Starburst (33 page)

“No, but if you do not try it, I shall embarrass you,” she said with a wicked smile.

Jamie pulled his mouth guard from the pocket of his shorts. “Just watch your step, Mademoiselle Pascal,” he said before placing it in his mouth and running back to his position just as the referee readied himself to blow his whistle to start the second half.

Five minutes later, after Jamie had started a number of abortive threequarter-line movements, a scrum was called right in front of Angélique. She found herself standing next to the coach, who had been patrolling the touchline yelling out ineffectual orders at his players.

“Go on, lads, you’ve got one against the head! Hold it there now, hold it there.”

Angélique glanced over to the opposition’s threequarters and saw that their fullback had joined in the line as it edged forward to cover their opposing backs. “Try it now, Jamie,” she yelled out at the top of her voice.

As the scrum half waited for the ball to be released from between the number 8’s feet, the coach turned to Angélique, a querying look on his face. “Try what, love?”

The scrum half picked up the ball from the base of the scrum and spun it at speed out to Jamie.

“Now move it down the line!” the coach yelled. “Oh, no! What the effing hell are you doing?” He clapped both hands to his head as he watched Jamie kick a lobbing cross-field ball over the heads of the gawping opposition. The coach spun round and buried his face in his hands, not wishing to see the outcome of such an insane tactic.

Jamie’s left wing was indeed a flyer. Timing his run to perfection, he scooped up the awkward-bouncing ball in one hand and tucked it under his arm, swerving his heels to avoid the last desperate attempt at a tap tackle by his opposing wing. Once he realized he had a clear path to the try line, he changed his running angle towards the centre of the posts and touched the ball down unchallenged between them. The cheers that erupted from the small crowd of home spectators made the coach turn slowly to watch what was going on.

Angélique jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “It worked perfectly!” she said excitedly to him.

The coach stared at her open-mouthed for a moment before turning with a shake of his head and walking off in subdued silence down the touchline.

At the end of the game Jamie ran across the pitch to Angélique, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. “Well, that was quite a turnaround, wasn’t it?” he laughed. “I owe you one. That tactic of yours really screwed them.”

“I told you it would work,” Angélique replied smugly. She took hold of the neck of his sweatshirt and pulled his head down towards her and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You played well. In fact, it is a pity you were not born a Frenchman.”

“That’d be no use. I have a phobia about snails,” Jamie said, giving her a wink before he turned and looked over to where his team was standing, watching them both. “The lads want to have a drink with you in the clubhouse.”

Angélique shook her head. “No, you go by yourself. I will wait for you in the car.”

“Come on, why not?”

“Because I do not know them…and they might know me.”

Jamie took hold of her arm and gave it a squeeze. “Listen,
I
know them all and I can guarantee there’s not one of them who would say a thing. Anyway, the person they’re more concerned with meeting is the great rugby tactician who’s just won them the game, not a world-famous violinist.”

Angélique looked over towards Jamie’s teammates. “Are you sure it’s all right?”

“Yeah, of course it is. You’re more likely to be offered a contract to sign rather than be asked for your autograph.”

“All right, then,” she replied and began to walk beside Jamie across the pitch. “I hope you all take a shower first, though. I don’t want to be drinking with a lot of sweaty men.”

Jamie laughed. “Well, better get used to it, then,” he said, putting a filthy rugby-sleeved arm around her shoulders and pulling her tight in against him.

A
lbert Dessuin threw a pound coin into the cardboard box of the young juggler who shared his stance in the doorway of Marks & Spencer on Princes Street, and without acknowledging the boy’s gratitude he turned and looked into the brightly lit store, wondering if he shouldn’t go in to try to find the woman. He had every reason to do so, because the place was packed with shoppers and there was a good possibility she could slip out of a back entrance, but nevertheless he decided to wait. It had been four days since he had first encountered her sprawled on the floor of the reception area in the Sheraton Grand, and so far that evening, he had done a good enough job of keeping himself out of sight, even in that dank little cellar where he had suffered a gruelling hour listening to her appallingly incomprehensible show. Because of that alone, he wasn’t going to risk ruining his chances at this stage.

He moved away from the doorway, pulling up the collar of his mackintosh and thrusting his hands into the pockets. The wind was getting up and there was rain in the air. He looked up towards the castle where the vast bank of spotlights, lighting the Esplanade for the evening performance of the Military Tattoo, spilled upwards onto the dark threatening clouds rolling in from the west of the city. The audience would be getting wet tonight, he thought to himself. Later on, the streets leading down from the castle would be thronged with people wearing the free refuse-sack rainwear the organizers handed out, looking like an army of pink-shrouded ghouls sent forth from the ancient ramparts to ransack the town. He could not understand why they never went better prepared for an open-air show in the first place.

