A Minor Indiscretion by Carole Matthews

drink.
    â€œWe can talk about this some more.” Orla headed to the door and he followed in her wake.
    Oh, he could sit here all night and talk about this! He might even be persuaded to share his Harrison Ford stories, given the right moment. But the person he needed to talk about it with most was Ali.
    â€œMaybe over dinner one night?” Orla suggested casually.
    â€œYes. Yes. Great idea,” Ed agreed readily. “Dinner. Dinner.”
    Would Ali be prepared to pack up and go halfway round the world to satisfy his ambition? Would she realize how long he had waited to hear the sorts of things that Orla was saying? Would Ali, whose ambition stretched only as far as putting seven vaguely edible meals on the table each week, understand how much this ache had been suppressed in him? Until he’d heard that there might be a way out, he hadn’t even realized how much himself.
    Ed glanced at his watch. They had closed the Venetian blinds and switched on the lights at the club, giving it a softer, more intimate feel. The inside of the much-vaunted Groucho might be disappointing, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that. At least there was one place where he didn’t feel he was on the outside looking in.
    The alternative comedians were sinking deeper into the sofas, and even the brash boys were heading for home. It was late. He had said he’d be back ages ago. Ali would be worried. His dinner would be dried up or in the microwave or in the dog, if they’d had one. Perhaps he should have suggested supper to Orla tonight and phoned Ali to say he had an unexpected meeting. But then he ought to do the groundwork with his wife first. There was no point discussing the niceties when Ali might flatly refuse to consider it. They must sit down with a nice glass of wine and talk. He could rehearse his speech all the way home on the Tube to make sure he got it right.
    He and Orla pushed out of the door and stood on the pavement. Before he had a chance to behave like a gentleman, Orla had hailed a cab. It pulled up next to her. “Good night, Ed.”
    He held the door open. “Good night, Orla.” Ed stood there feeling ridiculously grateful. He wanted to hug her and kiss her and whoop enthusiastically and generally give some sort of emotional demonstration to show her how much her throwing a life-line to his drowning film career meant. Instead, he stood there like a statue, being tongue-tied and British and fiddling with his hands. In the end, all he managed was, “And thanks.”
    She smiled out through the open window and waved her hand dismissively. The cab drove off, leaving him alone on Dean Street. There was a chill in the night air that felt more autumnal than springlike, more reminiscent of closing, ending, rather than of beginning. Ed shivered and wished he’d worn a thicker coat. At the same time he wondered what the temperature would be in Los Angeles.
    Yes, he and Ali must talk. Tonight. But he wasn’t entirely sure that she would want to listen when she found out what he had to say.

CHAPTER 8
    â€œO h, Daddy! How could you!” Tanya is tearful and possibly premenstrual, which at this age is a frightening condition that turns her into a hormonal psychopath. I’m sure I was never like this at fifteen. I was always so good.
    Ed has just walked through the door. He is desperately late and is looking extremely bemused. “What?”
    He looks to me for support, but I have my hands on my hips and am in no mood to placate anyone, as I’ve had to listen to three hours of how Tanya doesn’t concentrate in lessons (any of them, apparently) and how, if she doesn’t stop yapping to her friends and eyeing up the boys and start doing some serious work pretty damn soon, then she’s going to end up working on a checkout in some shabby supermarket. Not exactly the teacher’s words, but I’m paraphrasing and it amounted to the same thing