September Song

9

September Song

    September had come, Georgia and Rupy were back at the flat, starting rehearsals for the final season of The Captain’s Daughter, and Rosie was temporarily up at the flat for the first of the Department of Sociology’s monthly staff meetings. Molly and Micky were temporarily with Susan Walsingham, Molly’s new boss. Micky was back at the local school where he’d had a very brief session at the end of last term. A slight demarcation dispute had started between Susan, who was looking for a flat for Molly and Micky near hers, and Rosie, who had decided that since Miss Hammersley was moving out of the flat next to theirs in order to share the country house her brother, Admiral Sir Kenneth Hammersley, had bought for his retirement, her flat would be perfect for them—but otherwise the horizon was cloudless. True, Terence and Max had gone back to sea without contacting any of the Bellingford contingent. In fact Terence hadn't even contacted his parents, and Lady Haworth had rung John to demand what on earth was going on. As Colin hadn’t mentioned that Terence had fallen for Molly like a ton of bricks, he hadn’t been able to enlighten her.

    Then the first cloud appeared on the horizon. Not everyone might have considered Anna’s getting her work seen by a Bond Street gallery like this, true.

    June Potts set down her teacup with a clatter and sat bolt upright, staring. “Bond Street?”

    Anna nodded, looking at her hopefully. She wasn’t sure why Rosie’s Aunty June had wanted her to come to morning tea, but maybe she’d know all about this Bond Street place and the gallery there that Fiona was so keen to get her paintings into.

    “But my dear, you’d be made!” she cried. Rapidly she explained what Bond Street was.

    “I see. Have you heard of this James Allen man, June?”

    “Well, no. I tell you what, I’ll try the phone book!” She leapt up.

    Anna just ate up her cake. It was a nice cake, but very evidently a bought one: the icing was very professional.

    June came back looking dashed and reported that there was no gallery in the phone book under that name.

    “Oh. Well, never mind, Fiona knows,” she said vaguely.

    June freshened their cups and handed the plate of cakes again. She waited until Anna was eating and then said: “I wanted to ask you a favour, Anna. Well, George said I shouldn’t, but after all, you are family! And if you don’t want to, my dear, you must just say no.”

    “Um, yes. Me?” said Anna limply.

    “Yes. It’s about the dogs. Well, Julius and Calpurnia, really.”

    June bred boxers. They didn’t live in the house, they had proper kennels and runs with wire netting and stuff down the back of the property and Anna was very glad of it. “I’m not very good with big dogs,” she said, reddening.

    “What? Oh, nothing like that! Though if you did want a puppy, I’d be only too glad, of course! A dog’s such wonderful company! Um, no, I was wondering if you could possibly do a portrait of the dogs? Just Julius and Calpurnia.”

    “They’re the grandparents, aren’t they?”

    June nodded, looking at her hopefully.

    “I’ve never done dogs… They have got very interesting faces. The thing is,” she said, reddening, “I’m never quite sure how a thing’s going to turn out. I mean, I started off doing a portrait of Mrs Lambert, she lives down the street from Mum, and then she wanted her hibiscus bush in it—well, it does flower magnificently—and we went out into the front garden and looked at it, and—and somehow, after I’d taken all the snaps and done a lot of sketches I started laying out the final portrait and it turned into a picture of the house with Mrs Lambert wearing a dress with hibiscuses on it standing beside it even taller than the house, and her and Mum were both furious with me. –Mr Lambert laughed like anything,” she added.

    June had to swallow hard. “Is—is she a big lady, dear?”

    “No, she’s quite small, only she’s got a big personality,” said Anna glumly.

    June gulped, failed to control herself and laughed until the tears ran down her face.

    “Yes,” said Anna with a relieved smile, “it was funny, really, that’s why Mr Lambert laughed. But you see, your dogs have got such interesting faces that I might get, um, carried away.”

    “Oh,” she said weakly, blowing her nose. “But I can’t see what you could possibly do with boxers’ faces, Anna!”

    “Turn them into a design,” said Anna glumly. “You know, maybe just looking at the patterns of light and dark, and they’d stop looking like dogs. I did a whole set of pictures of seagulls like that—after I’d been over to Fremantle, it was—and none of the galleries back home would take them and Bruce, he said I should have called them studies in blue and white because they couldn’t possibly remind anyone of seagulls. They were, um, just shapes, sort of big triangles. Or if the word ‘boxes’ got into it somehow—I dunno. Put them into boxes? Then you wouldn’t want it and it would never sell: people would say it was a silly pun.”

    “Um, ye-es… I have seen puns in pictures… Couldn’t you try to make it look like them?”

    “Not when I’m painting,” said Anna glumly.

    “Oh. Um, what about a drawing?” said June cautiously.

    “A sketch? Of course I could do a sketch, but that’d just be, um, not a real picture.”

    “It’d be real to me!” said June with shining eyes.

    “Um, well, okay, if you’d like that. Now?” she said meekly.

    “Uh—well, yes, if you’ve got any paper.”

