"I Like a Beef-Steak Too, as Well as Any"

PART VIII

PREMIERE

28

“I Like a Beef-Steak, Too, as Well as Any”

    Rupy’s investigating the London flat’s answering-machine, I knew he would. Not only because he’s hoping his agent has rung with the offer of the miraculous job that’s gonna launch him to fame and fortune and a mansion in Santa Barbara. ’Tisn’t that he particularly fancies Santa Barbara as such, but the guy that used to own the flat’s lease before John bought up the ninety-odd years that were left in it, he’s an English actor that’s made it and got a house over there. His speciality was smooth English butlers followed by smoothly villainous world dominators, and anything less like Rupy— Forget it.

    So he comes into my room and reports. Gee, there aren’t any messages offering him fabulous parts. There is a message from one, Tony, he admits; only see, Tony was last year’s, no, I think the year before last’s pash, and though personally I’d say he’s still dishy, he’s a ballet dancer, fit as a flea, lovely figure, the gilt has worn off the gingerbread for Rupy: the age is starting to show, unquote. Right, Tony must be at least twenty-three. No, be fair, twenty-four. “Hey, Rupy, Tony’d love to come to the premiere—” No! All right, no. I only meant the one in London—D.D.’s having two, ’nother one in Sydney, don’t ask me why. They done it for Nicole’s last glitzy epic, so maybe he thinks it’s the done thing. Even though the Daughter isn’t glitzy. He isn’t having one in Hollywood and most of us have concluded that this is because firstly, Adam McIntyre said he couldn’t possibly make it over there for it and secondly, D.D. isn’t too sure that the film’d go over big with the Hollywood In-crowd cos see, it hasn’t got Hugh Grant in it and at the moment that’s what they think English films have gotta be. That is, if they haven’t got Anthony Hopkins demonstrating that he can act and doesn’t have to wear a weirdo mask to come over as convinc— All right, ya got it yonks back.

    There’s a message from Sheila Bryant Casting but he admits that’s Rosie’s agent, not his: it’ll only be Sheila wanting to talk her into making another film or another TV series so that she, Sheila, can grab the percentage. Or even into doing a cameo in an episode of somebody else’s TV series so that she, Sheila, can— Yeah. On the other hand they didn’t say the message was for Miss Rayne, which is what they usually say… (Unless it’s Sheila in person: she usually says in a real narked voice: “Rosie, this is Sheila. Where in God’s name are you? I’ve left a million messages at the cottage. Ring me!”) But then, on the other hand again, maybe they’ve got a new girl in the office, it certainly didn’t sound like Sheila’s PA—

    “Rupy, if ya don’t call them back you’ll never know!”

    He doesn’t really wanna know, see, cos he doesn’t really believe it’ll be the part of his life, or even for him at all. I could make him bring the phone through here—it’s got a very long cord that’ll reach to all the rooms: John had it super-duperised about the day after he moved in—but it’s nearly time for tea, so I go through to the sitting-dining room with him. He rings them. Gee, it was for him. Sort of. A cameo in someone else’s series, very like his rôle as Commander, as a matter of fact actually in uniform—no, nothing that could possibly infringe his agreement with Henny Penny Productions! (Much.) Er, but there would be a personal appearance… Rupy’s not that thick, he immediately gets them to admit that the whole thing hangs on him agreeing to get Rosie along for this personal appearance. So he says sourly: “You can remind Sheila that if she wants Rosie for anything she has to do it through John, he’s doing Manager for her, and you can tell her from me that he’ll say No, cos he’s weaning her off the Lily Rose bit, and SHEILA KNOWS IT!” Crash! Pant, pant.

    “Is he?”

    “Of course he is, Dot, hasn’t it dawned that while one is amused for a while by one’s cute little wife fooling around playing at being an actress in skin-tight pink silk suits, once she’s made a film and come in for a blaze of world-wide publicity it ceases to be funny?”

    Gulp! “Um… yeah, I s’pose… I wouldn’t of thought he was that sort, Rupy.”

    “Then you’re blind, dear,” he says acidly.

    Swallow. Maybe I am, yeah. Well, last time I was down at the cottage with Rosie and John for the weekend they took me over to meet John’s parents, it’s not that far, about a three-hour drive, and boy, are they your totally up-market, plum-in-the-mouth Poms or what! Well, I knew they’d be bad from what Rosie had said, but crikey! I was completely tongue-tied, Lady Haworth sorta looked down her nose graciously at me and that done it. And I thought poor old Marion F.F. over in Adelaide was a shocker. And he was totally haw-haw, why had that nit Rosie given me the idea that he wasn’t that bad? I was expecting a jolly old admiral type. You know, fat and red-cheeked. But he’s not, he’s a bit taller than John and looks very like him, only thinner and a wee bit stooped. She’s tall, too, not that that woulda made any difference, she’d of withered me with a mere gracious glance if she’d of been five-foot nothing. The thing is, even though John may believe he’s rejected a lot of their values—and I’m not denying he has thought about his values—what I’m saying is, even though he may believe he doesn’t subscribe to all their beliefs, the idea that one’s wife doesn’t get out and flaunt her tits on the silver screen must be pretty well ingrained. Like, if you’ve been brought up to believe a thing’s not nice, believe you me you go on believing it for the rest of your natural, try as you might.

    Rupy can see he’s convinced me: he looks at me gloomily.

    “Um”—try to pull meself together—“um, yeah, but then, she’s gotta concentrate on her sociology stuff for the next few years, anyway, doesn’t she? And she does want to have another baby.”

    “I don’t see how she can better Baby Bunting,” he says sadly.

    Er—no. “Um, no. ’Tisn’t a matter of bettering him, exactly. Um, well, it’s natural,” I offer lamely. “Um, whoever she’d married she’d of wanted a couple of kids, I think, Rupy.”

    “Yes, of course, Dot, dear. And I’m not blaming John, it’s what he’s been brought up to,” he says wanly.

    “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Um, Brian Hendricks still wants you for the series, doesn’t he?”

    He sighs. “Yes, as far as that goes, but now that Katie Herlihy’s pulled out,”—cringe, shudder, boy there were ructions over that, even though the writing was on the wall for ages—well, ever since she bust up with Euan, really—“will he ever find anyone credible to cast as a substitute Daughter?”

    Right, not to say will the punters be able—not to believe, that’d be going much too far—to pretend to believe that after one actual Daughter and one Stepdaughter another curly-haired Fifties type can turn up out of the blue as some sort of surrogate daughter to Captain Harding? Like, someone that’s never even been mentioned before?

