Episode 16: Battle Of Britain

Episode 16: Battle Of Britain

    According to Rupy, it’s all entirely my fault for not telling them to come to me, at the university. Yeah, it probably is. And I needn’t think any bacon has been saved! No, I don’t. But the story hasn’t hit the news yet, because after the smoke had cleared slightly, The Observer types realised that what they had on their hands here was an Exclusive, so after swearing everyone to secrecy and getting one, Peter, to take Bettina, the receptionist, and Megan, the secretary, away for a little talk (bribes just large enough to ensure they won’t sell it to the dailies plus and the threat of instant dismissal if it leaks out, ’ud be my bet), they dragged me into Mr Something’s office and began to plan their strategy. Actually letting me ring up Sheila and—well, not quite sob on her shoulder, but it got rather near it, only fortunately she lost her rag and started shouting, so then I started shouting, too. About two minutes after she rang off Brian rang Mr Something but that was entirely to be expected and in fact it was obvious he was expecting it. They had a strange conversation in which almost nothing was actually said except that they’d be happy to see Brian in half an hour.

    Then Posh-Voice Julia was allowed to offer me a cup of coffee and to ask me if I’d had lunch, which I hadn’t, so she edged herself out through the door, the Venetians over the internal windows of the office all now being closed, natch, and scurried off in search of sandwiches. Or possibly sent off a minion or just called the sandwich shop, whatever. Anyway, the sandwiches eventuated, so Julia and I ate them in Mr Something’s office while he and a smooth, portly Mr Pascoe and a smooth, lean Mr Mackenzie who had been previously called in as reinforcements went out for a private confab (edging out through the door, yes; every time it was opened you could hear a buzz of speculation from the big office. Raising the question, were they envisaging sacking the entire staff if it leaked to the dailies?).

    When Brian arrived he had not only Timothy from PR with him, expectable, and Sheila, looking frantic and flustered, and round-faced Damian to hold his hand, sorry, folders and stuff and to take notes, but also Mr Wentworth, ouch! Mr Wentworth is Henny Penny Productions’ lawyer. Like, not only is he from the solicitors that act for them, but he’s the top one, it’s like Wentworth Melly Frear. I had met him at one or two big wing-dings for top brass, like usually when D.D. was in the offing, but for anything legal that the production was actually involved in to my knowledge, it had been a young Mr Cohen, name not even on the letterhead, that had done the bizzo for them. Yikes. Mr Wentworth looked at me very, very coldly indeed and said he believed we had met. And didn’t bother to introduce the meek-looking male slave in a very yuppy suit that was carrying a laptop.

    After that Julia and me just sat back and listened. Personally I wouldn’t of dared to speak and actually I think she felt the same and actually I think Mr Something might of forgotten she was there. –Szewczuk, I looked him up in last Sunday’s paper, Larry Szewczuk is his name. So let’s just leave it at Mr Something, okay?

    The talk went on and on for ages and I wished I’d brought my laptop bag because frightful as it was it very interesting. I thought they’d issue threats and counter-threats, but nobody did, it was all terribly smooth, with everything underneath the surface, geddit? Like if they’d been Aussie lawyers they’d’ve been red-faced and shouting by the end of the first half hour, never mind if they got those posh palaces in giant blocks on George Street and charge two thou’ per hour, and get hired to appear in front of Royal Commissions at the taxpayers’ expense and own Melbourne Cup contenders. But these jokers remained superbly cool throughout. Sheila remained flustered but kept pretty well out of it, Brian must’ve put the hard word on her earlier. On second thoughts, I think he only brought her so as I couldn’t say afterwards I hadn’t had my counsel, sorry, sorry, agent present. Of course I could see that Brian wasn’t cool, he was hopping mad, but doubtless they had previously agreed that Mr Wentworth would do all the talking, with a bit of judicious nodding and murmuring from Timothy on the PR bits. Mr Something was pretty gleeful underneath the cool, but then, they had the upper hand, didn't they? Which they managed to make very clear without actually saying so. At one point Brian did try to say they didn’t have any actual proof that Dr L.R. Marshall and Lily Rose Rayne were the same person but Mr Wentworth gave him a look and he subsided.

    It went on for ages, as I say, and eventually I had to interrupt and say I was sorry but I had to go to the loo. So Mr Something ordered Julia to find a headscarf for me and make sure I kept it on and wore the specs, so she slid out to find a scarf, and eventually accompanied me, under orders, to the loo, to make sure I didn't speak to anyone. I couldn’t, there wasn’t anyone to speak to. So I said as we were washing our hands—she had to go, too, she did gallons, she must’ve been busting but hadn’t liked to interrupt the wankers, poor moo—I said to her: “Will they let you write it?” She jumped but said actually she thought Larry might, he was a very fair-minded man and it had been her story in the first place. (Though, unsaid, she hadn’t spotted me in the first place, a Black Mark.) So I said good. Then she admitted that of course Larry would edit it and it would have to go to the Legal Department—lean Mr Mackenzie, right—and be vetted, wan smile. “Never mind,” I said bracingly. “It’ll have your by-line on it!”

    “Yes,” she admitted sadly, trying to smile, “that’s true.”

    So then I interviewed her a bit, well, why not? Like, had it always been her ambition to be a journo, etcetera. It was interesting: in spite of that voice she went to a very ordinary school, but she was very bright, though she didn’t phrase it like that, and got a scholarship to Cambridge (like Linda Corcoran’s trying for, right). Then I put my foot in it when she said she did quite well there by asking her if she got a First, but no, it was only a Second. And she’d been writing for some student paper they got there (I didn’t store the details in my RAM, not a need-to-retrieve) so she worked on a provincial newspaper for a bit (and reading between the lines, worked on the accent) and then she was lucky enough to get a job here. And she’s worked her way up. I’d say she’d be about thirty-five, so she’s really done pretty well. And yes, she had always wanted to write, but—wistfully—she hadn't always envisaged journalism… Though as her father says, it’s a living! Bright smile that didn’t quite come off. So I asked her were her parents still living and yes, they are, they live in the West Country, so then we had a chat about the awful floods they’ve been having over there this winter, but fortunately Julia’s mum and dad weren’t affected, they’re retired now, living in quite a nice little village, and their cottage is on the higher ground. Her mum misses Bristol, though: the village is rather isolated, and she’s used to town life. And, big smile, they both adore The Captain’s Daughter, they always watch it! At which I incautiously said them and three quarters of the population, Julia, and she laughed and said well, actually, she always tried to watch it, too. And it’s really quite well written. Of course, Varley Knollys is a wonderful writer, isn’t he? So then I admitted that Paula does most of the dialogue and certainly the one-liners: Varley’s contributed, in the three series we’ve finished making, one one-liner. And not to quote me. Her eyes went very round and she gasped: “But surely—!” Nope, I said, and, first making her swear this was off the record, gave her the full low-down on Varley Up-Himself Knollys. She laughed so much she had to mop her eyes.

