The Stars Are Out Tonight

16

The Stars Are Out Tonight

    Ann was sure—ninety percent sure—well, say eighty-five percent sure and holding—that something was going on, way up there amongst the Stars. She wasn’t too sure that she was vitally interested in discovering what, however. Whether it was something that the Grate Semi-Literate Astrayan Public would want to know about was another matter: anything to do with the Stars was of course of pantingly vital interest; but on the whole her withers weren’t too wrung by the thought that they might miss out on it.

    “Hullo,” said a mellifluous baritone voice mildly as she absorbed a jam donut and a polystyrene cup of unspeakable brown fluid from the film studio caff’s dispenser.

    “Hullo,” replied Ann weakly to Ther Famous Fillum Star Adam McIntyre In Person.

    He sat down at her table, which at the moment was occupied by her humble self, Tony’s equipment which she was guarding with her life, hah, hah, sick joke, an ashtray containing a Kit Kat wrapper, and a small sign which said NO SMOKING.

    “Would now be a convenient moment for that interview in depth, Ann?” he said with that luverly smile that went right through ya and turned the innards to mush. Those eyelashes, incidentally, were real, but it was quite hard to prove this to the pantingly interested Astrayan Public without betraying the fact that you’d been labouring under the belief—which would read as if your paper had been labouring under the belief—that they were mink.

    “Uh—yeah! Um, any time Mr—uh, Adam,” she replied weakly. He had asked them to call him Adam, after it had dawned that Tony was calling him “Um”, blush, silly grin—the boy wasn’t gay, he was overcome—and that she was calling him “Mr McIntyre”, swallow, silly grin, she wasn’t gay, either.

    “Ask away,” he prompted, raising his polystyrene cup and twinkling at her over the rim. Gee, he didn’t even blench as he swallowed; well, he had been in Show Biz ever since he’d walked off at the age of eighteen from that Oxford degree his eminent physicist Dad had been hoping he was gonna distinguish himself in. –Actually, there wasn’t anything she needed to ask him, was there? ’Cos along with the whole of the cinema-going world, she already knew it all.

    “Is that coffee?” she asked weakly.

    “No; Milo,” he replied mildly.

    Gulp. “Uh, aren’t you watching your weight?” she croaked.

    “Yes, but the odd cup of very weak Milo isn’t going to do me any harm.”

    “No. Um, sorry, didn’t mean to ask you that. I might try it. The so-called coffee’s unspeakable, the tea’s worse, and the so-called soup is composed entirely of MSG, dye, and salt.”

    “Yes,” he agreed succinctly.

    Ann opened her notebook.

    “That’s nice,” he said with interest.

    “Uh—yeah, it’s a sketch Bernie Anderson did for me,” she explained feebly, turning the pad so as he could have a proper look. It was a tree—a Moreton Bay fig, though she didn’t think that Adam McIntyre would recognise it as such.

    “It’s a Moreton Bay fig tree, isn’t it?” said the famous film star with a smile. “There were some in the park that Derry used in his Midsummer Night’s Dream. In Auckland,” he explained as Ann was just sitting there with her jaw sagging.

    “Uh—yeah. I suppose they would grow over there. We just liked the shape of it,” said Ann limply. “Well, he didn't know what they were—Mr Dawlish had ordered him to get out and find some, you see: something about one of your scenes with Lily Rose; so I, um, I showed him some.”

    “God, he isn’t planning to transplant one to his bloody soi-disant Singapore bungalow, is he?” said the famous film star in naked horror.

    “Uh—up in Queensland? Um, they grow there,” said Ann limply. “Moreton Bay is in Queensland.”

    “Would that stop him?” he replied grimly.

    “Uh—Christ,” she muttered.

    “Someone had better drop a hint in his ear that the critics’ll make invidious comparisons if he uses them again. With any luck, not me,” noted Derry Dawlish’s Big Star.

    Ann nodded numbly. “Um, so this’d be the second film you’ve made, um, Downunder?”

    “Yes; both for Derry. Georgy and I would very much like more film work in these parts, but so far we haven’t had the offers,” he said nicely.

    Ann replied not so nicely: “Not tempted by sprawling mega-epics based on fake mythology dreamed up by some Oxbridge nutty professor in his ivory tower at his college’s expense?”

    The famous blue eyes twinkled like anything but he only replied mildly: “Say rather, not offered a part in it, Ann.”

    “Right. Well, doubt if their budget’d run to it, they’ll need most of it for the special effects.”

    “Mm. Though we do occasionally work for nothing—not, however, in anything designed to be a global box-office success.”

    Gee, this was something she hadn’t known! “Really? What in?”

    He rubbed the famous chin. –There was no way you could possibly characterise it: it didn’t—thank God—have a dimple in it, or even a slight dint, and nothing approaching a cleft. Nevertheless it was the most adorable chin on the silver screen. “I suppose the last thing was the Chipping Ditter Festival 2000. We both did some Shakespearean excerpts, and the RSC very kindly allowed us to stage a performance of their version of Cymbeline.”

    “Shakespeare, well, that's cultural, and they’ll’ve heard of him,” said Ann heavily, scribbling. “In aid of?”

    “Partly the church organ fund—Chipping Ditter’s the village where we live, Ann—and partly homes for retired actors.”

    “Goddit. Highly laudable,” said Ann with a sigh.

    “But hardly newsworthy,” he murmured.

    “No, well, it’ll fill the space. Ya wouldn’t like to tell me whether you or Euan Keel gets the Daughter in the end, would ya?” she said without hope.

    “I’d love to, but Derry’d kill me if I did!” he replied with a laugh. “I can tell you that even we haven’t been allowed to see the scripts for the final scenes, though.”

    Ann sighed. “I seem to recall that about fourteen thousand aeons back I worked out that if he had got you for the main rôle—I mean, the man who gets the girl—he’d have trumpeted it from the rooftops. Who is all this mystery supposed to be fooling?”

    “My best guess would be your readers, Ann,” he replied politely.

    “Yeah. Um—looking forward to going up to Queensland? –Yes,” she answered herself, scribbling.

    “Something like that,” agreed the famous film star very drily indeed.

    “Uh—do ya swim, snorkel round Barrier Reefs, all that crap?”

    “Not all that much, no. If you’re thinking of that Bond clone I played, all those underwater scenes were a stunt double. I definitely can’t do underwater stuff,” he said with the sidelong, glinting, half-wistful smile.

    “Uh—no!” said Ann, coming to with start and realising she’d just been blatantly staring. “If I had any hope at all that you’d be able to answer me, I’d ask you what it’s like to wake up and look at all that in your mirror every morning. –It’s all right, that wasn’t a question, you have lived with your looks all your life, after all: it must be normal, to you.”

    “Mm. I also have the reassurance that I take after my father, and he’s still a very good-looking man,” replied Adam drily.

    Ann reddened. “Sorry. I know you’re a lot more than just a pretty face. I mean, we don't get all the art films out here, but I have seen you in a few things at the film festival, and I know you’ve been doing a lot of stage work over the last few years— Sorry.”