    “There was that idea,” he says, eyeing me sideways, “of centring it more round me and Daughter in our cosy cottage. Like, the tribulations and temptations of the Fifties housewife?”

    Yeah, and there was that idea that Rosie would agree to do it, too. What I am not gonna bring up. “It could work, only it’s a pretty slight thing to hang one-hour episodes on, isn’t it? I mean, Heartbeat may be silly—well, it is silly!” I amend quickly as he scowls: the Daughter types all loathe it, of course, it’s their biggest rival—“but at least it’s got the cop stories to provide the plots for each episode.”

    “But Varley had that superb idea that we could take John’s village as an example and centre an episode on each household!”

    Cringe. Thank God I missed that one! Varley Knollys, Brian Hendricks and D.D. invited themselves down to the cottage last year, not long after Rosie and John got home from Oz, and inspiration struck. Though when Varley made John take them for a tour of the village (I kid you not), he had a series of shuddering fits at the sight of what the trendies have done to the cottages. So the actual village was out, O,U,T, unless they could find a street of unrestored cottages in the state they woulda been in during the Fifties. (There are plenty of those but I gathered Rosie and John didn’t tell him.)

    “Um, yeah, um, that’d work pretty good, I think.”

    “I think so!” he beams.

    Yeah. But the punters aren’t gonna go for it, Rupy, without a couple of really strong leads. Male and female. And hetero: gotta be, percentage-wise. I’m not gonna say it, he knows it as well as—no, better than I do.

    So he bursts out: “Dot, if only you’d agree to do it, Brian would pay you—”

    “No. I’d really hate it, Rupy. I’m not an actress, and being Rosie’s double was quite bad enough.”

    “But darling, you took that acting class, that’s far more than Katie ever did—”

    “I done that drama course because they made me. What I really liked about it was reading the plays, like the whole plays that we never done in class because the dim tutors thought they’d be too hard for us.”

    He has to swallow. “Mm. But you’d sail through this, Dot! If only you’d agree just to audition for Brian—”

    “I’m real sorry, Rupy, but I can’t. I kinda cringe all over at the thought. Not the acting, the crap that goes along with it. I’m sorry, I can’t, not even if your career’s on the line.”

    Poor Rupy, he’s gone very red. “I wasn’t just thinking of me,” he says lamely.

    “No, ’course ya weren’t! It’s like when Rose wanted to pull out: she realised that there were all these other people relying on her, eh? But see, they’re not my responsibility like they were hers.”

    He nods glumly, he sees. “No, that’s true.”

    “Well, what about the other phone messages?”

    “One for you, darling: you were here all day, why didn’t you pick up?”

    “I was working.”

    “Maths stuff,” he says heavily..

    Close enough. “Yeah.” He’s waiting for me to ask who it was but I’m not gunnoo, see?

    “It was only Lucas,” he admits with a sigh.

    Right. I’ve discovered that Rupy doesn’t like him at all. Dunno why, exactly: just a natural aversion, I think. Lucas has never said anything unpleasant to him—or, as far as I know, about him. In fact Bernie Anderson mentioned that he actually pointed out to D.D. when they were casting that he was very popular in the series because of his Noël Coward imitations and so forth, so it would be only sensible to get him for the film: people would be disappointed if there was no comic singing Commander.

    “So play it,” I say heavily.

    He fumbles around but eventually plays it. It isn’t about work: Lucas is inviting me out to dinner, the excuse being it’s Friday.

    Rupy’s looking sour.

    “I’m not going.”

    He brightens marginally. “It would be rather injudicious, dear. Though I’m not denying that the Robson Green type has its attraction.”

    “Yeah.”

    He licks his lips. “Dear little Bridget rang, wondering what to wear for the premiere.”

    “Who?”

    “I think you’ve met her, Dot. Bridget Herlihy— Oh, no, she’s married the unsuitable suitor, now. The chappie from John’s village, um—he gave us a lovely lunch one day… No, well, I’ve completely forgotten his name, dear,” he admits. “The background’s like something out of those lovely Evelyn Waugh stories, but very definitely not one’s type, Dot, dear.” He looks sideways at me. “Slim, dark—half Egyptian, in his case—sardonic. Wonderful cook.”

    I take a deep breath. “Rupy Maynarde—”

    “It’s all true!” he bleats. “She’s Katie’s sister and Rosie is convinced the whole thing’s a frightful mistake!”

    Uh—oh. Yes, she has mentioned her. “Well, ya better ring her back, offer to take her shopping.”

    Happily he picks up the phone. I’m not up for the sartorial discussion so I go out to the kitchen. ’Tis separate, it’s got a door, otherwise you’d call it a kitchenette, cos it’s about the size of a cupboard. Well, heck, I’m no chef, but there’s barely room to turn round in here, let alone bend over! But it’s never bothered any of them, since Rosie and Rupy can’t cook and John doesn’t mind what he eats. –True: I’ve now had time to observe him at home, being fed, apparently happily, on instant mashed potato and fish fingers. Plus a salad from the garden that she lets him make himself. I tell ya what, far from just pretending to enjoy Aunty May’s cooking and being real polite about it, he must’ve found it a real treat!

    “Perry.”

    Gasp, jump! “Eh?”

    “Oh, sorry, dear, didn’t mean to startle you. Bridget’s half-Egyptian hubby. Perry.”

    Oh yeah, right, Rosie has mentioned him, yeah. Rupy’s giving me the low-down on their decisions about when and where to shop so I don’t listen. Double Dee Productions have already decided what I gotta wear to the flaming premiere and anyway, do I give a fuck?

    “Yeah. You fancy broccoli with the spag bog? It’s real nice and fresh, Mrs Singh took me down the market this morning.”

    “I’m glad to hear you at least got out of the house and away from that computer,” he says severely.

    “Yeah, yeah. Broccoli?”

    “Well, is there any way of cooking it so that it doesn’t taste quite so green, dear?”

    Yes, smother it in a cheese sauce like Aunty May does, then ya completely lose the benefit of the green, Rupy! “Um, not that wouldn’t have a million calories in it. Not that I can think of.”

    He sighs: he certainly doesn’t want anything with a million calories. “I think I once had it at The Tabla,” he notes wistfully.—This is the Singhs’ restaurant, it’s right in the same street as the flat.—“I know John claims that Mr Singh’s wonderful spinach curry is full of butter, that’s why it tastes so rich and creamy,”—he’s right, there—“but maybe he wouldn’t use so much butter in the broccoli?”