    Then she confessed that she’d always rather wanted to write that sort of novel. So I eyed her drily and said: “Yeah, but in the first place if ya wanna do the young-innocent-in-Cambridge thing you’re the wrong sex, Julia, the British publishers won’t go for it, and in the second place, the only way to do it is to do it. Not think about maybe going to, ya know?” She was rather red but said yes, I was right and she’d start during her next summer holidays. So I said, If I was you I’d start tonight. And I supposed we’d better go back. So she made sure the scarf was well pulled down and back we went.

    Brian of course was edgy as Hell and burst out: “What the Devil took you so long?”

    “Gee, don’t ask a lady that, Brian. No, well, we figured you didn’t need us, we were just chatting, eh, Julia? Getting background,” I said airily. And we slunk into our seats and shut up and let them get on with it.

    The upshot is that The Observer breaks it in next Sunday’s issue, which is the one that they were planning to have my chapter in anyway, and Brian in person kills me if I give any interviews at all before Parkinson on the following Friday—which I was scheduled for anyway, because the third series is about to go to air. Either I’m gonna have to barricade myself in the flat or find somewhere else entirely to stay if I want to go in to uni.

    Then Julia did the interview, official-like, she was allowed to take me into her own room for that and they got the photographer back. The others disappeared, I think possibly upstairs so that the Editor in person could sign whatever it was that Mr Wentworth’s slave had been tapping out on his laptop. The photographer thought he’d like a shot of me in my office at the uni but Julia vetoed that, she’d been ordered not to do anything that might Draw Attention. So then he us redo my makeup, well, she did most of it, her own was beautifully done, and comb my hair out in the Lily Rose look, and then I hadda sit at her desk next to her computer with a bookcaseful of intellectual books behind me, like, Who’s Who 1964, and The Concise Oxford and a very battered Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and half a shelf on rainforests, those articles they ran last year must’ve been her. So let’s hope he fuzzes them out, or it won’t look exactly authentic, will it? I was allowed to hold the specs in one hand, apparently neither of them spotted they were plain glass. That took up what was left of the afternoon and a large part of the early evening, you bet. Then Julia wiped the makeup off and made me put the specs back on, and the headscarf, overriding my objections that it wasn’t mine, and my parka, and called a taxi and escorted me right down to the street and put me into it in person. So she’d done all she could.

    After Rupy’s over the shock, horror, dismay, which isn’t until after we’ve had three stiff gins each and a packet of cheesy biscuits between us, he suggests I’d better go and stay at Mark’s because the whole thing’s his fault. No, ’tisn’t, it’s mine, but then, it was for his book, so why shouldn’t he suffer, too? So I’m just about to ring him when the phone rings, and I leap ten feet. Brian. I’m not going anywhere, because he and Oswald—blink! Oh, must be Mr Wentworth’s name—he and Oswald have just had a very satisfactory talk with the producers of Parkinson and their legal reppos, blah-blah. Stay in flat, do not talk to anybody especially not TV before Parkinson, is the word. How’m I gonna get out to go to P— Henny Penny will arrange that. And Damian is coming over immediately with an agreement for me to sign. Oh, and another for Maynarde. Do I understand? Yeah, too right: Do Not Pass Go, Go Directly To Jail.

    Poor little round-faced Damian turns up looking nervous but I just say Gidday and where do I sign and me and Rupy are gonna have fish fingers and chips, ya want some? Soul food, Rupy explains. Oddly enough Brian isn't waiting at the office for Damian to bring the papers right back, signed, because he believes, he actually believes, that his word is law. On second thoughts, I guess it is, so far as Damian is concerned. So he runs down and pays off his taxi and we all have fish fingers and mountains of chips that I have to do in the frying-pan in relays. Damian thinks they’re miles better than ordinary chips. So they are: this is the only oil we had in the place, it’s Spanish olive oil I got really cheap over there on Seve’s advice, and those white things I chopped up were real potatoes. Rupy explains kindly, just in case he hasn't got the point: “Not reconstituted fuzz deep-fried in lard and then deep-frozen with the mammoths, Damian, darling,” but I think he already got it, because he just giggles madly and says can he have some more vinegar for his chips and this drink’s awfully nice, what is it? The answer being, gin with lemon cordial and a bit of gin to liven it up.

    Then we have a big argument over what video to watch, Rupy crossly vetoing The Jackal, my choice, because it’s got Richard Gere and Bruce Willis, which is precisely why I chose it. I’ve seen it before, it’s crap and the last sequence where R.G. wins is the most ultimately boring so-called climax in the Known Universe bar none, but Brucey’s bits are all good and R.G. is decorative. No! He can’t stand them! All right, all right, he can’t stand them. Little Women? It’s a classic, the one with June Allyson! Rupy howls “NO!” and Damian looks horrified, so that’s out. They had a special, three for a greatly reduced price so long as they weren’t this week’s new issues that everybody actually wants, so my third is Claude (Jumper) Van Damme mangling the English language all over Thailand while he gut-kicks all these Thai Muscle Beach— No? Rupy shudders all over and does his “I loathe men” thing, though actually I know he’s got a secret crush on Jumper Van Damme, it’s why I chose it. “He’s hardly a man, Rupy, he’s so smooth and shiny and depilated he’s practically—” Poor little Damian’s cringing. So we examine Rupy’s selection. Notting Hill. That proves he’s got a crush on Whey-Face Can’t-Stand-Him Grant, which I have always maintained. “Look, after a day like this, I cannot hack—” No, very well, he understands. Um, Bond? It’s flaming Pierce Brosnan, that proves he’s got a secret crush on him! Not the latest one, of course. “Isn’t Golden Eye the one about the sicko relationship between him and this smooth-faced, smoothly-muscled, depilated Pommy git—” There’s no need to take that tone! Damian adds quickly that he’s seen it. That strikes the wrong note because Rupy tells him huffily that the whole world has seen it, dear, that isn’t the point. So, this? The Bridges Of Madison County. My jaw drops. Quickly he adds: “I know it’s got her in it, dear—”

    “Yeah, but she’s quite good in this,” I croak numbly. “Rupy, it’s Clint Eastwood!”

