Face Your Partners

22

Face Your Partners

    Rupy had had a date with Jimmy Smith that had turned out extremely well and, as was sometimes the case with his dates, he didn’t get home to the flat until a couple of days later. Georgia wasn’t in but a large note fixed to the fridge with one of the fridge magnets she’d efficiently bought said: “RUPY. DON’T DRINK MY NON-FAT MILK. THERE IS ONLY WHOLEMEAL BREAD. HELP YOURSELF, IT'LL DO U GOOD. FITTINGS THIS AM THEN GYM PM. BACK ABOUT 6.30. G. PS. If Varley rings U don’t know where I am but U can tell Derry.”

    He opened the fridge door. Her milk bore a sticky label from the packet she had efficiently bought. It said: “GEORGIA’S MILK. Rupy, Hands OFF!!” Apart from that there was only the marg and a pot of the low-fat yoghurt she usually bought: ugh! He got the marg out and looked in the cupboard. Muesli, Vegemite and wholemeal bread, ugh! He made himself a wholemeal Vegemite sandwich and a cup of black instant, sighing, and sat down with the script for tomorrow’s rehearsal. Derry intended filming at the end of the week. Ugh.

    She was home just after 6.30. Even London Transport obeyed her, see? “I hope you didn’t drink my—”

    “No!”

    “Good,” she said sourly. She had a couple of bags of shopping with her. Rupy followed her into the kitchen with no expectation of anything, much, and he wasn’t disappointed. More non-fat milk, more wholemeal bread, and more low-fat yoghurt. He brightened slightly at the sight of a bunch of bananas but she slapped his hand and shouted: “NO!” The rest of that bag consisted of celery, ugh, broccoli, yuck, and carrots, yuck again.

    “You don’t even like carrots,” he said weakly.

    “They’re good for you,” she said grimly.

    “No meat?” he said sadly.

    “Tofu,” replied Georgia grimly, producing a packet of nasty, squashy—ugh!

    “Didn’t you even get some nice mange-tout peas?”

    “No, celery’s cheaper,” she replied grimly.

    “What about mushies?” he said sadly.

    “You ate the last lot I bought in a fry-up,” Georgia reminded him grimly.

    “That was a mistake,” he said sadly.

    “I’ll say!” she agreed with feeling.

    “I mean, I thought they were left over!” he bleated.

    Georgia ignored him. She washed her hands and then began washing the celery.

    “What’s up?” he said at last, as she didn’t ask about his date.

    She breathed heavily. Then she said: “Ask Molly, if ya really wanna know. But I dare say she’ll tell you a string of lies like she told me.”

    Ouch. Why had it been so much easier living with darling Rosie? Objectively, there had been ten times as much kerfuffle: for one thing, she bawled a Helluva lot more than Georgia—well, Georgia never bawled—and God knew it had been an endless series of trials and tribulations, meeting John and being convinced he was set to ignore her for the next millennium, the entire Lily Rose masquerade, and the frightful to-do after she had got together with John and the tabloids published that pic of them on holiday in Spain: her in a bikini and him in the chest, at the height of the Lily Rose fever. The Navy hadn’t liked that at all, his family had done their nuts, two admirals had had words with him, and he’d finally been sent off to the States for six m— “Eh?”

    “You’re not listening, you don’t wanna know, I get the point!” she shouted.

    “No, tell me,” he said feebly.

    “Yesterday arvo—when you were out,” she noted pointedly, “I came back home to find Molly on our sofa—”

    “I gave her a key, she needs a base for the times Derry wants her for those so-called secret—”

    “YES!”

    “—rehearsals,” he ended glumly.

    “Kissing bloody Andrew So-called Mackie!” she shouted.

    Oh, God!

    Georgia breathed heavily. “According to her, they were rehearsing.”

    He swallowed. “I dare say they were: Varley’s got innumerable scenes where they, um… Well, what did he say?”

    “He just grinned!” she shouted.

    “Georgia, darling,” he bleated, “there’s nothing in it, he’s not Molly’s type, and I really think he only hangs around with her because she’s so undemanding. If you’d just be a bit more conciliating, I’m sure he’d—”

    “NO! ” she shouted. She breathed heavily. “I am through pretending with stupid blokes.” She got out the big knife. She raised it. Rupy cringed. She WHACKED it down on the celery. He winced. “Do you want some stir-fry?” she said grimly.

    “No, um, thanks awfully, dear, but no. Um, Roger down with Doris, is he?”

    “Yes; I’m gonna fetch him in a minute. Why?”

    He tried to smile. In that case he wouldn’t pop down to Doris’s. “Um, nothing. I might pop down to The Tabla.”

    “You might pay your slate there, too,” she said grimly. “It is their business, not a charity.”

    “Mm,” agreed Rupy feebly, sliding out.

    Down at The Tabla Mr Singh was very welcoming and, whisking the “Reserved” notice off a table for four, sat him down, promising something really nice from the tandoor. Rupy sat back and gave a deep sigh, beginning to feel really soothed.

    … Not. Imelda, their youngest, bustled out, doing waitress, and told him what his slate was. Christ! Rupy just sat there with his jaw sagging.

    “We’ll take a credit card but we’d prefer cash,” she said firmly. –The thing was, she was a cheerful little thing, but just as managing as Georgia.

    “Yuh—um, Imelda, dear, I don’t carry that sort of— Um, well, try this.” Oops, she was saying flatly: “This isn’t yours,” and handing it back. “Terribly sorry, dear: mistake.”

    She snorted. “The guy ya nicked it off must be feeling it was a mistake, too! Who was he? ’Nother rich grocer like that Mal guy that gave you all that Jamaica stuff? ’Nother —”

    A deep voice said something pithy and Imelda vanished like the dew.

    “Don’t take any notice of her,” said her father grimly. “I’ve told her mother a million times she spoils the kid.”

    “Um, yes,” he said feebly. “I mean, no. I mean, I had no idea it had shot up to that amount!”