    He would: he’s the size of a house and never cooks anything that’s not real rich and traditional. Mrs Singh is slightly more adventurous in her cooking and slightly more aware of the fact that these days you don’t want half a can of ghee in every dish. Slightly. “Um, maybe. The thing is, Rupy, this broccoli is nice and fresh today, so we oughta eat it. It’ll taste even greener tomorrow.”

    Quickly he votes for staying in and eating it. Maybe The Tabla tomorrow?

    Why not? What else have I got to do in swinging London on a Saturday evening except go out to our local Indian restaurant with an amiable, fortyish, gay actor?

    “Could check Kate’s notebook, dear?” he offers, watching me rinse the broccoli as the spaghetti bubbles away.

    Why the Hell not? I think Aunty Kate might be under the impression that this large exercise book carefully covered in coloured Contact paper accompanies Rosie everywhere she goes and is at this moment sitting cosily in her kitchen at the cottage ready to be brought out and consulted before she feeds her martyred hubby. Actually she’s never used it. Put it like this: when Aunty Kate left she put it in a kitchen drawer down at the cottage and it woulda lain there undisturbed for all time except John had one of his periodic tidying-up fits and found it under the piles of crap that Rosie had shoved on top of it. This happened to be a weekend when Rupy was staying with them, so having discovered that it contained all sorts of handy hints—the best soaker to use to get grease off your best blouse (possibly shirt, in his case), and like that—he took it carefully up to London with him. Thereupon putting in a drawer and forgetting to use it ninety per cent of the times it could be really useful. Never mind, I haul it out.

    Right. First ya spend hours standing over the broccoli while it boils, making sure it doesn’t boil too long, then ya spend hours making this mixture of breadcrumbs and—lemon zest? The woman must be out of her mind! Who buys a whole lemon merely to grate a quarter of it on your ruddy broccoli? The breadcrumbs “should not be out of a packet”, shouldn’t they, Aunty Kate? This might be really good advice to those who’d thought that buying a packet of breadcrumbs was the thing to do. We haven’t got any day-old bread, for Pete’s sake, she’s lived here with Rupy and Rosie, she must know that anything he finds in the cupboard, he eats. Rather than get down to it and cook, goddit? Okay, the crust of today’s loaf’ll have to do. Skip the lemon zest. Mix with what oil? Open cupboards madly. Dunno what it is, but there isn’t any. There’s a bottle of olive oil, it’ll do, it’s low-cholesterol. “Can add a pinch of thyme.” Can if there is any, Aunty Kate. Proudly Rupy finds some! I won’t ask how long it’s been lurking at the back of the pantry, cos I know the answer’ll be since Aunty Kate was last here, which was when Rosie had Baby Bunting. It’s May, so more than eighteen months back—twenty, right. Okay, soggy today’s-bread breadcrumbs made even soggier with olive oil and mixed with a pinch of thyme. Ya put this on the broccoli (well drained) and— Light blue touch paper and stand back, Rupy is terrified of the grill. Apparently Rosie was, too: she never used it. Her cousin Joanie (the one that’s settled in Spain) used to use it but that was yonks back, when Rosie first came to London. But given that John’s been occupying this flat off and on it has been cleaned since. Not to say, given that Aunty Kate was staying here for several months.

    “That’s just like the wonderful broccoli that Kate used to do!” he discovers as I withdraw it from under the grill.

    Gee, thanks, Rupy, the accolade! So we sit down and have it. Home-made spag bog with a small packet of very expensive English mince to a whole bottle of pasta sauce, topped with plenty of grated packet cheddar, um, far too much in view of our cholesterol counts and his waistline, blow. (Make a mental note to see he has muesli for his breakfast tomorrow.) Plus Aunty Kate’s recipe for crumbed, grilled, slaved-over broccoli. Yeah, Rupy, ’tis nice. (But heck, is it all that much nicer than just plain lightly boiled broccoli woulda been?) Incidentally, I must buy a steamer, there is no steamer in this flat. Possibly because frozen peas, Rosie’s standby, can’t be steamed, or even more possibly because she doesn’t know what a steamer is. It’s no use asking Rupy where I can buy one, he’ll only say he doesn’t know or suggest Harrods. Unfortunately there’s no-one else here to ask, is there?

    “Harrods,” he says definitely. “Sure to, dear!”

    Yeah. Thanks, Rupy.

    “I’ll let you do a vegetarian stir-fry on Sunday, dear!” he says with a giggle.

    Yeah, hah, hah, hilarious, Rupy. “You better believe it.”

    He only giggles. Oh, well.

    … No, Rupy, there is no pudding. No pudding! No cheesecake, no ice cream like what you and Rosie used to stuff yourselves on: no PUDDING! Have an apple.

    “If you’d only come to Gray’s tap classes with me, Dot—”

    Personally I don’t see how even Gray’s classes could work off the amount of cheesecake that, according to him, him and Rosie used to get through. Of course there was a lot of tapping for the show, too, but—No. Not possible. Think he’s seeing it all through rose-coloured spectacles, NO pun intended, thanks!

    “I don’t mind coming but I haven’t always got the time, Rupy, I don’t spend my evenings with my head in my computer for fun, ya know. And besides, all you tappers are real pros, you’re far too good for me. I’d hold the class back.”

    This is true, see, cos he’s gone red and protests insincerely that of course I won’t. Oh, well. I give in and agree to come with him next week, cos frankly, what else have I got to do in my few leisure hours in swinging London but go to tap classes with an amiable fortyish gay actor? Yeah.

    So we’re sitting soggily in front of the idiot-box sipping mugs of Instant and trying to decide whether to turn this thing off—it’s some sort of fake Sherlock Holmes thing with that tall, thinnish old English actor that was real good in that thing about that dim girl journo, he was the smooth pollie, anybody ’cept her coulda seen he was rotten to the core, how she was ever supposed to hold that job down don’t ask me—or put on a video instead, this’d entail someone getting up off the couch; and he goes: “You never did ring Lucas back, dear.”

    Jump! “Uh—oh. Forgot. Oh, well, too late now.”

    “Mm.” He’s looking at me sideways. “I did check the whole tape twice, Dot, dear.”

    Deep breath. Don’t tell him to shut up because it won’t work.

    “Brian popped down to the set when I was in at Henny Penny today so I did just mention, since he’s so pally with Derry at the moment, that we were wondering what on earth had happened to D.W., and he said that he’d been asked to conduct his, um, was it symphony?—think so—in Chicago—”

    “I know!”