    Anna had a sketch pad with her. That certainly explained why she was lugging that carry-on bag of Rosie’s: for a moment June had thought she was seeing things, or that Australia must be full of the things, but no, it was actually Rosie’s: pink and brown fake tapestry trimmed with pink vinyl. Repulsive. According to Rosie it had been a very good buy, it was as sturdy as anything. Well, yes, that was often the way with useful but repulsive objects: they lasted forever.

    So Julius and Calpurnia were brought in, and Anna sketched.

    “Lovely!” said June with a sigh, looking at the set of drawings. One of each dog’s head, one of the two heads together—that was really lovely, she thought she’d have it framed and hang it in here—and one of the pair of them lying down. Julius was doing his trick of lying with his head on his wife’s back. Of course she had plenty of snaps of them, but this was much, much better! “Could you sign them?”

    “Um, okay, but they’re only sketches.”

    June didn’t even listen to this. She watched breathlessly as the artist signed them. “Anna Peregrine-White.”

    “Not Leach?” she said feebly, wondering if Anna had been married and dratted Rosie simply hadn’t bothered to mention it. But surely May, her mother, would have—

    “No. That’s Mum’s maiden name. Peregrine-White is my legal name, I had to sign on at art school under it and they always called me that in class so I started signing my student stuff that and, um, just went on doing it. Anyway, Mum reckoned the art wasn’t on her side and I ought to be doing something sensible instead, so, um, I thought I might as well stick to it.”

    June nodded dazedly. Well, her sister-in-law, May, was always so charitable about everybody but even she hadn't been able to work up much enthusiasm in her letters for her sister Julia. So much for that potty idea she’d had that she might actually manage to get out to Australia to see Jerry and May, going via Western Australia with a stopover in Perth and a visit to the wildflowers. And George could do what he liked: he was the complete stick-in-the mud and at least since the divorce she wasn’t answerable to him any more! She had made it to Spain to see Joanie and Seve—George hadn't come, even though it was hardly any distance and he hadn't seen his own daughter for over a year—and though she’d got a cheap flight the trip hadn't actually been all that cheap, when you totted up everything… No, well, she had wanted to see a bit of Spain, since she was there, and she couldn’t possibly have let Seve pay for everything: he’d given up quite a lot when he’d left his wife for Joanie, and though their dear little bistro was doing quite well, they certainly didn’t have money to burn. Probably hotels in Perth would cost and arm and a leg. Would there be a Y and if so, would they let a middle-aged Englishwoman stay there? Probably not… She jumped. “What, dear?”

    “I said, he was English. My father,” explained Anna. “Mum always reckoned she didn’t know what became of him after the divorce and didn’t care but Uncle Jim, that’s Aunty Kate’s husband, I think you might have met him when they came to England on their trip, he reckons he went home to England.”

    “I see. Yes, of course I met Jim! So you see quite a bit of them, do you, Anna?”

    “Um, not really. They do travel quite a lot. She comes over to WA more than him. She came over when Carolyn had her cyst removed and then she came to England to be with Rosie when she had Baby Bunting.”

    June nodded and smiled and said that she and George had been so relieved to know Rosie had someone reliable with her, and of course she herself hadn't been able to leave the dogs: George was hopeless with them—

    Anna just listened, nodding when it seemed as if she was expected to, and silently wondering if she ought to offer to fix those sketches, only June might not want her to take them away… Well; they were pencil, not charcoal, they’d probably be okay. Finally she did offer, and after a certain amount of confusion over the meaning of the word “fix”, June decided that if it was the proper thing to do perhaps she’d better. But would it take long? Anna explained it’d take no time but she’d have to buy some stuff—

    That was all right, there were lots and lots of artists’ supplies shops in London and June could find a nice one in the phone book! Anna didn’t want a nice one, she wanted a good one that wasn’t too pricey but didn’t dare to say so, and June rushed out…

    And what with the subsequent dash into town, just managing to catch a train, and the absorbing nature of the artists’ supplies shop, not to mention a very late lunch, and then dropping Anna off at the flat and watching while she did it, and waiting for the stuff to dry, and then having to rush home to the dogs, it wasn’t until quite late that evening that June Potts said to herself: “But I’ve heard that name before! Surely?”

    She rushed over to the intercom. It was no use bashing on his door, he’d pretend he couldn’t hear her. “George! George!”

    “What now?” he said sourly. “I’ve agreed the pictures are lovely and you ought to pay the girl, don’t let her take no for an—”

    “No! Not that! Peregrine-White!”

    “Eh?”

    “That’s her legal name, Peregrine-White, it’s her father’s name! Look, come downstairs, George, this is ludicrous, we can’t talk on this!”

    “We are talking on it. All right, I’ll come down!”

    He was down two minutes later looking sour, in his horrible old camel-hair dressing gown.

    “You look an utter disgrace.”

    “Good. What’s all this about Peregrine-Whites?”

    “Anna is one!”

    “Bollocks.”

    “George Potts!”

    “John says it, heard him with my own ears.”

    “Rubbish,” said June heavily. “Look, she is, she’s signed her pictures with her legal name!”