    Mr Singh adjured him not to worry about it and shouted something in Punjabi. Imelda brought a glass of nimboo pani, was interrogated, replied sourly: “Yes, I put a drop of rosewater in it, he always has it like that!” and retreated, scowling.

    Mrs Singh shot out, beaming, to urge some nice fried puris but her husband spoke briefly and she vanished.

    Mr Singh sighed. “I’ve told her, you like the aloo balls, she knows that.”

    “They are magical. I suppose they’re fattening, though,” he admitted glumly.

    “Women’s rubbish! Don’t you listen to them! IMELDA!” He added on a wistful note, as she rushed up with a tray of potato balls, looking sulky: “They are tasty, if I say so myself.”

    Rupy brightened. “Join me, Mr Singh?”

    Beaming, the huge Sikh sat down. “I don’t mind if I do!” He issued a pithy order and Imelda shot out like a rocket, to return with another tray of little dishes of pickles. Carefully the restaurateur transferred a selection to their own tray and waved her away. “Now, try this!”

    They’d be fireballs, of course—fireballs—but at least none of them was his wife’s pickle of chillis! Meekly Rupy ate what he was told, drank up his wonderful scented, sugary nimboo pani, and launched into the full story. Adding into the bargain the keenness between Georgia and Luke that had been observed at Christmas, Georgia’s terrific sulks when he’d disappeared again, and the speculation about Luke’s real identity. It lasted right through to the superb tandoori chicken. Ambrosia for the mouth. Indescribable.

    Mrs Singh resurfaced as they were washing their hands, Imelda humbly holding the bowls and proffering the towels: possibly it had sunk in that if she didn’t behave herself her father wouldn’t provide board and lodging while she was at varsity. Ooh! Pink ones and green ones and white ones! Well, just one. Rupy took a pale green barfi with a pistachio on it…

    “Well?” said Mrs Singh in the Punjabi that her husband preferred, some time later.

    “Stir that pumpkin curry. Well, Georgia’s in a mood because she caught that new young actor fellow, Andrew Something, kissing Molly in the flat. They claimed they were rehearsing one of their scenes.”

    “Oh yes! New Daughter 1!” she said immediately. “That’d be right, Rupy told me that Andrew Mackie’s character does fall heavily for her, but it’s a mistake.”

    “Just like real life, then,” he noted drily.

    She swallowed. “It is a bit, yes. There’ll be nothing in it, he’s too young for her. But I don’t think he’d be right for Georgia: she’d walk all over him. She needs a man who can control her.”

    “Right. Just like Imelda, then,” said Imelda’s proud father sourly.

    She swallowed. “Well, yes. But don’t try throwing that stupid Aziz at her, today’s girls won’t put up with arranged marriages.”

    “Apparently not,” he said sourly. “Are you letting that curry get too dry?”

    “It’s all right,” she said placidly, stirring it a bit. “Any more about Luke?”

    He sniffed slightly. “Well, this may just be one of Rupy’s carry-ons. He seems to think Luke, I mean the man they know as Luke, is really his brother, Henry Beaumont. A rich American businessman. Billionaire.”

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Don’t cheer yet: Rupy says she’s been in a huge sulk over him. See, the man was all over her at Christmas and promised he’d write, but she hasn’t heard a word from him in five months.”

    She swallowed.

    “Yes. Well, don’t expect her in here for a while,” he advised.

    “I won’t! Oh, dear, poor little Georgia, she doesn’t seem to have any luck with men, does she?”

    He sniffed. “Guess whose fault that is?”

    He was right, for once. Mrs Singh nodded sadly.

    “Oh, and don’t worry about Rupy’s slate, the Captain’ll pay it!” he added cheerfully.

    She bit her lip but nodded: he was right about that, too.

    They were having a very secret rehearsal in a giant, echoing building which held about twenty other rehearsal rooms used by television and stage companies from all over the metropolis. It was even more secret in that the Double Dee Productions limo with the Double Dee logo on its doors had rolled up with Molly and Derry in it. However.

    Ordinary Seaman Dearborn said urgently, looking into New Daughter 1’s eyes: “But of course it’s you I want!” Whereupon Rupy alas, collapsed in frightful sniggers.

    “Sorry, Derry!” he gasped under the great director’s awful glare.

    “Weren’t you WARNED?” he shouted terribly.

    “Um, yes, sorry. Sorry, Andrew. Um, nothing to do with, um, anything, really,” he muttered.

    Molly stuck her chin out. “I see. Don’t blame Rupy, Derry: the thing is, Andrew and I were rehearsing this scene at the flat and Georgia walked in on us just as we were practising the kiss, and thought it was real.”

    “Flattering, really,” explained Andrew, grinning.

    Derry breathed heavily. “Just watch it! Stupid involvements between our leading players we can do without, thank you!”

    “I love his syntax,” murmured Andrew dreamily. Molly collapsed in sniggers.

    “STOP FARTING ABOUT!” roared the great director terribly. “From the TOP!”

    Silence.

    “ANDREW!” he bellowed. “From the TOP!”

    “Oh sorry, does that mean—Um, yeah. Um…” He waved his hands in strange, rounded, beckoning gestures.

    “What the fuck are you DOING?” shouted his director.

    “Um, well, I can’t sort of do it cold, I’m imagining what it says in the script, the camera closing up on us.”

    “WHAT?” he bellowed.

    “Well, I’m sorry, but this is me and Molly sitting on two bloody hard chairs, not filming on a—what was it? Oh, yes: antique sofa. I can’t pretend unless I pretend I’m pretending!” he said on a desperate note.

    “Very well,” said Derry evilly, very evidently suspending judgement. “I will read the camera directions. Ready?” Andrew nodded meekly and Derry read the directions, into the bargain throwing in the bit about the antique sofa, which was verbatim Varley.

    Ordinary Seaman Dearborn said urgently, looking into New Daughter 1’s eyes: “But of course it’s you I want! Didn’t that wonderful night mean anything to—?”