    Ignores this completely. “And that after that Derry had decided to send him straight up to Iceland to get the ambience.” Possibly the stunned silence registers cos he goes quickly: “It is summer, dear!”

    “Uh—no, it isn’t, Rupy, it’s only May, it’s cold as buggery here, or ya would think so if ya hadn’t endured most of February and all of March and April in the dump: what in Christ must it be like in Iceland?”

    “Well, chilly, I suppose, dear. Only the thing is,” he adds quickly, “that’ll be why he hasn’t rung you!”

    Since March—yeah. Well, yeah, he did ring me, but it was only to say that he was completely swamped with the score for the Daughter and Derry was driving him distracted, but he’d hope to have his head above water some time in May. Just what ya wanna hear when you’ve been wondering for a month what the fuck he’s up to, cos ya know from his sister he’s been over here for a couple of months, and you haven’t heard a blind word from him.

    “Right, they don’t have phones in Iceland. Or Chicago.”

    He smiles feebly. “No, um, well—can’t make a date from there? Um… lost his nerve?” he offers pathetically.

    “Depending on how much of a worm he acksherly is—yeah. Can we drop the subject?”

    Okay, we drop the subject.

    … Worm. Spineless worm.

    I’ve spent a solid week in at Double Dee Productions working on the trial database structures and they’re actually starting to look—not good, no. Reasonable. As if they might do what Lucas wants them to. Given that the output for the contracts has gotta have the Double Dee Productions logo here, there, and everywhere (a horrible pair of entwined D’s, real sicky, dunno what font it was based on—some sort of calligraphy style’d be my bet), plus and there are twenty, yes, twenty different types of “standard” contract… Yeah. Like Uncle Jerry said, it’ll be fifty times as much work as I anticipated. Gee, and ya know what? I’ve discovered that if ya design something real fancy for the body of a form (whether to display or print), and then find ya really need it on every page so it has to go in the header (like what the software calls the margin area, just to confuse you), you can’t copy and paste the design, ya gotta start from scratch. And vice versa, too right. Like why am I working on forms at this stage? Like because this is the stage I’m at! No, uh, sorry. The thing is, for quite a few of the databases the output is the crucial thing for Double Dee, so I gotta design the output elements, like, mostly it’s the forms to print out, in conjunction with working on the basic field structure. Plus and the input forms, yeah, cos if their staff can’t input in a sensible, logical manner—Lucas actually said that—it’s N.B.G. He didn’t say that but it was what he meant. And no, this was actually before I went and forgot to ring him back and say I couldn’t make it to dinner.

    So my phone goes and I ignore it and Duncan, one of the new young IT guys that Lucas approved in person, snatches it up real quick, very red in the face. Because, see, someone was told off to make sure that that phone got switched through to one of their extensions and stayed that way.

    “Um, gosh, does he?” he goes in this weak voice. “Yes, of course I will, Mr Parker!” (Quickly.) “No, absolutely! Good-bye!”

    I may not look it, but I’m waiting.

    Nothing.

    “Go ON, Duncan! Spit it out!”

    “Um, yes. Sorry, Dot,” he goes feebly. See, the minor nuances of the vernacular are slightly different and there’s more overt kow-towing to the high-ups, but he, Aziz and, I gotta admit it, Janey as well, are all Daniel-clones. “That was Mr Parker.”

    “Who?”

    Gulp, weak smile. “Mr Parker. Mr Dawlish’s PA.”

    “Oh, right: Gareth Parker; yeah, I know him.” That wasn’t intentional but now they’re all looking at me respectfully, silly brainwashed little Pommy pointy-headed nerds that they are. Heavily: “What about him?’

    “What? Oh! He’d like you to take a meeting in Mr Dawlish’s office at two-thirty this afternoon, Dot.”

    At least I’ve made them stop calling me “Miss Mallory,” I kid you not. “Yeah? What about?”

    Strange silence…

    Everybody’s staring at him. Even Janey has stopped admiring the new input screen for the Personnel database that she’s supposed to be trialling—like, its Beta trial, see? She’s supposed to be breaking it, not admiring it, the tiny pointy-headed no-different-from-the-male-variety nerd!

    “What, Duncan?”

    “I’m frightfully sorry, Dot, but it’s a meeting with Mr Dawlish about the premiere.”

    Deep breath. They’re all waiting for the explosion, silly pack of— “I see,” I go mildly. “I think ya mean about what to wear for the premiere, don’tcha?”

    Relieved grins all round, and he goes: “Well, reading between the lines, I think it probably is, yes! And he mentioned that Mr Keel will be there.” See, they’ve all been trained: although in their normal everyday speech they say “Euan Keel” like the rest of the movie-going world population, at work they gotta— ’Tis self-evident, yeah, ya right.

    Right. This means, almost undoubtedly, that D.D. is planning to colour-co-ordinate us. Crawlingly embarrassing? Well, no, I’m long past that stage. Long past…

    Aziz is eagerly offering to check the diary! Look, Aziz, I’d much rather you went on checking them word-processed nightmares of so-called contract docs to see if it’s gonna be at all possible to load them into the Contracts database in a bunch, or if our actual IT personnel are gonna have to put the coding in by hand in order to convert them to formatted ASCII that the database will accept. “Yeah, thanks, Aziz.”

    The only thing in the diary for this arvo is “Complete 1st-draft Contract output forms or die in the attempt” he reports with a silly grin. He’d go red as well, if he could, but he’s the wrong colour for that. Duncan and Janey are making up for him, though.

    In that case I’ll have to go, won’t I? And while Duncan’s making sure this phone is switched through to his extension—Duncan leaps to it, fancy that—maybe we could look at your progress so far, Aziz?

    We do that. Sweet flaming bloody Norah! He hasn’t got very far, and no wonder! There are such things as Word templates, did every single contract for every person ever hired to do anything for Double Dee have to be in a completely different layout? Apparently, yes. He’s drawn up some generic instructions. He has got some specific ones but he’s only been able to isolate five contracts they’d— Well, quite.

    I look at his generic instructions. Er… yeah. Who in God’s name does he imagine will be able to interpret these? I mean, sure, they’re clear as day to me, and Duncan adds helpfully that he found them really easy to follow, thank you for that, Duncan, but WE ARE IT STAFF! I don’t say it, what’s the point?