    “I like him,” offers Damian uneasily. “Well, he’s old-fashioned, but—”

    “It’s all right, Damian, dear, so does she. Yes, well, actually…” He wriggles but I get it out of him. Got it mixed up with The Bridges of Toko Ri. After I’ve mopped my face and Damian’s been thumped hard on the back and stops choking, and Rupy’s repeated wistfully, twice, that he just felt like a silly old war movie, we dump Clint and her, and all our new selection, and pull out our own collection of pirates that Mr Machin sells cheap, copies off the TV the night it was going fuzzy, frankly stolen, and actual bought as new videos. And finally find it. The ultimate bad war movie. The Battle of Britain. A rapt silence falls…

    “Golly, that was bad,” says Damian in awe some hours later as we rouse, blinking.

    “I have to admit, dear, I'd forgotten he was in it,” says Rupy, looking at me uneasily.

    “Eh? Oh: Can’t-Stand-A-Bar-Of-Him Poncy Redgrave? So’d I. Never mind. Gee, wasn’t it indescribably bad?”

    “No argument there,” he says comfortably.

    “Yes. I say, could you tell who was who in those dog-fight sequences?” asks Damian groggily.

    “Certainly not, dear,” says Rupy sternly.

    Damian gets it, he collapses in giggles.

    I’ve managed not to ring John all evening, but the phone rings just as Damian’s reluctantly leaving and Rupy shoves him out the door and quickly pick it up before I can get it and accidentally drop the receiver back onto its cradle before speaking. “Get it over with,” he advises me sternly, handing it over.

    “Hullo, it’s me,” I admit glumly.

    “Of course it is, sweetheart!”—Very Up. Oh, God.—“Have you been out?”

    “Nah. We were watching The Battle of Britain.”

    “Oh? A documentary, was it, Rosie?”

    Cringe. “Um, no, an old movie.”

    “Of course!” he says with a laugh.—Is he drunk? No, only very Up. Oh, God.—“How was your day, darling?”

    “Vile,” I admit grimly. “It’s all gonna come out.”

    There’s a short silence.

    “Not your bit,” I add quickly.

    “Glad to hear it—though I think that’s already out, isn’t it?” he says lightly, you can hear the steel underneath. “I think you’d better tell me the lot, Rosie.”

    That or simply cut my throat, yeah. “Um, well, The Observer’s running bits of Mark’s book, um, ya know that, eh? Well—” I stumble through it.

    This time there’s quite a long silence and I can hear him breathing heavily. Then he says very, very evenly: “I do hope you’re not about to claim none of this was your fault.”

    “NO! Um, sorry. I know it was all my fault. It was stupid to do that interview, only I was mad with Mark.”

    “Yes, you made that very clear.”

    Another silence. Then he says: “Had you considered for one instant the effect on poor Hendricks?”

    Poor Hendricks? Boy, has he changed his tune! No prizes for guessing which macho, Establishment side he’s on, eh? “No, because I never stopped to think they’d spot me! And I wore my hair slicked right back, it looks foul and everybody says I’m unrecognisable like that, and no makeup and the plain-glass horn-rims!”

    “And the hubris,” he says evenly.

    This time the silence is mostly from me, I can hear him just waiting. “Yes, all right, there was a bit of that in it,” I say sullenly.

    “I think it was more than a bit, wasn't it? Fooling all of the people all of the time, or something very like it, wasn’t it?”

    “Don’t keep phrasing accusations as QUESTIONS!” I bellow.

    “Very well, I shan’t. I think you’ve been very childish and selfish over this, Rosie, and as to the hubris… Well, you are a very clever woman,”—ouch, not “girl,” that hit home—“who’s been used, as far as I can see, to getting her own way in whatever way she can for most of her life.”—That is NOT true! The pig!—“And by this point I think you more or less were convinced you could fool all of the people all of the time. Whether or not you were admitting it to yourself.”

    I’m still very angry but a tear slips down my cheek and I say soggily: “Yeah. All right, you're right. Pride goes before a fall.”

    “Precisely. I’m afraid I can’t offer much sympathy.”

    “I’m not asking for SYMPATHY, you prick! I’m telling you because I thought you had a right to know!”

    “Thank you. But please don’t transfer your anger to me,” he says coolly.

    “Very funny. All right, I apologise for calling you a prick.” –And why I thought you might be a little bit sympathetic, John Haworth, God knows!

    “So what is Hendricks going to do about it?” he says coolly.

    “Um, he’s in that mode thingo, um, something about recovery.”

    “Damage recovery,” he says smoothly. “Yes?”

    Glumly I explain.

    “Good. Let’s hope Michael Parkinson tears you to shreds.”

    “Yeah, well, not his style. But you can bet your ass his other guests will.”

    He ignores the “bet your ass” bit, boy is he pissed off with me. “I sincerely hope so. Have you rung your parents yet?”

    “N— Um, about this? Um, no,” I croak.

    “Then I suggest”—balls, he does not, it’s a Royal Navy order—“that you do so as soon as it’s a reasonable hour their time, and a time at which they’ll both be home. One moment, please, Rosie.” Numbly I wait, I can’t hear anything. What time is it, his time? Um, dinnertime? Is he home, or out at some wanking restaurant with a wanking puce— “Eh?”

    “Get a pen.”

    I get a pen.

    “Now, write these times down, please.” I’m writing. He makes me read it all back. Got it, got it. I will ring Mum and Dad at zero X hundred hours here, which means it will be zero Y hundred hours there, and spoil their breakfast and ruin their day. And no excuses! No, he doesn’t say that, he doesn’t have to, does he?

    “And if you don't ring them, Rosie, I'm afraid I have to say it: I’ll ring them myself. They certainly don't deserve—” Blah, blah, etcetera and so forth.

    “I know! I've said I’ll do it, and I’ll do it!” After a moment I admit sulkily: “Dad’ll be pleased, he was ropeable when he thought I was chucking in the Fellowship.”

    “I should think so. And if I were you”—not advice, it’s a thinly disguised other Royal Navy order—“I would be very, very apologetic. Both for having wilfully deceived them and for having let it drag on so long without giving them a hint of what you were up to.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Well?” he says, not bothering to hide the steel.

    “Yeah! I said! I will!”

    “Good.”

    “Um, hang on, I’ve signed a piece of paper that says I won’t tell anybody anything until it all breaks, though,” I recall uneasily.

    “Then if your idiot brother leaks it to the Australian media you will only have yourself to blame when the shit hits the fan, won’t you?” he says sweetly.

    Bummer, I thought I was really, really mad with him but actually another tear has begun to trickle its way down. “Mm.”

    “Rosie, please don't cry. Tears in this instance will not mend matters.”

    “I’m NOT CRYING!”

    A pause, during which I try not to bawl and he just breathes. Finally I say: “I better let you go. Are you busy?”

    “No, just about to have dinner.”

    “Oh. We had chips and fish fingers. And gin,” I reveal glumly.

    “Mm-hm. Did it help?”

    “Temporarily, yeah.”