    Rupy clapped his hanky over his mouth and rushed out.

    “Get on with it!” snarled the great man.

    Nothing.

    “MOLLY!” he bellowed.

    “Oh! Sorry, Derry. Um, do I have to do all that, um, lip-licking?””

    “Yes!” he snarled. “As in the SCRIPT!”

    Swallowing, Molly said: “Okay. Um…” She licked her lips uneasily.

    “You’re supposed to FANCY the man! Not graze like a bloody JERSEY!” he howled.

    “Was I? Um, sorry. Is this better?”

    “NO! Get up!” Derry stomped heavily over to take her place. The chair was too close to Andrew for his bulk: he had to move it aside. Molly didn’t dare to laugh. She bit down hard on her lip. “I will read the stage directions and that will be your cue to speak your line,” he said clearly to his new leading man. “Get it?” Andrew nodded mutely. “And then I will show our resident Jersey how a nubile young woman reacts to a virile young man’s fancying her,” he said evilly. “Ready?” He read the directions.

    Ordinary Seaman Dearborn said urgently, looking into New Daughter 1’s eyes: “But of course it’s you I want! Didn’t that wonderful night mean anything to you?”

    His bosom heaving in an agitated manner, Derry licked his lips uncertainly, looking both coy and as if he wouldn’t half mind it. At a little remove Michael Manfred dug Garry Woods in the ribs. The New Captain, who hadn't been privileged to be directed by the great man before, was incapable of responding to this: he just goggled incredulously. Derry then fluted: “Of course it—I mean no! I mean it was just sex!” His bosom heaved agitatedly and his tongue just peeped at his bearded lips again.

    Molly gave a shriek of laughter, clapped her hand over her mouth, and rushed out.

    … “It was pretty good when you did it, though, Molly,” admitted Andrew, grinning, quite some hours later, as most of the exhausted actors fortified themselves at a very down-market little café near the rehearsal rooms before starting the long, weary trek across London to their homes.

    Molly had a dark brown leather handbag with her today. She held it up to her chin. “Of course it—I mean no!” she hooted in a sort of imitation bass-baritone, her bosom heaving agitatedly and her tongue just peeping above the handbag.

    The entire company collapsed with shouts of laughter.

    “I wish I’d been there,” admitted Euan, grinning broadly.

    “You could have shown me how to say my lines, that’s for sure,” said Andrew with a sigh. “Why does he always start yelling instead of explaining?”

    “Because the minds of we mere mortals do not move fast enough for His Directorialness,” said Michael Manfred, also grinning broadly.

    “Mere mortals or cows, Michael!” Molly reminded him, twinkling.

    The middle-aged Michael went rather red. “I’ve always liked Jerseys, Molly, dear.”

    “For God’s sake!” cried Euan, staring. “Don’t say he’s called her a cow already?”

    “No, no, a Jersey,” said Garry Woods, his shoulders shaking.

    “It was because I wasn’t licking my lips properly,” said Molly heavily. “Look.” She licked her lips, moved her jaw in a sideways chewing motion and went deeply: “Moo-ooo-oo.”

    The company collapsed again.

    “Aye, well, he’s on edge because Paula had to rewrite almost all of Episode 1,” admitted Euan.

    “Added to which, Molly, dear, directors are like that,” explained Rupy.

    “I know,” she said placidly. “Anyone else like another coffee?”

    Immediately Michael, Garry, Andrew and Euan all offered to get it for her. The ages must have stretched over more than three decades: made no difference, apparently. Rupy watched drily as they all went off to the counter in a bunch.

    “Think we’re the wrong sex, dear,” he said to young Ronni Vaile who played the Rival.

    “Yeah,” she agreed sourly, her eyes on Andrew’s back.

    Oops, thought Rupy. Quickly he said he thought her scene with Boatswain Cricklewood and Lieutenant Fuller had gone really well, the other day. And that Darryn Hinds (who played the Lieutenant) was a nice boy.

    “He’s a vain pretty-face, more like,” replied Ms Vaile grimly, “but aren’t they all?”

    Oh, dear. And it was no use suggesting Cricklewood: he was about fifty and, though a joli-laid and very attractive to some ladies, not the type to appeal to skinny little red-heads that jogged five miles every morning.

    “Well, most of them, it’s not the real Navy,” he admitted.

    “You can say that again,” she said sourly.

    “Mm. Um, Ronni, dear, if you’d like to meet some real Navy types, I’m going down to the cottage weekend after next: John’s taking us all to the Yacht Club dinner and dance in Portsmouth. You could come as my partner—Benedict’s still out in the horrible Cook Islands,” he explained sourly.

    “Um, I thought his name was Jimmy?” she floundered.

    “What? Oh! No, Jimmy’s a lovely fellow, but nothing serious, dear. No, there’s no-one I want to take.”

    The skinny little Ronni licked her lips uneasily—Derry should be here, reflected Rupy drily. “Um, will she be there?”

    “Which one?” he said heavily

    “Her, of course. Molly,” she said, scowling.

    “Um, well, um, think so; um, she is Rosie’s cousin!” he gulped.

    “Yes. Well, I won’t, then, thanks. But thanks for thinking of me.” She got up as the laughter at the counter centred round Molly in a lovely soft caramel wool suit and draped apricot blouse got louder. “Personally I’d say she was still overweight,” she said sourly. “But as you say, I’m the wrong sex.” And with that she walked off.

    Sighing, Rupy picked up the sugar dispenser, poured a good two teaspoonfuls into his hand, and ate it. Possibly someone ought to tell Derry that, with the world consisting of different sexes, there was very little likelihood of there being no stupid involvements at all between his leading players—but it wasn’t going to be him.

    … “I can’t stay,” said Molly, as Andrew urged fish and chips. “I have to see Micky does his homework. And I’m hardly seeing anything of him, with these stupid rehearsals.”