    “Don’t apologise, I’m used to it. Actually, talking of Moreton Bay fig trees, back when we were filming the Dream a close friend who’d made it on talent alone asked me the very same thing—mirror and all!” he said with a little laugh.—Ann was now frankly hanging on his every word.—“Oh, Lor’, it’s brought it all back… That was when I first met Georgy. You could write with some truth that she’s been my salvation, if you like, Ann.”

    “Suh-salvation?” she stuttered, her hand frozen over the notepad.

    “Yes. Oh—not from anything headline-making like drugs or booze, merely from myself. From,” said the famous film star with the famous half-wistful smile, “my insecurities, my damned vanity, and the bloody footling life I was leading before I met her.”

    “Uh—yeah,” she croaked numbly, writing obediently. “I—um, well, Lily Rose was telling me she’s met her and—and—”

    “That she doesn’t know how the Hell she puts up with me?”

    “No!” said Ann quickly, going very red. Lily Rose hadn’t said anything of the sort, but it had been pretty clearly the thought behind what she had said. “She said she was lovely, and very kind and—and the least managing woman she’s ever met,” she finished limply.

    Suddenly Adam grinned at her. “Yes; that’s Georgy! Put that I’m the luckiest man alive, Ann, and thank God I’m not such a fool that I don’t know it!”

    “Yuh—um, are you sure your agent’ll want me to put that?” she croaked.

    “Yes, he’s never ceased thanking his lucky stars I met Georgy when I did, too!” replied Adam with a laugh.

    Crikey. Limply Ann wrote that. “Um, I’d better ask you about your next parts,” she croaked.

    “Of course. Well, going back to a stint as Leontes at Stratford.” Something about Ann’s frozen and fishlike face must have alerted him so he explained kindly wot that was and who had done the part in a film of it quite some years back. Cripes. Goddit, very cultural indeed. “Then for Christmas, Georgy and I are both doing a panto!” He grinned at her.

    “Geddouda here,” said Ann limply.

    “No, true! It’s The Three Bears: she’s Baby Bear and I’m doubling Papa Bear and the Demon King.” He looked at the frozen, fishlike face. “You don’t have much panto, Downunder, do you? No, Georgy said as much,” he agreed to her numb head-shaking, “No, well, a real panto always has to have a Demon King, Ann!”

    As a matter of fact, with those cheekbones, Ann could see in him in the rôle. And for the sake of the Grate Panto-Attending British Public, or at least its mums and aunties, one could only hope it incorporated tights. “Right. Uh—Papa Bear?”

    “Who’s been eating my porridge?” he growled, and Ann Kitchener leapt ten feet where she sat.

    “That was really good,” she admitted weakly. She took a deep breath. “Um, Adam, bearing in mind that I have to eat until I’m old enough to get my super,” she said on a plaintive note that came out a lot more plaintive than she’d intended, “this isn’t a leg-pull, is it? Because I do know that Downunder isn’t really real to all you famous, busy people from the real side of the worl—”

    “No!” said the famous film star quickly, going very red. “No, of course not, Ann! I wouldn’t dream of it!”

    To tell the truth, Ann didn’t believe he would. Never mind the looks, not to say the fame, he was actually a very nice bloke. Though she wasn’t in much doubt he was capable of playing the very nice bloke for these odd—er, in some cases very odd—interviews with obscure journos from an unreal part of the world, but strangely enough she’d have bet that meagre super of her that he wasn’t playing any rôle at the moment.

    “We’ve always wanted to be in a panto,” he explained, smiling. “Was that donut nice?”

    “Uh—no. Bit sicky, really. The idea was tempting, that was all.”

    “Good,” he said with a sigh. “Derry in person measured my waist this morning.”

    “Christ.”

    “Exactly. He was even worse, believe it or believe it not, when he made me do Oberon in blue tattoos and a damned pearl G-string. He hasn’t yet had it written into my contract that I have to be X number of inches and pay several million in indemnities if I go over it, but give him time. I wouldn’t take a bet that it isn’t in Rosie’s, though,” he admitted with a grin, forgetting to call her Lily Rose like they all did on set, which pretty well showed he was genuine, didn’t it?

    “Right,” she acknowledged, grinning back. “And Euan Keel’s?”

    “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Adam admitted on a wry note. “For one thing, talking of pantos, he’s planning to put him in a Buttons suit, I don’t know if you—” Ann’s eyes were bulging and she was scribbling feverishly.

    “When?” she gasped.

    “The last I heard, they were still arguing over whether it was going to be near the beginning, after the credits, while the Daughter, I mean the 21st-century reincarnation of the Daughter,” he corrected himself, the shoulders shaking slightly, “and the old aunties are watching the tap show, or midway, during one of the Daughter’s spats with him.”

    “Yeah, um, not that,” said Ann sheepishly. “When are they going to fi—”

    “Oh! Sorry, Ann! I’m afraid I don’t know: since Rosie broke her leg the shooting schedules seem to be even more wildly muddled than they usually are. Though to give him his due, Derry does always start off terribly organised: appearances to the contrary, he dislikes waste—and then, it is his production company,” he added with a twinkle. He rubbed the chin. “All I can tell you is that the original inspiration for the Buttons bit was a thing Euan and Rosie did together at her tap class’s show, think it was a Christmas show but don’t quote me: a skating dance. Rosie refers to it as ‘gliding with a lot of sticking the leg out’.”

    Ann grinned. “Sounds like her! Uh—oh, blow. Sounds horridly as if he might have to leave it until her leg’s better and you’re all home again.”

    “Unless young Dot can do gliding with a lot of sticking the leg out, mm,” he agreed.

    “Yeah. Well, she does appear to be able to let herself be steered round the dance-floor by him, or maybe that’s only off the set,” said Ann on a dry note.

    “Ye-es.”

    She pounced. “I knew it! They’re all up to something, aren’t they?”

    “No idea, Ann,” he said blandly.

    “Aw, go on, ya can tell me.”

    “You and several million readers, isn’t it?”

    “Nope, they wouldn’t believe it even if I wrote it, film stars aren’t real people: they’re only allowed to do a limited number of things, like, have affaires madly all over the shop—well, mainly that, actually—bust up their marriages frequently, publicly and noisily, adopt kids in a blaze of publicity and cheerfully ignore them for the rest of their lives, and give unlikely interviews in which they speak about the cartoon characters they’ve just been in a movie with as if they were real people with whom they interacted on the set.”

    “You’ve forgotten the unlikely voice-overs as speaking babies and dogs,” replied the famous film star placidly.

    Ann choked. “Yeah!” she gasped, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Too right! No, go on, tell us! They’re all in it, aren’t they? Lily Rose, Keel, Dot, and Rupy Maynarde.”

    “I know as much as you do, I’m afraid. If they’re up to something, and I’d agree the giggling in corners seems to indicate it, they certainly haven’t let me in on it.”

    He seemed genuine. Ann frowned over. “Is Captain Haworth in on it, do ya reckon?”

    “What do you think, Ann?”

    Gulp. Her first guess had been right, then. “Does she often get up to stuff behind his back?” she croaked.

    “Well, I don’t know them very well at all: I did do a guest spot on her show, but this is the first time I’ve worked with Rosie for anything like a prolonged period. Don’t get me wrong, Georgy and I like him very much and we’d like to get know them both better, but we’ve been busy, and so have they: he was in the Gulf for quite a while after 9/11, you know.”

