‘Joey,’ I replied, glancing down at my bump, ‘if you can’t see that I’m carrying, someone needs to have a talk with you. As for my mobile, if I switch it off in this condition my husband will go radio rentals. He might even take it out on you, and you’d hate that. But as long as you’re prepared to handle the flak, I’ll do that for you.’
‘Fantastic,’ he beamed, then moved off on a wave of over-statement, after a little squeeze of Aileen’s hand.
‘Would there be some history between you two by any chance?’ I asked her, mischievously.
She smiled as she nodded. ‘A brief encounter or two, when he was still on Scottish telly.’
‘He still fancies you, I’d say.’
‘I know.’ She winked at me. ‘I could tell by the way he squeezed my bum when he hugged me. The question is, do I still fancy him?’
Before I’d had a chance to take that any further, there were sounds of a small commotion behind us. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the car they’d been expecting outside had turned up at last. The First Minister was among us, with the Lord Provost on one side, and on the other a smallish woman with brown skin, copper hair and the most sexually aggressive body I have ever seen, packed into a tight red evening dress.
‘Didn’t we do right,’ I murmured to Aileen, but she wasn’t listening. Instead she was gazing at the new female in our midst with eyes like ice and a wholly insincere smile fixed on her face.
‘Clive,’ she greeted her biggest political opponent as he came towards us. He wore his usual slightly cautious expression. . and his usual silly tartan waistcoat, although his evening’s choice did match his trews, I’ll give him that.
‘My dear,’ he responded. They shook hands, briefly, semi-formally; no cheek-kissing for them, in case someone snapped it on an illicit iPhone and flogged the image to the tabloids. ‘Glad you could come. You couldn’t persuade your husband though?’
‘Don’t go there,’ she said, cutting off that line of questioning. ‘I brought a friend instead, Paula Viareggio, married name McGuire; this could be her last night of freedom, so we’re out to enjoy it.’
‘Be sure you do.’ As Clive Graham spoke, a tall man moved in behind him; his hair was silver, more or less the same shade as the acres of braid on his uniform.
The First Minister’s companion didn’t seem to welcome his presence, but she couldn’t ignore it. She turned to me. ‘Paula this is. .’
I smiled, not at her but at him. ‘I know who it is. Hi, Max,’ I greeted him. ‘You must be fit, to be carrying all that braid on your shoulders.’ Max Allan lives in Lanark, but he and his wife do most of their shopping in Edinburgh. They’ve been among the Viareggio delicatessen chain’s best customers since my grandfather’s time. I knew he was a police officer, but I hadn’t realised that he was that senior.
He beamed back at me. ‘Radiant, Paula,’ he exclaimed, ‘radiant.’ Then he turned serious. ‘First Minister,’ he murmured, ‘can I have a word in private?’
Graham nodded and led the way towards an unoccupied corner, well away from tray waitresses and the savoury tables. His companion went with him.
‘He doesn’t look as though he’s fit for her. Is that really Mrs Graham?’ I asked Aileen.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Graham’s recovering from what the press office described as varicose vein removal, which is true if you regard piles as a type of varicose vein. That wee red dragon is Toni Field, the new chief constable in Strathclyde.’
‘In which case,’ I murmured, ‘Max has just lit her fire.’ She followed my gaze. Whatever my customer had told them had made her go absolutely rigid with what looked pretty much like fury to me.
‘It can’t be bad enough news as far as I’m concerned,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t stand the bloody woman. Unfortunately I’m told that some of my parliamentary colleagues in London think the sun shines out of her fundament.’
‘What’s she doing with Clive Graham?’
‘One of them is using the other to make a point. I’m not entirely sure which; maybe they both are, but I suspect it’s her. Clive probably knows he’s testing my patience and my loyalty by wearing her on his arm at a do like this, but he doesn’t have the courage to put her in her place.’
She was still sizzling when a warning bell rang, and Joey Morocco asked everyone to make their way into the auditorium, apart from the principal guests and charity patrons. We were among the former category, so we hung back, until eventually we were arranged into a line, by a harassed wee man, who seemed to be in charge of everything. He looked like someone who’d just woken on Boxing Day to discover that he’d slept through Christmas.
When we were ready we filed in; patrons first, then the Lord Provost and Mrs Provost, then the First Minister and his ‘date’, then me and finally Aileen. She’d reversed the order into which the harassed man had put us.
‘Do me a favour,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t have me sit next to that bloody woman Field. She’s a philistine and I’m sure she’d talk to me all the way through the performance, just to wind me up. She doesn’t know you, so that might shut her up.’
As soon as we were settled in our seats, Joey Morocco moved on to stage, to gusts of applause, to stand in front of the assembled Scottish National Orchestra, and beside a piano that seemed to be minus a player. He made a short welcome speech, plugged the benefiting charities, and then went serious on us.
‘Now the bad news,’ he announced. ‘We’ve all come here tonight to be enthralled by the great Theo Fabrizzi. Well, I’m afraid I have to tell you,’ he paused, then lapsed inexplicably into Glaswegian, ‘it’s no gonnae happen.’
He waited for the buzz to subside, then he continued. ‘Poor Theo has been overtaken by one of those short notice things that can afflict us all, and he regrets enormously that he is not going to be able to play this evening. However,’ his tone turned upbeat, ‘we still have the nation’s finest orchestra to delight us, so the evening will still be memorable. Please just imagine the piano bits, okay?’
He left the stage to applause that was much less rapturous than at his entrance.
I wasn’t bothered. The piano has never been my favourite instrument, unless Elton John’s sitting at it. I was going to have a good time anyway.
A minute or so later, Joey reappeared on the left of the stage. ‘And now, my lords, ladies and gentlepeople,’ he announced, ‘please welcome your conductor, Sir Leslie Fender.’
A fat man in white tie and tails, with slicked-back hair and an enormously pompous bearing, walked out to centre stage, bowed theatrically, then stepped laboriously up on to his podium. He picked up his baton, raised it, and as if on cue. . as it probably was. . the house lights faded.
And that’s when it all got very strange. Time seemed to speed up. I was aware of something happening very close to me, of three thudding sounds, of something wet spattering on me. . then everything went black, as if the darkest night you could ever imagine had fallen in an instant.
Someone screamed. I think it was me.