    “Why not give up your office job?” said Euan kindly.

    “No; I need the income. What if the series is a flop? Besides, Susan’s relying on me.”

    “I see,” he said mildly. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

    “No, don’t, Euan, taxis are a terrible waste of money. I’ll take the tube.”

    “Let me take you to the station,” said Andrew quickly.

    “There’s one two blocks down the street, thanks, Andrew. You people have your fish and chips—I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye-bye!” And she hurried out.

    “It’ll be two tubes, at the least,” said Euan on a dry note, eyeing Andrew’s very flushed face, “but she’s like that: a determined wee body. The sisters aren’t so unalike.”

    “Yes; Georgia just lets it show more. Well, Molly cares more about people’s feelings,” admitted Rupy. “Maybe you should have picked Georgia, Andrew.”

    “I didn’t pick anyone!” he said angrily, now very flushed. “And I’ve had enough of being bossed within an inch of my life, thanks very much: I don’t want another helping! I’ll see you!” And he strode out.

    “I did wonder if it might be something like that,” admitted Euan.

    “Yes; he’s obviously attracted to Georgia, but I don’t think he’s ever going to do anything about it,” said Rupy heavily. “Ugh, now I suppose I’ll have to go home and lie to her.”

    “Don’t do that,” he said with a smile. “Let’s go somewhere nice and have some real food.”

    “Me?” he gulped.

    “Yes, you, or aren’t you human?” replied Euan cheerfully.

    “Yuh—Um, I’d love to, but Euan, darling! Your reputation!” he gasped.

    “Rupy, in case it hasn’t dawned,” he said heavily, “I’ve given the film star shit away. I don’t care if the media splash it around in three-inch headlines that I’m a closet gay—saving your presence. Nor if I never play another bluidy young lover as long as I live!”

    “In that case I won’t say no. Except that I do need a shower and some clean clothes: one feels wrung out and grimy after a day rehearsing with Derry, don’t you find?”

    “Aye, well, I only had half a day, but yes! If you canna face Georgia—and God knows I’d be the last one to blame you for that, the girl terrifies me!—come back to the flat with me. You might give me some ideas about its décor, too,” he noted sourly.

    Beaming, Rupy got up. “Lovely! Ta ever so!”

    So they grabbed a taxi and did that. Euan let Rupy decide that he, Euan, should wear a black silk shirt, a black suit and his black leather trench coat, the whole brightened up by a narrow red bow-tie, while he himself wore Euan’s favourite cream silk shirt, a pair of black evening trousers, a maroon and black shot-silk smoking jacket that had been a mistake, and a silk scarf in shades of lilac and cream that was a relic of some past girlfriend. The scarf was knotted negligently at the neck, and Rupy smirked at himself in the long mirror. Though noting: “Most of your gear is terribly conservative, dear.”

    “Yes. My Jamaica shirts are only for Jamaica,” he said drily.

    “Of course! –I tried to talk darling John into a lovely smoking jacket, but he only laughed,” he revealed sadly, smoothing its ghastly sleeve.

    “Yes,” croaked Euan. “Um, I never wear it: would you like to keep it, Rupy?”

    “Ooh, really?” he gasped, all lit up. “Ooh, super! Ta ever so, darling!”

    “And the trousers: I can’t get into them, they date from my Florizel period.”

    Rupy was very tempted, but protested feebly: “But what if they want you to lose a stone or two again, Euan?”

    “They’d be oot o’ luck, I’m no’ doing another young lover. I’ve told Aubrey he can take a running: if he doesna want to cast me as something meaty he needna cast me at all. And Derry likewise. He’s got some bluidy new idea, by the by, but he’s not letting on what it is—but if it’s got a young lover in it, its no’ going to be me! Have them, Rupy, if you can get any use out of them.”

    “Well, thank you, Euan, they’re beautifully cut. Um, most actors want to play young love—I mean young male leads, dear: young male leads.”

    “Aye, and they look idiots doing it,” he said grimly. “You realise I’m twelve years older than Andrew? It’s ludicrous. And as for that fresh-faced little Darryn, I feel like his grandfather every time I have to stand next to him!”

    “You need your dinner,” said Rupy firmly.

    “Aye, I do!” he admitted with a laugh. “But that doesna mean I’m no’ serious about giving the young lover thing away! Come on, I booked at the Savoy Grill while you were in the shower.”

    “Ooh!” His eyes shining, Rupy came on.

    Over the dinner he admitted that if Euan’s flat was his he’d get rid of all the black in the ensuite and all the white in the sitting-room and bedroom.

    “I like that suite Rosie’s got down at the cottage,” said Euan wistfully.

    Rupy swallowed. “Do you mean the things covered with the darling chintz with the little roses? Yes. I’m afraid those pieces are genuine Queen Anne: John inherited them.”

    “No wonder they look so good!”

    “You could put antiques in your flat. I mean, sometimes if one starts off with one really nice piece… Um, well,” he added lamely, “not with that white wall-to-wall carpeting you’ve got in there, though. What made you do it?”

    Euan eyed him drily. “I hired a gay decorator.”

    Rupy choked. He laughed so much that he had to rinse his throat with the rest of the burgundy and let Euan order a bottle of fizz.

    After dinner Euan, with a vivid memory of clubbing with Rupy, Rosie and some friends some years back, vetoed that idea and suggested his club. When they got there Rupy’s jaw just about hit the pavement. “Are you a member?” he croaked.

    “Yes.”

    “But it’s so Establishment, Euan!” he gasped.

    “It’s quiet and comfortable and one can get a decent Cognac and a drinkable single malt. And it doesn’t let autograph hunters in!” he said with a grin. “Coming?”

    Numbly Rupy accompanied him into the Garrick.

    Georgia had bought a new dress—on her own, without Rupy. Cloth of gold. No, well, possibly lamé, but cloth of gold was the impression. Very shiny. Full length, strapless but with the shoulders encircled with a sort of loop or crescent or—Well, glamorous, yes. And the shoes to match.