    “Mm.” Ann made a note of that, just in case. Reading between the lines of that very tactful speech, Adam McIntyre did think that Lily Rose got up to stuff behind Captain Haworth’s back, and the reason he wasn’t in on whatever it was, was because Haworth wasn’t either and the conspirators were pretty sure that McIntyre would range himself on what was, frankly, the adult side, and tell him. “Well, do I splash Keel’s fling with young Dot all over page 53, or not?”

    “I don’t think it’s got as far as a fling yet. But would your Editor be very annoyed if you got it wrong?” he asked cautiously.

    “Jim might, yeah, but if we’d sold enough copies, the paper wouldn’t. However, I’d quite like not to be wrong.”

    “Mm. Well, why not get Tony to take some lovely snaps of them and let the public draw their own conclusions?” he said with a laugh.

    “They do anyway,” she admitted, grinning. “Yeah, I might.”

    “Anything else you’d like to know? Planning on more kiddies? Georgy going on with her career?”

    “The readers would be vitally interested in both those matters, yeah.”

    “Yes to both, but we won’t try for another baby until after the panto, they tend to be rather strenuous, and the bear suit’ll be bloody hot. Derry’s floated several ideas for future films with her, but none of them have appealed. One of them’s a movie of The Country Wife, but speaking personally, I’d sincerely doubt that the 21st-century viewing public is robust enough to take Restoration drama. I don’t mean the language, though it isn’t easy, I mean the Weltanschauung. Uh—sorry. Attitude to life, I suppose. Never mind the exposed tits and bums on the silver screen or the unceasing use of the f-word in certain genres: it seems to me that over the last ten or fifteen years Western society has become horribly mealy-mouthed in its general attitudes.”

    “Do you think?” said Ann limply. “More conservative, I suppose, what with 9/11 and the Gulf War.”

    “Not to say, what with Tony Blair! Thirty years back, when I was just starting out in show biz,” he said with a little grimace, “his particular brand of conservatism wouldn’t even have been recognisable as Labour politics! –Sorry, Ann, I realise that our political references only make sense to those of us from the real side of the world.”

    “Uh—no, I get you. Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you were all, um, patronising us.”

    “You didn’t. I thought you put it damned well, actually. It’s bloody obvious from where I stand that that is the attitude of us visiting firemen, but I admit I’d assumed that your side takes it for granted that you’re as real to us as you are to yourselves.”

    “No,” said Ann shortly, going for some obscure reason very red indeed. “Not all of us.”

    Adam McIntyre looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know Bernie Anderson very well, but he strikes me as a very decent fellow.”

    Ann was redder than ever. “Yeah,” she croaked. “I suppose. Doesn’t mean he’s not a visiting fireman, though. I mean, even if we all seem real at the moment— Forget it.”

    “When I first met Georgy…” he said slowly.

    “Um, yeah?” replied Ann with an effort.

    “Well,” he said with a grimace, “I told you she rescued me from myself, didn’t I? I think I was the worst exemplar of the visiting fireman imaginable, Ann. I suppose I just wanted to say, don’t give up before you’ve begun. And, um, well, I know it’s none of my business, but I suppose since I’ve gone this far… Extraneous blondes don’t count.”

    “No,” growled Ann, glaring at the table. “Don’t they?”

    He got up. “I’ve said too much; I’m sorry.”

    “Um—no!” said Ann, looking up quickly, very red again. “Thanks, Adam.”

    “Don’t thank me, it’s nice to be able to talk on a human level,” he said with a little sigh. “Oh—write anything.” He shrugged, gave her the wry version of the wistful smile, and drifted off.

    After quite some time Ann came to and realised he really had gone. She blinked at her notepad. Uh… Shit. Not that she hadn’t been gonna write anything, anyway.

    Jim Hopkins chewed slowly, holding Tony’s pic up rather high. Ann just glared.

    Eventually he gave forth with: “It’s a nice pic, Ann. Could even mean something. Does it?”

    The pic showed Lily Rose, Euan Keel and young Dot Mallory. Euan was wearing the smile and something vaguely male movie-star-ish, Armani-ish—who cared? Lily Rose and Dot were wearing identical pale yellow, tight-busted, full-skirted Fifties frocks, trimmed with a braid featuring tiny cherries. The plaster and the wheelchair were just visible at the edges of the thing—up to Jim, really, to decide whether to trim it or not, but as the whole of the semi-literate Astrayan public knew about the broken leg, in his place Ann wouldn’t have bothered.

    “Couldn’t we leave that to the readers’ imaginations, Jim?” she replied blandly.

    “Is Keel having it off with the cousin or NOT?” he shouted.

    “Uh—not that I’ve been able to ascertain, no,” she admitted regretfully. “Don’t think it’s gone that far. Well, heck, am I supposed to track them to their homes every night and stand outside timing who goes in and when the lights go—” Apparently she was, yes. Regardless of the fact that Keel was living in the huge, fancy hotel which also had the privilege of sheltering Derry Dawlish, Adam McIntyre, and half the high-up Downunder reps from Double Dee Productions, so even if Dot was spotted going in or out it would scarcely prove anything, would it? Well, if she was spotted going in in the evening and coming out the following morning it might indicate something, yes, but it wouldn’t actually prove who the bloke was. She didn’t bother saying this to Jim Hopkins, however.

    “I’m sorry if you were hoping for a front-page scoop along the lines of ‘EUAN DOES DOT,’ Jim, or even ‘EUAN, LILY ROSE, DOT,’ though I’m afraid that’d be too subtle for our public, but it’ll look pretty on page 53. Though there’s no hope that that charming cherry braid that Tony’s caught so beautifully will come out.”

    Apparently if she thought they were gonna waste colour on page 53 she had another think coming, but she didn’t so she hadn’t, had she?

    “Get SOMETHING!” he then shouted.

    “Jim, you told us to get round to the studios and follow the stars’ every word and move and we’ve been doing that. The alternative to posed threesomes of Lily Rose, Dot and Euan is—”

    “I’ve seen them,” he said grimly.

    “I like the one of Michael Manfred on the Manly ferry, myself. Well, proves it isn’t a wig.”

    “Shut up,” he groaned.

    “The public are still lapping it up, aren’t they?” said Ann insouciantly. “Or, alternatively, you could pull me off and give me something real to rep—”

    Apparently she had another think coming there, too.

    “What about that interview in depth with Adam McIntyre?” he then said evilly.

    Ann had written something, yeah. And printed it out. It had somehow got a bit crumpled but she gave it to him anyway.

    “Have you been eating your lunch on this?” he said with distaste as he ate his lunch on it. He scanned it rapidly. “What?” he groaned.

    “Leontes. He’s—”

    “I don’t wanna know!” He paused. “No, well, I’ve seen that old film, of course. Gee, I’d like to see his interpret—Never mind that. What’s all this Restoration comedy shit?”

    “Shit, apparently,” said Ann glumly. “I did a bit of research: he played Horner, you see: he’s this character in this play that’s a real lady-killer, I mean real lady-killer and makes no bones about—”

    “I’ve READ IT!” he shouted.

    Shit, had he really?