     He doesn’t tell me not to say tempor-rare-rilly, oh, dear. “How is Rupy coping?”

    “Um, all right, I think. Um, Brian sent a paper for him to sign, too!” I blurt.

    “Get it,” he says grimly.

    “Eh?”

    “Get Rupy’s paper and get Rupy, please.”

    Numbly I obey.

    Apparently John then goes over Rupy’s paper with a fine-tooth comb. Apparently he assures him that there will be no question of any indemnity being paid by him, Rupy, if it all comes out through him, because I, L.R. Marshall, will pay the lot. Shit, is that what that paper said? I never thought to ask him, I just assumed it was a bribe.

    “Um, thanks, John, I never thought to ask him what it said,” I say numbly.

    “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” he says on a bitter note.

    “Um, sorry. Are you very angry?” I say in a high, nervous voice.

    “Very,” he says evenly. “Just try to think of the other person for once in your life, can you, Rosie? –I’m sorry, I’d better ring off. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

    I drop the receiver and rush into my room and fling myself on my bed in floods of tears.

    Rupy comes in slowly. “He’s furious, is he?”

    “Yuh-hes! Sorry—Rupy!”

    “What? Oh, Heavens, don’t worry about it, dear: Brian won’t hold me to this, once he’s calmed down. Well, it’d be all over the Business if he did, dear: no-one from Actors’ Equity would ever work for him again.”

    ’Course they would, all they’re really interested in is their own careers, apart from the handful that’ve gone potty over the union thing—yes, it’s the same as every other walk of life, trade, or profession, what did you think? But it’s a nice thought.

    “Mm,” I agree, sniffing and gulping.

    “Well, er, spilt milk, darling,” he says uneasily, edging towards the door.

    I sit up, gulping and sniffing. “Rupy, did he order you not to be sympathetic?”

    “Er…something very like it,” he admits uneasily.

    The PIG! I throw myself down in a renewed storm of tears, and Rupy slides out.

    Astoundingly enough the news didn’t break before Sunday, but from crack of dawn on Sunday it’s been sheer, unadulterated Hell. Literally crack of dawn: the door phone woke us both up and gave us a horrible shock, and of course it was a bunch of media persons who’d seen the first issues of The Observer to hit the street. We didn’t let them in, naturally, but after that it was impossible to get back to sleep. Doris and Buster panted up about a quarter to eight to report that they were out there, but we knew that, and that you get a good view of the street from her place. So we went down there, it was better than sitting dully in the kitchen staring at mugs of brown dust trying not to hear the continual buzzing from the door phone. She was right, you do get a good view from her front windows, and about half past eight we got a really good view of Imelda Singh giving an interview. Television. Yikes.

    We’ve long since given up even replying to the front door buzzer, in fact Rupy got Andy Macdonald from the second floor who’s a retired electrician, well, he owned a chain of electrical appliance shops but he started off as a working electrician, to un-wire the bloody thing. With grovelling apologies for the number of times his bell’s been rung by bloody media persons that imagine some resident’s gonna be mad enough to let them into the building. The scrum outside the front door got so bad that we had to call the cops to clear a way through for the residents. Only unlike the Fifties it’s not a nice British bobby and his mate, another nice British bobby, in wonderful hats, any more. First they sent a car with two peaked caps in it, but it didn’t stop, actually it couldn’t stop, there was nowhere to stop for media vans and Press photographers and huge fuzzy mikes and enterprising little tents (the weather’s been foul). So then they sent a van with a selection of strong-arm types and the little tents disappeared and so did the vehicles that were flagrantly triple-parked, but after that a very stiff leading strong-arm type who didn’t bother to take off his motorbike helmet (Rupy reckoned it wasn’t, it was a different type of helmet, but that’s what it looked like to me), informed me, with the strong implication that it was all my fault, that if I wanted a permanent man on duty to keep the egress clear (yes, his word) I would have to pay for him. Pay for a policeman? So in the end I said what the Hell, one little bobby (I said that to irritate him) will never manage that lot of sharks, can I have two? Certainly, if I was willing to pay for them.

    So they’ve come and I’ve been paying their wages all week. And giving them lunch, once I found out that their ruddy bosses hadn’t made any arrangements to feed them. Dave and Aziz. We keep them on duty between seven-thirty and sevenish, which covers the time the media’s most active and the times the residents need to go to work or come home from work or in the case of the retired ones, go to the shops. Or the pictures if it’s Wednesday in the case of Mr and Mrs O’Connor from the ground floor, they always have a limo, but of course they’ve got to get to it from the front door. They take turns to come inside for lunch, but they’re in touch on their little mobiles (Radios, dear! All right, radios, but they look like mobiles to me), so if anyone needs to be helped inside or to get to their taxi or like that, they can call for reinforcements.

    I’ve sent all the residents little notes of apology, Rupy and Doris thought that would be less obtrusive than calling in person, which was what I was gonna do first off. We rung Miss Hammersley and warned her not to come back, but actually her brother’s place is snowed in and ours was the first call that got through after the phone lines came down in the storm, so she wouldn't have been able to get back anyway. She was very sympathetic, which resulted in me feeling more than ever, though of course this wasn’t what she intended, that it was all my fault. Which Rupy helpfully told me it was, he’s been very, very stern with me since he got his orders from John.

    Any other bloke would have refrained from ringing me the day after but being John, he didn’t. He apologised for losing his temper—he didn’t, of course, though maybe he would of, if he hadn’t hung up, I recognise that—and then I apologised grovellingly for being a stupid, selfish nit and for shouting at him. And for being angry with him when absolutely none of it was anything to do with him.

    Of course he didn’t ask if I'd rung Mum and Dad, he waited for me to tell him. Which I had, I wouldn’t’ve dared not to. Oh, you got that, didja? Yeah. Mum bawled: that was expectable. Dad just said mildly he’d never believed I’d given up the fellowship, actually. Shit. Knows me better than I thought. Neither of them understood when I explained about it being about to break and tried to warn them to be on their guard against the Press, they just thought I was exaggerating. Mum actually said: “It’s not all silly out here like it is over there, dear.” But fortunately Kenny was there, doing what, I dunno, bludging food or getting Mum to do his washing, probably, so I put the hard word on him to make sure it sunk in, ’specially if Mum’s home alone, that if a nice man with a little tape recorder in his paw comes to the front door every word she says will be on the bloody News that evening. He reckoned he could do it, no sweat, so presumably the next thing we’ll see will be the tabloids blazoning: LILY ROSE’S AUSSIE MUM TELLS ALL, or: SHE WAS ALWAYS A GOOD GIRL, WHAT WENT WRONG SAYS LILY ROSE’S MUM; or like that.

