‘How’s business?’
The figure moved closer, his halitosis forcing McBride to edge backwards. ‘Good, good,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Just written a book, I see. Selling well?’
Before McBride could offer a reply, the man, who did not understand humility, launched into an instant follow-up. ‘Funny you should have done a book. I’ve been contemplating one for years. Folk keep telling me that with all my experience of life in the courts – and in general, of course – that I’m capable of a best-seller. What do you think? They’re probably right, actually. As a journo yourself, you know we get around a bit – maybe me and you more than most others. Do you think I should give it a go? The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to realise it’s the thing to do.’
McBride had glazed over. Even the forest of hair sprouting from both of Ford’s nostrils had ceased to transfix him. He knew all that was required was an occasional appreciative nod. His mind turned to the time he’d been in The Fort with Richard Richardson and he interrupted Ford’s incessant flow. ‘Do you see anything of Double Dick these days? I met up with him the other night but he seemed a bit subdued. Are things OK with him?’
Ford shrugged a shoulder. ‘Women problems. Fell out badly with one, I believe. God knows why. But it seems to have set him back. That’s one of the reasons I don’t get involved with them – in the end they just give you grief. Me? I prefer male company – not that I’m queer or anything, you understand. It’s just that you get more conversation out of a guy. We have more to say to each other.’
He droned on, impervious to McBride’s total disinterest in his self-obsessed monologue. After half an hour and at the point where McBride was about to remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, the Evening Telegraph reporter spotted another target across the bar. He interrupted himself in mid flow to call out the newcomer’s name. ‘Andy,’ he shouted over the heads of the two rows of drinkers between them. Andy was too late in trying to make himself look invisible. Before he could vanish into the throng, Ford had begun pushing his way towards him.
‘Sorry, Campbell,’ he said as he departed, ‘must go – haven’t seen Andy in ages. Been great getting all your news. We’ll need to meet up again and I’ll give you an update on what’s been happening in my world. Give me a ring at the office sometime soon and we can fix up to eat together.’
McBride barely nodded, knowing his lack of enthusiasm would not register with Daniel Ford and that he could never be hungry enough to want to share a table with the hairy-nosed journo.
He was contemplating his next move when a woman’s voice broke in at his elbow. ‘Excuse me,’ it said, ‘are you Campbell McBride? Did you write that book?’
McBride turned to find a small blonde smiling up at him. She held a drink in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. She was early thirties and over-rounded but attractive if you liked women with too much make-up. Her perfume was unspectacular and revived distant memories of an interesting, if unemotional, encounter with a hotel receptionist in Barcelona but at least she’d made the effort.
‘The very same,’ he replied, fixing her with a worked-at admiring gaze. ‘If we’ve met before it had to be in heaven.’ He was almost ashamed at dredging that one up but it was Christmas, the mood was easy and there wasn’t a female alive who didn’t like a bit of flattery, even when it was from the Stone Age.
She yawned mockingly, giggling at the same time. ‘No. It was in Waterstone’s. I saw you signing books. Actually, I bought one a few days later as a Christmas present for my dad. If I’d known I was going to bump into you, I’d have brought it with me for a signature.’
They spoke for another hour and that was as serious as the conversation got. Her friends in black dresses called
The figure moved closer, his halitosis forcing McBride to edge backwards. ‘Good, good,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Just written a book, I see. Selling well?’
Before McBride could offer a reply, the man, who did not understand humility, launched into an instant follow-up. ‘Funny you should have done a book. I’ve been contemplating one for years. Folk keep telling me that with all my experience of life in the courts – and in general, of course – that I’m capable of a best-seller. What do you think? They’re probably right, actually. As a journo yourself, you know we get around a bit – maybe me and you more than most others. Do you think I should give it a go? The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to realise it’s the thing to do.’
McBride had glazed over. Even the forest of hair sprouting from both of Ford’s nostrils had ceased to transfix him. He knew all that was required was an occasional appreciative nod. His mind turned to the time he’d been in The Fort with Richard Richardson and he interrupted Ford’s incessant flow. ‘Do you see anything of Double Dick these days? I met up with him the other night but he seemed a bit subdued. Are things OK with him?’
Ford shrugged a shoulder. ‘Women problems. Fell out badly with one, I believe. God knows why. But it seems to have set him back. That’s one of the reasons I don’t get involved with them – in the end they just give you grief. Me? I prefer male company – not that I’m queer or anything, you understand. It’s just that you get more conversation out of a guy. We have more to say to each other.’
He droned on, impervious to McBride’s total disinterest in his self-obsessed monologue. After half an hour and at the point where McBride was about to remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, the Evening Telegraph reporter spotted another target across the bar. He interrupted himself in mid flow to call out the newcomer’s name. ‘Andy,’ he shouted over the heads of the two rows of drinkers between them. Andy was too late in trying to make himself look invisible. Before he could vanish into the throng, Ford had begun pushing his way towards him.
‘Sorry, Campbell,’ he said as he departed, ‘must go – haven’t seen Andy in ages. Been great getting all your news. We’ll need to meet up again and I’ll give you an update on what’s been happening in my world. Give me a ring at the office sometime soon and we can fix up to eat together.’
McBride barely nodded, knowing his lack of enthusiasm would not register with Daniel Ford and that he could never be hungry enough to want to share a table with the hairy-nosed journo.
He was contemplating his next move when a woman’s voice broke in at his elbow. ‘Excuse me,’ it said, ‘are you Campbell McBride? Did you write that book?’
McBride turned to find a small blonde smiling up at him. She held a drink in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. She was early thirties and over-rounded but attractive if you liked women with too much make-up. Her perfume was unspectacular and revived distant memories of an interesting, if unemotional, encounter with a hotel receptionist in Barcelona but at least she’d made the effort.
‘The very same,’ he replied, fixing her with a worked-at admiring gaze. ‘If we’ve met before it had to be in heaven.’ He was almost ashamed at dredging that one up but it was Christmas, the mood was easy and there wasn’t a female alive who didn’t like a bit of flattery, even when it was from the Stone Age.
She yawned mockingly, giggling at the same time. ‘No. It was in Waterstone’s. I saw you signing books. Actually, I bought one a few days later as a Christmas present for my dad. If I’d known I was going to bump into you, I’d have brought it with me for a signature.’
They spoke for another hour and that was as serious as the conversation got. Her friends in black dresses called
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