Sugarcoated (8 page)

If it hadn’t been for the traffic warden outside Strut I’d have been on the subway and home before Stefan knew I’d even left him. But, when I saw this woman pulling back Stefan’s front windscreen wiper I had to intervene.

‘Hang on.’ I belted towards Stefan’s car, automatically programmed to do what I always do for Mum: save her a fine and earn myself a tenner for the trouble.

‘Two secs. The driver’s in that shop. I’ll get him to move –’

I reached the car just in time to see the warden replacing Stefan’s wiper carefully against the windscreen. There was no sign of a ticket.

‘Just say thanks, hen. Tell Mr J to park all day if he wants,’ the warden winked at me. She was tucking a twenty-quid note into her breast pocket. Whistling cheerfully as she strolled off.

Gobsmacked, I watched till the warden was out of sight. A question was begining to throb in my head like toothache:
Who the hell is this guy?

‘Babes! There you are.’

Stefan’s voice in my ear made me start. But not as much as the grip of his hand round my wrist.

‘Have to buy you a lead if you keep running away,’ he chuckled from inside the shirt he was pulling over his head. ‘Please don’t leave me, Claudia.’ He let me go to put his hand to his heart. ‘At least not before breakfast.’

Laughing, he turned me to face him, this time using the hand holding his mobile. From where I stood I could see Lynne watching us from the shop.

She was chewing on one of her fancy nails.

‘No. I’m away home.’ I pulled free. Moved off, nodding at Stefan’s mobile. ‘You’re busy. Plus,’ I cocked my head at the shop as I walked, ‘I didn’t like that in there.’

Before I’d taken more than a few steps, Stefan blocked me, laying his arms on my shoulders.

‘That bear roughing you up was out of order. But I sorted him for you. Didn’t I?’

When I shook my head, Stefan sounded surprised.

‘Something else bugging you? Was it Lynne?’ His expression switched from grinning to grim as he glared back at the shop. When he eyeballed Lynne she ducked from view.

‘Did she say something? One call to the boss I’ll have her –’

‘What? Sacked? Whacked?’ I interrupted.

I twisted myself away from Stefan’s hands.

‘
You
were the problem in there,’ I blurted. ‘Coming the big man when that security guy was only doing his job. Now can you let me pass?’ I said quietly. When Stefan didn’t budge I shouldered him out my road.

‘Hey. What d’you think
you’re
doing?’ Stefan tried to block me again. His voice was so mean, so cold, that I sucked my breath in when I dodged him for the second time.

He must have heard my reaction.

‘Oh, Claudia.’ A different voice belonging to a
different guy altogether spoke.

‘Listen to me. Wally here.’ He shook his mobile as if to explain. ‘Having a very bad day at the office,’ he said. Then he leaned in close to me. He sounded sheepish when he went on, ‘Plus I was showing off. You’re right; I
was
playing the big man to impress. Coz I think you’re something else. Can we rewind?’

While he was speaking – and I could hardly
believe
this was happening to me – Stefan dropped to his knees. In front of me. On a public pavement in Glasgow city centre, for God’s sake. Clasping his hands he raised them up to me.

‘One more chance, babes,’ he begged as a passing white van-man yelled from the road, ‘You can do better than that, mate.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Stefan said, his pale eyes searching my face. ‘Don’t walk away,’ he begged. ‘I’ll be a good boy from now on. Promise.’

Now, not being accustomed to hotties prostrating themselves before me, is it such a surprise that I gave Stefan the benefit of the doubt? Besides, he was being so sweet again. Funny. Charming. Cute.

Really, really cute. Mewling like a kitten in a tangle of wool:

‘
Miao, miao,
Claudia.’

Then panting at me –
huh huh huh,
his hands making puppy paws.

When he begged, ‘Pretty-please be my babes. I’ll have to whine if you don’t –’ then lifted his head back and yowled like a coyote with bellyache, I gave in.

‘Shut up,’ I was laughing. ‘People are staring. If you stop yodelling and stand up I might –’

‘So you’re still my babes! You know I’ll do
anything
if you’re still my babes.’ Stefan quit his baby-animal bribery to double-check, ‘Will you still be my babes?’ and it was then, when I saw how keen to please me he seemed, that I thought:
OK. Let’s see if you keep your promises
.

‘Get that security guard his job back and I’ll think about it,’ I said.

‘With one phone call.’ Stefan shrugged.
Like I’d asked him to do something really trivial
, I thought while he held out his hands to me.

They were soft and warm, his fingers slender in mine.

‘Coffee then. Finally,’ he said in a businesslike voice once he was on his feet. ‘We won’t go through the shop again. There’s a back way.’

Stefan’s fingertips hooked mine, tightening so I wouldn’t have been able to wrench free.
Even if I wanted to,
I thought, letting myself be walked round the corner from Strut’s main entrance.

