part of the house we actually use. The rest’s just for show.’ She led him upstairs to a homely-looking sitting-room, and opened the drinks cupboard. ‘What?’
‘Scotch, please.’
She took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a wine-glassful. ‘Hey. Stop.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s an expensive malt whisky.’
‘I know,’ she said superciliously, and passed him the glass. He took a long sip. It was very welcome. Felicity still looked rather piqued at his assumption of her ignorance of drink lore. He tried to open out the conversation. ‘Still keen on films after seeing them in action for a day?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly, and then, to show her sophistication in the matter of alcohol, ‘I think I’ll have a gin and tonic.
‘So it was a good day?’ Charles knew he sounded horribly patronising.
‘All right. The company could have been better.’
‘Nigel Steen, the great impresario.’
‘Shit,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘He’s a creep, always has been. I’ve known him for years. Daddy knew Marius. I think they had plans for match-making. Yeugh.’
‘Not your type?’
‘God, no. I don’t know what my type is really, but it’s not that. Ergh. He made a pass at me once. It was horrible, like being groped by liver. Actually, he invited me out tonight, probably with an ulterior motive. I told him I was otherwise engaged.’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Not unless you’d like me to cook you a meal.’
‘Oh well… I’m sure that you don’t want-’
‘It’s no sweat. I’m doing this Cordon Bleu course as well as the secretarial thing, and I need the practice.’
So they both agreed to show off for the evening. She demonstrated her culinary skills with a splendid Chicken Kiev and Dauphinoise potatoes, and he kept her entertained with a variety of accents and theatrical reminiscences. Felicity raided her father’s cellar for a couple of bottles of an excellent Chateau Margaux. ‘He’ll never notice. Doesn’t know a thing about wine. Just takes advice all the time.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Oh, they’ve gone to Jamaica. As soon as all these lighting restrictions came in, Daddy said he wasn’t going to stay in England and they pissed off.’ Felicity’s lapses into strong language, which were meant to make her sound cool, only made her sound immature. But appealing.
Charles found it very difficult. This girl was plainly throwing herself at him, and he knew that if he took advantage of something so easy, he would really feel shabby. And she looked sixteen. Possibly even under age. There is a point where going around with younger women stops and cradle-snatching begins. And Charles prided himself that he had never knowingly taken advantage of anyone (anyone, that is, who didn’t deserve it).
It would have been easier if he hadn’t found her attractive. Usually the sort of woman who makes such blatant advances is eminently resistible. But in Felicity’s case, she was not impelled by the plain girl’s need to take the initiative, but by youthful enthusiasm and social immaturity. Charles was determined to resist her.
But as the alcohol warmed and relaxed him, he could feel lust beginning to take the upper hand. When he had finished her excellent chocolate mousse, he made an immense effort of will, and rose to his feet. ‘I think I’d better be off now. I’m doing my big scene tomorrow. Perhaps I can ring for a minicab.’
She didn’t move. ‘What’s your big scene?’
‘My death. The death of Tick, the deformed coachman, shot down by Sir Rupert Cartland, as he rushes along the gallery to capture the abysmal Lady Laetitia Winthrop.’
‘You needn’t go.’
‘I must.’ Well done, Charles. The Festival of Light would be proud of you.
Felicity rose very deliberately from the table, walked towards him, and pressing her body close to his, kissed his lips. Charles stood like a carved idol receiving the homage of the faithful. He gave nothing. ‘I think I had better go.’
‘Why?’ She used that word disconcertingly often.
‘Well, I… um… you know…’ It was difficult to think of a good reason at a moment like this.
‘If you don’t find me attractive, you can say so. I’ll survive.
‘It’s not that. You gotta believe me, it’s not that.’ He dropped into American to hide his confusion.
‘Are you worried about my age?’
‘Yes. Amongst other things.’
‘Listen, Charles. I am eighteen, which is not only two years above the age of consent, but is also now the age of majority. And I’m on the Pill, so you needn’t worry about that.’
Her frankness was very confusing. Charles felt himself blushing. ‘Um… you mean, you’re not a virgin?’
Her short derisive laugh made him feel suitably patronised. ‘Charles, I lost my virginity when I was twelve, and since then quite a few other things have happened.’ The weakness of the ending of her sentence again revealed her youth.
Charles could feel his resolve slackening, but made one last effort. ‘I’m too old for you, Felicity.’
‘You’re not as old as the man who had me first.’
‘Oh. Who was he?’
‘Marius Steen.’
The next day Charles was feeling elated. He had parted from Felicity on good terms after breakfast; she had returned to continue her courses. He’d rung Jacqui, and she was fine. To crown the day, he was going to film the death of Tick, the deformed coachman, and he enjoyed a bit of ham as much as any other actor.
They rehearsed the scene in the morning. Tick crept in through the window of the dining-room and surprised Lady Laetitia Winthrop playing at her virginals (a likely story). He carried a rope with which to bind her. When she saw him, she let out a little cry (that bit took ages to rehearse: every bit that required Lady Laetitia to do more than flash her tits took ages), then turned and ran to the end of the room. Tick cried out, ‘Not so fast, my proud beauty!’ (really), and pursued her. She ran up the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery with Tick in breathy pursuit. (That was filmed in long-shot from the other end of the room.) Then a quick close-up of Lady Laetitia cowering panic-stricken against the wall. (That took a long time too. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Jean-Luc Roussel; ‘panic-stricken, not bleeding constipated! Imagine he’s going to cut yer tits off!’) Then a long-shot from behind Sir Rupert Cartland’s shoulder as he forced open the dining-room door, saw the scene of Tick advancing menacingly on his beloved (or ‘that silly bitch’, as he always called her off the set), raised his pistol, cried, ‘No, you monster’ and shot the deformed coachman. Tick stopped and staggered. Cut to close-up of blood trickling from his face as he fell against the rail. Cut to shot of stuntman falling backwards over rail to the floor.
When the rehearsal was finally over, they adjourned for lunch in the billiard room, where the covers on the tables had a splendid buffet laid on them. Charles piled up his plate and sat on his own in the corner. To his surprise, two men came over and joined him. They were called Jem and Eric; he recognised them; they’d been around since the filming started. Jem was one of those burly figures who proliferate on film-sets. His role was ill- defined except to himself and other members of his union, but he spent most of his time carting scenery around and moving heavy props into position. Eric was a smaller, colourless man who worked in some clerical capacity in the production office. They never said much on the set except to each other. Nobody took much notice of them or expected them to start up any form of conversation, so Charles was surprised when Eric addressed him by name.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a bit of a query on your contract,’ said Eric in his flat London voice. ‘Been a typing error on some of them. Maybe on yours. Anyway, we want to send a duplicate just in case. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘OK. Fine.’
‘Don’t seem to have your address. Where should we send it to?’
Charles gave him the address of Maurice Skellern Artistes.
‘Oh, we want it signed quickly. Wouldn’t it be better if we sent it to your home?’
‘No. My agent deals with all that kind of stuff.’