    George peered at the picture of the dogs she was holding out. “Uh—yes. Well, logically it doesn’t prove—”

    “Don’t start that! I’m sure I saw the name in the paper just the other day, but I can’t recall exactly where. Have you got your Sunday Times?”

    “Wasn’t in that.” George went over to her wicker magazine holder and flipped through the papers and magazines in it. “That’s a first, you haven’t thrown it out and it’s Thursday already.”

    “Wednesday!” she snapped.

    “Feels like Thursday. Three in the morning on Thursday,” he said sourly.

    “It’s half past nine, for God’s sake! Was it in The Observer?”

    “Mm. Business section… Here. Half-page feature. Chap that owns Boyd’s Bank.”

    June came to peer at it. “Good grief!”

    “Maybe it’s not the same family.”

    “Rubbish! How many Peregrine-Whites can there be?”

    “Anyway, this millionaire fellow can’t be her father, he’s not much older than she is. Brother?”

    “He doesn’t look much like her… Though of course she takes after her mother’s side, she’s very like Rosie. Um, no, not if he’s older, though. Unless the father was married before.”

    George shrugged. “Why not? Marries over here, has the boy, ditches the wife, goes out to Australia, marries Whatserface, Anna’s mother, ditches her, comes back, make his fortune—”

    “Shut up, George!” June stared at the page, frowning. Finally she said: “Look, if he is her brother, surely she’s entitled to something out of the father’s estate?”

    “Depends how he left it. And would English law even apply, if she’s an Australian?”

    “She must have some claim!”

    “Drop it, June. You don’t even know—”

    “I can find out, though!”

    “Well, just leave me out of it. Especially if John gets to hear of it. Which,” he noted, “he will.”

    “Is it Somerset House where they have wills?”

    “Don’t ask me, Miss Marple,” replied George sourly, going over to the door. “But if old Sir Whatsit Peregrine-White—”

    “Sir Willoughby!” she snapped.

    “What a name. Well, if he died intestate there won’t be a will.” He opened the door. “On the other hand Anna would have a valid claim to part of his estate,” he noted, quickly closing the door behind him.

    “Useless!” shouted June bitterly. She sank onto the sofa, staring at the paper, her eyes narrowed. Who did they know in the City? Well, John’s brother-in-law, Norman Kendall, of course! Would he know— Well, she could at least sound him out about Richard Peregrine-White and his late father. From the page the picture of Richard Peregrine-White stared up at her coldly and blankly and June denied angrily to herself the sinking feeling in the tummy that it was giving her. Rubbish! Newspaper photos were always terrible, anyway.

    Determinedly she went out to the phone—it was really inconvenient having it in the front hall, but when they’d split and she’d wanted the downstairs George had demanded the mobile phone—and dialled Fiona’s and Norman’s number…

    There was little doubt that, left to herself, Fiona Kendall would have flattened June’s suggestion that Anna must be a close relative of Richard Peregrine-White. However, Norman made the mistake of being loftily dismissive about it before she could so much as indicate her own feelings on the matter. Fiona was now firmly—nay, fervently—on June’s side and in fact had ordered her not to breathe a word on the subject to John: he was a hopeless stuffed shirt. Somehow the thing became inextricably mixed with Fiona’s strong desire to see Anna’s work displayed in Bond Street. So here they all were at nine-thirty of a sufficiently chilly morning, outside James Allen’s Bond Street gallery, L’Informel. Anna had already objected, with an agonised expression on her face, that if this referred to “Art informel” it was a movement, it was tachism, a form of abstract art, and he wouldn’t want— Fiona had ignored her, so June had, too.

    Fiona was also ignoring—superbly ignoring, really—the fact that they had not only Anna in tow but Georgia, as well. Self-proposed and seconded. She was got up in a black Fifties Marilyn suit which June was ninety percent sure was actually Rosie’s. Complete with the black Marilyn beret perched on the pale gold curls. The black patent peep-toed shoes were so high-heeled that she could only take tiny steps and so their progress had been impeded to a quantifiable degree. However, they hadn’t walked all the way to Bond Street from Norman’s office in the City, where Fiona had left Norman’s Volvo: they had only walked until Fiona had managed to flag down a taxi. Rather fortunately the City had been fairly full of taxis decanting blurred-looking businessmen in suits at that hour of the morning.

    L’Informel was not very wide—given Norman’s estimate of the annual rent per foot of Bond Street frontage his wife wasn’t surprised, but grimly refrained from saying so. It was, however, wide enough to display one picture. It was very tall, taking up almost the entire height of the window, something like twelve feet, and very narrow: about two feet wide. And very blue.

    “Is that tachism?” said Fiona on a very firm note.

    “No, of course not,” admitted Anna.

    “There you are, th—”

    “But it’s not representational, either!”

    “Nor are yours, they only sort of pretend to be,” said Fiona grimly, descending rather from the previous art-expert level, “and since the man’s agreed to an appointment, we’re going in!”