    Ye-es… Look, Aziz, these are really simple contracts for actors hired to do short parts, but even here, this typist has used colons here, ya see, and this one hasn’t, and this one’s changed the wording of this paragraph heading just slightly, just enough to bugger up any attempt to use it as the field name, and this one’s inserted paragraphs within the official document paragraphing, and this one—now, this is a beautiful piece of word-processing art—this one has used a “report” format so that the sub-paragraphs are automatically numbered!—Yes, but it’s easy to take them out, specially if you save it to a text format first!—Aziz, it isn’t easy to recognise what to take out and when if you’re not an IT person familiar with the final format the fucking things have to conform to! We can give them a sample to follow? Sure we can (in fact I’d of said that was a sine qua non), but they still gotta get all this shit into the sample format… Oh, dear. He’s incapable of seeing that a person without his level of brain-power isn’t necessarily gonna be able to do the amount of interpretation that’s needed.

    In desperation I say: “Look, didn’t you say your sister works in an office? Take a couple of these home and see she if she can put them into the format!”

    Oops, Janey’s broken down in smothered sniggers, have I made a booboo, crossed some invisible Pommy or worse, Pakistani taboo? …Nope. Phew! He’s already tried that: he was evidently gonna prove to us all how brill’ his instructions were, and his sister ended up throwing the things at him.

    “Well, I’m sorry, Aziz, but I’d say that proves it. See, she’s an experienced word-processor and inputter, but she’s not a database manager.”

    His full lower lip quivers, oh, dear. “But it’s a perfectly simple format!”

    “Yes, ’course it is, only grasping what has to go where in it isn’t simple. Not if you don’t understand how rigid databases are about accepting data.”

    “Yes, and those documents haven’t even got the contract paragraphs in the same order!” agrees Duncan.

    And the rest. But he’s right, that is one very pertinent point. Oops, Aziz is wailing: “But I told her the order didn’t matter!”

    Er—yeah. Gee, imagine trying to tell Deirdre or Betty—yeah. “Mm. I think it might make it simpler if we said the order did matter and that they had to confirm precisely to this format—see? No interpretation.”

    So he points out that cutting and pasting’ll take longer, he can’t see it won’t take longer than total incomprehension mixed with total stuff-up…

    We’ve all gone back to our appointed tasks and Duncan’s phone rings and he leaps to it. “Mr Roberts”, unquote, for me. Ouch, he wants a progress report, would it be convenient to pop along to his office in ten minutes?

    So I end up saying: “I’m sorry, Lucas, but it’s beginning to seem there’s not gonna be an easy way to get your existing data into the Contracts database. Well, after all, one reason you want a database is because you want to see uniformity instead of, um, variation, isn’t it?”

    “Instead of chaos—yes,” he agrees drily. “Bring them in as documents?”

    Ouch, he has been doing his homework! “Sure, no sweat, but nothing’ll be in the right fields.”

    “No, but the full text’ll be searchable, won’t it?”

    “Yes, that’s true. Or we could just assign a contract name and link to the existing document on your system.”

    He makes a face. “You know what I feel about that! Um, well, both?”

    Very fortunately it is possible to point the right incoming document to the right file name, because you can take the option to automatically include the entire filepath in the record as you bring the document in. “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

    “Do it, Dot,” he says heavily. “There is no way I’m going to have highly-paid IT staff formatting bloody ASCII files for months on end.”

    Okay, if you say so. You’re the boss. And it’s true that for past contracts the main value of the database will be for Double Dee to be able to check who they hired for what and under what terms.

    I’m just gonna slide out to give Aziz the good news when he goes mildly: “What happened the other night, if I may ask?”

    “Eh? Oh! Friday? I’m real sorry, Lucas, me and Rupy had other plans and I forgot to call you back.”

    “I see. It was just a meal,” he says heavily.

    If you weren’t so dishy this might be true, but as it is, and with our history, how can it be? Deep breath, look him in the eye. Oh, God, he’s gorgeous. My hormones are going berserk!

    “Don’t let’s kid ourselves, Lucas. No way can it just be a meal, with our history.”

    “Look, Dot—”

    “No, don’t. ’Tisn’t that I don’t like you, I do, a lot, and I think it could be good for a while, but fundamentally we’re too different, we want different things—no, it’s worse than that, we want a different life.”

    “But you like it here in London, don’t you?”

    You gotta be joking! “No.”

    His face falls ludicrously, poor joker, had he really kidded himself that I like the dump?

    “Look, I love the historic buildings and all that, and you were right, the Tate Gallery’s fantastic, but that sorta stuff apart, it’s—” I can’t possibly describe it so’s he can understand. “It’s all grey,” I go lamely.

    “Grey? Uh—well, the weather hasn’t been—”

    “The weather’s part of it, yeah: I mean, it was freezing back in February, my sinuses sort of cracked, my face got so cold! And that was only going down the market with Mrs Singh and like that; I took Rupy’s advice and didn’t go exploring on foot in the cold. But it isn’t only the weather. I mean, London just says ‘grey’, to me.”

    After a moment he says limply: “And what does Sydney say?”

    “Well, you never been there in summer, you’re not gonna understand, really.”

    “Well?”

    Glare. Stick chin out. “Blue.”

    He swallows. “Yes,” he says lamely. “Derry and I managed a day on the harbour just before I came home… I see. Yes.”

    So I go uneasily: “I’m not saying London isn’t great for a visit.”

    “Mm. I suppose I see, Dot,” he says heavily.

    No, ya don’t, ya can’t, and that’s part of the problem. But only part of it, mate, let’s not kid ourselves. “Um, yeah. But that isn’t the main thing. I mean, look at you!”

    He looks down at his smooth dark suit in bewilderment. “What?”

    “That’s the real you, isn’t it?”

    “I—” He looks limply at my business suit, it’s new, see, Rupy took me shopping. Black, latest cut, slim skirt, not too short, not too long—the shop took it up, wouldja believe? Well, okay, I’ll admit it was Harrods and it is a wonderful shop, Rupy was right all along. We found several tops to go with it, like, one actual blouse that he let me have on sufferance and three tops in some sort of artificial knit that are exactly right with it. Exactly. Today’s one is pale grey and Rupy found this small grey silk gardenia to go on the lapel. Then he made me fork out extortionate sums on two new pairs of shoes— No, well, I needed new shoes, and I’m not denying I adore them and I adore the suit and I adore Harrods. But none of it is me. Not deep-down.

    “This isn’t me. That crud I wore in Queensland, that was me, see?”