    John’s rung faithfully every day since, but as he can’t tell me anything about his work, it’s too hush-hush, and as I’ve been immured in the building, we haven’t had much news to exchange except the states of health of Fred Stolz and other burly Washington characters (I didn’t ask after the female ones)—blooming, except for Admiral Baxter, who’s had a bad cold, let’s hope she catches it off him—and similar. Matt’s rung him several times, him and Salli are well. All I’ve been able to offer in exchange is Mrs Kennedy from below us is thinking of moving permanently to Florida, why not, it’s so warm and she’s got the money; Mr Els from opposite her, like not underneath Miss Hammersley, the other side of the lift shaft, has got a new little dog, one of those slightly scraggy ones that yap a lot, Buster’s deeply suspicious of it; the mysterious resident from next to him was actually in the other day but then disappeared again, it couldn’t have been burglars because he, she or it has had the most expensive security system in the known universe installed, Andy Macdonald personally supervised it (unasked); and Commodore and Mrs Peregrine-Smith from the second floor have had another row. (John was marginally interested in that, he knows them slightly.)

    Timothy and Barbara with young Mr Cohen from Wentworth Melly Frear in tow, yikes, managed to get in, they rung us beforehand (the number’s been unlisted for some time, we got very sick very fast of calls from the whole of Great Britain) and made elaborate arrangements for us to be at Doris’s so they could ring her bell and get let in, though actually they could just have told Dave and Aziz who they were. This all was to prepare me for Parkinson, natch. Relentless coaching ensued, at first Rupy and Doris and Buster were really interested, especially in young Mr Cohen’s ankles in the case of Buster, his mother (blushing) breeds corgis, but after a while it palled, so I took the visitors upstairs to continue the coaching while Rupy and Doris sank thankfully back onto the sofa and turned the telly on. After a bit Aziz came in for afternoon tea and at first he was really interested but after the sultana cake had all gone, mostly in the direction of him and little Mr Cohen, and it just went on and on and on, he recognised he might as well get back to it and give Dave his turn. Um, maybe he’d better tell him to go to Miss Winslow’s? Yeah, maybe he better had, even if they were watching Days of Our Lives it couldn’t be more boring than this. Added to which there was a slight chance that Rupy might not have eaten up all of Doris’s pink-iced cake. So he went, and then it just went on and on and on…

    So now I’m on. Gee, fun. What I'm wearing isn’t down to me, just on the one-in-a-million chance you might’ve thought it was. Brian in person, in collaboration with Timothy and the entire PR Department, thought it out very, very carefully. I wasn’t in on the discussions but according to Barbara’s executive summary it couldn’t be too severe, that would put up the backs of the entire Great British Public. So the black pants-suit look was out. And it couldn’t be too casual-looking, that would really put up the backs of the ditto. So that cut out the ironed jeans, casual tweed jacket, uni-lecturer look, geddit? Thought you might, yeah. It couldn’t be too Lily Rose, that would rub the noses of the GBP in it. So that cut out everything in Henny Penny’s wardrobe that I’d ever worn plus all my Marilyn crap, how sad. It had to assure the GBP that though I was of course Dr L.R. Marshall, M.A., Ph.D., at heart I was still Lily Rose. So the hair’s in the Shirley Temple, and Yvonne’s made absolutely sure the makeup matches, standing over the Parkinson makeup lady breathing heavily, you goddit, and the bod is in a really Today-looking dress: black, shoe-string straps, deep vee neck, almost no back, you’ve seen it five thousand times on five thousand Beautiful People at any televised function these last six months, right. The style, not to mention the cut, is of course intended for tall, gaunt models or at the most something Hollywood-ised out of all resemblance to anything female and very possibly from Anorexia McBeal itself, stop me if you’ve heard— I’ve stopped. I’m bulging out of it at all the expectable places but very possibly that was Brian’s intention and frankly, I don’t care. It’s got a slit up one side to the knee, and I have been ordered under pain of Brian in person slicing little bits off me not to cross my legs.—Is he potty? Was I about to, with those bloody camera angles on Parkinson?—Ruth, the wardrobe lady, tracked down a pair of pink pearl bobble earrings that she’s almost sure went with that lovely pink and grey graduated fake pearl necklace that seems to have disappeared (ulp), and after two hours’ deep discussion and a second round of coffees Brian decided they would just soften the look nicely and gave them the okay. Yvonne’s screwed them on with an iron hand, they’re pinching like buggery.

    “You’re on!” hisses a cross voice from behind me.

    I know that. So I mince down that bloody entrance of his, it’s all calculated to intimidate the guests, the camera’s on you every split second of the time in case you fall over your feet and make a total prat of yourself, and of course the studio audience is waiting in open-mouthed hope that you’ll fall over your feet and make a total prat— Actually there’s a roar of applause, cor, I sort of had a feeling they’d boo. He gets up out of that chair of his, bland almost-smile, he doesn’t speak, the audience is making too much noise, kiss-kiss, missing the makeup, kiss-kiss to you, too, Michael, missing the makeup, we sit. Mixed with the applause there’s kind of a horrid expectation, I’m not imagining it. Finally it dies down.

    “Lovely to see you again, Lily Rose, or should it be Dr Marshall?” –Very coy.

    Folks, it’s all been rehearsed, nay, drummed into me, so I just come out with the appropriate dialogue. I don’t smile too much, I don’t giggle too much, I don’t frown at all, I don’t let ANY OF THOSE PAUSES DRAG ON!!, and I don’t use any long words. I do admit that while sociology is my real work and that was why I undertook the rôle, I really loved doing it, and yes, I am doing another series, even though the research is finished. I also admit that, actually, nobody from The Captain’s Daughter—he says “the show”, but I say its name loud and clear, under orders from Brian to make sure it’s mentioned at least three times—knew about “the study” (under orders from Brian to say “sociology” or any morphological variation thereof as few times as possible, especially if Parky keeps on saying it), that of course the university knew all about it and that although that sort of study (“research” as little as possible) has to be confidential, of course they have since cleared it with Henny Penny Productions. (Under orders, this time, from both Brian and Prof. The interview with Prof., incidentally, was one I wasn’t looking forward to, but he took it quite calmly and although remarking that possibly Mark should have mentioned some of this earlier, was very happy to talk to Brian on the phone. –Karen listened in, and later she told Yvonne it was just like that old man from the university in Chariots of Fire. Yep, smooth as silk in his Old School Tie, that’s Prof.)

