eyes in warning.
‘Evening all,’ he calls, in his jaunty out-of-hours voice. ‘How’s it going? Everything alright, Sonya?’
‘Bit hairy, sir,’ says Sonya, ‘but I think we’ll be okay.’
Emma snuffles, and Mr Godalming turns to her. ‘Everything alright, Emma?’
‘Sonya and I were just having a little pre-show pep-talk. Do you want to go and carry on getting ready, Sonya?’ With a smile of relief, she pushes herself off the desk and saunters to the door. ‘Tell Martin I’ll be two minutes.’
Emma and Mr Godalming are alone.
‘Well!’ he smiles.
‘Well.’
In a fit of informality Mr Godalming goes to sit astride a chair, showbiz-style, appearing to change his mind halfway through the action before deciding that there’s no going back. ‘Bit of a handful, that Sonya.’
‘Oh, just bravado.’
‘I heard reports of a fight.’
‘That was nothing. Pre-show nerves.’ Straddling his chair, he really does look fantastically uncomfortable.
‘I heard your protege has been laying into our future head-boy.’
‘Youthful high spirits. And I don’t think Martin was completely innocent.’
‘Bitch-slapped was the phrase I heard.’
‘You seem very well informed.’
‘Well I am the headmaster.’ Mr Godalming smiles through his balaclava, and Emma wonders if you looked long enough, would you actually be able to see the hair grow? What’s going on under all that stuff? Might Mr Godalming actually be quite good-looking? He nods towards the door. ‘I saw Martin in the corridor. He’s very. . emotional.’
‘Well he’s been in character for the last six weeks. He’s taking a Method approach. I think if he could he’d have given himself rickets.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘God no, he’s awful. An orphanage’s the best place for him. You’re welcome to jam bits of the programme in your ears during “Where is Love?”.’ Mr Godalming laughs. ‘Sonya’s great though.’ The headmaster looks unconvinced. ‘You’ll see.’
He shifts uneasily on the chair. ‘What can I expect tonight, Emma?’
‘No idea. Could go either way.’
‘Personally I’m more of a
‘Well it’s a musical about prostitution, so. .’
Once more Mr Godalming laughs. He does this a lot with Emma, and others have noticed it too. There is gossip in the staffroom, dark murmurs about favouritism, and certainly he’s looking at her very intently tonight. A moment passes, and she glances back towards the door where Martin Dawson peeks tearfully through the glass panel. ‘I’d better have a word with Edith Piaf out there, before he goes off the rails.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Godalming seems pleased to dismount the chair. ‘Good luck tonight. My wife and I have been looking forward to it all week.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
‘It’s true! You must meet her afterwards. Perhaps Fiona and I can have a drink with your. . fiance?’
‘God, no, just boyfriend. Ian—’
‘At the after-show drinks—’
‘Beaker of dilute squash—’
‘Cook’s been to the cash-and-carry—’
‘I hear rumours of mini kievs—’
‘Teaching, eh?—’
‘And people say it’s not glamorous—’
‘You look beautiful, Emma, by the way.’
Emma holds her arms out to the side. She is wearing make-up, just a little lipstick to go with a vintage floral dress which is dark pink and a little on the tight side perhaps. She looks down at her dress as if it has taken her by surprise, but really it’s the remark that has thrown her. ‘Ta very much!’ she says, but he has noticed her hesitation.
A moment passes, and he looks towards the door. ‘I’ll send Martin in, shall I?’
‘Please do.’
He heads to the door, then stops and turns. ‘I’m sorry, have I broken some sort of professional code? Can I say that to a member of my staff? That they look nice?’
‘Course you can,’ she says, but both know that ‘nice’ was not the word he had used. The word was ‘beautiful.’
‘Excuse me, but I’m looking for the most odious man on television?’ says Toby Moray from the doorway, in that whiny, pinched little voice of his. He’s wearing a tartan suit and his on-screen make-up, his hair slick and oiled into a jokey quiff and Dexter wants to throw a bottle at him.
‘I think you’ll find that that’s you who you’re looking for, not me,’ says Dexter, concise speech suddenly beyond him.
‘Nice come-back, superstar,’ says his co-presenter. ‘So you saw the previews then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Because I can run off some photocopies for you—’
‘Just one bad write-up, Toby.’
‘You didn’t read the
Dexter pretends to be studying his running order. ‘No-one ever built a statue of a critic.’
‘True, but no-one built a statue of a TV presenter either.’
‘Fuck off, Toby.’
‘Ah,
‘Why are you here anyway?’
‘To wish you luck.’ He crosses, places his hands on Dexter’s shoulders and squeezes. Round and waspish, Toby’s role on the show is a kind of irreverent, say-anything jester figure and Dexter despises him, this jumped-up little warm-up man, and envies him too. In the pilot and in rehearsals he has run rings around Dexter, slyly mocking and deriding him, making him feel fat-tongued, slow-witted, doltish, the pretty boy who can’t think on his feet. He shrugs Toby’s hands away. This antagonism is meant to be the stuff of great TV they say, but Dexter feels paranoid, persecuted. He needs another vodka to recover some of his good spirits, but he can’t, not while Toby’s smirking at him in the mirror with his little owlish face. ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to gather my thoughts.’
‘I understand. Focus that mind of yours.’
‘See you out there, yeah?’
‘See you, handsome. Good luck.’ He pulls the door closed then opens it again. ‘No, really. I mean it. Good luck.’
When Dexter’s sure he’s alone he pours himself that drink and checks himself in the mirror. Bright red t-shirt worn under black dinner jacket over washed out jeans over pointed black shoes, his hair cut short and sharp, he is meant to be the picture of metropolitan male youth but suddenly he feels old and tired and impossibly sad. He presses two fingers against each eye and attempts to account for this crippling melancholy, but is having trouble with rational thought. It feels as if someone has taken his head and shaken it. Words are turning to mush and he can see no plausible way of getting through this. Don’t fall apart, he tells himself, not here, not now. Hold it together.
But an hour is an impossibly long time on live TV, and he decides that he might need a little help. There’s a small water bottle on his dressing table, and he empties it into the sink then, glancing at the door, takes the bottle of vodka from the drawer once again and pours three, no, four inches of the viscous liquid into the bottle and replaces the lid. He holds it up to the light. No-one would ever tell the difference and of course he’s not going to
