Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

“What is it, chuck? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gloria said, concern in her voice.

I shook my head, folding the papers away. “It’s nothing, Gloria. Just some sad twisted copper’s idea of a joke.”

She loses her own apprehensions through her profound and penetrating investigative interest in others. She has a strong sense of how her life should be arranged, often bringing order to chaos. She follows her feelings and is sensitive to the subtext that lies beneath the conversation and behavior of others. She can harness irrationality and factor it into her decision-making.

From Written in the Stars , by Dorothea Dawson

If I hadn’t known how thoroughly Dorothea Dawson researched her clients, I’d probably have been impressed with her astrological analysis of my character. I wouldn’t have minded betting that the minute Gloria told Dorothea she’d hired me, the astrologer had started digging. I wasn’t exactly a shrinking violet. For a start, I’d appeared in Alexis’s stories in the Chronicle more times than I was entirely comfortable with. So it wouldn’t have been too hard for Dorothea to pick up a few snippets about me and weave them into an otherwise standard profile.

What she missed completely was my sense of humor. I mean, if I didn’t have a world-class sense of humor, why else would I be sitting in the Costa Coffee forecourt at Piccadilly Station drinking moccachino and reading my horoscope when I could be at home, snug as a bug in a phone, working out how to solve my latest computer game with a Stoly and pink grapefruit juice on the side?

The reason why I was lurking among the sad souls condemned to travelling on Virgin Trains was shuffling from foot to foot a few yards away, like a small child who needs to go to the toilet but doesn’t want to miss some crucial development in his favorite TV show. Gizmo had clearly had a hard time deciding between style

As well as hopping from one foot to the other, Gizmo was clutching a copy of Iain M. Banks’s cult sci-fi novel, Feersum Endjin , the agreed recognition signal. He’d arranged to meet Jan off the London train at half past eight and he’d been dancing his quaint jig since a quarter past. Imagine expecting a train to be early. I’d sat comfortably sipping my brew and dipping into Dorothea’s digest of my personality.

There was an indecipherable announcement over the Tannoy and Gizmo stopped jigging. He leaned slightly forward, nose towards the platforms like a setter scenting the breeze. I followed his gaze and watched the dark-red livery of the London train easing into platform six with a rumble and a sigh. I couldn’t help crossing my fingers. If this went pear-shaped, I’d get no proper work out of him for weeks.

The carriage doors were opening the length of the train and people spilled on to the platform. First past us were the smokers, carrying with them a miasma of overflowing ashtray after two and a half hours sitting in stale tobacco smoke. Then the usual Fridaynight mixture of day-trip shoppers, students coming to Manchester for a groovy weekend, senior citizens exhausted from a week with the grandchildren, sales reps and educational consultants in cheap suits crumpled by the journey and, finally, the first-class passengers in sleek tailoring with their identikit suit carriers and briefcases, men and women alike.

Gizmo bobbed like a ball on the tide of humanity streaming past him, his eyes darting from side to side. The crowd swelled, then steadied, then thinned to the last stragglers. His head seemed to shrink into his shoulders like a tortoise and I saw him sigh.

Last off the train was a blond giant. His broad shoulders strained a black leather jacket that tapered to narrow hips encased in tight blue denim. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, especially with his swivel-hipped walk. As he reached the end of the platform,

He settled for left and moved in our direction. As he grew nearer, I could see the book clutched in the massive hand that wasn’t carrying the black leather holdall. I closed my eyes momentarily. Even Dennis might have a bit of bother menacing his way out of this one. Gizmo would have no chance.

When I opened them, Jan was looming over Gizmo. “You’re Gizmo,” he boomed. I couldn’t quite place the accent.

Gizmo half turned towards the café, panic in his eyes. “I never … she never said anything about anybody else,” he stammered desperately.

Typical, I thought. Great with silicon, crap with carbon-based life forms. Does not compute.

Jan frowned. “What do you mean?” I figured he wasn’t sure if Gizmo had missed the point completely or if there was a language problem.

Gizmo took a hasty step backwards. “Look, I never meant to cause any trouble, I didn’t know anything about you. Whatever she’s said, there’s been nothing between us, this would have been the first time we’d even met,” he gabbled.

Jan looked even more puzzled. He waved the book at Gizmo. “I brought the book. So we’d know each other,” he said in that pedantic way that Germans and Scandies have when they’re not sure you’ve understood their impeccable English.

Gizmo swung towards me. “Tell him, Kate. Tell him it’s all a misunderstanding. She never said anything about having a bloke. I thought she was unattached.”

With a sigh, I got to my feet. “You’re Jan, right?” I said, giving the J its soft Y sound. Gizmo’s mouth fell open and the Iain M. Banks tumbled to the concourse floor. Then, suddenly, he whirled round and ran for the escalator down to the tram terminus below. Jan made a half-hearted move to step around me and give chase but I blocked him. “Leave it,” I said. “He’s not the one, Jan.”

He frowned. “Who are you? What’s going on?” He craned past

“I’m Kate. Gizmo and I work together.”

“Why has he run off? We arranged to meet,” Jan said, sounding puzzled. “We have been e-mailing each other for months. Getting to know each other. We both figured it was time to meet.” He made the inverted commas sign in the air that pillocks use to indicate they’re quoting. “‘Time to take things further,’ Gizmo said.”

“Don’t you think it might have been sensible to mention that you were a bloke?” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “He thought you were a woman. Jan with a J, not Jan with a Y.”

Jan’s fair skin flushed scarlet. “What does that matter? I’m still the same person. Because I am a man suddenly it’s different?”

“Of course it’s different,” I protested. His disingenuousness was really winding me up. “He’s not gay, for one thing. I can’t believe you never made it clear you’re a man. It can’t be the first time someone’s made that mistake.”

He glared at me. “Why should I? I’m not responsible for someone else’s assumptions. You British are so terrified of anything that is different, that challenges your sad little conventions.”

By now, the entire coffee shop was enthralled, waiting for my response. “Bollocks,” I said contemptuously. “Tell that to Julian Clary. Don’t try and pretend that deceiving Gizmo was some kind of heroic act of sexual liberation. It was cowardice, that’s what it was. You were scared to admit you were a man because you thought Gizmo would end your cyber-relationship.”

“And I was right,” he shouted.

“No, you were wrong,” I said quietly. “He might have rejected you as a lover, but he would still have been your friend. And I’ve got good cause to know just how much that signifies.” Three women sitting round a table in the coffee shop gave me a ragged round of applause.

Jan’s laugh was harsh. “In cyberspace, he didn’t need a woman to fight his battles.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked off towards the taxi rank.