asleep.
You were talking about another woman.
Was I?
Yes.
Which one?
You didn’t say. But you were going to save her. You said you were going to save her.
Did I say that?
Yes.
It was you.
No, it wasn’t.
Yes, it was. Surely I would know best what I was dreaming.
Were you going to save me?
Yes, someone had kidnapped you.
Who?
The Germans.
Which Germans?
I think it was theatre people. I didn’t like them. And then they kidnapped you. And then I saved you.
Crikey. How heroic of you.
It was the least I could do.
Shall we get a few more hours’ sleep?
Yes, let’s.
After this Telemann lies awake. He feels it was a close shave. He can’t go on like this. Should he suggest that Nina and he have separate rooms? In which case it would have to be well planned so that she doesn’t take it amiss. He will have to put the blame on theatre. Beset by his thoughts, day and night, he has to be able to switch on the light and take notes, write, not to mention being able to talk out loud to himself, or laugh, maybe even cry, at any time. And he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s never been the type to enjoy disturbing others. Nina knows that. And she knows that he’s helped other playwrights for years. Saved their bacon even. Without ever asking to be credited. He’s hidden his light under a bushel. In a word. He has had enough of that. He was going to write the pants off them. Too bloody true. They think they can write plays, but the stuff he was going to write… Lord-a-mercy.
Telemann rests his fists on his chest and thrusts them into the air. He does it several times and says Ah! He says AH! He says Theatre. He says THEATRE! He says AH! THEATRE! And he says Sod’em! Sod’em! THEATRE! AH!
What do you think you’re doing?
Nothing.
Lying there and punching the air?
Not any more.
But that’s what you were doing?
Yes.
Should I be worried?
I don’t think so.
You’re still the same person?
More or less.
What was that you were saying as you punched the air?
Nothing.
Don’t say nothing. I heard you saying something.
It was nothing important.
I think it was important.
I said theatre.
Theatre?
Yes.
You really like the theatre, Telemann, don’t you.
Yes, I do.
You love the theatre.
Yes.
When are you going to start writing?
Very soon.
Nina, something’s just occurred to me.
Yes?
We haven’t made love for some time
Haven’t we?
No.
Right.
In my opinion, if this were a really good holiday we would have already done it a few times.
So you don’t think it’s a good holiday?
No, no, I do.
But not really good?
No.
How many times would we have had to do it?
A couple of dozen.
That many?
Actually, yes.
I think the holiday is fine as it is.
Yes, it is fine. But if were to be mega-fine.
You have to be careful not to place excessive demands on life.
I don’t think that’s an excessive demand.
It’s easy to be disappointed if you make too many demands.
I don’t make so many demands.
You’ll have to learn to love things closer to home, Telemann.
For me, being in bed with you is being close to home.
Rubbish.
What about doing it now?
Doing what?
What we’ve just been talking about.
Were we talking about something?
Yes.
Oh, that. That’s not a good idea.
Yes, it is.
No, it isn’t.
Yes, it is.
I don’t think it is.
Why not?
Telemann… I don’t like to have to say this, but…
But what?
I think I’m becoming allergic.
Allergic?
Yes.
To what?
To you.
What?
I’m afraid I’m developing a kind of allergy to you.
What do you mean?
Last week when you stroked me a bit before we fell asleep I got a rash right down the back of my thigh, and in the last few days my skin has become irritated where you touched me. Here, for instance, where you put your hand last night, here on my arm, when you said you thought my glasses were nice despite the lenses being quite thick, and touched my arm, in a way as if to emphasise the friendly nature of what you
You were talking about another woman.
Was I?
Yes.
Which one?
You didn’t say. But you were going to save her. You said you were going to save her.
Did I say that?
Yes.
It was you.
No, it wasn’t.
Yes, it was. Surely I would know best what I was dreaming.
Were you going to save me?
Yes, someone had kidnapped you.
Who?
The Germans.
Which Germans?
I think it was theatre people. I didn’t like them. And then they kidnapped you. And then I saved you.
Crikey. How heroic of you.
It was the least I could do.
Shall we get a few more hours’ sleep?
Yes, let’s.
After this Telemann lies awake. He feels it was a close shave. He can’t go on like this. Should he suggest that Nina and he have separate rooms? In which case it would have to be well planned so that she doesn’t take it amiss. He will have to put the blame on theatre. Beset by his thoughts, day and night, he has to be able to switch on the light and take notes, write, not to mention being able to talk out loud to himself, or laugh, maybe even cry, at any time. And he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s never been the type to enjoy disturbing others. Nina knows that. And she knows that he’s helped other playwrights for years. Saved their bacon even. Without ever asking to be credited. He’s hidden his light under a bushel. In a word. He has had enough of that. He was going to write the pants off them. Too bloody true. They think they can write plays, but the stuff he was going to write… Lord-a-mercy.
Telemann rests his fists on his chest and thrusts them into the air. He does it several times and says Ah! He says AH! He says Theatre. He says THEATRE! He says AH! THEATRE! And he says Sod’em! Sod’em! THEATRE! AH!
What do you think you’re doing?
Nothing.
Lying there and punching the air?
Not any more.
But that’s what you were doing?
Yes.
Should I be worried?
I don’t think so.
You’re still the same person?
More or less.
What was that you were saying as you punched the air?
Nothing.
Don’t say nothing. I heard you saying something.
It was nothing important.
I think it was important.
I said theatre.
Theatre?
Yes.
You really like the theatre, Telemann, don’t you.
Yes, I do.
You love the theatre.
Yes.
When are you going to start writing?
Very soon.
Nina, something’s just occurred to me.
Yes?
We haven’t made love for some time
Haven’t we?
No.
Right.
In my opinion, if this were a really good holiday we would have already done it a few times.
So you don’t think it’s a good holiday?
No, no, I do.
But not really good?
No.
How many times would we have had to do it?
A couple of dozen.
That many?
Actually, yes.
I think the holiday is fine as it is.
Yes, it is fine. But if were to be mega-fine.
You have to be careful not to place excessive demands on life.
I don’t think that’s an excessive demand.
It’s easy to be disappointed if you make too many demands.
I don’t make so many demands.
You’ll have to learn to love things closer to home, Telemann.
For me, being in bed with you is being close to home.
Rubbish.
What about doing it now?
Doing what?
What we’ve just been talking about.
Were we talking about something?
Yes.
Oh, that. That’s not a good idea.
Yes, it is.
No, it isn’t.
Yes, it is.
I don’t think it is.
Why not?
Telemann… I don’t like to have to say this, but…
But what?
I think I’m becoming allergic.
Allergic?
Yes.
To what?
To you.
What?
I’m afraid I’m developing a kind of allergy to you.
What do you mean?
Last week when you stroked me a bit before we fell asleep I got a rash right down the back of my thigh, and in the last few days my skin has become irritated where you touched me. Here, for instance, where you put your hand last night, here on my arm, when you said you thought my glasses were nice despite the lenses being quite thick, and touched my arm, in a way as if to emphasise the friendly nature of what you
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