    “There is no way our public will be interested in any plans Derry Dawlish might have to make a film of The Country WIFE! For God’s SAKE!” He paused. “Georgy Harris’d do Mrs Margery, I suppose. Boy, she’d be wonderful, judging by that Titania she— Uh, yeah. They aren’t gonna understand a blind word of this lot, Ann. And what is this word, here?”

    “Um, well, the spell-checker didn’t seem to have it but I just wrote it like he said it. I couldn’t find it in the dictionary. Well, heck, haven’t we got one sub-editor that— All right, it was a silly idea in the first place. It means—”

    “I am familiar with the word Weltanschauung, and with its meaning, thank you,” said Jim Hopkins evilly, having swallowed a portion of hot chicken roll with gravy—that place just round the corner, it did miles better hot rolls than the dump on the ground floor of their building.

    “Oh,” said Ann lamely.

    “Look, we aren’t The Age,” he said heavily.

    “Um, no. Well, this is the alternative version. Tony’s pic of him looking seductive in his folding chair goes with it. I mean, we were actually sitting in the caff, but— Not a need-to-know, right. It’s only more of the same,” she warned, handing it over.

    Jim choked. “The Three Bears?”

    “Yeah, evidently pantos are really big over in Pongo, come Chrissie time,” said Ann glumly.

    Her august Editor gave her an incredulous and indignant stare but as Ann was just looking glumly at the remains of his lunch, recognised that she was genuine. “Oh, right. –Chipping how much? Never mind, they’ll lap it up.” He produced his editorial blue pencil and carefully excised the reference to Enzed epics in the bit about Adam and Georgy being really keen to do more filming out here. “Never advertise the opposition, it’s our film studios the Powers That Be wanna be quids in with,” he explained kindly.

    “Thought it was Double Dee Productions,” replied Ann dully.

    “Yeah, them as well. Any other pics that go with this?”

    “Uh, well, Tony’ll be miffed, but I found this in the archives.” She gave him a smudged photocopy of it. “Well, think Demon Kings wear tights, Jim.”

    “Christ,” said Jim Hopkins limply. “Are those little cordwanglers dangling off his dangler?”

    Abruptly Ann went into a helpless wheezing, choking fit. Eventually Jim had to give her a sip of his cold Instant.

    “Thanks!” she gasped. “Yep, they sure are! Run it all down the side of the page, Jim.”

    “Too right. Uh—how old is it?” he asked with somewhat belated caution.

    “According to the official biog on the, pardon the dirty word, Internet, he done Hamlet after the big success in the Bond clone, Jim. Whether it’s right or wrong I wouldn’t like to say. Too old?”

    Jim breathed hard, counting on his fingers, for a while, but then visibly gave up and said: “Oh, well, who cares, the ladies’ll lap it up, we’ll run it.”

    “Good. Shall I get back to it, then?”

    “Yeah. –Hang on, Tony in?” he asked as she made a dash for the door.

    “Nope: photo op with Lily Rose, her real Captain, Michael Manfred, not necessarily in his Captain’s uniform, Rupy Maynarde and the real Captain of something else that’s in port on its bridge. Only a passenger liner, but it’s all grist to the publicity mill, isn’t it?”

    “Yeah. Oy, hang ON!” he shouted just as she was thankfully sliding out.

    Ann paused, wedged in the half-closed door. “What?”

    “That means Euan Keel and the cousin are on the loose!” he cried.

    “Uh—not necessarily on the loose togeth—”

    “Find OUT!” he shouted. “PRONTO!”

    Trying to look like a keen reporter that was gonna track down two people she hadn’t seen since yesterday somewhere in the whole of Sydney, Ann hurried out.

    … “Hullo,” said a meek Pommy voice as she paused in the lobby by the side window of the sandwich shop.

    “Oh, hullo,” said Ann weakly to Bernie Anderson.

    “Did you think I’d forgotten?” he said with a smile.

    “Um, no,” she muttered. “Lost track of time, been incarcerated in Jim’s office for hours and hours and—”

    Bernie was holding up his left wrist.

    “Is it?” she said weakly. “Well, it felt like hours. Well, um, where ya wanna go? Don’t look in there, that was a measure of desperation because I thought it must be half-past forty-two,” she added as he glanced at the sandwich shop.

    “Their window hasn’t actually got any of their wares in it,” he discovered.

    “No, piles of boxes artfully arranged so as you can’t see whether the place is chocker.”

    “Mm. Did you show your editor the version that indicated Adam’s not just a pretty face?”

    Ann felt herself go red like a nana. “Yeah. Musta been mad. Wouldja believe, the bugger recognised that ruddy German word? Well, I suppose he did do a proper degree, somewhere back in the Ice Age—the first Ice Age.”

    “Proper?” he murmured, taking her arm gently.

    “Yeah. English literature, stuff like that. I dare say your universities don’t, but these days ours let you do your degree in stuff like journalism and video. Well, most of them are renamed technical colleges, true.”

    Bernie looked at her cautiously. “I see. I’m not quite sure whether that ‘your’ had a personal tinge to it, rather than merely referring to the whole of the British Isles, but neither Adam nor I actually did a degree.”

    “You both started one at ruddy Oxford, though.”

    “Uh—no, Ann, Adam started his at Cambridge,” said Bernie weakly. “His father was Professor of Physics there.”

    “Oh,” said Ann dully. “Well, same diff’. Even Lily Rose—actually, that Dot kid was telling me she did two degrees.”

    “I think it would have been three. Bachelor’s, Master’s, and then her Ph.D.?”

    “Eh? No, two B.A.’s,” said Ann dully.

    He blinked. “Can one?”

    “Um, she signed on as her best mate as well as her, so maybe ya can’t, legally. Well, that’s what Dot said. Having recognised,” said Ann evilly, “that the number of subjects they let you take wasn’t gonna satisfy that brain of hers. –Don’t look at me, I’m merely, hah, hah, the reporter.”

    “Mm. She is very bright,” he murmured.

    “Yeah. Wouldja believe, they made Dot do drama because they reckoned she didn’t have anything creative in hers?”

    Bernie looked at her drily. “Well, I would, Ann, but shouldn’t you be remembering I’m one of Derry’s spies?”

    Ann went rather red: the spy remark had been passed on a very frosty morning after the ruddy car had conked out halfway to the studios. However, she retorted valiantly: “Pooh, he’ll’ve got the local Pinkerton’s to suss out very last detail about her before he hired her, in fact that was probably a factor in why he hired her.”

    “Yes,” said Bernie, smiling. “Are we heading anywhere in particular?”

    Ann gulped, and looked about her. “Um, we seem to be heading for the noodle bar I sometimes go to for a treat,” she admitted weakly.

    “Good,” he said comfortably.

    She smiled weakly. Something like that, yeah. Well, Christ, the phrase “noodle bar” said it all, didn't it? Not Chinese, not Thai, and most certainly not Japanese, in fact no discernible style of cuisine at all except vaguely Asian with chilli on ninety percent of it, since that was what ninety-nine per cent of Australia thought Asian was.

    Bernie looked at her face dubiously. After a moment he said: “Do you like Japanese food?”

    “Yeah, but this won’t be that,” said Ann quickly.

