Chapter 3 #2
The foyer is deserted, and the lad in the kiosk looks as if he’s praying for a coma to end the boredom. I order a bag of sweet popcorn and a large Irn Bru.
So…Nevin Neely.
The name thrums behind my eyes while the machine whirs.
Good feet, ego the size of Murrayfield Stadium.
He treats rugby like a solo sport and life the same way.
Why a woman who sits like she’s made of porcelain and cold-rolled iron picks a man who sucks the air out of every room is a call I’m not being paid to make.
She’s here alone. He’s probably out with the boys, or glued to a mirror somewhere, tickling his own abs.
Again, not my business.
I pay the teenager behind the till. This isn’t a rescue mission. Two people killing time, each dealing with their own damage.
I head back into the dark. She hasn’t moved an inch by the looks of it. Balancing my Irn Bru, I sink into the seat, and hold the bucket out.
‘Tax,’ I say. ‘For watching my coat.’
She reaches in and takes a handful. I take one too, forcing the sugary foam into my mouth. I bloody hate the sweet stuff. It sticks to my teeth and tastes like headache. But the piston-knee has stopped bouncing.
And that? Worth it.
Five seconds later, she’s attacking the bucket. There’s no other word for it. She dives into the cardboard before she’s even finished chewing the previous mouthful. It’s a furious caloric refuelling. A flanker trying to get mass back after a stomach bug.
‘I guess you were hungry.’ I lean an inch closer. ‘You’re gobbling that up like the Cookie Monster on a bender.’
She pauses, cheeks bulged out like a hamster. ‘I miffep binner.’ A single bit of popcorn shrapnel scatters into the dark as she speaks.
‘Obviously.’ I nudge the bucket closer to her. ‘By all means, fill yer boots.’
On the screen, a man in a pristine camel coat is attempting to purchase a single sourdough roll with a golden credit card in a tiny village bakery.
‘I’m calling it,’ I mutter in her direction. ‘He’s from a wee Alpine nation. He has Secret Prince written all over his chiselled cheekbones.’
Beside me, she’s twisting a popcorn kernel between her fingers. ‘Actually, it’s the Principality of Veronia. Population: twelve. And they’re all on his payroll as royal foot-rubbers.’
There’s a wry slant at the corner of her lips. The film’s heroine, draped in a white cashmere sweater that would be a crime scene within five minutes in a real kitchen, sighs dreamily and gives him a free baguette.
‘And there it is.’ She flicks the kernel into the air and catches it with her mouth. ‘The I’m-a-local-artisan-who-doesn’t-understand-profit-margins move. That bakery will be a Starbucks by Hogmanay.’
I watch the film, but my attention is latched to the woman by my side. The tension has bled out of her frame.
‘Naw. It won’t,’ I say. ‘He’s going to mend her broken oven with a paperclip and a piece of tinsel. Thus is the magical power of the Christmas Prince.’
‘Maybe.’ She lets out a tiny huff. It’s a private sound, meant only for the thirty inches of air between us.
‘In the third act, he’ll reveal his title.
She’ll pretend to feel betrayed for the length of a montage, and then they’ll bridge the class divide by ramming their tongues into each other’s throats in a horse-drawn carriage.
’ She turns and looks at me with a crooked grin.
The fizz in my veins has nothing to do with my drink. It’s a confusing, dizzying feeling, being understood without having to provide a footnote for the joke.
‘Aye. And then she’ll be queen and forget all about her wee bakery, friends, and poor employees as soon as he carries her over the threshold of his fancy castle. Greedy cow.’
She snorts and laughs at the same time again, and suddenly it bothers me that I don’t know what to call her. Oi, Nevin’s bird sits sour on my tongue. I’m a rugby player, not a tasteless dick without manners.
‘Since you’re as much undercover here as I am,’ I keep my eyes on the secret prince handling a lump of dough, ‘we should probably have code names. You could be Golden Eagle or Red Sparrow or something.’
Christ. How old am I – seven?
Yer bum’s oot the windae, Scottie Kerr. Pull it together.
She stops chewing and turns her head. In the shadows, her eyes catch the reflection of the fake snow. ‘Hm. If I’m a Red Sparrow, what would that make you – a Big Bear?’
‘I can live with that. Fits the description, and I’ve been called worse.’
‘Okay, let me think.’ She scratches her chin with a bit of theatre. ‘You may call me…Marzipan.’
‘Like the food? Your codename is a snack?’
She lets out that grunt-laugh again. It’s a wonderful sound. A lot rougher than she looks. ‘It’s from a ballet.’
‘Right. Ballet. Flitting around in tights and tutus.’
‘Tsk! Hardest athletic discipline on earth. Don’t let the tulle fool you.’
‘Is that what you do – dance?’
‘Mostly, yeah.’
Ah, so she doesn’t want to talk about that, either. Noted. I steal a piece of what’s left of that disgusting snack to keep my hands busy.
‘Right then. Marzipan it is.’
‘Copy that. Bear.’
I’d love to know her real name, though.
For the next hour, we trade insults at the screen. No questions about Nevin or anything. Only the safety of a plot you can predict from space. The prince threatens to abdicate his throne for the small-town baker without so much as a thought for his Alpine nation. We groan in unison.
And of course, they kiss in the carriage. The grand finale.
Eventually, the house lights flicker on. Harsh and intrusive and way too early. I stay put. She stands and brushes crumbs from her lap with quick movements.
‘Next week is Snow Way Out,’ she says. ‘Supposed to be a delight.’
‘Sounds hellish.’ I scrape a final few crumbs of sugar from the bottom of the bucket. ‘I’ll probably be here.’
‘Probably. Who would want to miss that?’
‘I guess I’ll see you then, Marzipan.’
The ridiculous nickname shouldn’t fit. She’s too clever and too guarded for something sugary. But when she grins, the armour cracks, and I wouldn’t mind being the one who finds the sweet parts underneath.
Wait. What?
She doesn’t say goodbye. She just smiles, slips into the aisle, and vanishes through the double doors.
The space beside me cools, and the silence rushes in, but it feels different. Less like a fortress, more like a waiting room.
Then I spot it.
A pool of red wool coiled under her chair.
Her scarf.
Seeing it sends my heart into a rib-shattering kick. I snatch the wool and bring it to my face. It’s soft and smells of rain and vanilla.
Then I launch myself out of the chair and head for the exit.