    Of course nothing of what went on behind the scenes has filtered through to me, or to Barbara or Yvonne, but at a guess, Parkinson’s producers accepted large amounts of moolah from Brian to ensure Parky was sympathetic, as much as his blah personality can be, and didn’t ask any awkward questions like wasn’t a sociologist with a Ph.D. bored out of her skull by having to be Lily Rose, because he doesn’t. Well, he wouldn’t have phrased it like that, but that style of thing. He does ask were there any boring parts about making the show, but I’ve been well primed. “Oh, well, you know, Michael, that making any telly show consists of large amounts of time sitting around while the light men and sound men point their little instruments at you,”—written by Paula, vetted and approved by Brian, Timothy, and Mr Wentworth, not necessarily in that order—“but the rest of it was great fun. And I got to wear some wonderful clothes that I’d never have been able to wear as me. And to sing and dance, of course! I had lessons when I was little, me and my little brother Kenny both did—” And into the artless-chat bit. This enables him to ask if my parents are still in Australia and me to reply with the approved speech, the gist being they are, they were astonished but thrilled when the show took off; and yes, they do know that I did it as part of my university work, they were a wonderful support to me when I was getting my degree. And further Great Lies thought up by Paula or Brian or who cares who.

    And into the final stretch: he states, even though we’ve already established this, that I’m doing the fourth series for them, he thinks starting production quite soon?—Nod affirmatively, lovely smile.—And how will I fit that in with my university work? Which enables me to give with my closing speech, covering such points as mentioning Henny Penny Productions, mentioning The Captain’s Daughter in so many words, mentioning two of the guest stars Brian’s got lined up for the fourth series, mentioning there’ll be a few surprises in the fourth series, and mentioning the wonderful stately homes that are going to form the exteriors for some of the fourth series. And there’ll be lots more tap and some lovely soft-shoe numbers, and more singing!

    Then his first two guests are allowed to come back, and guess who they are! Of course I’ve known for some time they’d be on it, too, but nevertheless: Coralee Adams and Euan Keel. She’s glowing in a pale green satin pants suit (having obviously noticed dear Michael’s bloody camera angles), and he’s deprecating and very slightly unshaven in guess what, black rehearsal clothes. Which prove he’s made it, see? He’s in rehearsal for Young Hal in Hal Four (all his, don’t shoot me) in the West End. And yes, Adam McIntyre is doing his dad. Since, presumably, the combination of them in Cymbeline went over so good? Don’t ask me. Euan’s too old to play McIntyre’s son even though they did marry young in those days and in my opinion he’ll be dreadful. However. Derry Dawlish is thinking of making a film of it. (Good; let’s hope it distracts him utterly from any thoughts of ever, ever making The Captain’s Daughter The Movie.) Coralee is having an unexpected success in what she’s described with curdling modesty as “just a little skit, really,” the author’ll be pleased, called Her Majesty Receives. Coralee comes on all gussied up in an embroidered satin evening gown and opens all these ornate doors and shows you all these wonderful bedrooms, like, small sets, and goes into each and imagines herself talking to the appropriate guest who then appears, witty dialogue, they’re all terrifically well-known political or diplomatic or very top Hollywood personalities, like, one’s Ex-President Bill Clinton, an easy mark, etcetera. Only then it turns out she’s only the cleaner. Feeble idea, and I think probably nicked at that, but as a late evening, upstairs-from-The-Theatre-Upstairs, supper-club type show, it’s been showing to packed houses. The really big draw being that they often have “surprise” famous guest actors to do the spots—advertised all over London for hours on every chat show beforehand, yeah. Like, Adam McIntyre played Jack Nicholson and “It was a riot, darlings”, unquote. I can’t see it, but it does come back to me that he mentioned something about RADA telling him that his gift for parody didn’t constitute acting, ’member? When I went to Bridget’s audition. In the dressing-room poor old Coralee confided to me that the terribly late nights are killing her, and she’s had to take a room in town, she’s making nothing out of it. So I’ll try and find her someone in our building that needs a lodger and won’t mind her coming in very late. Not us, self-sacrifice might be good for the soul but the human frame can only take so much.

    Coralee’s thrilled to see me again, aren’t I a clever girl! –All rehearsed, down to the kiss-kiss, miss-your-cheek-by-miles embraces. Euan acts pleased, he’d rather it was anyone but me. I act pleased, I’d rather it was anyone but him. Then we sit down and chat generally, this isn’t so rehearsed and Coralee gets the bit between her teeth and tells them all about doing the guest spots on The Captain’s Daughter, it was such fun, wasn’t it, Rosie—you know her friends call her Rosie! However, Michael just announces over her that he believes I’m going to give them a song. Which I am, Brian has vetoed tapping, he was afraid it might be rubbing the noses in it. I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair, from South Pacific. Because it features in the third series, geddit? No specific reference to Euan Keel intended. I’m allowed to ruffle the curls up madly and pretend I’m shampooing them, but no water, thanks, we don’t want that sort of disaster in the middle of Parkinson. (Nor do they, actually, it’d make them look as if they didn’t know how to produce a musical number.) I love the song, I adore South Pacific (older man syndrome, right; boy, she may have had spunk, not say pizzazz, but wasn’t she a dim bimbo?), and it goes over real well and the audience cheers. Phew!

    Afterwards Coralee thinks we might have time for a drink before she has to rush off to the show. Euan’s show hasn’t opened yet so he certainly has time, but he obviously doesn’t want to. I’m desperate for fresh air, or at least a change of scene: if you can count, it’s been nearly a fortnight I've been immured in the building with only the one permitted foray to the uni to see Prof. I agree, but Barbara and Yvonne will have to come, too! Coralee is very gracious: “Of course they must come, dear,” and Euan is baldly relieved at the prospect of not being left with me on his hands, so he comes, too. Barbara is unable to utter, mostly embarrassment, remembering the last time she was in company with me and Euan having drinks, like in his flat, ’member that?—and Yvonne is so excited that she talks most of the time when Coralee isn’t. I just drink. Jamaican Coffee with a lot of cream on it, I like it better than Irish Coffee. (If you’ve never had it, I can recommend it, it’s got rum in it instead of the whisky.)

    Coralee has to run, but she proposes that I might just think about doing a wee guest spot for them—as myself, of course, dear!—and coyly gives me three free tickets for the show. One for him, Rosie, dear!

    “John’s in Washington,” I say numbly.

    Great cries of dismay, consternation, and sympathy, and then she really does have to run, a cross-looking taxi driver comes in and shouts: “Taxi for Miss Adams, ya want it or NOT?”

    “Don’t cry, Lily Rose,” says Yvonne feebly into the odd silence that’s now fallen at our table amidst the litter of glasses and cups.

    “Mebbe I’d better be off,” says Euan, the Scotch wanker, getting up.

    “Yeah. I’ll come and see your Young Hal, promise,” I say soggily.

    “Will you? Great. Well—uh—see you!” He slides away.

    “Scotdge wanker,” I say bitterly, sniffing. “Why does he have to be in Sydney, bummer, London, while John’s overseas?”