    “No,” he agreed placidly. “I was thinking, if you know of a nice Japanese restaurant, we might go there for dinner one night, if you’d like to?”

    “Um, yeah,” said Ann, going red like a total nana. “That sounds good. Uh—bugger, I can’t think of its name. I know where it is, though,” she ended lamely.

    “That’s okay, the hotel’s provided us with helpful little booklets listing restaurants, along with the escort services,” he said mildly.

    “Oh, good. Um, here we are,” said Ann feebly. “Um, it’s got bar stools as well as tables.”

    “Yes?” he said politely in what she had had now had ample time to realise was his extremely up-market Pommy voice. She hadn’t yet got out of him what his dad did, or had done, and frankly, she was beginning to doubt she’d ever have the courage to ask.

    “Well, if ya don’t mind, can we grab a table? ’Cos those ruddy bar stools are built for your average six-foot-four Australian male and I’m too short for them.”

    “I see, you’re pursued by stupid too-tall bar stools wherever you go, are you, Ann?” he said mildly, opening the door to a wave of steam-borne MSG.

    “Thanks,” said Ann, going in quickly, it was flaming brass monkeys today. “In this ruddy country? You better believe it!”

    “Mm. I could say,” said Bernie, not quite allowing himself to smile, “why stay here? But unlike the rest of us visiting firemen”—Ann twitched sharply—“I do realise that this is your home. Grab a table first and then queue, or queue first?”

    “Grab a table first.”

    They did that.

    “What’s wrong with the phrase ‘visiting firemen’?” asked Bernie as Ann peeled off her coat and dumped it on a spare chair.

    “Eh? Oh—nothing. Um, well, it cropped up when I was talking to Adam.”

    “I see,” he said mildly.

    On the whole Ann would have bet a large sum—a very large sum—that he did see, yeah. He had read the dumb thing that indicated Adam was not just a pretty face—with the ruddy misspelled German word, yeah—and had politely refrained from comment on it, apart from agreeing politely with her assumption that it’d never get past Jim’s blue pencil. She took a deep breath. “I better warn you—”

    “No, that’s all right, I know about noodle bars,” he said with his nice smile.

    Right. Goddit. She sat down, and produced a ten-dollar bill. “I always have an entrée-size green Thai chicken and a mineral water—it’s not Thai, and very little chicken, and the green is purely notional, but it’s edible—if you wanna get them while I guard the table?”

    “I thought I invited you?” said Bernie on a wry note. “Or is that different, Downunder?”

    “It is at noodle bars at lunchtime, yeah.”

    “Just as you like,” he said amiably, taking the ten dollars and disappearing into the scrum at the counter.

    Ann swallowed. She didn’t know if she’d expected a polite argument or a—a downright veto—no, he was too polite for that. Or what, in fact. Bugger, she was an idiot. And did that mean, if she politely offered to pay her whack at the Japanese place, that he’d accept and she’d be broke for the rest of the month? Because that place was the place she’d gone to with her brother and his wife and a divorced mate of theirs when Pete had got his promotion. And maybe she wouldn’t ever be able to remember its name, but she was familiar with the sort of lists you got in shiny hotel booklets. and everything else on the list would be just as expensive or even more so. Shit.

    “Perhaps we’d better get one thing straight,” said Bernie, once Ann had embarked on her so-called entrée-size platter of green Thai chicken noodles and he had embarked on his GIANT not-entrée-size platter of Mongolian lamb noodles, why the Hell hadn’t he realised that that had been a hint, and ordered the entrée-size?

    She looked at him warily. “Mm?”

    “I am inviting you to the Japanese restaurant for dinner, and that means that I pay, whether or not this is Downunder,” said Bernie, straight-faced.

    To his astonishment she went very red and growled: “Thanks.”

    “Ann, you must have that custom, surely,” he said weakly.

    Ann swallowed a mouthful of greenish Thai noodle that had actually included a small piece of something green—probably not vegetable, however. “Yes. I mean, thanks very much. Um, the thing is, I’m flat broke, what with the ruddy car breaking down—”

    “Yes. It’s all right, they pay us dirt-money, to come and film Downunder,” said Bernie drily.

    Ann was very red again. “I get it. Let’s agree to drop any and all references to Downunder and visiting firemen, shall we?”

    “I can, but can you?”

    “Dunno,” she growled, poking at her noodles.

    “Is that a piece of chicken?” asked Bernie kindly.

    “Eh? Oh! No, it’s a piece of cabbage stalk.”

    So it was.

    She eyed his platter cautiously. “What’s the Mongolian thing like?”

    “Well, setting aside the consideration that the red capsicum is probably not native to Mongolia,” he said with a twinkle, “not too bad at all. Quite a reasonable amount of lamb in it. And it really is lamb!”

    “I’d explain why, but I’ve just promised not to mention the word,” said Ann limply.

    “Of course! So Rosie’s inviting Harry and me to her mum’s and promising us a lamb roast wasn’t the munificent gesture we’d automatically assumed?

    “Uh—well, a roast still isn’t cheap,” said Ann cautiously. “But in your terms, um, I wouldn’t think so.”

    Casually Bernie mentioned what a small leg of lamb cost back home. She merely nodded, so he added: “Multiply it by three to get Australian dollars,” and she choked on her noodles, or possibly a piece of cabbage stalk.

    “Is this for next Tuesday?” she then said weakly. “She’s asked me, too.”

    “Good,” replied Bernie mildly.

    “Well, it might be, yeah. Has she asked Derry Dawlish?” said Ann baldly.

    “No, of course not, she can’t stand the man.”

    Ann sagged where she sat. “In that case, I’ll look forward to it.”

    “And so say all of us! Ooh, look, I’ve got a piece of cabbage stalk, too!”

    Somewhat to his relief, Ann broke down in giggles. Bernie didn’t kid himself he didn’t know what the matter was, but there wasn’t all that much he could do about it, was there? Well, he bloody well was a visiting fireman, with a permanent life on, more or less, given the whims of Derry Dawlish, the other side of the world, and this was her home, where, he had already discovered, in addition to the permanent job and the car she also owned a flat. Well, a large mortgage, but to most mere mortals that was the same thing

    He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her—well, he was sure what he wanted in the immediate term, yes, he wasn’t unnatural; but not in the long term. And he was aware that it was far too soon to start thinking about the long term—but given that come the end of August they’d all pack up and fly away—Yeah. Nothing he could do about it. Well—pack in the job, stay here, and become a beachcomber in the intervals of living off her? He was under no illusion that the Australian film industry was either large enough or well established enough to ensure he’d find work. Drag her off to England where there was no doubt whatsoever she wouldn’t be able to find a job in the newspaper world, uh, immure her in his flat, and, uh—well, what? She wasn’t the maternal type and Bernie didn’t particularly fancy starting a family at his age. Added to which, a very long time ago, he’d done that, with Angela. Face like her name, body like, well, Myfanwy Griffiths’s, actually, brain of solid porridge, and an unassuageable hunger for glitzy consumables. She had exhausted his ability to provide these after only three years, but unfortunately, as it had turned out, that had given them time to produce the sole offspring, Natasha, now twenty-two. And yes, he should have seen the writing on the wall when she’d insisted on the name “Natasha”! Angela had since remarried twice: the second was a suitable stockbroker well able to support her.