He saw her coming out of the store and standing in the doorway, her arms weighed down by two bulging plastic bags. It was the coat he recognized, that extraordinary multicoloured dog rug of a creation, a fitting garment, he thought, for someone as unattractive as she. He quickly turned towards the castle once more, watching her out of the side of his eye. She looked one way and then the other, maybe judging her moment when to step out into the crowded street or perhaps vacillating as to which way she should go. She moved off away from him, westbound on Princes Street, lumbering along with her shoulders hunched and her coat-tail trailing along the grubby pavement.

It was easier than he could ever have imagined. She gave no indication that she might have suspected she was being followed, no furtive backward glance, no quick escaping dash into a darkened side street. It was child’s play. As she laboured her way up the gentle slope of Hanover Street he decided to make it more interesting for himself and hurried his pace so that he was no more than twenty feet behind her, close enough to hear her gasping breath, stopping when she stopped and starting again when she continued her plodding ascent. He laughed quietly as he closed the gap further. It would be fun to go up and touch her on the shoulder, just to see her reaction when she turned round.

And then, as she reached the junction with George Street, the handle on one of her overloaded shopping bags gave way and the contents fell with a clatter onto the pavement. He stood frozen as he watched a tin can roll down the street towards him and veer off into the gutter, and then she turned to face him, bending down to retrieve her goods. At this point, he quickly moved over to the side of the pavement and pretended to study the window display of a fast-print photographic shop.

“Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger!” said Rene as she watched the tin of oxtail soup roll off down the road and disappear over the edge of the pavement. “That’s all I need.” She put the shopping bags on the ground and bent down to try to fashion a makeshift loop out of the broken handle. “I hope this bloody well holds,” she mumbled irately to herself as she picked up the dirt-spattered packets and returned them to the bag. She straightened up, gingerly testing the strength of the new handle. “Right, should get me ’ome. Now where on earth did that oxtail soup get to?”

She had taken no more than two steps down the street when her attention was suddenly caught by the figure of a man, not more than twenty feet away from her, studying intently the display in the window of a small photographic shop. It was the coat she recognized, a Maigret-style mackintosh with a double fold across the shoulders and a belt that was done up so tight that it puckered the material around his waist. And then she saw the high cock’s comb of hair and knew instantly who it was.

“Oh, bloody ’ell!” she murmured to herself, and without even bothering to attempt to retrieve the lost can of soup, she took off across the street, dodging the traffic, and with her head bowed low as if trying to evade sniper fire, she scurried away along George Street as fast as her tired legs would carry her.

Albert Dessuin looked down at the bottom left-hand corner of the shop window as a way of being able to snatch a glance up the street, and then spun round fully when he realized the woman had gone. After a quick appraisal of Hanover Street, he ran up to the junction with George Street, and in his haste collided with a jovial group of beer-carrying young men.

“Oh-oh, watch it, mate!” one of them exclaimed as he steadied his plastic pint mug at arm’s length. “That’s expensive stuff, you know.”

“I am sorry,” Albert replied curtly, holding up his hands in apology. He waited until the group had moved off before continuing his search for the woman. The full length of the street, however, was heaving with jostling pedestrians competing for space on pavements narrowed by queues awaiting entry into show venues. There was no sign of her. Albert smiled to himself. Maybe she had seen him, maybe not, but it did not matter. There was always another night, and he had the time to wait.

Rene peered tentatively round the side of the shop doorway and looked along the length of George Street. A momentary gap opened up in the mass of people and she caught sight of the mackintoshed figure of the Frenchman standing at the junction, leaning his head one way and then the other as he searched the street.

“Oh, ’eck, it is me ’e’s after,” Rene murmured to herself as she hurried off down the street once more, weaving her way in and out of the crowds to keep herself hidden. “You’ve got to get yourself off the street, lass.”

She passed by a long queue formed outside a wide glass-doored entrance. She veered off towards the brightly lit haven only to feel a hand grasp at her shoulder.

“Hang on, love, you need a pass or a ticket to get in here.”

Rene looked up into the faces of two black-shirted, shaven-haired bouncers, both wearing earpieces with curly leads that disappeared down their collars.

“What kind of pass do I need?” Rene asked in desperation. She transferred her shopping bags to one hand and delved into the folds of her coat, pulling out the Fringe pass she had suspended around her neck. “Is this any use?”

“That’s all we want,” one of the bouncers said, pushing open the door for her. “You’ll find the bar at the end of the hall.”

Rene didn’t quite know how the man knew she was gagging for a stiff drink but she wasn’t going to hang around to question him. She bustled her way across the pillared, stone-floored hall and entered the double doors at the far end.