    “Dot—”

    “I know you thought I was only wearing it cos I didn’t have many summer clothes cos I’d worked the last couple of summers and before that I’d been studying so long I never managed to afford anything decent, but that’s only half the story. I like wearing daggy old shorts and beat-up tees and rubber thongs that your mob calls flip-flops, see? I’m happy in them, they’re me.”

    “But my dearest girl, leisure-wear’s quite different!”

    Leisure what? “Lucas, I think that’s my point. Leisure-wear is quite different. Except I haven’t got leisure-wear: I’ve got clothes and flaming business suits.”

    Oops, he’s gone very red. “You’re trivialising this.”

    “I’m not, I’m trying to be honest. Living in London would kill me, and living your sort of life would kill me. So we better really drop it, okay?”

    “Okay,” he says, biting his lip. “If that’s how you feel.”

    It is how I feel, if I can see you don’t believe me, Lucas. So I don’t say anything more, I just go out.

    Right, Euan is here in Dawlish’s office, haven’t seen him since D.D. made me and Molly wave him off from Kingsford Smith in a blaze of publicity and them ruddy matching Fifties cherry-trimmed primrose frocks. Why did we do it? For the cash, why else? We got to keep the frocks, ooh goody. Dunno what she done with hers, though she was certainly muttering about taking the braid off and using it for something else, but I gave mine to Deanna for her patchwork.

    Yeah, good to see you, too, Euan. What in God’s name has he done to himself? Well, lost about two stone, for a start, and bleached his hair to pale yellow at the sides—actually about the shade of those ruddy primrose horrors, come to think of it—and platinum on top. I know he went over to Hollywood for an audition or a reading or whatever, but Jesus, did he have to let them do that to him? And if he did have to, why didn’t he undo it the minute he was out of their orbit?

    “The young Florizel,” he says with that deprecating smile he specialises in, tangling the lashes like anything.

    I’d be a lot more impressed if you’d of sent my cousin a postcard to show ya remembered she was on the face of the earth, Euan. “Huh?”

    “Aubrey Mattingforth’s production of The Winter’s Tale. I’m taking Florizel,” he says wryly.

    Huh? Oh! “Oh, right, your Shakespeare series! So you’re filming The Winter’s Tale now, are you?”

    “Mm. He’s gone all realismo and so we’re filming in the mud of deepest Wiltshire,” he says with a sigh.

    Oh, yeah? Never heard of it. Er—’tisn’t winter, but presumably for telly that doesn’t count?

    “Adam’s taking Leontes and he’s got Georgy for Perdita,” reveals D.D. with a sigh. “Damn his eyes.”

    Eh? Oh—Aubrey Mattingforth’s eyes, goddit! He got in first, is what he means. Yeah, well, in that case the thing might be worth watching. “Right, um, does Florizel have to be blond, or shouldn’t I ask?”

    Euan laughs. “You definitely shouldn’t ask, Dot, darling! The thing’s on course to be a total disaster. When I escaped a terrible fight was going on between the pro-bear and anti-bear factions, the latter led by Aubrey in spite of the realismo.”

    “Eh?”

    “Shakespeare had a bear in it.” he says heavily.

    Gee, that’d be good! –Ugh! D.D.’s suddenly put his huge, horrible fat arm round me! “Have you ever seen anything as expressive as this face?” he says on a proud note.

    “Exactly!” Euan agrees with a laugh. “Could I whisk you up to deepest Wiltshire, wee Dot, and mention bears to you in front of Aubrey?”

    Blush, blush. “Don’t be a clot. Though I admit a bear’d be real good.”

    “And so say all of us,” agrees D.D. “Now, my concept is—” Blah, blah. Yeah, ya should of got in first and grabbed Georgy Harris for your Winter’s Tale, Grate Director. Look, can we get this over with? Cos I’m actually being paid by your company to work on your database designs, not to stand here listening to—

    He’s run down at last.

    “Yeah, sounds good, Derry. Well; maybe in a few years’ time, eh? This telly production sounds as if it’s gonna die the death anyway, saving your presence, Euan. Was this gonna be about what to wear for the premiere?”

    “So direct! Just like her cousin!” sighs D.D. If this is working up to another attempt to persuade me to act in crap for ya—

    No, it doesn’t seem to be. Not overtly, anyway. ’Tisn’t about the clothes, either, though he thinks we might need to rethink them. No, what it is, is an attempt to persuade me to persuade Molly to come over for the premiere and wear matching outfits: matching mine and Rosie’s—right.

    So I go: “Euan’s only got two arms,” and Euan collapses in yelps of laughter. Quite genuine, he just about falls off his chair and has to wipe his eyes.

    D.D.’s quite miffed. “That isn’t funny, Dot. Of course Rosie will be on John’s arm.” On John’s arm that’s in John’s uniform, is what the prick means.

    Deep breath. “Look, Derry, maybe no-one’s broken this to you. I mean, I know you’re surrounded by sycophants, it’s endemic to the life, isn’t it? So I’ll say it. If you want John for your premieres, it’s gonna have to be okayed by the Navy, because he’s quite high up and his dad and grandfather were very high up and this is gonna be a very public occasion. Especially if you want him to get time off to go to Sydney.”

    “But he’s got a shore job now, Dot.”

    “Doesn’t matter, it’s still the Navy.”

    “He—um, he was sent away not very long after the baby was born, but I thought that was because of 9/11,” croaks Euan.

    “Directly, yeah. I mean, the posting was to the Gulf, yeah. But if your leave’s up, in the Navy that’s all she wrote. Geddit?”

    They nod limply. After a moment D.D. manages to say: “I knew it was like that, of course.”

    Right, only you’ve never come slap-bang up against it before, eh? “Think you better get on to him straight away. See what the procedure is.”

    “I— He’ll be on duty,” he says lamely.

    “Sure. Down at Portsmouth. Oh! Ya right, he probably won’t take your call, he’ll assume it’s something piffling. Well, in his terms it is, I’m afraid. Want me to ring him?”

    Gee, D.D.’s actually gone red behind the beard. “That’s very good of you, Dot, but if it’s piffling, we’d better not bother him at work.”

    “No, it’s all right: he’ll understand that it matters to you, he’s very large-minded. Can I use your phone?”

    So I ring John on D.D.’s own private line. “Haworth here,” gee, it’s lovely when he says that, Rosie’s so right! “Hi, John, it’s Dot. It’s nothing drastic, only Derry has only just realised that it’s highly unlikely the Navy will let you nip off to Sydney for Rosie’s premiere.”