‘My belly thinks my throat’s cut here,’ I was just starting to tell Stefan, when both his donk phone and his
Kill Bill
phone drowned me out.

Letting go my hand, he checked both callers, spitting out a word that had to be a curse though I didn’t understand it.

‘’Scuse, babes,’ Stefan turned his back on me and walked away muttering instructions into each mobile. His tone was sharp. Angry. When he turned round again he’d a wad of cash in his hand.

‘Listen, no rest for the wicked today,’ he sighed, peeling a slab of notes from the wad and tucking it into the front pocket of my jeans. ‘Buy yourself something hot and if it costs more than I’ve given you, just tell Lynne to charge it to me,’ he nodded towards Strut.
‘And take a cab home.’ He was already walking backwards, beeping his car open.

‘Duty calls. Promise I’ll ring.’ He crossed his heart.

Blew me a kiss.

‘See you soon, babes. Promise that too.’

‘I’ll have scrambled eggs, bacon, mushrooms, couple of sausages, tomatoes and black pudding, thanks.’

‘Toast, doll?’

‘Just two slices. Actually make it three.’

Well, a big girl like me’s gotta eat and I’d win no medal passing out from hunger on the subway home (Take a cab, my eye, sweet-talking guy!). With at least two broken promises on the muffin-and-coffee front from Stefan, and all that good scoff-time wasted faffing about watching T-shirts being pamper-wrapped, I was famished. So famished I was seriously tempted to
eat
the All Day Breakfast menu in the caff I chose to splurge some of Stefan’s money in. Just as well it was laminated because I was drooling from the moment I took a seat at the only free table and gave my order.

Stefan can stick his muffins,
I thought, wondering how
Georgina and myself had missed this little Paradise of a greasy spoon the day we wasted time mooning poor Lynne-babes.

Soon as my hearty breakfast arrived, I wired in without pausing for breath. Only when my plate was cholesterol-free and my arteries were hardening did I lean back in my chair to nosey the other folk in the caff.

A trendy bistro it wasn’t, most of the customers variations of the coffin-dodger brigade who kept my dad in business: old biddies in rain-mates counting out the exact change for their tea and scone, and old geezers in flat caps and greasy anoraks, slurping from mugs. Dropping crumbs over the racing page on their
Daily Record.
The only talking in the caff came sandwiched between raucous bursts of dirty laughter from a crowd of workies in boiler suits and building site boots. These blokes filled a row of tables along one wall, one group standing over another till the first lot and their bacon rolls shifted.

It’d be nice for me to say that some of the fitter workies gave me the eye, given that I was the only female in the caff without a free bus pass or false teeth,
but not even the beer-belliest ugliest worky threw me a glance.

Despite this, as I munched on my final slice of toast I felt I was being watched. Eyes on my neck. Someone behind me. And I was right. When I turned in my chair, bringing up an impressive tomato-sauce and eggy burp as I swivelled at the waist, there was this guy sat at the table behind. Staring right at me.

‘Hello again,’ he smiled. ‘You doing all right?’

Honestly. What was I like? I know generations of my teachers over the years have depressed Mum and Dad with variations on the Parent’s Night lament that I never pay attention to
anything
and have the memory of a retarded goldfish, but personally I’d never totally bought into the notion that my brain was wired to the moon.

Till the moment this big bloke in the caff moved his chair next to mine and said, ‘Listen. I’m really sorry ‘bout what happened back there.’

Honestly. I didn’t have a
clue
who this bloke was or what he was on about.

Well not instantly. And it wasn’t totally my fault. Because Dave Griffen had made identification complicated for big Clod: he’d a woolly hat pulled right down to his eyes and he’d stripped down from his navy security-guard jumper to a black T-shirt (a tight, tight black T-shirt. I noticed
that
all right), and his nose wasn’t spouting blood any more. But all the same, I should have recognised him before he started talking to me, shouldn’t I? Then I wouldn’t have been frowning up at him so off-puttingly when he asked, ‘’S’it OK if I join you?’

No wonder he backed off. When I frown I look as anti-social as a pit-bull with lousy people skills. Poor Dave Griffen, retreating from my table with his hands held up in apology, must have decided I was raging with him. I’d to reassure him with my best smile when I said, ‘Sure, join me. How’s your sore nose?’

Smiling and speaking at once is normally something even I can manage, but unfortunately goldfish-memory girl here had forgotten I was still chewing away at my breakfast.

Dave Griffen’s nice tight black T-shirt would have
had to go straight in the wash when he got home, especially after I tried to wipe off the toast I spat up over his bricklike chest with the napkin I’d used during my fry-up.

‘Is this my payback, for – y’know. Over there,’ Dave Griffen cocked his head towards the door of the caff. For a moment he was laughing at what I was doing, but when he said ‘Over there’ his smile clouded and his eyes cut from me to the street beyond then back to me. Maybe, I reckoned, armchair detective that I am, he was calculating whether it was wise for him to carry on jawing with me. Or not.

