AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Flick: The Bachelor.
‘Why do people go on these shows?’ she asks.
‘Because people like you watch them.’
‘No, I’m serious. You’re a psychologist. Why?’
‘They want to be famous.’
‘By embarrassing themselves.’
‘Some crave attention or validation. Others think fame will cure their self-doubt or anxiety or help them belong or make them rich.’
‘I don’t want to be rich or famous,’ says Evie, before changing her mind. ‘Being rich would be OK. I’d buy an animal shelter and spend my life rescuing dogs.’
‘Very worthy. Can you go to bed, please?’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Of course you are.’
There is a Chinese restaurant further along the road. It has about six tables with plastic chairs and plastic menus and plastic bottles of soy sauce and sweet chilli. Two customers are picking up takeaways, but the dining tables are empty. The menu is a weird mixture of Thai, Chinese, Indian and European, with chips included. It reminds me of an old Frankie Boyle joke about Las Vegas and Glasgow being the only two places in the world where you can pay for sex with chips.
The sole waitress has bleached blonde hair and an outsized rump encased in purple leggings. She calls out our meal order to the open kitchen, where the Asian chef, half her size, is wielding a wok like a sword. He’s yelling at a kitchenhand, who is wrist deep in suds at the sink, wilting under the abuse.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask the waitress.
‘Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?’
It’s a challenge rather than a question – telling me to mind my own business.
The harbour is visible between buildings. Fishing trawlers are moored side by side along the dock, and men are still working under the lights, loading ice and fuel, and mending nets.
I pick up a local newspaper, which is full of ads for engineering companies, boatyards, fishing agents, hydraulic specialists, shipwrights and vessel brokers.
‘Are yer lookin’ fer work?’ asks the waitress, who delivers our meals. Her right thumb has been sitting in my chicken chow mein. She licks it clean.
‘No, just visiting,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping to catch up with a friend. We lost touch a while back.’
‘Does he owe you money?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find. Not a big place this.’
‘Angus Radford.’
She thrusts out her hip. ‘Popular name around here.’
‘He’s a fisherman.’
‘Plenty o’ them.’ She moves away.
Evie whispers, ‘She’s lying,’ and dips a spring roll into chilli sauce.
Later, I notice the waitress talking on her mobile phone and glancing towards me. It could be nothing, but I’m annoyed because St Claire is the sort of parochial, insular place where word can travel quickly. I purposely pay the bill in cash, not wanting to hand over my credit card. Outside, under a streetlight, I turn in the opposite direction to the guest house.
‘It’s that way,’ says Evie.