    “Lovely. Very smart. Dare I ask who you’re favouring with it, dear?’

    “It’s actually none of your business, Rupy, but it’s no skin off my nose if you know. Varley.”

    “What?” he gulped. “Georgia, darling, is that wise?”

    “Probably not, but at least he asked me,” she said in a hard voice.

    “Yuh—uh, darling, surely you’re not planning to take Roger?” he gasped, realising that the unfortunate corgi was wearing a matching gold collar and lead.

    “Why not? Varley’s checked, and they’ll let him in.”

    “Setting aside the fact that I doubt there’s a restaurant in London that lets dogs in, it’s the food regulations or something, it’ll be far too late for the poor little fellow!” he cried.

    Georgia glared. “He is not a poor little fellow, and he can sleep anywhere, and he’s coming!”

    Rupy knew there was an expression for it but all he could think of was teddy bear. Something reassuring to hug—Rosie would know. “You’re treating him like a teddy bear,” he said feebly.

    Georgia looked down her nose. “Balls.”

    “And whatever lies Varley may have told you, they don’t let dogs in restaurants, he’ll make you dump him with the concierge or the coat-check girl!” he cried.

    “It’s a private room in a very exclusive little restaurant, Varley and Derry know the owner,” she said, looking down her nose.

    Hope flickered. “Is Derry going to be there?”

    “No. This is a date,” said Georgia witheringly.

    Hope died. Rupy sank back into the saggy old sofa.

    Molly sighed. “I thought she might.”

    “She didn’t get home until gone nine this morning!”

    “She is an adult, Rupy,” she said with another sigh.

    “An idiot, more like! With Varley? Or isn’t he as nauseating to the distaff side as every actress that’s ever worked with him had given one to suppose?” he said acidly.

    “Have a sandwich, they’re really nice. I’ve always thought he was nauseating—yeah.” She waited until Rupy was munching and added: “Don’t let on to Georgia, will you, but he asked me first.”

    Rupy choked on his sandwich.

    “Sorry, Rupy!”

    “Nuh—uh—!” He gasped, patting himself on the chest. “I would rather die than let on to Georgia, I do assure you, darling!”

    “Mm,” said Molly, biting her lip. “I’m afraid she’s miserable. But I didn’t make Andrew like me.”

    “No, well, you’re too lovely, dear! And much, much too sympathetic: the idiots think it’s something they’ve got.”

    “Thanks,” said Molly weakly. “I think.”

    “Anyway— Want this cakey, darling? –In that case I might. Does look tempting, doesn’t it? And I have got a tap class tomorrow.”

    “Yes, go on,” she said, smiling.

    Rupy tried it. Mm, nice! This was an awfully nice teashop that Molly had found! “Um, between you and me and the gatepost, darling, ’tisn’t just Andrew. She’s really furious with Luke, because the silly man let her know he fancied her at Christmas—well, didn’t do anything, but he made it quite plain—and I have to say, it was quite plain!” he admitted with a giggle, “and although he swore he’d write to her, she hasn’t heard a thing.”

    “Help. Perhaps he’s been thrown into clink, Rupy. It has happened before, from what Rosie was saying.”

    “Er—mm.” He cleared his throat.

    Molly looked at him in surprise. “What?”

    Rupy burst out with the theory about Luke really being his brother.

    “Help. Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”

    “You didn’t see very much of him, dear. And John thinks he might be: that picture in the Vogue—well, it wasn’t a close-up and it was fairly blurred, those goss’ pics always are—but it did look awfully like him.”

    “Brothers are often alike. If John was really concerned he could check with the family, surely?”

    Rupy’s face fell. “Oh.”

    Molly took a deep breath. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe a word to Georgia. The last thing we need is for her to get all het up over the idea she’s met an American millionaire.”

    Rupy had got the strong impression it was billionaire, actually, but he just nodded meekly.

    “Are you going to this publicity do of Derry’s next week?” she asked kindly.

    “Yes. It’ll be vile: scores of Press, like that thing Rosie and me went to when he hired a whole club for the night—you’ll see!”

    “I’m not invited. I don’t exist, remember?” said Molly on a dry note.

    “Oh, help! I was forgetting! Darling, it’s too mean of them!”

    “I don’t really mind,” said Molly valiantly.

    Rupy sort of thought she did. “Never mind, there’s John’s lovely party at the Yacht Club, this weekend!”

    “Is that this weekend? I haven’t got a partner... And me and Georgia aren’t supposed to be seen together in public,” she reminded him sadly.

    “Darling, you are not going to be sacrificed over this! It’s only a silly yacht club in Portsmouth, and only silly Navy types belong to it! Just do your hair differently and wear something really soft and feminine. All they’ll think is that you’re very like your sister—which you are!”

    “Yes, you’re right,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Andrew’d be your partner like a shot,” he admitted.

    Molly sighed. “I don’t think I ought to encourage him. Not when I’m not in the least serious about him.”

    “Er—very fanciable to the distaff side, dear?” he said delicately.

    “He’s that, all right! They’ve only got to be good-looking and I can’t say no,” she admitted glumly.

    Rupy nodded. “I’m like that, too. Then when Mr Right does come along… Oh, well.”

    Molly had long since heard all about the love of Rupy’s life. “Benedict must be due for a home posting soon, surely?”

    “I don’t know, dear,” he said heavily. “Anyway, how many gay relationships really last?”

    “Some people work it out, Rupy,” she said kindly.

    “Yes, but not when their careers don’t mesh. ’Tisn’t really any different from a hetero relationship, you see, dear: there’s always one that has to be the wee wifey at home. If only the silly Diplomatic Service didn’t always send them abroad!” he said crossly.

    Molly had to swallow. “Mm.”