For once I was probably right.

‘Listen. I honestly didn’t think you were with – Didn’t put you and Mr Josef toge-You’re just not his –’ Dave Griffen gave up on what he was trying to stammer. Sighed and shrugged, drawing an air outline of me with his open palm as if he wanted it to say what he couldn’t bring himself to admit.

‘You mean Stefan’s a regular in that place?’ I interpreted his gesture.
Along with his other babes-es. And
they never look like me, do they
?
I nearly added, but I
decided to spare myself the stab of hearing the truth from a direct kind of fella like Dave Griffen.

‘Biggest customer, by a long shot,’ Dave nodded. ‘He’s in and out every designer shop in the city, spending like there’s no –’ he went on. Then stopped himself. Gave his head a shake.

‘Course you’ll know that,’ he said, pushing back his chair. Standing. ‘You’re with him.’

In the space of half a sentence, Dave Griffen seemed to back right off.

‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re OK. Take care – sorry, I never got your name. I’m Dave.’

Dave’s hand was outstretched. Thick, strong fingers jabbing mine for a parting shake.

What’s your hurry?
I wanted to ask, but instead I said, ‘I’m Claudia,’ before blurting at Dave, ‘but call me Clod. Everyone calls me Clod.’

‘Clod.’ Dave gave my name an approving nod before he made to leave me once and for all. ‘Again. Sorry about today. Truly wasn’t personal, Clod,’ he smiled, putting his hand to his heart. ‘I mean it. You take care.’ He was looking into my eyes when his smile dropped.

‘Seriously. You take care,’ he repeated. Then he made his way to the till.

Well, I was having none of that. First of all, I’d good news:

‘Hey. Wait up. I got your job back.’

I belted across the caff before Dave Griffen could pay anything. Of course me being me, I managed to knock over two chairs and spill somebody’s full teacup all over my foot in my haste.

‘Run, son. She’s chasing you,’ a wheezy old woman piped up.

‘But she’s putting her money where her mouth is. I’d definitely hang on to her,’ quipped another and cracked up the caff when he heard me say, ‘I’ll pay.’

Busy telling Dave Griffen, ‘Stefan’s gonna phone your boss,’ I was waving a note at the caff-man. A twenty-spot, I assumed, plucked from the roll in my jeans pocket, till the caff-man shook his head, ‘Isnae The Ritz, love. I canny change a fifty.’

‘Both bills on me. And another tea for the one my friend spilled over there.’ Dave Griffen had given the
caff man a tenner before I could dig out more money from my stash.

‘Better watch where you flash the cash, Clod.’ His nod at the note in my hand was curt. ‘In fact,’ he whispered, looking me square in the eye as he cocked his head round the caff, ‘I’d put it away, eh?’

There was either pity or disapproval or both in the glance he shot me as he slipped past and outside.

I was having none of that either.

‘Hey, sorry. Stefan just handed me a wad of notes –’

‘How the other half live. As I said, you take care.’

Out in the street, Dave Griffen started walking fast. He was passing Strut, heading for the subway. I’d to jog to keep up with him.

‘You know you can go back to work now.’

‘Grateful,’ Dave Griffen snapped. Ungratefully. He was picking up his pace. I did the same.

‘Didn’t mean you to lose your job in the first place. Didn’t know what was going on.’

‘Your fella did. Ask him about it.’

A sleek Merc crawled along the road at the same pace I was walking. It was travelling so slowly Dave
Griffen dodged in front of it to cross the street.
To get away from me.

‘Hang on. Stefan’s not my
fella
. I hardly know him. I don’t have a
fella.
’ I’d as much of a clue about what made me blurt these words to Dave Griffen as I’d a clue about why I told him my name was Clod. These things just came out. Loud. That’s probably why the passengers in the crawling Merc rolled up their windows and swerved round me to drive off out of earshot.

It has been said that I shout like a town cryer.

‘Met Stefan two days ago. Don’t know
anything
about him.’

I caught up with Dave Griffen at the entrance to the subway, although I’d to queue for a ticket while he used his travel pass to beat me through the barrier. He waited on the other side of it, though.

‘You
really
don’t know Stephen Josef?’ he asked as I came through.

‘Not even his surname till you used it. Honest.’

‘Well take my advice. You don’t want to know him.’ Dave Griffen emphasised his words by squeezing my fingers in his big hand. It was soft. So was his
voice now. Friendlier. Kind. Less guarded.

‘How d’you mean?’ I pressed, but we became separated in the crush on the escalator down to the subway platforms and Dave Griffen was in front of me and didn’t turn round to answer. Just gave me a promising smile at the bottom, ‘Might see you around, Clod. When you’re not involved with –’

With a wave, Dave made for the opposite platform to mine. Then he stopped. Turned back.

‘Tell you what. You can buy me breakfast sometime. Got a mobile?’ he asked.