Ladies Who Lunch - on a bus pass.

It’s the middle of the night, - well, maybe not quite but it feels like it. Cold, dark and raining - that fine Scots drizzle that manages to penetrate even the most ample flesh and seep into the
bones.
So, what in God’s name am I doing here? Okay I know I was invited, if you can call Grace’s late night summons an ‘invitation’.
“Olivia’s called off, I’m afraid. Nigel’s made her a better offer. Need you to make up the numbers, Jane. Megabus leaves Broxden at 8. See you then.” And she hung up.
Verity and Grace (anyone less gracious I’ve yet to meet) are huddled in the cramped bus shelter when I arrive, damp and breathless.
Grace, not a hair out of place, greets me with a royal hand movement - not quite a wave, more a wavelet.
“Sorry, no room,” she mouths with relish, indicating the crush.
I smile forgivingly and curse myself for having left my umbrella sheltering the kitchen table.
Five minutes later, the Edinburgh Megabus emerges from the gloom, her sunshine yellow logo lighting up the grey November morning.
I dive into my handbag, searching for that passport to exotic travel - the bus pass. Oh,joy of joys - don’t say I’ve managed to forget that as well. I look up ready to signal the ‘bad’ news to my two companions, only to discover they’ve sailed past me and into the warmth.
Verity beckons me to hurry. I mime frantic searching, then overwhelmed by guilt pangs, pull my hand out brandishing the card. Grace winces at this public display. She regards advertising our age as a mortal sin.
“Morning, Jane. Organisational problems?” she quips.
“Er . . . sorry about that,” I stammer, collapsing into an aisle seat whose leg room seems designed to accommodate the vertically challenged.
“Very comfortable,” enthuses Verity, patting her chair. “Roomy too.”
I make a mental note of the position of their seats for the return journey.
Verity’s looking particularly prim this morning. Her face is thin at the best of times but today it seems pincered as if she’s been sooking extra strong peppermints. The hairstyle doesn’t help, of course - short, sharp and steely grey
The bus pulls out and we’re off. Three ‘mature’Perth ladies (connotations of ripening blue cheese) hitting the capital for a spot of retail therapy and a bijou dining experience. I let out an audible sigh and draw looks from ‘Powerful’ and ‘Prim’. How am I going to get through the day?
I’m such a coward. I could have told Madam Grace where to put her plan. But, she’d caught me at my most vulnerable - writing the closing lines to a short story. After yet another rejection slip from yet another publisher, I’d recovered enough to try again. Sucker for
punishment, that’s me. I’ve forgotten just how many stories I’ve submitted to faceless strangers (all apparently called Giles or Samantha) in the publishing coven. Even tried a few competitions - Guardian, Scotsman - that sort of thing. Just as well, really, otherwise I’d
spend a lot of my time howling with self-pity. No, onwards and . . . into a cul-de-sac.
I rouse myself from these negative reflections.
“So what’s on the agenda for the day?”I ask with forced cheerfulness.
“We’ll start with Harvey Nick’s, then head for George Street. Lunch at the Tigerlily,” instructs Grace. Democracy appears to have died while I’ve been musing.
“This Tigerlily place. What’s it like?” Verity dares to ask.
“Oh wonderful find - all mirrored walls and revolving glitter balls. Very chic - very modern. You’ll love it.”
I glance across at Verity’s face. Her pert little rose seems to wrinkle ever so slightly as if a bubble of escaping wind has drifted past her nostrils.
“Glitter balls, did you say? Sounds quite decadent to me.”
“You’ll love it,” Grace commands. Verity sinks back into her seat, suitably cowed.
Outside, daylight breaches the gloom. Motorway traffic swooshes across rain-soaked tar, throwing up wave after wave of fine black spray. The landscape peers out enquiringly at these motorised intruders - sleek and glossy from the outside but inside . . ? The hills settle
back into the safety blanket of cloud.
I doze fitfully, wakened now and then by twitching knees bumping against the hard leather seat-back of the chair in front.
“Ferrytoll!” the driver shouts. “Anyone for Edinburgh airport, change here.”