    “The way it sounded to me,” noted Georgia drily, “he only agreed to an appointment because you pretended Anna was one of these rich English Peregrine-Whites. Mind you, I’m on your side: why not beat the buggers at their own game, if you’ve got the chance?”

    “But I’m not!” gasped Anna in horror.

    “You could be,” put in June grimly.

    Fiona’s mouth tightened, so that the resemblance to John became much less pronounced. June, who had met Miriam, Lady Haworth, had to suppress a wince. “Exactly, June! Come along, Anna.”

    “Nothing venture, nothing win,” agreed Georgia.

    “But my stuff’ll be all wrong for—”

    Nobody listened, and she was led in.

    They were received by a very smooth young woman in a superb black suit with a superb black hairdo and flawless makeup. Not technically pretty, but the presentation was so superb that that didn’t count. Georgia gave her a look of pure hatred. Real coffee was produced as a matter of course, in real china cups with real saucers. Georgia refused to drink any—June, at least, silently acknowledging that this was probably because she was determined not to ruin her lipstick. Which of course wasn’t nearly as professionally applied as the receptionist’s—which could only make it worse, really.

    After a period during which nothing happened except that Fiona poured milk from the exquisite little china jug that accompanied the cups and saucers into her own cup, June’s and Anna’s, and they all three drank, and Georgia glared bitterly at the receptionist, Anna whispered: “Perhaps it’s the wrong day!”

    “Nonsense,” returned Fiona firmly.

    Then they all just sat there like bumps on a log. A bitterly glaring bump, in Georgia’s case.

    Finally the woman had the brass cheek to say: “Mr Allen will see you now.” He hadn’t rung through to her or anything, so presumably she had been making them wait for the sake of it. June went very red in spite of herself, but Fiona appeared unmoved and competently managed Anna to her feet with her handbag and laptop.

    Mr Allen’s office was apparently up a very nasty-looking spiral staircase. Or so the receptionist’s graceful wave would seem to indicate.

    Suddenly Georgia said loudly: “I thought that that sort of spiral death-trap went out round about the time that Murder Must Advertise came out. Don’t these Brits have any occ. health and safety regulations?”

    “Not in Bond Street, apparently,” replied Fiona drily, but with a certain grim pleasure in her tone. “Comfort yourself with the reflection that going up it is highly unlikely to constitute an admission of liability, should your heirs need to sue.”

    “Yeah!” she agreed with a sudden crow of laughter. “Come on, Anna, gimme that laptop, and hang on like buggery to the rail.”

    “Yes,” said Anna very faintly, letting her take the laptop. “I don’t much like heights.”

    “I’ll be right behind you, and Fiona’ll go first. Just don’t look down.”

    And up they went, June bringing up the rear with the involuntary thought that it would be her they landed on if they did slip.

    No-one slipped, and Fiona knocked grimly on the closed door at the head of the stairs.

    James Allen was a very smooth-looking, plump middle-aged man. Perhaps only Fiona recognised the exact quality of his suit, but all of them were capable of realising that he was even more superb, in a totally understated way, than his receptionist. He greeted them all with smooth politeness, expressing himself delighted to meet Miss Peregrine-White and not even blinking at the sight of Georgia in Rosie’s suit, the beret, and the Lily Rose hairdo. June eyed this performance sourly: no-one who had lived in Britain the last three or four years could possibly not know Lily Rose Rayne’s face unless they were actually blind.

    Although the receptionist’s desk had held only one smooth black modern telephone, very flat, and one tall glass vase containing two long, pointed leaves, James Allen had a computer and into the bargain a large screen. He looked at the images of Anna’s Open Window studies in dead silence. Then he let the silence lengthen.

    Georgia was beginning to glare and opening her mouth when he said: “How big are they?”

    “Um, a bit bigger than that,” said Anna, looking at the painting that hung behind his desk.

    It was about five foot wide by four high, and consisted of a series of red splashes on a white background, overlaid by a lot of very scratchy black scribbles which June Potts had been trying to convince herself for some time were not meant to represent pubic hair.

    “Mm,” he said. “Do you like it?”

    “No,” replied Anna simply.

    “Oh? She’s selling quite well these days, not merely to the feminist crowd—well, most of them can’t afford to buy, of course.”

    “It’s hideous,” said Georgia in a bored voice. “Are you gonna buy Anna’s stuff, or not? ’Cos if not, we’ve got better things to do.”

    “They don’t buy,” said Anna, very faintly. “It’s all right, I can see you don’t want my sort of stuff.”

    “I quite liked it,” he said mildly. “But the pretty-pretty thing’s not selling, these days. Not in my market.”

    “It isn’t just pretty-pretty!” said Fiona angrily.

    “I could see that, Mrs Kendall. With judicious framing and the right sort of marketing, we might manage to do something with them, but we’d have to push the exotic breath of the South Seas thing, and the critics would never let us live it down. ‘A very long way after Gauguin’ would be the least of it, I’m afraid. May I ask who recommended us?”

    “The people at The Green Apple mentioned your name,” replied Fiona smoothly.

    “Oh, yes. Well, you should do rather well with them, Miss Peregrine-White.”