    “You’ve had too much to drink, Rosie,” says Barbara kindly, removing the glass that held the last dregs of the last Jamaican Coffee from my slackened grasp.

    “And probably nothing to eat; have you?” asks Yvonne sternly.

    Food? When would I of had time for that? “When?” I say blankly.

    “There you are!” Briskly she herds me off to the Ladies, Barbara sort of hovering like a younger sheepdog learning the ropes, makes me go, supervises my washing of my hands, washes my face, redoes my makeup and hair, and supervises me out again. We’ll get a taxi to that lovely Indian place right near—

    “Yvonne, we can’t, the street’s filled with Press!” I wail.

    Then we’ll grab a cab to her place and get fish and chips from the chippy on the corner. So we do that, it takes a while but fortunately she remembers that she put a packet of crackers in the makeup bag this morning just in case, so we eat those. Well, I eat most of them, I’m terribly hungry now it’s all over. And admit that I felt a bit sick this morning and couldn't face any breakfast.

    “Of course you couldn’t! I was shaking with nerves, too!” agrees Barbara, squeezing my hand hard in sympathy. Yvonne gives me a sharp look but doesn't say anything.

    The chippy’s busy, the area’s full of flats occupied by working people like Yvonne who don’t fancy having to get dinner at the end of the bloody working week. So we don’t eat there, we take the fish and chips back to her place after I’ve signed autographs for everybody in the shop including the proprietor, officiating on the big chip fryer and mushing the mushy peas, his grandson, doing the modern boring stuff like hamburgers, and his granddaughter, she’s about fourteen, very carefully cooking the fish in the two smaller fryers.

    After I’ve downed double chips and two large pieces of plaice with a large Coke I feel a lot, lot better. But I’m yawning my head off so Yvonne dials her friend Li, it’s short for Lionel but I’ve never heard her call him anything but Li, and as soon as he’s dropped off his current official fare he comes and picks us up in his minicab. She orders me to sleep in tomorrow.

    “I can’t do anything else, Yvonne, Brian won’t let me out of the flat. And I’m sorry I had to deceive you.”

    “It would have ruined the research, I can see that. Anyway, you didn’t deceive me all that much, did you?”

    “No, you’re still you!” says Barbara with a laugh, helping me into my coat.

    Uh—am I? Ulp.

    “And if you feel sick again tomorrow morning,” adds Yvonne neutrally, seeing us into the cab, “I’d see the doc, if I was you.”

    “It’ll just have been nerves,” says Barbara comfortably across me.

    “Mm. How long is it since you’ve seen John, again?” Yvonne asks drily.

    I give her a glare. “Just over a month. We came home in early January.”

    “Yeah. Well, if he can count, and he looked to me as if he could, I’d see the doc. Nighty-night!” she flutes, waving.

    And we drive off into a freezing London night. After quite some time Barbara ventures: “What did she mean? Surely she wasn’t suggesting…”

    “Whaddaya think she was suggesting?” I say tiredly. “Given that the words ‘morning’, ‘sick’, ‘John’ and ‘count’ were all mentioned in more or less the same breath.”

    “Not the same… Um, yes!” she says with a half-horrified, half-excited giggle. “Um, are you, do you think? I mean, could you be?”

    Given that I'm normally regular as clockwork and my period which was due on the 5th or 6th of January never happened and it’s now slightly over a month since then and I still haven't had one, yes. Also given that, unless the hangover from the travel-sickness pills was deceiving me, we forgot to use protection that first time in D.C., yes. “Um, it’s possible, I suppose,” I admit.

    “Ooh!” Slight pause. “Aren’t you pleased?”

    “No, because he’ll think I did it on purpose to make him marry me.”

    She gulps. “He won’t think that! He’s too nice!”

    “Too nice and too not proposing, ya mean. Of course he’ll think it, men always think it.”

    “Um, maybe he thinks it’s a bit soon to propose, I mean, you haven’t even lived with him, yet.”

    “I wish I could agree with you, Barbara. But I think that mainly he thinks I’m too down-market, too outspoken and too Australian to marry into the Royal Navy let alone the wanking Haworths. Added to which he’s very disappointed over me letting The Observer find out I'm not Lily Rose. He thinks I only did the stupid interview because I’d got so up-myself I couldn’t see that the whole world wasn't going to have the wool pulled over its eyes by smart little Rosie Marshall, and what’s more, he’s right.”

    “He can’t have said that!” she gasps.

    “More or less, yeah. Well, in his lingo, but yeah, pretty much that. He was very… cool.”

    Poor Barbara: I can hear her swallow hard.

    “Not that I’d ever get rid of it,” I say drearily. “Not John’s baby, I couldn’t. I’d go back home to Oz and bring it up there, I suppose.”

    “He’d never let you do that; of course he’d want it!”

    “Maybe. Not if it grew up as underhand and up-itself as its mother, though.”

    “You’re just a bit down,” she says, giving my arm a kind squeeze.

    “Yeah, I suppose I am. He’ll do the right thing, only who wants that? It isn’t the Fifties, I don’t want him to marry me because he has to, but because he wants to!”

    At this point Li, who we haven’t realised has been listening with interest, though he is less than a yard from us, puts in: “Is this the Navy Captain that Yvonne told me about? He sounds like a pretty decent type, Lily Rose.”

    “Yeah, he is, Li, only like I say, I want him to want me.”

    Li thinks this over. “Yvonne reckoned he was pretty keen. I wouldn’t worry, if I was you.”

    “Exactly!” agrees Barbara fervently.

    “Mm,” I say, trying to smile. “Well, I’d better go to the doc and make sure. Then I can go into a tizz.”

    “Right,” says Li stolidly.

    He drops me off first. At least, he starts to drop me off, then he gets out and, tersely ordering Barbara to stay where she is, shoulders his way through the milling crowds of wanking Press, none too gently, bless him, and sees me safely through the door, bodily hurling aside a couple of the bolder ones that have come back and are trying to shove in with me. Shit! We’d better have a couple of Dave and Aziz’s mates on nights, for a little while.

    Next morning. Sick as a dog. Rupy thinks it might have been the fish. I think it might not have been the fish, I’d better go to the doc. Oh, God. And what about the show? Brian’ll do his nut! Um, how long is it before ya start to show? One— No, scrub that, I’m already six weeks into it. Two, three, four— Oh, God. We’ll be filming.

    “You can’t be! Didn’t you take precautions?”

    “Shut UP, Rupy!”

    “Er—cup of coffee, dear?”

    “Later. Just water,” I whisper. He gives me a glass of Evian and I throw it right up into the kitchen sink.

    “I’ll get Doris.” He vanishes.

