Kate?”
“Badly. I haven’t played against humans since I was a student, and these days the computer usually gives me a coating.”
“You can’t be worse than Rita Hardwick,” she said firmly. “That’s settled then.”
“Two spades,” I said tentatively. My partner, Clive Doran (Billy Knowles, the crooked bookmaker with an eye for his female employees), nodded approval.
“Pass,” said Gloria.
“Three hearts.”
“Doubled,” announced Teddy Edwards, Gloria’s screen husband, the feckless Arthur Barrowclough, cowboy builder and failed gambler. I hoped he had as much luck with cards in real life as he did on screen. What Gloria had omitted to mention in the car was that we were playing for 10p a point. I suppose she figured she was paying me so much she needed to win some of it back.
I looked at my hand. “Redoubled,” I said boldly. Clive raised one eyebrow. My bid passed round the table, and we started playing. I soon realized that the other three were so used to each other’s game that they only needed a small proportion of their brains to choose the next card. The bridge game was just an excuse to gossip in the relative privacy of Gloria’s dressing room.
“Seen the
Sun
this morning?” Clive asked, casually tossing a card down.
“It’d be hard to miss it,” Gloria pointed out. “I don’t know about where you live, but every newsagent we passed on the way in had
“They’re bloody idle, them hacks,” Teddy grumbled, sweeping a trick from the table that I’d thought my ace of diamonds was bound to win.
Clive sucked his breath in over his teeth. “How d’you mean?”
“It couldn’t have taken much digging out. It’s not like it’s a state secret, Gary being a homo. He’s always going on about lads he’s pulled on a night out in the gay village.” Teddy sighed. “I remember when it were just the red light district round Canal Street. Back in them days, if you fancied a bit, at least you could be sure it was a woman under the frock.”
“And it’s not as if he’s messing about with kids,” Gloria continued, taking the next trick. “Nice lead, Teddy. I mean, Gary always goes for fellas his own age.”
“There’s been a lot of heavy stories about
Northerners
lately,” I said. I might be playing dummy in this hand, but that didn’t mean I had to take the job literally.
“You’re not kidding,” Clive said with feeling, sweeping his thin hair back from his narrow forehead in a familiar gesture. “You get used to living in a goldfish bowl, but lately it’s been ridiculous. We’re all behaving like Sunday-school teachers.”
“Aye, but you can be as good as gold for all the benefit you’ll get if the skeletons are already in the cupboard,” said Gloria. “Seventeen years since Tony Peverell got nicked for waving his willy at a couple of lasses. He must have thought that were dead and buried long since. Then up it pops on the front of the
News of the World
. And his wife a churchwarden.” She shook her head. I remembered the story.
“He quit the program, didn’t he?” I asked, making a note of our winning score and gathering the cards to me so I could shuffle while Gloria dealt the next hand with the other pack.
“Did he fall or was he pushed?” Clive intoned. It would have sounded sinister from someone who didn’t have a snub nose and a dimple in his chin and a manner only marginally less camp than
“What do you mean?” I asked now.
“John Turpin’s what he means,” Gloria said. “I told you about Turpin, didn’t I? The management’s hatchet man. Administration and Production Coordinator, they call him. Scumbag, we call him. Just a typical bloody TV executive who’s never made a program all his born days but thinks he knows better than everybody else what makes good telly.”
“Turpin’s in charge of cast contracts,” Clive explained, sorting his cards. “So he’s the one who’s technically responsible when there’s a leak to
“Badly. I haven’t played against humans since I was a student, and these days the computer usually gives me a coating.”
“You can’t be worse than Rita Hardwick,” she said firmly. “That’s settled then.”
“Two spades,” I said tentatively. My partner, Clive Doran (Billy Knowles, the crooked bookmaker with an eye for his female employees), nodded approval.
“Pass,” said Gloria.
“Three hearts.”
“Doubled,” announced Teddy Edwards, Gloria’s screen husband, the feckless Arthur Barrowclough, cowboy builder and failed gambler. I hoped he had as much luck with cards in real life as he did on screen. What Gloria had omitted to mention in the car was that we were playing for 10p a point. I suppose she figured she was paying me so much she needed to win some of it back.
I looked at my hand. “Redoubled,” I said boldly. Clive raised one eyebrow. My bid passed round the table, and we started playing. I soon realized that the other three were so used to each other’s game that they only needed a small proportion of their brains to choose the next card. The bridge game was just an excuse to gossip in the relative privacy of Gloria’s dressing room.
“Seen the
Sun
this morning?” Clive asked, casually tossing a card down.
“It’d be hard to miss it,” Gloria pointed out. “I don’t know about where you live, but every newsagent we passed on the way in had
“They’re bloody idle, them hacks,” Teddy grumbled, sweeping a trick from the table that I’d thought my ace of diamonds was bound to win.
Clive sucked his breath in over his teeth. “How d’you mean?”
“It couldn’t have taken much digging out. It’s not like it’s a state secret, Gary being a homo. He’s always going on about lads he’s pulled on a night out in the gay village.” Teddy sighed. “I remember when it were just the red light district round Canal Street. Back in them days, if you fancied a bit, at least you could be sure it was a woman under the frock.”
“And it’s not as if he’s messing about with kids,” Gloria continued, taking the next trick. “Nice lead, Teddy. I mean, Gary always goes for fellas his own age.”
“There’s been a lot of heavy stories about
Northerners
lately,” I said. I might be playing dummy in this hand, but that didn’t mean I had to take the job literally.
“You’re not kidding,” Clive said with feeling, sweeping his thin hair back from his narrow forehead in a familiar gesture. “You get used to living in a goldfish bowl, but lately it’s been ridiculous. We’re all behaving like Sunday-school teachers.”
“Aye, but you can be as good as gold for all the benefit you’ll get if the skeletons are already in the cupboard,” said Gloria. “Seventeen years since Tony Peverell got nicked for waving his willy at a couple of lasses. He must have thought that were dead and buried long since. Then up it pops on the front of the
News of the World
. And his wife a churchwarden.” She shook her head. I remembered the story.
“He quit the program, didn’t he?” I asked, making a note of our winning score and gathering the cards to me so I could shuffle while Gloria dealt the next hand with the other pack.
“Did he fall or was he pushed?” Clive intoned. It would have sounded sinister from someone who didn’t have a snub nose and a dimple in his chin and a manner only marginally less camp than
“What do you mean?” I asked now.
“John Turpin’s what he means,” Gloria said. “I told you about Turpin, didn’t I? The management’s hatchet man. Administration and Production Coordinator, they call him. Scumbag, we call him. Just a typical bloody TV executive who’s never made a program all his born days but thinks he knows better than everybody else what makes good telly.”
“Turpin’s in charge of cast contracts,” Clive explained, sorting his cards. “So he’s the one who’s technically responsible when there’s a leak to
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