were both intelligent people, and so bound to have something in common, and as an academic he was obviously far more one of the right sort than the people she knew in London, it was only sensible to invite him on the Saturday. They would be four for supper. It was a problem in hospitality solved. No need to think of it as anything more.
*
Keith met Sophia in the hall, as she was collecting her suitcase from the porter. It was almost five-thirty on Friday afternoon. “Hullo! Just off?” he said.
“A bit early, I’m afraid. I’ve got a train to catch. I’m week-ending.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Oh, yes I do. Really I do.”
“I thought I’d come up and see you soon. See Hugh anyway. I was wondering when you’d have something you wanted to talk about. Nothing formal. Just a sort of——”
“Any time, I should think. Hugh’s got some ideas. I must get on, or I’ll miss my train.”
“Don’t let me keep you.” A pause. Sophia picked up her case, and was about to move away. “Ideas?”
“Testimonials. He’ll tell you all about it. He says all we’ve got to do is the same thing in bigger spaces. He’s got something worked out in press, but nothing in telly. Still, it’s enough to talk about. ‘Bye, Keith. Must fly.”
Somebody held open the swing doors. She had gone. Keith hesitated in the hall. He wondered whether he ought to be carrying her suitcase, at least until she could find a taxi. Testimonials! It didn’t sound very exciting. But she must have reached the corner by now, and he could hardly go running after her. Office hours were over. Would Hugh already have left? The lift ran a shuttle service down from the floors above. The Agency was going home. The hall was full of people, all going the same way. Most of the secretaries carried suitcases. They spent the week in hostels, or Working Girls’ Clubs, or tiny flats in S.W. 1, 3 or 5 or 7, and at the week-end they went home to their parents. One of them—a girl in Marketing—was married to a Welsh Rugby International . “Going up,” he said to the liftman, and moved back upwards, against the stream.
In his office, a message from P.A. was waiting for him, asking him to call in. “Won’t keep you,” P.A. said. “Expect you want to get home. I know I do. What’s Hugh going to show us, do you know?”
“Sophia Last said something about testimonials. I haven’t seen Hugh yet. I thought——”
“Testimonials!”
“Of course it’s not very original, but I thought——”
“It’s bloody unoriginal.”
“Hoppness being what they are, I thought——”
“Bloody stupid. Shouldn’t have done it. Needs new thinking.”
“Yes, P.A.”
“Too late now. I’m going home. But remind me in the morning to have a word with Christian, will you? Needs new thinking on a thing like this.”
“You want to change the Creative Group, P.A.?”
“Haven’t said so, have I? You just remind me to talk to Christian on Monday. I’m off now. Good night.”
“Good night, P.A.”
“You work too bloody hard, Keith,” P.A. said. “Kill yourself if you’re not careful. Ulcers. Thrombosis. Not worth it. Wouldn’t suit me at all.”
“No, it’s——”
“Still, I suppose it suits you, or you wouldn’t do it, eh? Lord knows you’re a free agent.”
*
Ralph Cavell had a round brown face, and spoke with a slight Leicestershire accent; his “u” sounds were made more with the lips than the tongue, and he said “ reemove ” instead of “remove”. He wore a sports jacket of blue-green tweed, and his fingers were what is called “blunt”. What I’ve been missing all this time and never known it, Sophia thought, is intelligent conversation about things that really matter. Ralph said, “Could I have some more ratatouille ? It’s very good. It really is. I wouldn’t ask, only I know there is some.”
They spoke of Ralph’s work on local politics, and Deborah’s experiences with the Citizens’ Advice
*
Keith met Sophia in the hall, as she was collecting her suitcase from the porter. It was almost five-thirty on Friday afternoon. “Hullo! Just off?” he said.
“A bit early, I’m afraid. I’ve got a train to catch. I’m week-ending.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Oh, yes I do. Really I do.”
“I thought I’d come up and see you soon. See Hugh anyway. I was wondering when you’d have something you wanted to talk about. Nothing formal. Just a sort of——”
“Any time, I should think. Hugh’s got some ideas. I must get on, or I’ll miss my train.”
“Don’t let me keep you.” A pause. Sophia picked up her case, and was about to move away. “Ideas?”
“Testimonials. He’ll tell you all about it. He says all we’ve got to do is the same thing in bigger spaces. He’s got something worked out in press, but nothing in telly. Still, it’s enough to talk about. ‘Bye, Keith. Must fly.”
Somebody held open the swing doors. She had gone. Keith hesitated in the hall. He wondered whether he ought to be carrying her suitcase, at least until she could find a taxi. Testimonials! It didn’t sound very exciting. But she must have reached the corner by now, and he could hardly go running after her. Office hours were over. Would Hugh already have left? The lift ran a shuttle service down from the floors above. The Agency was going home. The hall was full of people, all going the same way. Most of the secretaries carried suitcases. They spent the week in hostels, or Working Girls’ Clubs, or tiny flats in S.W. 1, 3 or 5 or 7, and at the week-end they went home to their parents. One of them—a girl in Marketing—was married to a Welsh Rugby International . “Going up,” he said to the liftman, and moved back upwards, against the stream.
In his office, a message from P.A. was waiting for him, asking him to call in. “Won’t keep you,” P.A. said. “Expect you want to get home. I know I do. What’s Hugh going to show us, do you know?”
“Sophia Last said something about testimonials. I haven’t seen Hugh yet. I thought——”
“Testimonials!”
“Of course it’s not very original, but I thought——”
“It’s bloody unoriginal.”
“Hoppness being what they are, I thought——”
“Bloody stupid. Shouldn’t have done it. Needs new thinking.”
“Yes, P.A.”
“Too late now. I’m going home. But remind me in the morning to have a word with Christian, will you? Needs new thinking on a thing like this.”
“You want to change the Creative Group, P.A.?”
“Haven’t said so, have I? You just remind me to talk to Christian on Monday. I’m off now. Good night.”
“Good night, P.A.”
“You work too bloody hard, Keith,” P.A. said. “Kill yourself if you’re not careful. Ulcers. Thrombosis. Not worth it. Wouldn’t suit me at all.”
“No, it’s——”
“Still, I suppose it suits you, or you wouldn’t do it, eh? Lord knows you’re a free agent.”
*
Ralph Cavell had a round brown face, and spoke with a slight Leicestershire accent; his “u” sounds were made more with the lips than the tongue, and he said “ reemove ” instead of “remove”. He wore a sports jacket of blue-green tweed, and his fingers were what is called “blunt”. What I’ve been missing all this time and never known it, Sophia thought, is intelligent conversation about things that really matter. Ralph said, “Could I have some more ratatouille ? It’s very good. It really is. I wouldn’t ask, only I know there is some.”
They spoke of Ralph’s work on local politics, and Deborah’s experiences with the Citizens’ Advice
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