in Suffolk, an old farmhouse with bags of history, into which they were moving shortly. TV work was tending to dry up at least for the time being – he wasn’t sorry the whole absurd business was beginning to pall anyway – and he wanted to concentrate on his writing. Beatrice’s job would be to act as all round live-in secretary, and would include the usual technical skills, an ability to transcribe his atrocious handwriting, and the opportunity to help him with his research. When not needed by him, his wife Clarrie would be grateful for any assistance she could give in overseeing the extensive building work necessary to bring Brown End (that was the name of the farmhouse) up to her own, exacting standards. A great deal had of course been done already, the place was virtually uninhabitable when they purchased it, but they were far from being out of the woods yet, especially as the young designer Clarrie used initially had not proved to be entirely satisfactory. In return Beatrice would receive a generous salary, a charmingly furnished bedsitter complete with en suite bathroom, and plenty of time off. There would be no set routine, he tended to be an erratic worker: for example, might even require her services late at night if the muse took him, but she would of course have time off in lieu, and he was sure they could come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Part of her duties would be to socialise with any guests they might have. He and Clarrie liked the simple life, a touch of whitewash here and there, the odd rush mat, basic but nutritious food, lots of exercise, that sort of thing (looking at him, Beatrice had found this somewhat difficult to believe) but they had many friends in show business and the arts, and he could assure her there would be plenty of interesting company.
An incident occurred just as they were about to leave which did make her wonder if her future boss was quite as happy about the drying up of his TV work as he claimed. He had just paid their bill and she was hunting for her handbag under her chair – for a moment she thought it had been stolen, it didn’t seem to be anywhere – when this tall, fantastically good looking young man, his face vaguely familiar although she couldn’t put a name to it, paused at their table on his way out, his rather wicked eyes very obviously taking in her presence: “Sel, darling, how are you, man? We were beginning to think you’d died, it’s been so long. I see however we couldn’t have been more mistaken, do introduce me to your charming companion,” he purred, squeezing Mr Woodhead’s shoulder and winking at Beatrice. Mr Woodhead – she must learn to call him Sel; he insisted – flinched; rather over dramatically, she thought, but supposed that was what you’d expect with theatre people, she’d never met any before.
“Not dead, Foster, simply having a well-earned rest,” he said, his voice acid, his smile full of ice. “And how are things at the Beeb these days? The bongo drums were tapping out that replacements, even cabinet reshuffles are in the air, but of course I never listen to rumours, let alone bongo drums.”
“Quite right, dear boy, quite right, you never know what you might hear, do you? As a matter of fact I was over at Granada the other day and asked after you; they said they hadn’t seen you in months, but the rumour was you’d gone to ground in the wilds of Suffolk, opted to lead the simple life and write. But of course I never listen to rumours either. And how is the gorgeous Clarrie? I haven’t seen her for yonks, not since we both got pissed at that frightful Frost party and –”
“Look, Foster, heavenly as it always is to see you, I happen to be in the throes of interviewing a new secretary and am running late as it is, so if you don’t mind –”
“Of course, man, of course,” Foster took the hint, he didn’t have much option really, although he didn’t look too pleased. “I’m late for a meeting myself,
An incident occurred just as they were about to leave which did make her wonder if her future boss was quite as happy about the drying up of his TV work as he claimed. He had just paid their bill and she was hunting for her handbag under her chair – for a moment she thought it had been stolen, it didn’t seem to be anywhere – when this tall, fantastically good looking young man, his face vaguely familiar although she couldn’t put a name to it, paused at their table on his way out, his rather wicked eyes very obviously taking in her presence: “Sel, darling, how are you, man? We were beginning to think you’d died, it’s been so long. I see however we couldn’t have been more mistaken, do introduce me to your charming companion,” he purred, squeezing Mr Woodhead’s shoulder and winking at Beatrice. Mr Woodhead – she must learn to call him Sel; he insisted – flinched; rather over dramatically, she thought, but supposed that was what you’d expect with theatre people, she’d never met any before.
“Not dead, Foster, simply having a well-earned rest,” he said, his voice acid, his smile full of ice. “And how are things at the Beeb these days? The bongo drums were tapping out that replacements, even cabinet reshuffles are in the air, but of course I never listen to rumours, let alone bongo drums.”
“Quite right, dear boy, quite right, you never know what you might hear, do you? As a matter of fact I was over at Granada the other day and asked after you; they said they hadn’t seen you in months, but the rumour was you’d gone to ground in the wilds of Suffolk, opted to lead the simple life and write. But of course I never listen to rumours either. And how is the gorgeous Clarrie? I haven’t seen her for yonks, not since we both got pissed at that frightful Frost party and –”
“Look, Foster, heavenly as it always is to see you, I happen to be in the throes of interviewing a new secretary and am running late as it is, so if you don’t mind –”
“Of course, man, of course,” Foster took the hint, he didn’t have much option really, although he didn’t look too pleased. “I’m late for a meeting myself,
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