a few chums kicking ideas around really – there’s a plan afoot for something on the Indian Mutiny, prestige stuff, you know the sort of crap, but seeing dear old Sel after so long, felt I simply had to stop and say hi.”
“Most kind.” The acid was still there, if anything more so. “I’d buy you a drink, but as I’ve said… Incidentally, hasn’t the Indian historical seam been well and truly mined by now? Don’t tell me the dear old Beeb are running short of ideas.”
“You could be right, dear boy, you could be right, but you know our masters, they travel hopefully, even if sometimes they fail to arrive… Look, I simply must dash, or I’ll be the one out on my ear.” He paused, waiting perhaps for their incredulous laughter; not getting it, he winked once more at Beatrice and with one last, graceful wave was gone.
Sel looked after him, a rather pensive expression on his face; turned to Beatrice, “Foster Chapman, dear, I expect you’ve seen him on the box. Not one of my absolutely favourite people, I’m afraid, but as they say, it takes all sorts. Welcome to the world of showbiz.”
So it had all been arranged. She’d given in her notice at work, delighted to see the last of Mr Taylor, who had actually taken her for a farewell drink. It occurred to her as they sipped their gin and tonics in the pub next door trying to think of something to say to each other, he was as happy as she was at her departure.
Her family’s response to the news she was heading for the hills to work for a TV star was much as she’d expected. Her mother, uninterested; slightly disapproving. “Darling, isn’t it time you settled down and found yourself a really decent job? After all you are thirty-two years old, and skivvying for some frightful man – and if he is the man I think he is who hosts those ghastly team games on TV he really is frightful – in the wilds of Suffolk doesn’t sound a step up the career ladder to me. The trouble is you don’t make the best of yourself. Johnny,” (husband number three) “always said you hid your light under a bushel and thick as two planks he may have been, but he was right about that. So odd really, with a father like Marcus – he is your father by the way, despite what people say – being one of the biggest exhibitionists in the business bar none, you’d have thought… but I suppose you can never bank on heredity. And all your school friends have done so well too. Look at Mary Barker, not half as bright as you and no better looking , top of the tree at whatever it is she does and according to her mama, who I agree is not the most reliable of sources, earning thousands.” Her mother had continued like this for some time, but Beatrice, as was her practice, ceased to listen. Her mother was a selfish, self-centred bitch, she told herself, but as always there was a small amount of truth in what she said, and her spirits, so buoyant since the interview with Sel, plunged back to their customary, abysmal level.
Sister Daphne’s reception of her news was little better. The gist of it being how lucky Beatrice was to be single, and how little she made of her opportunities. Lottie and Horace, she had to admit, had been a trifle more encouraging. Somehow or other though their enthusiasm (“how absolutely marvellous, darling, what a super opportunity for you! Only one way now and that’s up,”) had failed to lift her flagging spirits. Syl of course had been great and it had been agreed between them that she would let Beatrice’s room in the flat for three months only, just in case, as she said with the tact she was famed for, things didn’t turn out quite as planned.
At last! Coming up on her left, a sign half obscured by trailing brambles, announces, to her considerable relief, she’s approaching the village of Kimbleford and would she please drive slowly. The lane, although pretty, had begun to seem interminable, and she was sure she’d gone more than two miles. No houses
“Most kind.” The acid was still there, if anything more so. “I’d buy you a drink, but as I’ve said… Incidentally, hasn’t the Indian historical seam been well and truly mined by now? Don’t tell me the dear old Beeb are running short of ideas.”
“You could be right, dear boy, you could be right, but you know our masters, they travel hopefully, even if sometimes they fail to arrive… Look, I simply must dash, or I’ll be the one out on my ear.” He paused, waiting perhaps for their incredulous laughter; not getting it, he winked once more at Beatrice and with one last, graceful wave was gone.
Sel looked after him, a rather pensive expression on his face; turned to Beatrice, “Foster Chapman, dear, I expect you’ve seen him on the box. Not one of my absolutely favourite people, I’m afraid, but as they say, it takes all sorts. Welcome to the world of showbiz.”
So it had all been arranged. She’d given in her notice at work, delighted to see the last of Mr Taylor, who had actually taken her for a farewell drink. It occurred to her as they sipped their gin and tonics in the pub next door trying to think of something to say to each other, he was as happy as she was at her departure.
Her family’s response to the news she was heading for the hills to work for a TV star was much as she’d expected. Her mother, uninterested; slightly disapproving. “Darling, isn’t it time you settled down and found yourself a really decent job? After all you are thirty-two years old, and skivvying for some frightful man – and if he is the man I think he is who hosts those ghastly team games on TV he really is frightful – in the wilds of Suffolk doesn’t sound a step up the career ladder to me. The trouble is you don’t make the best of yourself. Johnny,” (husband number three) “always said you hid your light under a bushel and thick as two planks he may have been, but he was right about that. So odd really, with a father like Marcus – he is your father by the way, despite what people say – being one of the biggest exhibitionists in the business bar none, you’d have thought… but I suppose you can never bank on heredity. And all your school friends have done so well too. Look at Mary Barker, not half as bright as you and no better looking , top of the tree at whatever it is she does and according to her mama, who I agree is not the most reliable of sources, earning thousands.” Her mother had continued like this for some time, but Beatrice, as was her practice, ceased to listen. Her mother was a selfish, self-centred bitch, she told herself, but as always there was a small amount of truth in what she said, and her spirits, so buoyant since the interview with Sel, plunged back to their customary, abysmal level.
Sister Daphne’s reception of her news was little better. The gist of it being how lucky Beatrice was to be single, and how little she made of her opportunities. Lottie and Horace, she had to admit, had been a trifle more encouraging. Somehow or other though their enthusiasm (“how absolutely marvellous, darling, what a super opportunity for you! Only one way now and that’s up,”) had failed to lift her flagging spirits. Syl of course had been great and it had been agreed between them that she would let Beatrice’s room in the flat for three months only, just in case, as she said with the tact she was famed for, things didn’t turn out quite as planned.
At last! Coming up on her left, a sign half obscured by trailing brambles, announces, to her considerable relief, she’s approaching the village of Kimbleford and would she please drive slowly. The lane, although pretty, had begun to seem interminable, and she was sure she’d gone more than two miles. No houses
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