    “Yeah, come on, Anna, we’re wasting our time here,” said Georgia angrily, getting up. “If pictures of pubes are their bag, they aren’t gonna want your stuff!”

    Anna went red, but got up, looking relieved.

    “Just a moment,” said Fiona firmly. “Anna, my dear, show Mr Allen the seagull pictures.”

    Anna gave her an agonised look. “They’re not seagulls, they’re shapes.”

    “Yes. Go on.”

    Biting her lip, Anna displayed them. They were shapes, all right. White or grey triangles against blue. A lot of the blue was also in shapes—large shapes. Mostly triangles.

    “I’ll take them. I don’t guarantee I can sell them for you, and we certainly can’t call them seagull studies, though we might go so far as to call them something like Seascape 1, 2, and so forth. I’ll think about it. Oh, and we’ll frame them. Many of our corporate clients prefer diptychs or triptychs.”

    “Some of them don’t go together,” said Anna faintly.

    He ignored that, got up, and began to flip through the remaining pictures on her laptop for himself. They were mostly similar to her Open Windows and Seagull Studies, but at Portrait of Mrs Lambert he paused. “Is this available?”

    “Um, yes,” said Anna dazedly. “She hated it.’

    “We’ll take it.” He went on looking, finally discovering Study of a Man in Grey. He looked at it in silence for a very long time. Then he said: “I want to see this. Where is it?”

    Fiona looked at Anna in some dismay: she had now more or less blackmailed The Green Apple into sharing the cost of getting the paintings over from her cousin’s husband’s garage, but she was sure there were no figure studies amongst them.

    “At the cottage,” said Anna weakly. “It’s not finished. Georgia made me take a photo of it.”

    “It’s only down in Hampshire. Not far from Portsmouth,” said Georgia briskly. “I’ll give you the address. You can view it, but it’s strictly without obligation.”

    Mr Allen’s face was unmoved. He handed Georgia a scratch pad and made sure she included contact numbers as well as the address.

    “She’s not ready to sign anything yet,” said Fiona firmly as the receptionist appeared with a sheaf of papers in her hand.

    “This is our standard initial contract,” replied Mr Allen, equally firm. “It only commits the artist to an agreed period during which she doesn’t offer the work to any other gallery or person.”

    Fiona held out her hand for it silently. The others watched breathlessly as she read it over. Grudgingly she admitted it sounded all right, but they would have to specify only the seagull studies. Imperturbably James Allen replied: “Those plus Portrait of Mrs Lambert and Study of a Man in Grey.” He outed with a fountain pen and solemnly wrote “Portrait of Mrs Lambert, Study of a Man in Grey, and the acrylics on canvas known as Seagull Studies 1 to 20 inclusive.” On two copies.

    “Are they on canvas?” asked Georgia, peering over Anna’s shoulder as she looked at the contract dazedly.

    “Um, yes, they put my salary up at school, I don’t know why, and so I bought a lot of canvas. Um, shall I sign?” she said, looking at Fiona.

    “Yes, it’s quite safe to sign this, my dear.”

    And, both copies having been signed and Fiona having taken charge of Anna’s copy, Mr Allen rose and said politely: “Good. We’ll look forward to our next meeting, then, Miss Peregrine-White. And do give my regards to your cousin Richard, won’t you?”

    Anna opened her mouth dazedly but Fiona said quickly: “Of course, Mr Allen. We’ll be in touch,” and shepherded her party out.

    On the street they just fell blindly into a taxi and let Fiona take them where she thought best. It looked like the sort of place the Queen Mother would choose for her elevenses, registered June feebly. Oh, well.

    Not surprisingly, Georgia was the first to recover. “Hey, ya could just wait the six months and then sell them somewhere else: that thing doesn’t commit ya to hardly anything!”

    “What?” said Anna dazedly.

    “That’ll do, Georgia,” said Fiona firmly.

    “That was awful. I didn’t like that man,” said Anna faintly.

    “James Allen has an excellent reputation,” replied Fiona briskly.

    Anna looked at her limply.

    “No, well, I didn’t like him, either, my dear, but that scarcely matters, does it?”

    “No-o… I’ve stopped doing that sort of stuff. The Seagull Studies, I mean.”

    “What? Oh. Well, never mind: if he can sell them for you, and get you some nice reviews in the Sunday papers, your name will be known, that’s what matters!”

    “Yes!” agreed June eagerly.

    “I see,” said Anna feebly. “Um, what if he finds out I don’t even know that Richard Peregrine-White person and he isn’t my cousin at all?”

    “Why should he?” replied Fiona with horrible lightness. “And in any case, he could well be your cousin.”

    “Exactly. That name,” contributed June grimly, “can’t possibly be a coincidence!”

    Anna just looked at them limply.

    Since Fiona assured her she wouldn’t need to come up to London again until The Green Apple was ready to hang her Open Window pieces, Anna thankfully let her drive her back home to Moulder’s Way. There she plunged herself into her work, leaving Mr Allen and L’Informel up to her and completely forgetting about the Richard Peregrine-White question.