    Later still. Doris has taken me to her own doctor, she goes privately. He’s a very kindly, paternalistic joker in, at a guess, his mid-thirties. Judging by his waiting-room he does a lot of pregnant mums. Yes, is the verdict. About six weeks. I’d worked that out, thanks. Er—very cautious—aren’t I pleased?

    “I’ve no intention of terminating it, if that’s what you mean. –Blast! ’Scuse—” I throw up in his surgery sink, how very low. Fortunately he’s very sensible about it. What was my mother like during her pregnancies?—Mum? How would I know, I wasn’t there for the first one and only two for the second.—Well, sometimes it comes in short, sharp bursts like this just at first, and then it vanishes entirely!

    Yeah, right. And sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll never be able to cope with throwing up all day and finishing my book and doing the fourth series. “There isn’t any medicine, is there?”

    No. Right. “No, but there would be if wanking MEN had the babies!” I shout.

    “That’s probably true. Though would the women who would then be ruling the world, care?” he says mildly.

    A doctor that’s not completely up himself and has a sense of humour? What’s wrong with this country? “Ya got a point. Sorry I shouted. Um, do you do, like, the actual deliveries?”

    He does and for his private patients he will definitely be there throughout, but sometimes for the National Health ones if it all seems to be going well he lets the midwife handle most of it.

    “I thought I didn’t believe in private medicine but I’ve got lots of money from the show, I’ll have it done private.”

    “Fine. –Not ‘done’, I think!”

    “No, you’re right, there. It’s already done, eh?”

    He grins like anything. Look, medicos or not, sympathetic or not, they’re all the same, one of Them put it there with his wonderful dick, Jesus!

    So I let him load me up with advice and pamphlets and let his nurse sign me up or whatever it is when you're having it done—not done—going private, whatever, and let her make the next appointment and let Doris fuss like mad and tenderly load me into a taxi and take me back home…Thank God, Dave and Aziz are on duty.

    “Well, aren’t you pleased, Rosie?” she says brightly as I sink onto her Sanderson linen sofa (big sprays of roses, it’s very, very pretty). “Are you going to ring him?”

    At this I burst into a hurricane of sobs, gasping: “No—because—all—my fault! I—do—every—thing—wrong!”

    Doris has got too much sense to try to talk to a person that’s bawling her head off, she just helps Buster onto the sofa next to me and goes off to make a nice pot of tea.

    Much later. Rupy’s come home, found it empty and come down to Doris’s and been told all by her, and that I’m having a lie-down and we’re having dinner here. I can hear them so I get up and come out in Doris’s fuzzy pale blue dressing-gown and assure them I’m feeling much better. And I haven’t rung John yet, no. He gets a warning look from Doris and drops that topic for the nonce. He’s been to the first rehearsal for the first episode of Four. Terrible: nobody knew their lines, blah-blah. At least it’s a different topic from pregnancy, Parkinson, or guilt. So I for one don’t interrupt him.

    Doris has made the most wonderful casserole for dinner, it’s got meat and veggies and really thick gravy! Yum! I’m starving! Rupy points out that it’s on the cards I’ll throw it all up tomorrow morning but Doris assures him sternly that it’s natural and I’ll have had the nourishment, Rupy, dear. So I have two big helpings with piles of mashed potato with real butter and, yuck, sprouts because they’re good for me. And carrots because they’re very good for the eyes. Not sure if she means mine or its.

    “The trouble with you is,” says Rupy glumly as we settle in front of the box while Doris turns on her super-duper giant dishwashing machine—God!—Only the machine, it sounds like a Boeing taking off—“the trouble with you is, you always complicate things.”

    “Look, it takes two!”

    “Yes, but you knew he was The Pill generation, dear: why didn’t you tell him to use a condom?”

    “Got carried away.”

    “And?”

    No flies on him. “And, very slightly, I suppose there might have been the thought at the back of mind that it wouldn’t be a Bad Thing if I did get preggy and he thought it was wonderful and proposed on the spot. The said mind,” I add nastily, “being fuddled with fumes of travel-sickness pills that I took too many of because they fuddle me and I’d forgotten how many I’d already taken, specially with all that wine and stuff, while other people weren’t watching.”

    “That was because other people aren’t responsible for what you put into that great mouth of yours!”

    “True. It was only very slight, though. And, um, not envisaging it could actually happen was in there, too.”

    “Christ," he mutters. “Well, that goes a long way towards explaining it.”

    “Yes.”

    “Not it, dear! Explaining why your life is always so bloody complicated! And to think some of us thought it was all over bar the shouting, and once the Press had got over it we might actually get a bit of peace in our time!”

    That enables me to reply: “The entire population of the British Isles thought the Battle of Britain was the end, too. Except for Churchill. He had a bit of nous, even if he was a man. And a wanker.”

    “Huh?”

    “The Battle of Britain, you cretin! It wasn’t all over, it wasn’t the end, it was only the beginning, Churchill said so!”

    Doris has come in with cups of tea.—It’s her class, I’ve worked out: they normally end the meal with cups of tea. Grandma always did, too.—“No, you’ve got that wrong, Rosie, dear. He said it wasn’t the end, and not even the beginning of the end, but was perhaps the end of the beginning.”

    “So he did,” says Rupy cordially. “In that case you’ve only got Tobruk, and—um—Midway, and Monte Cassino,”—that was brill’, didn’t think he'd of heard of that—“and—um,”—he’s faltering—“D Day to look forward to, Rosie!”

   Doris gives a loud giggle. “You mean the Battle of the Bulge!”

    At that we all give in and laugh helplessly, or until we cry, in the case of one. Bummer, now I can’t stop crying.

    “Sorry!” I sob. “Better—go—home—sorry!”

    This is nonsense and Doris packs me off to her spare bed, promising me Buster for the end of it and slaying Rupy with a mere glance as he looks nervously in the direction of the phone and bleats “But—”

    So here I am in Doris’s spare room, it smells lovely, she’s got those flavoured drawer liners, hers are orange and roses, mixed, with a touch of cinnamon, the soap in the bathroom matches, she bought them as a set. I warned her I’ll throw up all over her bathroom tomorrow but she just laughed and reminded me that she was a nursing sister, she can cope with anything! I’d forgotten that, well, one small mercy. It’s too early to go to sleep, what I ought to be doing is planning exactly what to say to John that’ll be sensible and adult and not make him think it’s his responsibility and that he has to… Ooh, Buster, is that you? Ooh, nice and warm…

    Where am I? Ooh! Help! Oh, it’s Buster. It’s morning, and I’m at Doris’s, that’s right. Must have a pee— Jesus! I rush frantically into Doris’s pristine bathroom and throw up all over it. Beginning of the ruddy end and then some!

    Um, no, the end of the beginning. Was it? Whatever.