Paying For It

49

The robotics dancer on Princes Street began to pack up his Gary Numan tapes as I passed. A Goth with black lipstick and platform trainers put a camera-phone on him, asked, ‘How about a few moves for the camera?’

A single-digit salute, then another. ‘How’s that?’ said the robotics guy.

‘No need to get aggressive.’

‘No offence, your get-up just brings out the worst in me.’

The Goth put the camera away, slunk off. I thought, ‘When a guy who wouldn’t look out of place in Woody Allen’s Sleeper slams your dress sense, it’s time to pick another look.’

I needed courage to put my plan into action, stepped into a new superpub that had opened on George Street.

‘Today’s special, sir, Strawberry Blonde,’ said a Geordie girl in a two-sizes too small T-shirt. She handed me a piece of card, smiled like she had my night all planned out.

‘Sorry?’

That smile again.

‘Strawberry Blonde!’

I’d got this bit, but something seemed to be missing, she was blonde all right, but looked like she’d been dying her roots black, said, ‘I like the collars to match the cuffs.’

Inside the barman tried to take the card. ‘Strawberry Blonde, sir?’

‘Christ, not you too.’

‘Is it a pint, sir?’

‘Yeah, Guinness. No Strawberry Blonde. Got me?’

He nodded, backed off to the pumps.

I shouted out, ‘And a Dewar’s to chase it. Double.’

When the drinks came, the barman knew better than to try and sell me anything else. I took my pint and chaser and sat in the corner. Speakers above my head blasted out KT Tunstall. It seemed to fit the place. I’d tanned my pint before KT had got through telling us about her ‘Black Horse and the Cherry Tree’.

The Dewar’s I sipped slower.

Thought some things through, wondered if I’d been asleep at the wheel.

It all began to look so straightforward. Sure, I needed Nadja to fill in the blanks, but could that be so hard?

I knew it could. She was smart, wily. Cocking the Glock in her phiz wasn’t going to cut it.

The words of Vyvyan Basterd, of The Young Ones, didn’t seem out of place here: ‘Now this is going to require a subtle blend of psychology and extreme violence…’

I’d tried the violence bit already. It was time to play Nadja at her own game.

‘Yeah, good luck with that, Gus,’ I heard myself thinking, ‘like you’re such a great success at second-guessing women.’

The example of Debs sprang to mind again. Could I even make a comparison?

Scottish women, it must be said, are unlike any others. Impossible to impress, for starters. There’s a bullshit detector built into every one of them. In my youth they had a phrase, ‘Do you think I came up the Clyde on a banana boat?’ Subsequent generations refined this to a look. If it comes with a nod, you’ve crossed the line and should expect to be told so.

The other thing is they’re all plain speakers. You find yourself on the end of one of their tongue lashings you might expect to learn more about yourself than perhaps you’d ever really wanted to.

I’ve a past littered with blastings from Scottish women. Usually delivered in a nightclub after the last dance. Any later, say in the taxi rank, we’re talking hell cat. Guaranteed, an experience not to be repeated.

I returned to the bar.

‘Same again.’

Barman thought a moment. ‘Right away.’

For some reason, all this introspection began to latch on to my conscience. Thoughts of Debs and the impending threat to my mortality made me reach for my phone. Always a bad move when a drink’s been taken.

Debs’s number went straight to voicemail.

‘Aw, shite!’

I toyed with hanging up, then the beep.

‘Hi, Debs… me again. Look, I just wanted to say, sorry, you know, I’ve been a bit on edge lately.’

I struggled to pad out the message.

‘Oh, and I, er, got your letter… but I had a bit of an accident with it. Was it important? Sorry about that too. If it’s important you could maybe get your lawyer to send it again. Oh, and, I’ll be at Hod’s place in Portobello, all his details should still be in the address book. Bye, Debs, and sorry again.’

I didn’t feel good lying to her about the letter, but what was I to do? I told myself it was only a white lie.

‘Christ, you’ve told worse than that, Gus.’

Would the call cut any ice with her? I doubted it.