Sleepily I watch a young couple alight and collect their cases. I envy them their destination. It’s bound to be better than the grand tour of an upmarket fashion store where the staff appear to have been selected for their botox-stiffened expressions and perpendicular
gradient of their noses. I’ve only once been dragged screaming into HN and that was by my daughter who tried to convince me that this was THE only emporium where she would find a suitable dress for her graduation ball. While she’ oohed’ and ‘ahed’ at the frocks (hardly
enough material in them to call them ‘frocks’), I scrutinised the cunningly concealed price tags. Predictably, the outing ended in tears but with my cheque book intact.
Grace leans across the aisle and lays a perfectly manicured hand on my arm.
“Late night?” she enquires. I feel her eyes searching my face for evidence of debauchery. I’m sure she thinks I live the life of a slattern: locked in my messy study by day,slumming on fast food and cheap wine by night. Not an entirely false picture.
“’Fraid so - trying to finish some writing.”
Abruptly, she pulls her hand away, as if frightened of catching some dread disease.
Books (except of the celeb. variety) and writing are taboo subjects with Grace. “They are responsible for a great deal of unhappiness in this world,” she’d once told me in all
seriousness. “People would be far better off spending their time on useful things - like lunching with friends or . . . shopping.”
Contrary to all rational thinking, I actually feel sorry for Grace. Yes, she’s beautiful, if you can apply that adjective to women of our age - and yes, she’s loaded. Hubby went off
with a younger model five years ago but left the ex with a lovely old house on Kinnoull Hill and an eye- watering number of noughts in her bank account. But she’s got to be lonely. I mean there are only so many lunches you can eat in the week and only so many clothes you can cram into your wardrobe or, in her case, wardrobes without risking cracks in the walls. I imagine her standing in front of the bedroom mirror at night admiring her slim figure and well-preserved skin. As she turns away, however, she catches a dimming in her flashing, dark eyes and sees the barren future stretch in front of her.
Fanciful musings, no doubt, but I’ll try to keep them in mind over the next few challenging hours.
“Bloody hell!” shouts the driver. We all crane forward and see that our normal access to the bus station is blocked, thanks to yet another set of roadworks. By now the Edinburgh
tramline débacle has become international news.
After a convoluted detour, we eventually pull into St Andrew’s Square. Harvey Nichols summons - quite literally. The main windows are peopled by bizarre, stick-like
figures draped in glowing fabrics and beckoning passers by to step inside.
We form an incongruous tail - sleek suited Grace at the head, tightly collared Verity in the middle and baggy trousered me bringing up the rear. The top hatted Commissioner’s
wilting smile reflects his assessment of the group.
Grace heads upstairs to the ladies’ fashion departments.
“Right, Jane,” she announces, lifting something off the rail which may have passed for a skirt in a Lilliputian landscape. “We do need to sort you out. Try this and here’s a sweet little top to go with it,” she adds, picking up a body hugging vest in some sort of leather-type
material. Oh God! Don’t tell me - under that svelte looking exterior there beats the heart of a bondage queen.
“I . . . I really don’t think that’s quite me.”
Verity averts her eyes.
“Of course, it’s you. You just don’t know it yet. Go on,” she urges, pushing me towards the changing room.
I struggle into the ‘skirt’ which barely covers my modesty. Then fight my way into the leather bodice. I stare at myself in the mirror, except it isn’t me but some freak who’s taken over my body. ‘It’ looks like a malformed worm with bulging segments forced out under pressure. My heart is racing, partly from the effort of dressing, partly from fear.
“Well, let’s have a look then,” Grace calls from outside the curtain.
I swallow hard. “I can’t . . . I can’t come out like this.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? “she protests, yanking at the flimsy curtain.
Instinctively, my arms fly to my exposed breasts, then, confused, drop to my lower half.
Time seems to stop as I stand exposed to the full glare of other shoppers.
Finally, Grace concedes, “Well, maybe not,” and returns to scan the rails.
Verity pretends to pick her way cautiously through a box of silk scarves.
Back in the comfort zone of my own formless trousers, I steel myself for another assault. Verity is still hovering by the scarves so I join her, hoping she might act as a human
shield.
“Why does she pick on me?” I groan.
“Are you referring to Grace?”
Who else do you think, woman, I wanted to say. God?