    “I see… He’s there, is he? –Mm. Dot, has anyone mentioned to him that Rosie loathes travelling and she’s completely immersed in her sociological study, and that he neglected to have it written into her contract that she has to attend the Sydney premiere?”

    Gulp! “Not to my knowledge.”

    “In that case I’d better speak to him. But how are you, Dot?”

    “Good, thanks, John. The database stuff’s going quite well. It’s good working for Lucas, he can really cut through the crap. He made an executive decision this morning that’s gonna save us hours of work. And the result’ll be quite acceptable—well, the basic data’ll be in the database, it just won’t be formatted.”

    “Good! I had an idea you’d enjoy working with him,” he says with a smile in his voice. “And how’s Rupy?”

    “Um, I wouldn’t say he was a box of birds. Well, they’re finishing off the latest TV series, only of course Katie Herlihy’s pulled out, so they’re all up in the air.”

    “Of course: poor old Rupy. Uh—has he mentioned anything about what he intends to do with his money from the film?”

    “Um, no-o… Like, apart from buying loads of new clothes, John?”

    “Oh, God,” he mutters. “Look, Dot, Rupy certainly isn’t your responsibility, but if you could possibly stop him throwing his hard-earned away on crap he doesn’t need we’d be everlastingly grateful!”

    “Yeah, I’ll try, only shopping’s like a drug to him, John!”

    “I know,” he says heavily. “He needs to put it in a solid pension fund. Look, I think I’d better come up to London rather soon. Well—Friday night. I’ll catch the train: don’t worry, Rosie won’t let me drive the Jag madly through the night!” he says with a laugh.

    “That’s good,” I admit.

    “I’m a perfectly safe driver, why will no female in this extended family ever admit it?” he says gaily. “See you around nineish on Friday, then?”

    “Yeah, great, John! Wanna go to The Tabla?”

    “I insist on going to The Tabla! Now, you’d better put Dawlish on—and stand well back!”

    Yeah. Too right. So I hand him the receiver. “Here he is, Derry, and don’t get your hopes up too much,” I warn, standing well back.

    … Oh, shit. That went over like a lead balloon.

    “Um, I’m real sorry, Derry,” I croak.

    He’s so shook up he can’t even roar: “Who was responsible for that contract?” See, the unfortunate fact is, John was. He’s far more strong-minded than anything Double Dee had on deck. Admittedly Lucas wasn’t there, overseeing actors’ contracts is not his job. Though I’m not arguing if you’re gonna point out maybe it should be.

    “She has to be there,” he croaks. “Everything’s arranged— My God, it’ll be a total fiasco!”

    In a blaze of world-wide publicity—yeah.

    “Dot, can’t you possibly persuade her?”

    Poor old sod, if a person with a voice that deep could wail, that’d be what that was. “Um, the thing is, Rosie’s a really rotten traveller and, um, the trip home just about finished her off. It got real bumpy coming in over the Channel and she threw up. They had planned to go straight down to the cottage but she couldn’t face it: they came and stayed at the flat for three days before John could get her into a moving vehicle. Well, it was the train: she’s not so bad on trains.”

    “So—so it was true,” he says faintly.

    “Eh? Rosie being a rotten traveller? ’Course it was!”

    “I thought—well, I’m damned sure Brian did, too—that it was just one of Haworth’s ploys to get us to up the ante,” he says dazedly.

    What a nit. “John wouldn’t lie!” I say scornfully.

    “No,” agrees Euan dazedly. “You must have realised, Derry— Or Brian must have! Look: that time he sent the cast down to Portsmouth for publicity snaps: Rosie took the train because she couldn’t face the drive in a bloody Henny Penny limo: surely that said something to him?”

    It can’t of, because D.D. just shakes his head feebly.

    “And when the cast went on location for the series, she always had to go in the front seat with someone who could be relied on to drive nice and steadily—Michael, for example!” he admits with a sudden grin. “He drives at a nice, steady thirty miles an hour.”

    “That’d be Rosie’s level,” I agree mildly.

    “But— It’ll be a 747!” the poor man cries wildly.

    “Derry, if she was sick coming in to Heathrow I really don’t think you’ll get her on a plane,” says Euan, sounding quite firm, for him.

    “No. And I think—well, she was talking about it before they left Sydney—I think she wants to start another baby this year,” I add.

    Euan eyes him drily. “In that case, you definitely won’t get her on a plane and John’ll probably throttle you if you suggest it.”

    “I’ll be a disaster,” he groans. “We’ll have to cancel—” His wild eye alights on yours truly. “Dot!” he cries.

    Huh? What? No way! “Don’t even think of it!”

    Euan’s very red. “Derry, that’s beyond the pale.”

    “But no-one would ever know! Just one public appearance—”

    “And the rest. No way. I done the standing and walking, and even the dancing crap, and I’m glad you managed to stick it all together and make a film out of it, Derry, but no way am I gonna get involved in a public deception like that. Have ya thought of what could happen if the papers and the networks ever found out? They could sue us for megabucks!”

    “I— Yes,” he croaks, paling. “Oh, God! We’ll have to cancel it, Euan!”

    “Yes. Unless we just feature Dot as Dot,” he says, smiling nicely at me.

    “Featuring the face of the legs of Lily Rose. They’ll flock to it in their millions,” I note snidely.

    “Would—would you do it on that basis, Dot?” falters D.D.

    Hesitate, hesitate… “Well, am I gonna be home by that time, Derry? What about your databases?”

    Think he’d forgotten about them. “I— Look, we’ll fly you over and back. And I don’t know what you’ve fixed up with Lucas, but we’ll pay your fare home when the databases are finished, too!”

    “Um—well, okay, why not? Flying doesn’t seem to affect me. But you better think it over before you make any promises,” I warn. “Cos joking apart, the public isn’t gonna be that interested in the face of the legs. –I better get back to it: those databases won’t design themselves. See ya. Good luck with the Shakespeare, Euan.”

    And I’m outa there.

    Oh, dear! Silly old joker! And as for believing that John would tell lies about Rosie getting travel-sick—or about anything! Talk about living in a world of your own!

    Friday afternoon. Double Dee is under the impression I’m home slaving over a hot laptop, Rupy, I didn’t oughta be taking a break and going off to tap class, however desirable exercise may be— Oh, why the Hell not! I’ve worked every night this week, after all.

    At Della’s Dance Studio Gray’s in fine fettle, tells me I certainly need to work some of that flab off—ouch! Especially if I want to get into something nice for the premieres!