    “I suppose I do know some people that are making it work. Paul and Malcolm are. Paul’s a bit of a pain—he was our director for the Daughter—but Malcolm’s a very stable personality. Um, ’s’matter of fact they’ve asked me to dinner on Friday, and I was going to say I couldn’t come after all, ’cos I didn’t have a partner, didn’t want to be a gooseberry, and then it is the Yacht Club on the Saturday, but there’s plenty of trains, and, um, well, would you like to come with me, darling? Just a nice, quiet little dinner at home. And Paul’s used to Brian’s silly plots, we can say anything to him. –They’re very ordinary!” he added quickly.

    Molly had to smile. “Mm, not the sort that steal a poor little corgi’s Union Jack coat.”

    “Wasn’t that disgraceful? Not that sort at all, Malcolm would have ten fits at the very idea. Actually they’d love to meet you, Molly!”

    Oh, help: partner a forty-plus gay to a lovely little dinner given by other gays? To be totally frank, it was hard to imagine anything more boring. Painting the town red with creepy Varley Knollys in gold lamé would actually be preferable. Molly took a deep breath, smiled very nicely, and accepted gratefully.

    … Susan Walsingham had been baby-sitting. “Well?” she said drily on her return from this exciting event.

    Molly sat down heavily. “It was very nice, actually. They’ve got a lovely flat and they’re very nice people.”

    “And?”

    “There were two couples invited besides me and Rupy.”

    “And?”

    “Yes, they were all gay, is that what you wanted to hear?” she cried.

    “No, but it was what I expected. Well, you went and nobly dumped that dishy Andrew.”

    “I didn’t dump him, I just said last time he asked me out for a meal that I didn’t think it was a very good idea for people that work together to get involved.”

    “Right. What about Euan? Or wasn’t that a date you went on with him last Monday?”

    Molly had got her neighbour to baby-sit that night. “All right, your spies are everywhere.”

    “Your son’s middle name is Big Mouth, you know,” she said with a grin.

    “Yeah. Or Big Foot! He’s grown out of his sneakers again!”

    “Probably going to be tall. Was his father tall?”

    “Yeah: tall and dishy, and very married,” she admitted sourly.

    Susan wasn’t surprised. “Mm. What about Euan? Did you break it off?”

    Molly smiled a little. “No—I was going to, I must admit. No, he did.”

    Susan’s jaw sagged. “You mean he worked up the guts?”

    “Yes. He’s improved a lot,” she said, smiling.

    “Well, go on, give me the gruesome details.”

    “Couldn’t I make a cuppa first? Malcolm made some salty thing, I think he said it had anchovies in the sauce, does that seem likely?”

    Susan shrugged. “As likely as anything in these post-nouvelle, post-minceur days.” She looked at Molly’s face. “Yes!” she said with a laugh. “They do mush them up in their blenders and shove them in fancy sauces! Put your feet up, and get out of those ridiculous shoes, I’ll get the tea.” She marched out to the kitchen.

    Smiling, Molly eased off the beautiful avocado peep-toed shoes she’d got at Harrods—having broken down after she got the part in the New Daughter and let Rupy take her shopping—and put her feet up on the couch.

    Naturally Susan didn’t let her off, but then Molly hadn’t expected she would.

    Euan had taken her to a pleasant little Italian restaurant they’d been to before: he knew she liked its cannelloni and antipasto. He didn’t order the latter for himself: it was the sort of place that went in for bottled dried aubergines, very small pieces of tinned coeurs d’artichauts, and very mean slices of bocconcini—nothing fresh. Apparently the nicer Italian restaurants in Australia also offered this sort of choice: Molly seemed to think it was quite up-market. He preferred simple crudités but he now knew she thought that eating bits of raw vegetables for a first course was mad, so he chose the grilled funghi: that was always nice. Just champignons de Paris, but well-opened ones—cheap, from down the market, would be his bet—and liberally sprinkled with olive oil.

    “Molly, this isn’t really a date: I want to talk to you,” he said.

    Molly smiled at him over the antipasto. “Mm?”

    Strangely enough Euan wasn’t the mass of nerves he’d thought he’d be. “It’s been fun, and you know I like you very much, but I think we’d better break it off.”

    “I think so, too,” she said calmly. “We’ve hardly seen anything of each other, these past few months, have we?”

    “No,” he agreed. “I think we’ve really drifted apart naturally, haven’t we?”

    “Mm.” Molly speared a piece of very ordinary-looking salami with her fork and ate it. “Mmm, tasty!” she approved. “Want a bit?”

    “No, thanks, these mushrooms are yummy,” he said with a smile, not offering her a taste because he already knew she didn’t much like them. He ate a mouthful and then said: “Actually, Molly, I think it’s Terri.”

    “Good!” said Molly frankly, beaming at him. “I think she’s lovely. And you’ve got so many interests in common, I think she’d be just right for you, Euan! Only—” She hesitated.

    “Only not if I do ma Big Star carry-on, eh?” he said grimly.

    “Well, no. I don’t think she’d be happy in that sort of life.”

    “No. As a matter of fact, though it’s an income, of course, I’d prefer to give the acting away. Stick to producing. God knows if Derry’d ever let me in, though. Seriously, I mean.”

    To his surprise Molly replied: “I’ve been thinking about that. It might sound a bit silly, but I think he might be looking for an heir. You know: someone he can train up a bit and that can carry on his tradition. I think you ought to speak to him about it, Euan.”

    “Really?” he said brightening.

    “Yes. He’s seen how keen you’ve got over helping with the New Daughter: I think he might be waiting for you to say how you feel about it.”

    “Oh, good! I’ll speak to him, then!”

    “Mm,” she said nodding. “Have you spoken to Terri yet?’

    “No. Wanted to—well, sort us out first.” He hesitated. “I don’t know that she’d even consider… I think she’s seen too much of me, frankly.” He told her how Terri had bawled him out after the Mrs Jackson episode.

    Molly had to smile a little: clearly Terri had been jealous! All she said was, however: “Yes, well, she certainly thinks very little of the film star stuff. You’ll need to think carefully about your choices, Euan.”

