing.
'That plot,' he grinned, 'was suggested by my agent the other day. He told me that that's the sort of thing I would have to start knocking out if
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