The Girl at the Bus-Stop by Sam Aubigny Page A

be surprised Ms Caine. When I was renovating the place I found some crates of paintings and drawings hidden in the attic, all portraits. When I opened them I wasn’t the least bit surprised at why they were kept well away from view for over a century.’
     
    ‘What were the pictures of?’ asked Becky, taking a sip of her Sherry.
     
    ‘His mistresses of course,’ replied Gale. ‘Several very beautiful young women, some barely girls. They were all painted either naked or semi-naked, indulging in explicit sexual acts involving two, three or even four women.’
     
    ‘What did you do with them?’
     
    ‘What could I do? My first thought was to destroy them, but then I had second thoughts and putting them back where I found them seemed a better idea. After all, they may have been scandalous and pornographic but they are part of my family’s history.’
     
    ‘So they’re now safely back in the attic where you found them?’
     
    ‘Not exactly, I had another change of heart. I had them professionally cleaned and they’re now hanging on my bedroom walls,’ Gale replied matter-of-factly. ‘ Perhaps you’d like me to take you up there and show them to you later, Ms Caine.’
     
    Her last words were spoken in a low sultry tine, and her hand dropped lazily on to Becky’s thigh. Becky shuffled along the sofa a little, letting the hand drop on to a cushion.
     
    ‘No thanks, Gale,’ said Becky, ‘it’s not really my cup of tea.’
     
      Gale looked hurt and took a slug of her Sherry before refilling the glass from the decanter.
     
    ‘You do surprise me, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘or should that be ‘Mistress’ Caine or even ‘Ma’am?’
     
    The gushing actress was making Becky feel slightly unnerved, and she was worried that she may let her Raspberry Caine author persona slip.
     
    ‘Raspberry Caine is only a pen-name, Gale, my real name is...’
     
    Gale put her hand up to interrupt, and let it drop to rest just a couple of inches from Becky’s knee.
     
    ‘No, don’t spoil it for me, child, you’ll shatter the illusion.’
     
    ‘Okay, Ms Caine will do nicely.’
     
    ‘What a delightful outfit by the way,’ said Gale, her eyes feasting on every inch of the tight-fitting frock. ‘Who’s your designer?’
     
    Becky’s dress wasn’t part of the new wardrobe bought during the expensive shopping trip with Rudge. She’d brought it with her from home, and wasn’t sure if Peacock’s qualified as a label.
     
    ‘I don’t know who this is by,’ she said, lifting the skirt’s hem slightly as if it held a clue, ‘probably a child slave-worker in China.’
     

     
      ‘Very good, Ms Caine, I’ll have to remember that one.’ Gale replied, ‘You know I absolutely love your writing. It’s such a refreshing change to read something so edgy, brimming with such colourful characters seeking their own truth. My favourite chapter is fourteen, it just felt so me. Do you know what I mean?’
     
    Despite her good intentions, Becky had only skimped through the book. She flushed slightly, desperately trying to remember if she’d even reached chapter fourteen.
     
    ‘I’m so glad you like it,’ she replied with a nervous smile.
     
    ‘What’s your personal favourite?’ Gale asked in a low sultry tone. ‘I bet it’s chapter fourteen too, I just know it.’
     
    ‘Not really. You see when you write a novel you don’t have favourite bits. It all sort of comes together as one big, you know, whatsit.’
     
    She gulped at her sherry and felt her neck glowing pink.
     
    ‘I so know what you’re driving at, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘I suppose it’s rather like making a movie. Everything is shot in small separate chunks by various units, the bigger picture only known to the director. Finally it all comes together in the cutting room to give birth to a glorious single entity, a beautifully crafted masterpiece.’
     
    ‘Quite,’ replied Becky, ‘a bit like the components of a car being