The bar was crammed with people, every inch of seating space taken up—on sofas, chairs, even on the tables. She pushed her way towards the bar and set her shopping bags down on the floor, blowing out a long breath of nervous exhaustion.

“Rene!”

Her immediate reaction on hearing the voice was to make ready to get down on all fours and crawl round the side of the bar to hide, but then it dawned on her that the caller’s tone was distinctly female. She stood up on the footrest and scanned the room, seeing no one that she knew, and she was just coming to the conclusion there must have been someone else called Rene in the place when she spotted the bobbing mass of red hair threading its way towards her. A few seconds later, Matti Fullbright appeared at her side, a broad grin on her large freckled face.

“Hi, there, girl. How’re you doing?”

“Matti Fullbright, am I pleased to see you!” Rene exclaimed, rolling her eyes in relief.

“You look all in. Let me get you a drink.”

“Aye, I’m needing one bad, luv,” Rene said, leaning heavy-elbowed on the bar. “Bacardi and Coke would go down a treat.”

With a click of her fingers, Matti attracted the attention of the barman and ordered up two drinks. “So what’s been going on?”

“Ye won’t believe who I’ve just seen out there in the street.”

“Not the bloody Frenchman!”

“Aye, right first time. The bloody Frenchman.”

“What was he doing?”

“I don’t know, but I think ’e might ’ave been following me.”

The barman put the two drinks down on the bar and Matti handed Rene her Bacardi and Coke.

“I doubt there’s any way he could have been doing that. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.”

“Some bloody coincidence!” Rene exclaimed, taking a hefty slug from her glass. “Edinburgh’s a damned big place to go bumping into someone like that.”

“It happens all the time during the festival. I’m forever meeting people I know on the street.”

“Oh, well, I suppose ye could be right,” Rene said with a flick of her head. “After all, ’ere’s you and me meeting up again. That’s pretty extraordinary, in’t it?”

Matti screwed up the side of her mouth as she scrutinized the naivety of Rene’s remark. “That’s not so out of ordinary, you know.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Haven’t you been here before?”

Rene gazed around the bar. “No, never. Why should I?”

“Because this is the Assembly Rooms. All the Fringe acts congregate here at the end of the day.”

“Really? D’you mean all these people…?”

“Yeah, they’re either Fringe performers or guests.”

Rene shook her head in disbelief. “Would you credit that? I’d no idea this place existed.”

“In that case, you didn’t read all that bumf you were given.”

“Obviously not.”

Matti laughed. “So, how did the act go this evening?”

“Same as ever. Three foreigners who couldn’t understand one word I was saying and a drunk who slept all the way through.”

Matti sucked her teeth despondently. “I know what you mean. It’s not been a brilliant time for me, neither. I think I might have overstayed my welcome here.”

“Ye’re not being serious, are ye?”

“Too right, I am. I reckon I’ll have to do a major overhaul of my act quite soon, but I’m not sure how.”

Rene’s face broke into a smile. “Maybe you should try doing it in the nude.”

Matti almost choked on a mouthful of gin and tonic. “For God’s sake, I’m trying to woo my audience, Rene, not have them run screaming for the exits!”

The laughter that ensued between the two women was so loud it made those that stood around them stop mid-conversation and turn to stare. Matti blew out a deep breath to control herself. “Oh, my word, it does you good, don’t it?”

“Tell that to the audience,” Rene replied with a giggle.

“Aye, maybe we should.” Matti took a drink from her glass and then turned to Rene, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Listen, what’re you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

Rene shrugged. “Nowt at all.”

“Right, d’ye know the Royal Scottish Academy on Princes Street?”

“No, but I s’pose I could find it.”

“Good. Meet me there at, say, one-thirty.”

“Why?”

“I want you to come to see my new show.”

“What? Ye’ve worked something out already?”

“I think I might have just done that very thing, Rene my girl,” Matti replied, swallowing the last of her drink and slamming her glass down on the bar. “Come on, let’s set up another round.”

Rene shook her head. “I can’t, thanks, lass,” she said, bending down to pick up her shopping bags. “I’ve got to be off. I’ve sort of taken on the evening cooking duties for these two lads in the flat.”

“Right,” Matti said disappointedly. “Oh, well, I’ll just have to drink alone.”

“Sorry.”

Matti shot her a conciliatory smile. “See you tomorrow, then, and watch out for skulking Frenchmen.”

Rene raised her eyebrows. “Oh ’eck, I’d almost forgotten about ’im.”

“Oh, don’t let him get your knickers in a twist. If he’s still around, I suggest you just run straight up to him and throw your arms around his neck and give him an enormous tongue sandwich. That should make him hightail it back to his lair in the Sheraton-bloody-Grand!”

“Right, that’s it,” Rene said, her mouth drooping in disgust. “I’m leaving before you make me physically sick.”