    Oh, well: see how it went? He’d have to, there didn’t seem to be any alternative.

    Both Bernie and Harry had assumed that Lily Rose’s mum’s kind invitation wouldn’t include any of the Big Stars, but they were wrong: it turned out that Euan Keel was invited. Adam McIntyre, however, having finished his first stint for the great D.D., had been let go as promised, undoubtedly his contract was iron-clad, and had fled back to New Zealand, his lovely Georgy and their little kids, and their relations. Though admitting that the weather over there was terrible at this time of year and that even Georgy, who hated the humidity, would be more than ready for a stint in Queensland in a couple of weeks’ time.

    “Let me get this straight,” said Harry, as the taxi bore them towards Lily Rose’s mum’s and dad’s house. “Euan is coming.”

    “So he said,” agreed Bernie.

    “Right.” Solemnly Harry ticked Euan off on a finger. “Two, Dot is coming.”

    “So?” drawled Bernie.

    “Well, for God’s sake, Bernie,” he cried, becoming heated, “does Rosie really want her mum to throw the kid at Keel, or not?”

    “I don’t know. –That was two,” prompted Bernie unkindly.

    “You and Ann,” said Harry with horrid satisfaction, ticking them off on his fingers.

    “Possibly—oh, no, Rosie hasn’t got a sister, only a brother. Well, possibly there’ll be another cousin for you, Harry.”

    “I wouldn’t say no, but Rupy Maynarde told me that Dot’s sister isn’t the same type at all. Skinny, dark, dumb.”

    “Sorry,” said Bernie with a shrug.

    Harry looked at him sideways. “I’ll have to fall back on Miff.”

    “Do that. Hang on: you mean she’s coming to this do?”

    “Sure.”

    “For Christ’s sake, Harry! Why didn’t you ask her to share the taxi?”

    “Thought we could afford it, between us. No, sorry, Bernie. Late hairdresser’s appointment, coming straight after that.”

    “I thought the hairdresser was in the hotel?” he groped.

    “Found a better one,” said Harry succinctly.

    Bernie smiled a little. “You’re forgiven, in that case. Well, uh, does that make five? No, hang on: if we’re counting you, six. Well, that’s okay.”

    “No, because listen, there’s her brother!”

    “He’ll have a girlfriend, Harry, they always do. ”

    “Rosie said he’s broken up with her.”

    “Award him another cousin, or the yellow-haired woman that does dresser for Rosie—or who cares? Why are we having this conversation?” he said wildly.

    Harry rubbed his chin. “Thought it was a bit odd that, if they are all up to something, and the giggling in corners behind Derry’s back is a pretty clear indication they are, Rosie’s letting it go so far as to encourage the mum to invite Dot and Keel together. Well, thought there might be another fellow in the offing, or another bird lined up for him, you see.”

    “Devious little minds they have,” marvelled Bernie. “Overlooking all those ifs, there may be any number of extraneous birds or chaps there, once we get there. Speculation seems fruitless, as you writers would say. Can’t I just lean back with my eyes closed and forget for a short, fleeting instant that Derry Dawlish even exists, let alone unsuitably blue dresses on faked-up bits of Singapore streets, or unsuitably pink dresses on ditto and, in fact, faked-up Singapore streets entirely?”

    “I thought that set was looking really good,” said Harry kindly.

    “Thanks. I’m closing my eyes now,” he warned.

    “Do that,” said Harry amiably.

    Bernie did that.

    No-one had warned them that Michael Manfred was going to be there, but then, they should have guessed: Rosie’s mum was the generation that went gaga over the man’s silvery rinse. Well, he had kept his figure, good for him. Bernie, for one, could remember him very clearly as Little Micky Manfred in that bloody Baffit The Badger tripe on the Beeb. There didn’t seem to be a lady for him, well, not at the moment of their arrival. The brother was present, minus girlfriend, but no cousin seemed to have been trotted out for him. But this couldn’t matter, because when Miff arrived, admitting frankly that she was terribly relieved it was the right house, the silly taxi-man hadn’t seemed to know where they were, somehow he immediately managed to insert his horrible body next to her glorious one on one of the frightful white sofas the mum’s sitting-room was stuffed with, and ask her where she was from. While his Dad was left to get the pair of them drinks.

    “He is just a normal Australian lad,” said Ann in Bernie’s ear at this point.

    “Yes!” he gasped. “Um, yes,” he said sheepishly.

    “That’s a normal conversational gambit here,” she explained. “—Note the avoidance of the D-word.”

    “Hah, hah. Um, appearances to the contrary, she is quite a vulnerable person,” said Bernie in a lowered voice.

    Ann eyed him drily. “I sincerely doubt that young Marshall’s the sort that will spot that, Bernie, but then, he is the sort that will cheerfully ignore the fact and cheerfully treat her like a normal, if gorgeous, bird: perhaps she needs that even more.”

    “I’d say so,” said Rosie cheerfully from behind their overstuffed white sofa at this point. “Sorry,” she said as they both gasped and Ann threw her glass, fortunately empty, into the air. “Didn’t mean to creep up on you: it’s these wheels, and people don’t seem to look for heads at this level.”

    “No,” agreed Bernie limply while Ann was still just smiling sheepishly. He got up, picked up Ann’s glass, and helped Rosie position the chair. “Can I get you a drink, Rosie?”

    “Yes, I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks, Bernie. Don’t let Dad foist any of that so-called sherry on you, it’s local.”

    “I’ve already discovered that,” he admitted ruefully.

    “I thought it was just usual,” said Ann feebly.

    “It is. Like Kenny,” agreed Rosie with a wink. “Dad’s got just about every drink known to Alcoholic Man in that ruddy cabinet, but he’s too mean to let on about them. Have anything. Yvonne’ll be drinking margaritas, if you fancy them, or a daiquiri’s nice, if you’re into rum, he can make those quite well.”

    “Um, well, if your Dad can make a margarita, I’d love one, thanks.”

    “Right you are,” said Bernie amiably, ambling off to get them.

    Rosie looked thoughtfully at Ann. “Did you know his daughter’s twenty-two?”

    “What?” she croaked.

    “I thought perhaps he hadn't mentioned her. He hasn’t seen much of her: the wife got custody and took her off to Florida with the second husband to spite him. She sounds a Grade A, First Class bitch, by the way, but very pretty. Tall blonde. Don’t panic, the daughter takes after her.”

    “Thanks for the effort, Rosie, but I really don't think he cherishes fatherly sentiments towards You-Know-Who,” returned Ann drily.

    “Don’t be silly: of course he fancies her as well, that’s a given. But it doesn’t rule out the other, does it?”

    “I always thought it did.”

    “No,” she said serenely.

    Ann directed a bitter look at where Captain Haworth appeared to be flirting with Rosie’s mum, but didn’t utter a syllable.

    “Mum does fancy him, yeah,” said Rosie calmly. “Not that she realises she does, of course, she’s a complete innocent.”

    Ann just swallowed hard.

    “John isn’t, of course,” she said dispassionately, “but then, he’s been winding women around his little finger for at least the last thirty years. Since about he time he discovered that that glorious dint in the chin was an asset, not an embarrassment.”