“Yes. Grace. Oh I know she thinks I’m a bit of a disaster - style-wise, work-wise but
that doesn’t give her the right to pick on me.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit disloyal? Grace did invite you, after all. You could have said no.” Verity sniffs primly and turns her back on me.
“Look, I didn’t mean it like that . . . ”
“I hope not. I admire Grace. She’s always so elegant and . . . well, assertive. I admire that in a woman.”
Assertiveness - I could do with some of that right now. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep a careful watch on the enemy, arming herself with weapons of mass destruction. Well,
MY destruction, anyway.
“What sort of things do you write about anyway?” Verity suddenly inquires.
“Oh . . . all sorts, usually about people and how their lives interconnect. Short stories mainly but I’m working on my first novel just now.”
“Do you write about . . . you know sex?” The word comes out like the suppressed hiss of an angry snake.
I struggle to hold back the bubbles of laughter. For a moment, I pretend to sift through the scarf display, trying to recover my composure.
“It’s everywhere these days,” she goes on before I’ve time to answer. “Television, newspapers, films, books . . . everywhere.” As she finishes the list, she collapses onto a nearby couch, visibly exhausted. Primness obviously requires a high level of fitness to keep it in shape.
Suddenly, I spot Grace, heavily armed and bearing down on me. I decide on a pre-emptive strike.
“Very hot in here . . . need some fresh air . . . see you outside when you’re ready . . ”
Well that fairly disarmed her, didn’t it? You simpering crawler, you really need to find that assertive gene or you’ve had it.
Outside, the rain has eased and a watery sun struggles to make its presence felt. Idly, I glance into shop windows or play my favourite game - guessing his or her story.
Half an hour later, my two companions emerge, both armed with parcels, Grace’s collection considerably larger than Verity’s.
“Feeling better?” asks Grace with just a hint of a sneer.
“Much better, thanks.” She eyes me pityingly. She thinks I’m pathetic, so worthy of her sympathy.
We head for George Street and another hour of trawling through the latest fashions and accessories before Grace mercifully announces “Lunch”.
Tigerlily is everything she said it would be - and more. Despite the eclectic mix of styles - check the beaded curtains - it somehow works. For the first time today, I begin to
relax.
“Sea bass is delicious,” coos Grace. “Had it when I was here with Olivia. Strongly recommend it.”
Avoid the sea bass at all costs, Jane. When I opt for the lamb chops, Grace shoots me a despairing look.
“We’ll get a bottle of wine.” Before anyone has time to lick her lips, the decision is made. “Chablis, I think. Goes well with the fish. Not quite so good with the lamb, I’m afraid but then you wouldn’t take my advice, would you?” she scolds as if I’m some naughty child who’s come out without her hat.
“Don’t think we’ll manage a bottle, will we?” Verity asks tentatively.
“Speak for yourself,” snaps Grace.
In my mind’s eye, I pull on my hairshirt and flinch at my folly in agreeing to come on this ridiculous outing. We’re not even friends, for heaven’s sake. Acquaintances, yes - friends, no. I met all three - Grace, Verity and Olivia - at a charity event in our local church. I’m not a member but occasionally find myself agreeing to help out at fund raising evenings. Grace is
very active on the committee and Verity was recruited as her acolyte, probably because her face looks suitably demure, in a Presbyterian sort of way. But her greatest appeal to Grace, no doubt, is her acquiescence
After that, we seemed to find ourselves sharing duties and transport on a number of occasions. Grace was driving this night and invited us all back to her place (or should that be palace?) for a nightcap. By the third glass of wine, the atmosphere seemed to mellow and a warm glow filled the richly furnished room. By the time the taxi arrived, we were bosom
buddies.
Such indulgence comes at a price, of course. Being co-opted into the Ladies Who Lunch club, however, seems an unacceptably high price to pay. So why don’t I just press the
ejector button and . . . ?
“Drink up, Jane.” Grace’s peremptory tone answers my question.
Dutifully, I take a swig and swallow hard, trying to ease the route of a particularly indigestible piece of meat. A pair of blade-sharp eyes follows its passage.
We’re at the coffee stage when the conversation turns to my scribblings.
