and stop to tell her how much they liked her book, but this didn't feel like a fan encounter. For one thing, Red didn't stop to chat, but instead her heels carried her past the clothes racks and out of the shop. The bell sounded a merry ding as the door closed behind her. Jane frowned.Red looked so familiar, like a distant cousin she hadn't seen in years, but she couldn't place her. Great outfit, though. Maybe she'd put Darsie in that instead.
Tom punched his PIN into the cash machine. Internal mechanisms grumbled like a reluctant parent and the screen flashed its decision.
INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.
Letting rip with a sibilant French oath and thumping the keypad, he retrieved his useless card and, with as much dignity as he could muster, struck off past the line of people waiting to use the cash machine. Roddy tripped at his heels.
‘So, does this mean I'm buying the donuts again?’
Tom cast him a dark look and watched in puzzled silence as Roddy flipped up the furry hood on his coat so that it completely covered his head. It wasn't raining, for a change, and the city was experiencing that most unusual of phenomena, an actual season. Instead of the indistinguishable mush of weather that passed for a climate, the last week had been discernibly summery.
‘I don't get it,’ said Roddy's muffled voice from deep within the hood. ‘Jane Lockhart made you a small fortune. I don't know anyone who's blown as much money as you have in such a short time. And I know people at the Royal Bank of Scotland.’
Tom refused to engage with Roddy's leading remark,especially since he had a point. It had been more than a year since
Happy Ending
hit the bestseller charts. The sales numbers were strong, but not astronomical. After all, Jane Lockhart was ‘literary fiction’, not ‘vampire romance’. The book had been profitable, but to sell those big numbers the retailers had demanded huge discounts and marketing bungs, which had eaten into his share.
Then he'd taken the remainder of the money and gone on a spending spree, acquiring three debuts within the space of a month, one of them in a competitive auction against three multinational publishers with deep pockets. As soon as he submitted the winning bid he knew he'd paid too much. Ah well, there was always a chance that
Earnest Shards
would find an audience. Hey, who wouldn't love a star-crossed gay love story set in the world of stained-glassmaking in Renaissance Florence?
Tom could hold off no longer. He had to know. ‘Why do you have your hood up?’
‘I don't want to be recognised.’
That was not a reasonable answer. ‘You're an English supply teacher at a state-assisted secondary school in suburban Glasgow.’
Roddy grasped the cords that adjusted the hood and tugged them sharply, sealing himself inside. ‘Exactly.’
Tom's battered green Peugeot limped into a space on the crowded street outside Tristesse Books. The gearbox gave one last tortured whine and the engine shuddered into silence. He climbed out and slammed the door. Thecatch was broken and there was a knack to closing it properly. Which was to slam it. Repeatedly.
‘I can give you an hour of secretarial services,’ said Roddy emerging from the passenger side clutching a warm bag of Krispy Kremes, ‘then I've got
Great Expectations
in Maryhill.’
Even as the barbed quip formed on Tom's lips Roddy was raising a finger.
‘Don't,’ he wagged. ‘Just don't.’
There was a rumble of tyres against cobbles and the two men swivelled their heads to see the driverless Peugeot roll gently into the car in front. Bumper lay against bumper like a tired drunk resting his head on a friend.
‘You should probably get that fixed,’ said Roddy.
‘Yeah,’ said Tom with epic disinterest, already turning his back to punch the code into the door entry system.
‘I don't care what you think. I'm telling you, that's not an opening chapter, it's an ice age.
C'est une époque!
’
Tom's voice shook the thin office walls
Tom punched his PIN into the cash machine. Internal mechanisms grumbled like a reluctant parent and the screen flashed its decision.
INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.
Letting rip with a sibilant French oath and thumping the keypad, he retrieved his useless card and, with as much dignity as he could muster, struck off past the line of people waiting to use the cash machine. Roddy tripped at his heels.
‘So, does this mean I'm buying the donuts again?’
Tom cast him a dark look and watched in puzzled silence as Roddy flipped up the furry hood on his coat so that it completely covered his head. It wasn't raining, for a change, and the city was experiencing that most unusual of phenomena, an actual season. Instead of the indistinguishable mush of weather that passed for a climate, the last week had been discernibly summery.
‘I don't get it,’ said Roddy's muffled voice from deep within the hood. ‘Jane Lockhart made you a small fortune. I don't know anyone who's blown as much money as you have in such a short time. And I know people at the Royal Bank of Scotland.’
Tom refused to engage with Roddy's leading remark,especially since he had a point. It had been more than a year since
Happy Ending
hit the bestseller charts. The sales numbers were strong, but not astronomical. After all, Jane Lockhart was ‘literary fiction’, not ‘vampire romance’. The book had been profitable, but to sell those big numbers the retailers had demanded huge discounts and marketing bungs, which had eaten into his share.
Then he'd taken the remainder of the money and gone on a spending spree, acquiring three debuts within the space of a month, one of them in a competitive auction against three multinational publishers with deep pockets. As soon as he submitted the winning bid he knew he'd paid too much. Ah well, there was always a chance that
Earnest Shards
would find an audience. Hey, who wouldn't love a star-crossed gay love story set in the world of stained-glassmaking in Renaissance Florence?
Tom could hold off no longer. He had to know. ‘Why do you have your hood up?’
‘I don't want to be recognised.’
That was not a reasonable answer. ‘You're an English supply teacher at a state-assisted secondary school in suburban Glasgow.’
Roddy grasped the cords that adjusted the hood and tugged them sharply, sealing himself inside. ‘Exactly.’
Tom's battered green Peugeot limped into a space on the crowded street outside Tristesse Books. The gearbox gave one last tortured whine and the engine shuddered into silence. He climbed out and slammed the door. Thecatch was broken and there was a knack to closing it properly. Which was to slam it. Repeatedly.
‘I can give you an hour of secretarial services,’ said Roddy emerging from the passenger side clutching a warm bag of Krispy Kremes, ‘then I've got
Great Expectations
in Maryhill.’
Even as the barbed quip formed on Tom's lips Roddy was raising a finger.
‘Don't,’ he wagged. ‘Just don't.’
There was a rumble of tyres against cobbles and the two men swivelled their heads to see the driverless Peugeot roll gently into the car in front. Bumper lay against bumper like a tired drunk resting his head on a friend.
‘You should probably get that fixed,’ said Roddy.
‘Yeah,’ said Tom with epic disinterest, already turning his back to punch the code into the door entry system.
‘I don't care what you think. I'm telling you, that's not an opening chapter, it's an ice age.
C'est une époque!
’
Tom's voice shook the thin office walls
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