    Ann nodded numbly: she had noticed that little dint, it wasn’t nearly a dimple, in fact it was barely a dint, but it did place that chin right up there with Adam McIntyre’s, yes, sirree. Sort of moved just slightly when he spoke. And did the man know his wife used that tone about him, not to say had spotted him, not to say… Put it like this, it was nothing like anything the media had given her to suppose was the relationship between Lily Rose Rayne and her Real Captain. Which served her right for taking a blind notice of it, didn’t it?

    “In case Mum forgets to ask you,” added Rosie cheerfully, as Mrs Marshall gave a very loud, long, silly giggle and accepted a glass of something or other from Captain Haworth, “she’d be happy—well, thrilled, really—for Tony to come over and take some pics of Baby Bunting in his cot or on the rug or in his highchair—whatever.”

    “Really?” she croaked.

    “Sure! He’s too little to know or care about publicity.”

    His dad wasn’t, though. Ann cleared her throat. “It’s very decent of you, Rosie, but, um, well, would your husband mind?”

    “Not while Baby Bunting’s oblivious to it all, no.”

    “Oh, good, I’ll tell Tony, he’ll be over like a shot, baby pics go down really well with the… punters,” ended Ann glumly.

    “I know,” said Lily Rose Rayne composedly.

    Ann Kitchener could only suppose humbly that she did, yeah. But as Bernie resurfaced with their drinks at that point, fortunately didn’t have to say anything.

    The cocktail hour—if that was what it was—wore on. Bernie nobly concealed a strong wish to be alone with Ann on their sofa—not that Rosie Marshall wasn't a delightful woman, the more so as she wasn’t doing the Lily Rose thing. Harry’s number-crunching didn’t seem to be working out, did it? Certainly Mrs Marshall hadn't so far provided an extra bird for him. Rupy Maynarde turned up, without a partner. Or was he supposed to partner Michael Manfred? At the precise moment he couldn’t, Michael and Rosie’s dad were absorbedly swapping drinks recipes. After a bit Harry, who’d been looking a bit lost, went over and joined in. Rosie’s mum was getting gigglier. Yvonne had surfaced with the news that Baby Bunting was asleep at last, and accepted a margarita and, apparently assuming that Bernie and Ann were her soul-mates, sat down with them and Rosie and proceeded to tell them a long, boring story about some time she and Rosie had got pissed together on Dubonnet. It was apparent to Bernie, though he didn’t think it was to the other two, that Ann had never had it. Then another cousin did turn up: Dot’s sister, Deanna. Then her escort came in from parking the car: he’d had to leave it further up the road. Derry’s driver, young Aaron, how had he got let off the leash? Rosie’s mum was terribly pleased to see him again. Rosie’s dad tried to foist something unlikely on him but Kenny suddenly came to and shouted: “He’s DRIVING, Dad! For Pete’s sake! Give him a light-beer!” So he got a light-beer, whether or not he liked them. Rupy immediately joined them and engaged not the good-looking Aaron but the cousin in absorbing conversation. At this point, to Bernie’s considerable amusement, Ann gave in entirely and asked Rosie what in God’s name they could be talking about.

    “Fashions,” she replied succinctly.

    “Of course!” said Bernie with a laugh as Ann grinned sheepishly.

    “Rosie, what about the dinner?” said Yvonne in a lowered voice as Mrs Marshall, with another prolonged giggle, accepted yet another drink from John Haworth.

    “Don’t ask me. You game to go and inspect that ruddy roast?’

    “I wouldn’t mind inspecting it, but I won’t know if it’s done.”

    “There you are. ’Nother margarita?”

    Somewhat weakly Yvonne accepted this offer, and Bernie obligingly went off to get another round.

    “Your mum hasn’t forgotten she’s the hostess, has she?” ventured Ann.

    “Probably. Well, she’s a one-pot screamer, but yeah—probably. Think he’s got her on the Pimms.”

    “Eh?” replied Ann weakly.

    “Goodness, don’t you have that out here?” asked Yvonne brightly.

    “It’s a Pommy thing,” said Rosie tolerantly. “Too sweet for me. John and Dad went to a new wholesaler’s that Dad’s found. Not Liquorland,” she explained helpfully.

    “Goddit.”

    “He’s a Pom, too.”

    “Y—Oh! Your dad! Yes, I thought that was a—an English accent.”

    “Yeah. Been out here for yonks, but.”

    “Two at one blow!” squeaked Yvonne, collapsing in giggles.

    “The Australian vernacular,” said Rosie composedly to Ann’s blank face.

    “Oh! Um, yeah,” she said limply.

    “John doesn’t mind ‘yonks’, unless Rosie deliberately says it to someone like Corky Corcoran, that’s his best friend, he’s frightfully posh,” explained Yvonne kindly.

    “John’s former first officer, sounds like ruddy Prince Charles,” elaborated Rosie. “Yeah, that’s right, ‘yonks’ is bearable. He can’t stand the redundant Australian terminal ‘but’, but.”

    Alas, Ann at this collapsed in helpless giggles. As Rosie and Yvonne immediately joined in, it was pretty apparent—not that it hadn’t been fairly clear all along—that the party had started some time before she’d got here.

    “I think that was the doorbell,” said Bernie politely, coming back with refills for them and an orange juice for himself.

    “Was it?” replied Rosie weakly, mopping her eyes. “Hey! DAD! Ya wanna get the DOOR?”

    “How it’s done in the D-word,” said Ann evilly to Bernie’s poker face. “And don’t worry, I rather think you can say anything, because in the first place they’re all well away and in the second place—”

    “We don’t care!” finished Rosie happily. “Shit, yeah, just be yaself, Bernie! –That’ll either be Joslynne, or Dot.”

    “Isn’t Euan coming?” ventured Bernie a trifle limply.

    “Yeah, but first he has to sling Derry a line and get out of some wing-ding. Without giving the impression he’s so ill he needs the doc. Well, he said he could manage it,” replied Euan Keel’s co-star blithely.

    “I get it.” Bernie took a deep breath. “I really think”—there went Mrs Marshall again—“that someone had better check on the roast lamb, Rosie.”

    “Wassa time?” she replied vaguely.

    Bernie consulted his watch. “Eight-fifteen.”

    “That all? She said it’d be done by eight-thirty.”

    “The oven’ll ping,” explained Yvonne earnestly. “Mm, these margaritas are strong!”

    “Lovely,” agreed Ann, licking salt off her lip.

    Oh, God. Bernie had conceived plans for tonight, which was why he was on the orange juice, but by the look of her they were doomed to come to naught, weren’t they?

    The new arrival turned out to be the sallow-faced Joslynne. Rosie and Yvonne immediately exchanged glances, and then Yvonne wheeled her over to the drinks cabinet, with the result that Harry was extracted from the male peer group and sat down on a chunky white sofa beside Joslynne.

    “Is the woman mad?” muttered Bernie.

    “No, those peculiar skirts that show your navel and give you a chill on the kidneys are really In.”

    “Not her! No, well, it’s evident she is, and that’s my point! No, I meant Rosie throwing her at Harry: hasn’t she realised that he likes his dames well-bred, extremely well dressed, and gorgeous?”