    Me and Rupy exchange sickly smiles at this point. Well, yeah, I told him, I was bursting to tell someone, and so what if he spreads it all over London? Actually, it might not be a bad thing if he does, because, terrified of being sued or not, D.D. isn’t the sort to give in without a fight. Or without a devious scheme to get round being sued. Well, several schemes have already occurred to me, and I don’t even want to do it! Like, never claiming I am Rosie, just letting them all conclude it as I appear in her dress on her co-star’s arm. Like that. So God knows what he might be dreaming up.

    We’re just gonna start when the door of the big, dusty, bare-floored practice room is flung open: Della in person, so excited that she almost looks flushed under the two-centimetre thick layer of make-up. The bright apricot back-combed hairdo is practically bristling with excited triumph. Another pupil for Gray! Coy and meaning magenta-lippied smile. Oh, cripes, surely she can’t mean— Rupy and me are just exchanging resigned glances when in he comes.

    Euan Keel in person. Droopy black tights, grungy great sweat-shirt an’ all.

    All the females in the tap class give excited gasps. ’Cept me, natch. Most of the males aren’t that unaffected, either, they’re all gay. ’Cept Rupy. I mean, he is gay but he sure doesn’t fancy Euan.

    Gray did promise to help him lose those extra pounds! he reminds him.

    Gray is totally unmoved, and good on him! “That’s quite right, so I did. Well, you’d better stand next to Dot, that’s dunce’s corner for today. And please don’t attempt anything advanced, either of you: just achieving something approaching a rhythm will be quite enough for today.”

    Rolling his eyes in a mock-terrified fashion—all the girls collapse in giggles except me—he comes over to stand by me.

    “Those ballet shoes are all wrong!” I hiss.

    “Mm.” He meets Gray’s glare. “Lost me tap shoes,” he mouths, grimacing.

    Stupid nit, if he’s thinks I’m gonna smile, he’s wrong.

    And we start. Boy, is he bad or is he bad? Admittedly his ballroom dancing wasn’t Fred Astaire or nothing like it, but gee, he cannot tap. After not very long at all the girls stop looking at him admiringly and only glance at him pityingly every now and then. Like when Gray shouts: “NO! Euan, concentrate on the BEAT!”

    “I’m even worse than I thought I was!” he admits at the end of it.

    Yes, well, I suppose he’s not all bad. This doesn’t mean I want his company: cos this evening, in case you’ve forgotten, is the evening John’s due, and me and Rupy have been looking forward to it all week. I’m trying to send him thought-rays: Don’t let him join us…

    “Shocking,” pronounces Gray severely, strolling over to us. My God, he’s not even breathing heavily, and he was tapping harder than anybody!

    “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Gray!” I gasp.

    “Not you, Dot, dear: at least you tried, and had the right shoes.” He looks hard at the culprit. “You’d better come to my Tuesday class. Three-thirty.”

    “Beginners!” gasps Rupy, collapsing in sniggers.

    “Exactly. And if you can’t make it, there’s another beginners’ class at seven-thirty on a Thursday. Come on: hurry up and get changed, Joelle needs this room for her Advanced ballet girls.” And he bustles us out.

    I’m changed and waiting in the corridor and there’s no sign of the two of them; oh, help, surely Rupy can’t be issuing a warm invitation?

    Gray appears, wearing flared trousers but his practice top.

    “Have you got another class, Gray?”

    “Yes, Spanish Beginners. –You might have warned me about You-Know-Who, Dot, dear!”

    “Ya musta known he’d be bad, Gray, you had him for the ballroom stuff.”

    “No, that he was coming!” he hisses.

    “Didn’t know. I did see him at Double Dee earlier in the week, but he never breathed a word.”

    “Hm. Well, look out, dear, it probably means he’s on the prowl, again.”

    On the—Oh. “No way.”

    “Keep to that,” he advises, strolling away, as Euan and Rupy appear. Rupy gives me a desperate look.

    “Come on Rupy, we’ll be late!”

    “Oh?” goes Euan, smile, smile. “Got a date?”

    “Yes, that’s right,” says Rupy quickly, looking hard at me. “Long-standing, I’m afraid, Euan darling.”

    “Yeah. See ya, Euan!”

    And we dash off, leaving him standing there with the smile frozen on his face. Well, serve him right; if he’d of sent Molly one postcard—

    “Darling,” Rupy confesses in the taxi, sort of collapsing against the seat, “I was terrified you were going to invite him!”

    “Me? No way! I was terrified you were gunnoo!”

    And we both break down in giggles, terrifically relieved to find that we’re totally on the same wavelength about sharing lovely John with a feebleized creep like Euan Keel.

    … The train’s late. Come on, come on!

    “Here it is!” cries Rupy.

    Gee, there’s hordes of people getting off, where is he? There’s a uniform—Nope. Clutch of tall men in uniform—Nope. Blast!

    “There he is!” cries Rupy.

    So he is! And we rush up to him. “Hullo, John!”

    “Hullo, Dot! Hullo, Rupy!” he beams. “All set for The Tabla?”

    We sure are! Now all we got to worry about for the rest of the evening is whether to have Mr Singh’s rogan josh, totally extra, or his extraordinarily delicious tandoori chicken! And ya know what? I’d be quite up for letting John decide that!

    … Rogan josh. He’s been dreaming about it all week, he tells Mr Singh.

    Laughing like anything, Mr Singh goes: “Rosie should learn to cook, Captain! Acting and sociology are all very well, but a man needs a wife to be a wife!”

    Of course, two minutes later Mrs Singh hurries up with, gulp, a dish of her special chilli pickle and goes: “Don’t you take any notice of anything he said, Captain! This is the twenty-first century, a woman doesn’t need to be a man’s slave these days!” Then slightly spoiling her effect by asking eagerly how Baby Bunting is and if there’s any good news, yet? Oh, well. She’s doing pretty bloody good, for a woman that was married at the age of fifteen to a man she’d only set eyes on once before.

    Two minutes after that their second youngest, Tiffany, she’s at uni, hurries up and snatches the chilli pickle off the table and warns us to ignore anything they both said, but given she’s just got herself engaged to a lovely Punjabi boy, can she talk? Oh, well, it is a love match, and then, at her age, what else would she be doing, and in short, that’s life, isn’t it?

    But ya can see why, grey though London is, and pretty different from Australia though it is in lots of ways, at times I feel like I’ve never even been away from home at all!