    Rupy had fallen all over the flat laughing himself silly at Georgia’s gleeful description of the routing of Mr James Allen, so he was really in her good books and, having taken on board his advice that tapping was guaranteed to work off the excess ounces, she went off happily with him the next day to a rehearsal at Henny Penny followed by an afternoon tap class.

    By the time they got home, however, it could have been said to have been raining on their parade.

    “What in God’s name went wrong?” croaked Rosie as Georgia marched off to have a shower, lips tightly compressed. “Surely she didn’t expect to be an instant tap star?”

    “No,” sighed Rupy, collapsing into a big shabby armchair. “Thanks, Rosie, darling,” he sighed as she handed him a large pink gin. “Oh, God, that’s better!” he sighed.

    Rosie came and perched on the arm of the sofa, looking at him expectantly.

    “Where do I start?” he groaned. “Well, you know Della’s Dance Studio, darling.” He began to tick off names on his fingers. “Gray, of course. Della in magenta-lippied person—the hair’s yellow, this year. Still bouffant, natch. Heather at the piano in layers of woollies and curlers under the scarf.—I admit she wasn’t wearing the grey gloves with the fingers cut out of them today.—Arthur Morrissey, bless his little cotton socks and baggy grey tracksuit. The garrulous Tanya and the giggling Whatserface with the spots and the teef.” He made the appropriate gesture, protruding his perfect top teeth over his bottom lip. Rosie winced, and tried to smile. “Andy in his purple ballet tights. Eva and Ziggy. Vanessa—even after the op,” he added pointedly.

    After a moment Rosie said feebly: “I grant you Della and Heather—and even Gray, if the hair’s still in those maroon brist—Mm. And of course poor Arthur can’t dance, in fact I’m astounded that Gray’s still letting him come to the Advanced class. But Andy and Eva and Ziggy and Vanessa are all really good tappers.”

    “Darling, that is not my point. Their dancing could be up there with Fred Astaire’s and they’d still be far, far too down-market for Georgia! –Did you mention that Euan turned up at a couple of our classes?” he added heavily.

    “Um—dunno. I might’ve.”

    “Well, pretty clearly somebody did, because she was obviously expecting— Well, not necessarily him in gracious Stratfordian person, but something along those lines.”

    “Eh? His dad used to keep a corner shop in a scungy part of Edinburgh!”

    “That is not the point. She was expecting to meet glamorous film stars and telly stars and the like! I would say, personalities straight off Shaftesbury Avenue, but I’ve discovered she’s never heard of it,” he admitted, looking at her wryly.

    She swallowed. “Not a cultural icon to us yobs from Downunder, Rupy. –Oh, dear.”

    Rupy nodded hard. “Of course Gray didn’t spare her: told her to stand where dunce’s corner was.”

    “When he said that to Dot she thought it was funny!” she cried.

    “Yes, well, to be fair, he said it to Euan as well and even he, up-himself though all who know him freely admit him to be, thought it was funny!”

    She winced. “Will she keep on going?”

    Rupy shrugged slightly. “Says she will, darling, for the exercise. Any cheesy biscuits?”

    “Well, no, ’cos I was really peckish when I got home from the meeting at uni.”

    “Isn’t there anything to nibble?”

    “No. Unless you fancy a piece of cheese?”

    “No! All right, I’ll just have another gin.”

    “Big of ya,” she noted, pouring. “Bung ho.”

    “You think that’s funny,” he said mournfully. “Aah! That’s better! –Varley was at the read-through this morning,” he revealed sourly.

    She grimaced. “Would this have anything to do with that thundercloud on Georgia’s brow?”

    “Almost everything. I think the tap class was just the icing on the cake, actually.” He bit his lip. “The expression was ‘ignorant Colonial,’ I’m afraid, darling. He demanded Brian send her to a really good dialogue coach and if she doesn’t lose the accent P.D.Q. he’ll pull out of writing the show. Thus losing them the kudos of having his highly artistic and intellectual name slathered all over it, as if it needed saying,” he did say sourly.

    “Varley Knollys? Balls, he wants the money!” retorted Rosie strongly.

    “Well, yes, we all know the cash nexus is closest to his heart, of course. Nevertheless. Poor Georgia was terribly dashed, she’d thought she’d was doing the Lily Rose coo quite well.”

    “I could still hear the Aussie,” she said cautiously.

    He made a face. “Apparently Varley could, too.”

    “Any idea when the dialogue coaching stuff might be gonna start?”

    “No, but given Varley’s decibels, dear, rather soon.”

    “Mm. Well, let’s hope she sees that it’s something she’ll just have to get through if she’s serious about wanting the part.”

    “I think she does, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t really wild with him.”

    “No,” agreed Rosie with a sigh. “I was gonna suggest The Tabla tonight.”

    “Ooh! Mr Singh’s tandoori chicken!” he beamed, cheering up immediately.

    “What if she sulks all through it, though?”

