Fortune's Bastard by Robert Chalmers

Author:Robert Chalmers [Chalmers, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Humour
ISBN: 9780802141606
Amazon: 0802141609
Goodreads: 540787
Publisher: Grove Press, Black Cat
Published: 2004-08-16T12:00:00+00:00

He took a taxi back to Calle Vic, where he had a shower and changed into his work clothes. He caught the fifteen bus to the school, down Diagonal, the main artery across the city. It got held up in traffic, opposite a shop that sold wedding dresses. Miller gazed vacantly at the window display, his mind oscillating between elation, foreboding, and some other emotion he couldn't quite recognize, it was so long since he'd experienced it.

The full-length white lace dresses were precisely the sort of thing Jordan would have despised. These clothes, he decided, belonged firmly in the world of Tracey. He began to wonder what had inspired her new name – the river, perhaps, or a character he half-remembered from The Great Gatsby. In any case, he wouldn't have minded what Jordan was called. He repeated her names to himself – Tracey and Jordan, over and over. Then he remembered the way she'd said that phrase – ‘not my real name'. He recalled how she'd pressed her lips close to his ear when she'd said ‘real name', and he repeated those two words to himself. And it was then, as he said it for the third time, under his breath – ‘real name’ – that he realized that he'd signed his note with his.

He got off the bus by the wedding shop, which was only half-way to the school. His first thought was to get a cab back to Casa Baro. But even Jordan, he reasoned, had to be awake by now. In any case, if he went back and rang the doorbell, she'd see the note as soon as she opened her eyes. ‘Edward,’ he remembered her saying. ‘What kind of man calls himself Edward?’ And her other remark. ‘Hey Will – he's from Oldham, like you.’ He decided to walk the rest of the way to Oxbridge House, to give himself time to ponder his predicament. He found himself slipping back into his old way of thinking, as a devious optimist. She wouldn't necessarily jump to a dangerous conclusion straight away. He cursed the way he had disclosed the lingua franca of his old trade to Bas. But there was more than one Edward from Oldham, he told himself, who knew about print runs, and page proofs, and bulk sales. These were several pieces of a very big jigsaw.

He needed to think. Instead of going straight to the school, he stopped in Pascual's. He went down to the far end of the counter where the barman was sitting alone, reading the paper. Andres and a few other regulars were playing dominoes at a table near the entrance.

‘Buenas… holy shit,’ said the café owner, looking at Miller's bloodshot eyes and troubled expression.

‘What is it? Una resaca?'

‘It's not a hangover,’ said Miller.’ ‘I'm in trouble. Will you call Christopher and tell him I can't go in?'

‘Me?’ said Pascual. ‘How is that going to look?'

‘I don't care how it looks,’ said Miller. ‘Just do it. Please.’

‘I…'

‘Please.’

The barman made the call.

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