    Ann’s gaze had strayed to where Kenny and Miff were still chatting happily. “Uh—don’t think that’s the point. Think she just wants Joslynne to have a plummy-voiced Pommy dinner partner that’s hetero and not three times her age.”

    “That certainly cuts out Rupy and Michael,” he conceded. He watched edgily. What if Harry went and did his bloody mateship thing?

    “What’s up?” asked Ann kindly.

    “Uh—if you must have it, Harry’s current fascination with the Australian vernacular.”

    “She won’t notice him noticing.”

    “No, but she might notice him mimicking!” said Bernie with feeling.

    “Was that why he was calling everybody at the studio ‘mate’? I thought he was just doing it to be one of the boys—well, a natural assumption, it’s why they all do it.”

    “Harry’s was deliberate,” said Bernie heavily. “Like everything else about him.”

    “Oh.”

    “Ann, why the Hell do you think Derry chose him to do the dialogue for the film?” he said heavily.

    “All right, I’m thick.” Ann buried her nose in her margarita.

    Bernie bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said in her ear.

    “No, that’s okay, it was really stupid of me. I suppose I wasn’t really interested enough to give him much thought.”

    For some reason Bernie was now grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah. Listen, are you game to inspect Mrs Marshall’s doubtless gigantic oven and see if the roast’s burning?”

    The house was certainly pervaded by the most wonderful smell of roast lamb, but Ann wouldn’t have said it was burning. “Not really,” she admitted. “I’m no cook. Slinging a lean cuisine in the microwave’s about my level, I’m afraid. How about you?”

    “Me, too.”

    “It doesn’t smell as if it’s burning,” said Ann kindly.

    This was true. Bernie smiled at her and sat back comfortably. “No.”

    The cocktail hour wore on. Mrs Marshall got gigglier. Her husband and Michael Manfred demonstrated golf shots to each other with the fire irons, before getting back to the cocktail shakers. Rupy abandoned Aaron and Deanna for Rosie and Yvonne. Aaron and Deanna went and joined Kenny and Miff. Beaches? Surely even Australians couldn’t be planning a swimming expedition in this weath— Oh, Queensland beaches! Bernie gave in and got himself a whisky, fending off Jerry Marshall’s attempts to pour him a Manhattan. The smell of roast lamb got stronger…

    Harry, a desperate look in his eye, had just brought Joslynne over to sit with Bernie and Ann when the doorbell was heard again. “That’s gotta be Euan and Dot at last,” he said with a sigh.

    Bernie rather thought it might be Euan or Dot: it hadn't sounded to him, from what Rosie had said, as if they’d be coming together, but he jes’ laid low… He was right, it was only Dot.

    “I’m starving,” muttered Harry.

    “I think Aunty May’s forgotten all about the tea!” said Joslynne with a loud giggle, what in God’s name was that yellow muck she was on? –Piña coladas: right.

    “No, we’re waiting for bloody Euan Keel,” said Harry heavily in his native vernacular.

    The poor girl gave him an uncertain look, but giggled valiantly, so Bernie took pity on her and asked her who was baby-sitting her kids. And was duly punished by being told. Meanwhile the smell of roast lamb was getting stronger…

    Rosie had just rejoined them with a fresh glass of something in her fist and Yvonne had gone out, with any luck to rescue the lamb from the fiery furnace and not merely to the loo, when the doorbell was heard again.

    “Dad! DAD! That’s the DOOR!”

    “Are we expecting anyone else?” responded Jerry vaguely.

    Heh, heh, so much for fame! Bernie shook silently for some time, so much so that he almost missed the grand entrance. Rupy actually gasped. Well, everyone else was wearing a casual form of something nice for a strange lady’s house for dinner, Rosie having cheerfully ordered everyone to wear something casual. Even Rupy was in his version of casual, spanking new cream whipcord slacks and a hugely elaborate Aran-knit sweater with a twisted scarf in pink and coral at the neck, and Michael was spiffy but casual in a newish navy blazer, grey flannels, Gucci loafers, and a cravat in Old Etonian colours. John Haworth was in heavy navy cords and a dark navy sweater and the rest of them sort of ranged downwards from that, his wife being pretty much the bottom rung of the sartorial ladder in very, very old faded and baggy jeans and a gloriously tight, faded greyish knit with its sleeves pushed up to the elbows over, or Bernie Anderson was a Dutchman in his clogs, nothing at all: the house was very warm.

    Euan Keel, by contrast, was in white tails. Yep, white tails. Had he been rehearsing for the White Rabbit in panto, or, uh—Bernie just sat and gaped. Everybody else was speechless, too. Well, Jerry Marshall, who had let him in, was looking wry, but he wasn’t uttering.

    “Euan,” said Rosie very faintly at last: “what are you got up as? And why?”

    “I’m so sorry, Rosie, darling!” he said with a little laugh, crinkling up the eyes. “Hullo, everyone: so sorry I’m late! I couldn’t think how to get away from Derry convincingly, Rosie, so in the end I went, and the minute they served the nibbles came down with a frightful allergy to the shrimp, which needed instant bed rest! –I’ll be as right as rain in the morning,” he added, looking prim.

    No-one laughed, and after a discernible pause Rosie croaked: “But why the white tails?”

    “It was a theme party; Derry informed me I had to wear white.” He shrugged.

    “You look a total nana,” she said grimly. “Why didn’t you go back to the hotel and change, for Pete’s sake?”

    He looked plaintive. “I was already running horribly late.”

   At this Mrs Marshall pulled herself together and cried: “Of course, Euan, dear! I quite understand! How lovely to see you again! Don’t take any notice of Rosie, you look very smart!”

    “No, I don’t, I’m afraid, Mrs Marshall: I look like a total nana,” he said wryly. “I can only apologise for it.”

    That went over really well, and of course Jerry or John would lend him something, if he’d like to change—and he let her lead him out, looking deprecating. In fact exuding deprecating.

    There was total silence in the Marshall drawing-room after his exit.

    “Deprecating,” said Rupy finally.

    “You said it,” agreed Rosie limply. “Um, Dad, if ya don’t want her to give him ya best jumper ya better go after them.”

    “I wish she would give him the bloody thing, but she’d only knit me another. –Ya do realise he’s about a foot taller than me?”

    “He’d better have a pair of my slacks, then,” said John resignedly, getting up.

    “Yeah,” agreed his wife heavily. “If you’re gonna put ya poker face on and ask him how far the white wing-ding was from his ruddy hotel, couldja wait until you’re back in here to do it?”

    Captain John Haworth, R.N. didn’t smile. He did, however, wink at her. Then he exited, completely poker-face. And the whole room collapsed in helpless laughter.

    “Will that,” murmured Bernie, mopping his eyes, as people settled down to fresh drinks and happy chat, “elucidate the relationship between Lily Rose and her Real Captain for your readers, Ann?”

    “Nope, but it sure as heck’s elushidate’ it for me!” replied Ann happily. “Gee, Yvonne’s right, theshe mar’ritas are shtrong, all right!”

    What with one thing and another, Bernie was now feeling so good that he just smiled and nodded—though he didn’t go so far as to offer her another.