    “Could sneak out without her? No, I tell you what, I’ll tell her we’re going for a really fattening meal!” He hurried out. Rosie looked wry but just waited. He hurried back. “Spurned the very notion of The Tabla, gonna stay in and do stir-fried veg in that pan of hers that doesn’t need any oil.”

    She got up. “Right. Let’s go, quick, before she changes her mind.”

    They went, abandoning Georgia to her vegetarian, oil-less supper and whatever comfort the combination of Roger and the telly might offer.

    It didn’t get better after Rosie had gone back to the cottage, though at first Rupy thought it had, because Georgia was working very hard with her dialogue coach, with audible improvement to the Lily Rose coo, and valiantly going to the Beginner’s class at Della’s Dance Studio that Gray, as usual completely blind and deaf to any pride that might be suffering, had put her in. In fact things seemed so much better all round that he volunteered to go with her to Sheila Bryant Casting. Sheila was Rosie’s agent and she had, of course, already seen Georgia and vetted the contract with Henny Penny Productions—after John had vetted it. This was just a meeting to discuss a few other things—personal appearances, a chat show, a very small cameo rôle—that Sheila thought Brian Hendricks might let her do.

    Sheila wasn’t actually Rupy’s agent, but it couldn’t do one any harm to be seen in her office with the new Lily Rose Rayne, could it? Or rather, with “Georgia Rose”: Brian, Varley and Derry had now agreed to call her that, more or less as a compromise, because nobody had come up with anything better. And she was to wear a camellia in her buttonhole, it could be her signature tune—a touch of the Old South, see? Georgia had raised no objection, merely noted that they could work that out with Sheila, she wasn’t doing it for nothing and it wasn’t in her contract, so presumably they’d discuss that, too.

    Georgia was looking pleased with herself in an outfit based on one of the ones she’d worn at the Mountjoy Midsummer Festival: black slacks, these were a lightweight wool, slightly flared, with a heavy white lace blouse that was actually Rosie’s—or strictly speaking, their neighbour old Miss Hammersley’s, from about 1959: it came to just above the waist and was designed to be worn with the scalloped edging over a really tight cummerbund. As it was: one of his, black satin. The black jacket was a short, tight sequinned one that Rosie had once worn in a show, and the black Marilyn beret just completed the look! True, Sheila, a middle-aged woman with a figure tending to heavy—muscly heavy, big-boned—didn’t looked impressed, but then neither Rupy nor, fortunately, Georgia, had expected her to. Georgia vanished into her office, not managing to walk terribly well in her very high-heeled peep-toed black patents. He’d better tell Brian she’d need lessons for that, too. And were they terribly right for September? Well, presumably Brian would cough up some wages fairly soon, he’d take her shopping.

    Rupy picked up a mag. Blow—dreary. He sat back, crossed his legs negligently, hitching the grey flannel bags with their superb creases just slightly, shot the cuffs with their new gold links below the new navy blazer, and leaned back, letting the assembled multitude stare jealously. There was no doubt at all they’d all recognised him!

    Oh, dear, aspiring but dumb, probably summed them up. All sexes, mostly overdressed, and the rest just plain shabby. Certainly there were shabby bit-parts in lots of telly series—well, The Bill was just one of the many, but certainly typical—but why not put one’s best foot forward when one was waiting for an appointment with one’s agent? Disappointing, really. Not that he had absolutely expected— But one never knew. He watched with a sort of dull incredulity as the receptionist announced: “Rose Marie Mayne, Mr Deacon’ll see you now,” and an overdressed girl in the Lily Rose look, but with her hair more apricot, minced into the office next to Sheila’s on her too-high heels. Who was she kidding? He tried another mag…

    Ooh! This was more like it! Tall, really good shoulders, the blue tee set them off perfectly, and likewise the very ordinary jeans on the not ordinary bum—to die for. Most unfortunately, very clearly straight. The receptionist had gone into a terrific tizz at the mere sight of him. They went into a low-voiced confab… Blow, couldn’t hear. Hang on, she was asking him if he’d thought any more about the name.

    “Andrew McGyver?” he said loudly and she burst into a gale of giggles, gasping: “No!”

    But wait! He had seen him before! Who, who, who… Rupy got up, looking frightfully casual, and came to lean casually on the receptionist’s desk next to him. Ooh-er! Smoky grey eyes and a shock of untidy black curls—bit too long, really, it was 2003, unless it was for a part—

    “Got it!” he gasped. “The mad, morbid Moli—Ooh, sorry!”

    The hetero young man grinned. “Le Malade imaginaire, down at the Mountjoy Midsummer Festival—yes. Mad, morbid Molière puts it well, though.”

    “You were very good,” said Rupy on a weak note.

    “Thanks. It wasn’t much of a part, though.”

    “It was a start, though, Andrew!” urged the receptionist. “Sheila was really pleased to get it for you!”

    Andrew shrugged. “The guy that was going to do it pulled out of it at the last minute,” he said to Rupy.

    “No, well, one’s man meat! Rupy Maynarde,” he said, holding out his hand, just as Georgia came out of Sheila’s office and halted in her tracks with an audible gasp.