“You know I’m not into reading very much,” admits Grace, “that’s if you discount the glossies,” she adds with a little giggle, “but I do sometimes wonder what makes people
want to write. It seems such a boring occupation - and lonely, I should think, shut up in their
ivory towers with only their thoughts for company.”
“I never find it lonely, “ I say defensively, remembering the cold, dark hours when I can’t sleep because I’m straining to catch the voice of a character. “I suppose I write because I love telling stories, stories about people . . . and what makes them happy, sad, funny . . . “
This explanation is met with a blank stare from Grace and a whimper of dismay from Verity.
“You don’t write about us . . . do you?” she asks.
I stare at her for a moment, then hiccup with laughter. What a ridiculous idea!
“Even if she did, Verity, no one would know about it. Jane hasn’t had anything published. Or have you?” As she poses the question, she leans across the table and beams at
me.
I shake my head, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a ‘No’.
In reply, she lifts a teaspoon and gives her coffee a triumphant stir.
By now, the restaurant is buzzing with diners framed in the mirrored walls. Above our table, glass balls pulse in starbursts. Raised glasses catch a beam and dance in the twinkle of light.
The crisp snap of fingers, “Bill, please!” and the spell is broken.
We reach for handbags and scrabble about for notes and coins. Grace lifts the money from the table and announces she’ll pay the lot by card. Another small victory - she pockets the readies and gains a few weeks’ credit on her plastic. Assertiveness deserts me once more.
Maybe she needs it, poor dear. Why else would she deign to travel by Megabus?
Maybe Kinnoull Palace and its attendant luxuries are just part of a spectacular mirage . . . and
maybe Tigerlily’s a tooth fairy!
“Time for a last dash round the shops before the 3.30?” Verity asks.
“You bet,” replies Grace.
I summon a watery smile.
And then I catch sight of a familiar figure, weaving her way between tables.
“Jenny!” I shout much louder than intended. I rush to meet her, enveloping her tiny frame in a huge hug.
“Congratulations!” she whoops once she’s breathing again.”
Seconds elapse before I register the word.
“Congratulations?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Jenny asks, thrusting a copy of today’s ‘Scotsman’ into my hand. “You’ve won . . . your story’s won The New Writers’ prize.”
I gasp like a floundering fish and stare at the newspaper. There’s a sharp intake of breath as if the whole restaurant is waiting.
Suddenly my brain reconnects.
“I’ve won?” I whisper disbelievingly.
Jenny hugs me again, whirling me round and round, bumping into tables, spilling drinks and drawing curses.
A hand grips my arm and marches me towards the exit. “Have you gone mad?” snarls Grace, flint eyes blazing.
“It was so embarrassing, Jane. We’ll never be able to show face there again,” whimpers Verity.
I stare at the pair of them, desperately trying to refocus. Finally it’s Grace’s eyes,
unflinching in their disapproval, that pull me back to the moment.
“Oh . . . what a pity,” I stammer, in my most apologetic tone. “I was going to invite you to join me there at some future date . . . for a celebratory dinner.”
“What’re you talking about? What’s there to celebrate after that exhibition?” demands Grace.
“She’s just won a short story competition,” announces Jenny. “Quite a significant one, in fact.”
Grace scrutinises Verity, then Jenny, then me, clearly doubting the veracity of the news.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jenny enthuses.
“Well, yes . . . yes, of course,” Grace finally concedes. There’s a moment’s hesitation then, “And we’d be delighted to help you celebrate.” She squeezes a smile and edges closer to her friend. “Wouldn’t we, Verity?”
I want to be magnanimous in my hour of victory but I can’t. All those whispered asides, all that pursed lip primness. Suddenly I feel a great surge of empowerment.
"When were you thinking of . . .?” Grace starts but I cut her short.
“Come on, Jenny,” I say, linking arms in girlish glee. “Let’s go celebrate.”
Verity turns back towards the restaurant, sensing some kind of unseemly defeat but Grace holds her position. I too stay my ground for a second, then Jenny leads me away.
“Shop ‘til you drop!” I shout defiantly over my shoulder. “Enjoy the bus ride. We’ll catch the train. First class, of course!”
The muted echoes of a Pyrrhic victory ring in my ears.