    “Don’t worry, I am. I’m no’ a kid any longer and I’m sick of the footling life I’ve been leading since I came to London,” he said grimly.

    Molly smiled and nodded and, though the wine was a bit sour, let him refill her glass.

    The Italian restaurant couldn’t produce any non-fattening desserts. Molly was tempted, but thought she’d better not: Derry would kill her if she put on weight. What she could really do with was a nice piece of fruit. Euan had some nice peaches at the flat, so they went there for peaches and coffee.

    Normally this sort of adjournment led to a bit of the other. Tonight, however, though it was very obvious he wanted to, Euan just said: “Thanks for putting up with me, Molly. It’s been good. In fact, if it doesn’t sound too bluidy pompous, it’s been a privilege. I’ll get you a taxi.”

    Micky was up at six, busting with excitement about going down to the village. Molly eventually forced him to wash, dress, and get himself a bowl of cornflakes without actually getting up herself, pretty good going, experienced solo mum though she was. Then he came in to report he was packed. This meant that he’d packed his electronic thingos and, possibly, the sou’wester John had bought him. Oh, and probably his radio-controlled boat which, even though there was no water anywhere near their flat, he refused to leave down in Bellingford.

    “Go and pack your clothes,” she groaned.

    “I have!”

    Molly put a pillow over her face and waited until he’d retreated, momentarily defeated.

    “Mum! Mum! It’s the phone!”

    She sat up groggily. “What’s the time?”

    “There’s someone on the phone! It’s a man!”

    “What’s he want?” she said groggily, peering at her alarm clock. Help!

    “Dunno. He said could he speak to you.”

    “Have you washed your breakfast dishes? Then DO IT!” She staggered off to the phone. It had better not be Andrew, after she’d sweated blood to put him off nicely, without hurting his feelings, or Rupy ringing to say he’d gone on somewhere and was lost and someone had nicked his wallet—as had happened once before. “Hullo,” she said grimly.

    There was a short pause—it felt like a startled pause—and then a man’s upper-class English voice said: “Hullo. Is that Molly Leach?”

    “Yes. I don’t care what Derry wants, I’m not spending my weekends rehearsing,” she said flatly.

    “Er—no!” said the voice with a startled laugh. “This is Terence Haworth.”

    “Oh, help, is it all off?” said Molly groggily. There was a horrible clattering noise going on in the kitchen: how many dishes had he used, for Pete’s sake?

    “What? Um, no! Uh, very much the reverse, actually. I was wondering if you needed a lift down to Bellingford?” said Terence somewhat lamely.

    “No, that’s okay, thanks, we’re taking the train. Or did John tell you to pick us up ’cos he can’t meet us after all?”

    “No!” he said, very startled. “Um, no, thought of it for myself. Look, I’m going down anyway, and I can always ring John and let him know his services won’t be needed.”

    “Who is it?” hissed Micky at her elbow.

    “Ssh! It’s Terence Haworth!”

    “Ooh! C’n I speak to him?”

    “No! Ssh! You don’t even know him! Um, sorry, what?” she said feebly.

    Terence cleared his throat. “There’s a lift going begging if you want it.”

    “He won’t be in his uniform!” she cried. “Just be quiet! Um, sorry, Terence.”

    “What’s he want?” hissed Micky loudly.

    “Shut UP, Micky, I can’t hear myself think! I’m awfully sorry, Terence, Micky’s making a pest of himself.”

    “I AM NOT!”

    “Go away, Micky,” said Molly tiredly. “Are you there?”

    “Yes, I’m still here,” said Terence with a smile in his voice. “Wants to speak to the sub commander, does he?”

    “Yes, but if I do let him, he won’t be able to think of a thing to say.”

    On his form up till now Terence wouldn’t have bet on it. “Mm. What about this lift? Door-to-door.”

    “Um, we did sort of say we might meet Rupy on the platform—”

    “He won’t be there!” cried Micky scornfully.

    “No. –Um, sorry, did you hear that?”

    “Yes. I’d say there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’s right.”

    “Um, yeah,” said Molly on a weak note. “Um, but haven’t you got a Porsche?”

    Terence had—belatedly, true—thought of that. “I have, but I’m selling it. Sick of the bachelor-boy thing. I’ve borrowed Father’s estate car—um, sorry, station-waggon, I think you’d call it. He doesn’t drive it much, any more.”

    Molly gave in, even though it was a long way to travel with a man she’d only met briefly last year. Still, he was John’s brother. “That’d be very nice, then. Thanks very much.”

    Terence checked their address and was about to say he’d pick them up in about half an hour, if that suited, when she said: “Hang on. Where are you?”

    As a matter of fact he was at old Cousin Matthew’s palatial residence, where he’d just got himself round an enormous meal of bacon and eggs, having got up before crack of dawn in order to drive Father’s old crate up from Kent—though, true, the roads had been clear at that time of the morning.

    “Staying with old Cousin Matthew for a day or two,” he said easily. “Colin’s uncle—that side. Mayfair.”

    “That’s in London, isn’t it?”

    “Er—yeah,” he said feebly.

    “Good. –Rosie said you’d given up your flat,” she explained.

    “That’s right. Liquidating my assets—I’m buying the local pub, in their village,” he said easily.

    “Help, do your parents know?” she gasped.

    They did as of ten-thirty last night, when he’d finally got down to Kent after it had dawned, round about the time that Cousin Matthew’s bloody butler was offering sherry, that Master Leach went along with the lovely Molly. “Yes,” he said easily. “Not too thrilled, as I’m sure you can guess. But I’m only the younger son, so it’s not too tragic!”

    Grimly Molly replied: “Any sensible parents’d be really glad that you’ve decided what you’re gonna do and you’re settling down near your brother.”

    Terence blinked. “Er—yes! But it’s my life, not theirs, and as I say, they’re not really all that interested. Fiona and Norman are pleased, though. Well, see you in about half an hour, if that’s not too soon?”