    “Pleased to meet you, Rupy,” he said, shaking nicely. “Congratulations on The Captain’s Daughter; I loved the Noël Coward bits.”

    “Ta ever so,” said Rupy with a grin. “I gather it’s Andrew Mc-something?”

    “He won’t use his own name,” reported the receptionist on a note of regret.

    “I used Andrew McGormick for the Molière: how does that grab you?” he said to Rupy.

    “Ugh! Not seriously?” he gasped.

    He shrugged again. “I don’t know that I’m serious about any of it, it’s all Aunty Sheila’s idea. I’ve never seen myself as an actor. Just come out of the Navy—got to do something.”

    Rupy was just going to ask what ship he’d been on when Georgia put her two bobs’ worth in. “If ya gotta have a Celtic surname, why not stick with the one you were born with?”

    The handsome Andrew returned on a dry note: “McIntyre?”

    Georgia, for once, was reduced to silence. Rupy was just about able to croak: “Not really?”

    “Yes, and he’s no relation to Adam McIntyre, you see!” said the receptionist eagerly.

    Georgia burst into speech. “Look, if it was me starting out in the acting bizzo with a legit right to a handle like McIntyre, I’d use it!”

    “He won’t. And besides, Sheila thinks it wouldn’t work,” revealed the receptionist sadly.

    “Balls, your ruddy English tabloids’d have a field day! I’d go with it—Hell, I’d run with it. –Hey, Wendy,” she advised the receptionist, “you oughta tell Sheila there’s no such thing as bad publicity!”

    “You ought to know, Miss Rayne,” said Andrew McIntyre, very dry.

    Ouch! Poor Georgia had gone as red as fire. “I’m not her, ya drongo!” she hissed, under the fascinated stares of the entire waiting-room.

    “No, she’s her cousin,” said Rupy quickly. “Georgia Rose.”

    “Georgia Rose Rayne?” he murmured.

    “No!” she snapped. “Just Georgia Rose!”

    “Pleased to meet you, Georgia. Andrew McIntyre,” he replied mildly.

    Georgia stuck her chin out. “Yeah. It’s better than McGormick, but. Where’d ya drag that one up? But if ya wanna go with the Scotch thing, and ya don’t wanna be accused of making hay out of your own name, what about Mackie?”

    “Andrew Mackie: that sounds better!” cried Wendy, beaming.

    “Not bad. I’ll see what Sheila thinks.”

    “Yes!” she beamed. “I think she’s read—”

    She was, yes, because the intercom buzzed and she snarled: “Wendy, isn’t my ruddy nephew here yet?”

    “Nice to have met you, Georgia—Rupy,” he said with a lovely smile directed somewhere between them, ambling away.

    Georgia was glaring speechlessly, so Rupy just took her elbow and led her out. Oh, lawks.

    He had been going to suggest a coffee somewhere nice, but he just hailed a taxi and headed for home. She didn’t utter for ten whole blocks. Rupy, frankly, couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t have made it much, much worse.

    Then she burst out: “What’s wrong with me?”

    “Georgia, dear—”

    “Too Australian? Gave my unsolicited opinion too readily? Squashed his idea of being honourable about the lack of a blood connection to flaming Adam McIntyre? Merely spoke before I was spoken to? Disagreed with his mighty male brain’s stupid idea?” She drew a trembling breath. “All of the above, no doubt!”

    “Georgia—”

    “No, well, it has already dawned that there are very few blokes on this earth that think they can take a strong-minded woman—while underneath they’re all looking for a mother substitute, of course: something to take the whole burden of running the house and family off their shoulders for the rest of their pathetic lives!”

    “Georgia, dear, they’re not all like Max Lat—”

    “Balls! They’re all the same, never mind they look like a combination of Sean Connery and Adam McIntyre all rolled into one!”

    “He does, doesn’t he?” he agreed wanly. “But if they can’t take it, Georgia, you need to ask yourself are they right for you?”

    “Like and if they’re off at the other side of the world in the Brit High Commissioner’s office in the flaming Cook Islands, Rupy, ya need to ask yourself— Shit. Sorry.”

    “That’s all right, dear,” he said wanly. “It is darling Benedict’s job, one has always known that.”

    She took a deep breath. “You could see he was thinking I was an opportunistic little tart! But heck, any normal person wouldn’t think twice about using the name McIntyre when they wanna get a start in the Business and it’s been handed to them on a platter!”

    “You don’t get too many of the sort that wouldn’t use it, I have to admit. Um, well, shows he’s a chap with nice instincts, I suppose…” She glared horribly. “Um, well, it tends not to work out, if you’re temperamentally unsuited,” he said lamely. “–Sorry. Sounding like a Dutch uncle.”

    Georgia sighed. “You couldn’t sound like a Dutch uncle if ya tried.”

    He brightened. “Ta ever so, dear! Um, darling, perhaps he didn’t like to ask for your phone number in front of the waiting-room—”

    “Thanks for trying, Rupy, but I never met a bloke that was less the blushing violet sort. Let’s drop it,” she said grimly.

    Cringing, Rupy dropped it.