practice,’ replied Ben briefly. ‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’
‘Ben,’ said Sukie sternly.
Nicky filled him in. ‘I was telling Dad that Timpson Minor thought Sunday’s episode of The Old Bastards was stupid.’
‘Nicky!’
‘Well yes,’ said Ben, ‘but he only said that because Timpson Major said it.’
‘Who the hell do these Timpsons think they are?’ Geoff asked in a voice rising with sarcasm and disbelief. ‘Are they experts in the field of the television dramatic critique or what?’
‘No, of course not, Dad,’ replied Ben equably, ‘but on this point you must admit it’s a fair assessment.’
‘Did you see Sunday’s episode?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I never watch it, Dad, you know that. They all watch it at school. Unfortunately.’
‘I saw it,’ said Sukie, still thinking of Patsy. ‘It stank!’
Geoff looked stunned for a moment. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he said, ‘Did it? Did it indeed? Well, I should like to point out to you all that this stinking programme pays the mortgage, buys the food, provides for your future, supplies your sports equipment, pays for your holidays …’
‘Feeds the cat,’ Nicky suggested helpfully.
Geoff glared at him. ‘Feeds the cat,’ he conceded. ‘Er, buys, er …’
‘Buys Mum’s clothes,’ prompted Nicky, determined to help his father out.
Sukie glanced down at her fading jeans and sagging tee shirt. ‘What clothes?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, I can manage to quote from this litany of advantages without your assistance,’ Geoff remarked to Nicky. Then, turning to his wife, he said, ‘Are you aware that there is a pile of dirty washing in the middle of the floor?’
Sukie regarded the offending heap with mild interest. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you could add a laundry service to your list of things that that crass TV series makes possible?’
‘Crass?’ enquired Geoff politely.
‘What’s crass?’ asked Nicky.
‘Oh come on, Geoff, you must admit it is pretty dire.’
Geoff rose to his feet without a word and left the kitchen.
‘Nice one, Mum,’ observed Nicky.
‘What are you going to eat, Ben?’ asked his mother.
‘Beans on toast,’ replied Ben immediately, ‘but I’ll get it.’
‘Can I have some?’ chimed in Nicky.
Geoff reappeared carrying a script and a jacket. ‘I am going out now,’ he announced. ‘I may be some time. I am, in fact, about to make the same sort of heroic gesture as that remarkable man Captain Lawrence Oates. I am going to compromise my integrity, jeopardize my career, sacrifice my dignity – it’s a form of suicide, I think you’ll agree – and all for the sake of my family – to whom I am devoted – to ensure their survival. In other words, I am going to attempt a read-through of this crass, stupid, nay dire television series – which stinks and of which I am happy and proud to be the figurehead. You must excuse me – duty calls.’ And so saying he opened the back door and swept out.
There was a brief silence as the little group remaining in the kitchen went about their business. Ben proceeded to heat up some baked beans and cook two perfectly golden brown pieces of toast, one for Nicky, one for himself. Sukie poured herself a second cup of tea. After a moment or two, Brambles thrust a tentative head through the cat flap. Having ascertained that the coast was clear, the rest of him followed and he walked confidently in, made straight for the breadboard and settled himself down comfortably beside it, paws tucked beneath him.
‘I think you could have been a bit more circumspect about the laundry service, Mum,’ Ben said.
‘What’s circumspect?’ asked Nicky.
‘Well, it is a dreadful show,’ said Sukie defensively. ‘It used not to be, but it’s become just dull and improbable, which sounds like a paradox, I suppose …’
‘What’s a paradox?’ asked Nicky.
‘What it needs,’ continued Sukie, ‘what it really needs, is an injection of new blood, a bit of life – a new character. And to get rid of the ghastly Patsy,’ she added savagely under her breath.
‘They are looking for a tall blonde to play a tough business woman, owner of a rival art gallery, bent on poaching the McMasters’ clientele and putting them out of business. The story line being, of course, that the two galleries eventually decide to merge and Sara Harper, that’s the character, takes over joint control of the business with Paul McMaster and he falls for her, which causes all sorts of complications on the work and home front, as you can imagine. It’s a great part and you’re absolutely right for it, except that you’re not tall and you’re not blonde – hang on a minute, there’s someone on the other line.’
Thus spake David Hawkins, Claire’s agent. It was exactly two weeks since her abortion and Claire was at the lowest ebb of her life. She now realized that Roger was basically an egotistical cruel shit. So why, she asked herself, was there this appalling pain where she believed her heart was located. She supposed it was the rejection. Being dumped. Not wanted on voyage. Tears started to well again.
David’s phone call had given her a small ray of hope. Sally had stated unequivocally that what she needed was work. It would change her whole perspective on things. A couple of weeks to recuperate – get her strength back and she’d be ready to take on the world again. Claire secretly doubted this. But right on cue, David had phoned. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks and as ever, the prospect of a new challenge had thrilled her. And now she was not even being considered for a part for which she was eminently suitable because her hair was the wrong colour and her stature too short. In normal circumstances, Claire would simply have shrugged her shoulders and said ‘That’s showbiz’. But somehow, now, it seemed as though she wasn’t good enough for Roger and she wasn’t good enough for South Eastern Television either. She was inadequate on all counts.
David was speaking again. ‘You still there Claire?’
‘Yes. David, why does this character have to be blonde?’
‘Because Bella Shand is dark, I suppose. Oh don’t ask me – I shall never understand how producers’ minds work. Anyway, I did point out to Martin and Hugh that you were perfect for the part in every other respect and that they ought to at least see you and let you read.’
Ah, another spark of hope.
‘And what was their reaction?’
‘They said that they’d think about it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last week.’
‘You never told me,’ said Claire, thinking how much just a prospect would have helped her get through last week. But David knew nothing of recent events. She wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him.
‘Of course not,’ replied David briskly. ‘There’s no point in raising your hopes until I’ve at least secured you an interview. When did you work with Larry Matthews?’
Claire thought hard. ‘I never have,’ she said eventually. ‘Why?’
‘He seems to know your work, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I remember, he came to see us