    “Um, no. Great. Thanks, Terence.”

    “My pleasure, Molly. Bye—”

    “I want to say goodbye!”

    “Go on, then,” she said heavily.

    There was heavy breathing in Terence’s ear. Then Micky said hoarsely: “It’s Micky here.”

    “Hullo again, Micky,” replied Terence with a smile in his voice. “How’s the sea jersey?”

    “Yeah ace! Hey, didja get my letter?”

    “I did, thank you very much.”

    “Hey, where were ya when it come?” he breathed.

    Lurking perilously near the Shatt al-Arab, missiles at the ready, actually. “Oh, well, out in the Gulf—the Middle East, y’know? Near Iraq.”

    “Hey, didja have to shoot anyone?”

    “No, the most exciting thing that got shot this trip was an unfortunate seagull, and Seaman Trent got hauled over the coals good an’ proper for it.”

    “Ooh, was he up on Captain’s Report?” he gasped.

    “Er—yes, as a matter of fact,” he said weakly.

    “Neato! How did he shoot it?”

    “With a bloody rifle that he’d been issued because he was on wa—Oh!” said Terence, grinning. “We weren’t submerged, old man. Doodling around waiting for some damned Yank admiral to get off his fanny, the boys were bored stiff, and it got too much for Trent.”

    “So didja break him?”

    “Er—no, didn’t have the rank to be broken to anything,” he said feebly. “Have you been talking to Alan Timms?”

    “Yeah, he’s keen. So didja punish him?”

    “Yes: docked him a week’s pay and it went on his record. With the threat that next time it’d be a court martial: shooting off the Navy’s ammo without a direct order is a big no-no. But Trent’s only nineteen.”

    “Ye-ah… That’s quite old.”

    “Not for a submariner, old chap. This was his first voyage.”

    “I geddit. So where’s the sub?”

    “Portsmouth, waiting to be decommissioned,” said Terence with a sigh.

    “Micky, for Heaven’s sake stop pestering the poor man!” hissed Molly loudly.

    “I’m not! –Hey, could I go on ’er?”

    “Micky!”

    “It’s all right, Micky. You can go on her, we’ll fix it up later, okay? I’d better go, I’m right over the other side of London. See you in about half an hour, okay?”

    “Okay! See ya!” he said cheerfully, hanging up.

    Terence looked numbly at his humming receiver.

    “Honestly, Micky! Earbashing the poor man when you’ve never even met him!”

    “I can still talk to him, though.” He burst into the full report.

    “Shooting a seagull?” said Molly dazedly.

    “Yeah; ya not allowed to, see, ’cos it’s the Navy’s ammo—”

    Molly staggered into the kitchen and groggily made herself some instant and toast, letting it all wash over her…

    “Where is he?”

    “Stuck in traffic, I suppose.”

    “But it’s Saturday!”

    She ignored that.

    “Maybe he’s got lost!”

    “Balls. It’s barely been half an hour. Have you packed your boat?”

    “Yeah, ’course!” He flattened his nose to the pane again…

    “What’s the time now?”

    “Five minutes later than last time you asked me. You’ve got a watch, what’s wrong with it?”

    “Nothing. It could of stopped. I was just checking.” He flattened his nose to the pane…

    “Hey, what time do you make it?”

    “Look, go downstairs and wait for him on the footpath!”

    “Yeah! Neato!” He rushed off.

    Groggily Molly put her feet up on the sofa…

    “Mum! Mum! He’s here! Mum!”

    “What’s the time? Go back to bed,” she said groggily.

    “No! It’s not night-time! He’s here!” he screeched.

    Molly sat up with a gasp. “Help!”

    “Hullo, Molly,” said Terence, grinning. “Been ordering him back to bed since five this morning, have you?”

    “Yes. Well, all his life, really. Hullo, Terence,” she said, very flushed.

    “Hey, he’s got the Admiral’s station-waggon!”

    “Yes! I told you! Oh, what’s the use,” she muttered, getting up.

    “Never assume, always verify your facts,” said Terence, grinning.

    “Mm. Um, well, I think we’re ready. Get your bag, Micky.”

    “You do realise you’ve got an apron on?” murmured Terence.

    Molly looked down at her perfect form, and gulped. “Help! When did I—”

    “When you done your dishes, of course!” said Micky on a scornful note.

    “Uh—yeah. One mug, one plate, one knife: I must’ve been really out of it.”

    “And a teaspoon!”

   “That would’ve made all the difference,” she said with a smile, removing the apron. The pale green slacks looked even better without it, and the thin knit coral sweater looked just as glorious. There was, thank the Lord, no rude gap between the two. Terence had no objection to female flesh as such but he thought that look was completely unpleasant. As well as quite unsuited to the British climate.

    “Go on, Micky, grab your bag,” he prompted.

    He rushed out.

    “Um, I’ll just go to the bathroom,” said Molly feebly.

    “Do that,” replied Terence, grinning. He sat down in an easy-chair.

    She came back with her hair combed, a little lipstick on that lovely mouth that looked as if it would smile at any moment, and an evident fresh squirt of scent. Mm, nice. He got up, his eyes twinkling. “He’s taken the bag down to the car.”

    Molly didn’t smile; she said with foreboding: “Did it sort of, um, clatter or, um, clink?”

    “As of toys rattling against each other? No. I think possibly the pillow he stuffed into it at the last moment prevented that.”

    “He’s taken his— Oh, well. Lots of people like their own pillow. Linus blanket or not,” said Molly drily. “Let’s go before he decides he can’t do without the kitchen sink.”

    Grinning, Terence held the door for her. Not a single detail of the morning so far had been the way that, in his bachelor blindness, he’d thought it would be, but as a matter of fact he didn’t mind at all! And she was just as lovely as he’d remembered her. As lovely and, he recognised with a certain relief, even more practical and sensible than he’d expected.