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

individually manufactured by car component manufacturers, and then being bolted all together to build a complete, you know, car.’
     
    ‘That’s such a good analogy, Ms Caine, and in the case of your novel it’s turned into a vibrant and beautiful bright red Ferrari,’ she replied with a chuckle, ‘with quite a sting in its tail.’
     
    ‘Thank you,’ replied Becky, not really knowing what else to say.
     
    Gale placed her hand lightly on top of Becky’s, and tossing her head back, strands of her long bottled auburn hair draped wantonly across her crease-free forehead. Becky looked down at the many rings adorning the wrinkled fingers, quickly trying to work out their market value. One diamond looked so big she thought it must be costume jewellery, until Gale spread her fingers and shook her hand slightly to let its sparkle shimmer.
     
    ‘I see you’re admiring my rings,’ she said, admiring them herself, ‘the big one is the Star of Accra, a present from my first husband.’
     
    ‘It’s beautiful, he must have really been in love with you,’ replied Becky, resisting the temptation to follow through with, ‘it must be worth a few quid.’
     
    ‘Sadly, it wasn’t a match made in heaven,’ said Gale wistfully. ‘We’d only been married a month when I caught him in his dressing room on the set of Fidelity Castro fucking not one, but two make-up artists. That’s the trouble with actors they always have to indulge their pleasures to the point of gluttony whether its girls, boys, booze, drugs or self pity.’
     
    ‘Was he famous then, your ex?’
     
    ‘Infamous would be more apt,’ she said shaking her head, ‘Clifford Cord.’
     
    ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him, Gale. Has he ever been on the telly?’
     
    ‘Of course he has,’ replied Gale, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘He was a star of stage, screen, television and many a divorce court in his heyday, but before your time obviously. I didn’t follow his career much in its later years, not after what happened in the Gents lavatories at St Pancras. The newspapers had a field day that week.’
     
    ‘Why, what happened?’
     
    ‘I’m sorry but you’ll have to Google it, Ms Caine. I couldn’t bear to relive all the gory details,’ she replied with a shudder. ‘Suffice to say it put paid to his dreams of a knighthood, and he was “let go” from the long-running West End production of The Cubicle , I mean, The Crucible .’
     
    ‘I see,’ said Becky, ‘so what became of him?’
     
    ‘Don’t get me wrong he was never an angel, but this one unsavoury incident was the catalyst I’m afraid and effectively ended his glittering career. The last time I saw him he popped up on my television screen in an episode of Casualty . He was playingan elderly alcoholic with a dark secret, now there’s irony for you.’
     
    There was a knock and a few moments later the double-doors opened. An old lady dressed in a Victorian-style maid’s uniform pushed a tea trolley into the room and over to a small dining-table in the square bay window.
     
    ‘ H’arternoon tea h’is served, Madam,’ said the old lady, struggling with her words in an attempt to sound genteel and refined. ‘Would you like for me to partake in the pouring of said beverage, Madam? H’or would you and the young lady ‘ere prefer to ‘ elps yourself?’
     
    ‘We’ll manage thank you, Rose,’ said Gale rising from the sofa, ‘I’ll ring if we need anything else.’
     
    ‘Very good, Madam,’ replied Rose, almost curtseying.
     
    She turned and left, closing the doors silently behind her.
     
    ‘I don’t believe it, you’ve got a maid, Gale,’ said Becky, joining her at the table. ‘Posh or what?’
     
    ‘Absolutely essential for someone like me, Ms Caine,’ she replied handing a plate to her guest. ‘When domestic skills were handed out I wasn’t even in the queue I’m afraid.’
     
    ‘Tell me about it,’ smiled Becky, ‘my flat looks like a clumsy