‘Great,’ she said with resignation. ‘Have you just come to the end of one of your little affairs?’
‘No. Honestly. There hasn’t been anyone on the scene for months. . nearly a year.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Oh, come on, Frances, do have dinner with me. After all, I am your husband.’
As soon as he’d said it, he knew that this might not be the best argument to put forward, and it received a well-deserved slap-down. ‘Depends very much, I would have said, on your definition of “husband”. . whether the word is a once-and-for-all title bestowed at marriage or whether it implies a continuing active role, like, say, the word “lover”.’
‘I don’t quite see what you’re getting at,’ he said evasively.
‘Yes, you do. The word “lover” suggests something’s happening. When the affair’s over, people become “ex- lovers”. It’s not the same with “husband”. Even if the marriage is over, you don’t become an “ex-husband” without getting divorced.’
‘Oh, you’re not on about that again. I thought we agreed that there was no point in our getting divorced.’
‘
‘Frances. .’
‘I have to be in the car in twenty seconds.’
‘Frances, will you please meet me for dinner in the Italian place at eight o’clock this evening?’
‘All right. But, Charles Paris. .’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t you dare be late.’
‘I won’t be, love. You know me.’
‘Yes. I do.’
Sydnee had said she’d ring him once she’d fixed up for them to see Trish Osborne, and she came through about half-past ten.
‘She’s set up. Happy to talk. I said we’d be over early afternoon.’
‘Did you say what we wanted to talk about?’
‘No. Mind you, she didn’t ask. Presumably, like Tim Dyer, she just assumes it’s something to do with the show.’
‘Good. Well, look, can you pick me up at the bedsitter? Or will it be easier if I make my way to somewhere more central. .?’
‘Charles, I’ve got problems here. Just after I’d spoken to Trish, John Mantle came in. I’m afraid I’ve got to start out on the contestant trail again.’
‘For the second pilot?’
‘Yes. They’ve got a studio date now. The schedule’s been rejigged so that the pilot goes into Studio A next Thursday. Which means we’ve got to get a move on getting the contestants.’
‘I thought you always had some spares lined up.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think they’d be good enough for John. The American copyright-holders have been bending his ear. They say the contestants we had on the first pilot showed about as much life as General Custer after Little Big Horn. They say we’ve got to get a new lot with more “pazazz”.’
‘Where do you start looking for “pazazz”?’
‘Same places as I looked when ‘pazazz’ wasn’t on the shopping-list. The trouble is, what these Americans don’t realise is that people over here haven’t yet lost their inhibitions about game shows. It’s going to take a few years before the British reserve cracks and you see the kind of hysterical commitment you get in the States. Still, from John Mantle’s point of view, I must be seen to be busy. Four brand-new contestants with “pazazz” must be found.’
‘Are the contestants the only changes you’ll make in casting?’
‘Well, obviously we’ll need one new celeb now Bob’s moved up to host. Lots of names have been mentioned, but I don’t think it’s been offered to anyone yet. And we’ll have to set up four more “professions”.’
‘Oh.’ Charles saw a potential booking disappearing over the horizon.
‘Come on, Charles, we couldn’t book you lot again. With three of the same celebs on the panel, they’re going to remember what your real professions were.’
‘I doubt it. They didn’t take any notice of us, didn’t see us as people at all. I bet, if I was back on, two of them’d still think I was the hamburger chef.’
‘You’re probably right. But we can’t take the risk. People get very uptight about these game shows. Any hint of rigging or cheating or someone being “in the know”, and you can get some very nasty reactions.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, Chita’s busy setting up four new “professions” — “professions”, of course, who might just conceivably wear hats, which let me tell you, is not as easy as it sounds — and I have got to shoot off to Manchester to interview some punters in the fruitless search for “pazazz”.’
‘Oh.’
‘What I’m saying, Charles, is can you go and interview Trish Osborne on your own?’
‘But what ever excuse can I give for being there? At least, with you, I’d have some sort of W. E.T. credibility, but on my own. .’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Charles.’
It took Charles longer than he had expected to get to Billericay, and it was after four when he finally reached the neat dark-red-brick three-bedroomed house where Trish Osborne lived.
He got a whiff of perfume as she opened the door, and saw that she was wearing a pale-blue flying-suit. She had dressed up for her continuing contact with the media world.
Though he had had plenty of travelling time during which to work out his excuse for appearing on her doorstep, he hadn’t come up with much. ‘I’m afraid Sydnee suddenly had to go to Manchester,’ he said lamely, ‘so there’s just me.’
‘Never mind.’ She ushered him into her living-room. The carpet had a yellow and green zigzag design, whose colours were picked up on the open curtains. White patterned net against the double glazing shut out the darkening world. The mahogany veneer surface of the dining table gleamed, as did the yellow-upholstered chairs marshalled around it. Light refracted through the spotless glass ornaments above the matt silver music centre on the room divider. On the walls, in yellow velvet tasselled frames, were photographs of three children at different ages. In pride of place, on the mantelpiece over the ‘log-effect’ gas fire, lay her red, blue and silver
She gestured to a lime-green three-piece suite with dark wood arm-rests and rigidly plumped yellow cushions. ‘Do sit down. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
This last was offered with a kind of insouciant daring, Trish demonstrating her freedom from the conventional restraints which might have inhibited someone not accustomed to media circles.
Charles resisted the temptation. ‘Tea’d be lovely.’
She must have had the kettle boiling when he arrived, because she appeared in only a couple of minutes with a loaded tray. Charles still hadn’t worked out his line of approach, so, while she poured, he played for time by indicating the photographs. ‘Nice-looking kids.’
‘Yes. Taken some time ago. They’re all grown-up now.’
‘Really?’
‘Youngest’s twenty.’
He looked at her. He knew it was going to be a corny line, but it was still true. ‘You don’t look old enough to have children of that age.’
She coloured very slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment. Her dark hair was even shorter, must have been cut since the recording. It came down to little peaks in front of her small ears. ‘If you start breeding at seventeen, it’s quite possible to have them all off your hands by the time you’re forty.’ She hesitated. ‘And then look around to see if there’s anything left of your life.’
‘Lots, I’m sure.’ Charles smiled in meaningless reassurance. ‘Even at my age, one still hopes there are more good bits to come.’
She didn’t look convinced. Nor did she look at ease, perched on the edge of her lime-green armchair. Charles
