really—and I said, “You didn’t, by the way.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Make me blush.”
“Well, if at first you don’t succeed . . .”
“Have a sardine kiss.”
“We must smell like two cats who’ve just raided a dustbin . . .”
“You know in cartoons, when there’s a dustbin, they always draw a fish bone, don’t they? Always very big . . . as big as . . . as a cat . . .”
“Alice?”
“Mmm? . . .”
“Shut up.”
The second time was even better. Lenny said, “ Now you’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are—see?” He handed me a very small mirror.
“Hardly . . . You nicked this from a budgie, didn’t you? Did you get the little bell to go with it?”
“Ha, ha.” Lenny took it out of my hand and tried to look at his hair. “It’s not too bad, is it? We’re filming next week.”
“Can’t you position yourself so the camera won’t see it?”
“I can hardly do the whole thing in profile, can I . . . well, not the whole show . . . maybe we could do something with it.”
“You mean . . . what you told me?”
“My dear child, can you imagine what would happen if one of us went on television and told a story about a dildo? We’d never work again. We’d certainly never get Mrs. Whitehouse off our backs.”
“I am not your dear child. I’m twenty-two.”
“As old as that? I never would have guessed.”
“Oh, stop teasing me. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.” He peered into the mirror again. “If the worst comes to the worst, I could always get Wardrobe to find me an Irish . . .”
“Eh?”
“Irish. Irish jig. Wig, you fathead. It’ll all fall out soon, anyway. That’s what happened to Dad.” He stopped grimacing in the mirror and turned to face me. “He told us he had to put his arms in a basin of water while they scraped out the phosphorus, and then they took him in a dark room to see if his arms were luminous because that’s how you tell a phosphorus burn, it glows in the dark. Must have been agony . . . It was phosphorus that killed him, being exposed to it all those years. Poisoned him.”
“Oh, Lenny . . .”
A week later I realised from something Jack said that Lenny’d lied to me about his age. He wasn’t thirty-four, he was thirty-seven.
I didn’t care, though, because I’d already fallen in love with him.
Six
I meant to do some weeding after I’d seen to the animals, but I spent the afternoon sunbathing instead. I’ve got no excuse because it’s so hot that I’m browner than I’ve ever been, even from holidays. I always take everything off—any unexpected visitors can just get an eyeful, can’t they? I don’t care. When I was married to Jeff I used to sunbathe topless on the roof of his studio until one day he came up to talk to me and spotted this bloke’s binoculars glinting in the sun. I thought it was funny—I stood up and waved to the guy—but Jeff did his nut and practically dragged me down the stairs. He kept losing hold of me because I was all slippery with Ambre Solaire and wriggling like mad. In the end he had to let go and I ran down the corridor and straight into a guy from an ad agency who was one of his biggest clients. That’s when I realised Jeff really didn’t have a sense of humour, because he refused to speak to me for about a week, but in the end he had to admit it was good for business, because the ad man gave him even more work after that.
I was trying to read—Harold Robbins—but it was useless because I wanted to lie on my back and anyway, I’m so slow with books that by the time I’ve got halfway through I’ve forgotten what happened at the beginning, so I gave up and thought about how it would be if my life had gone in a different direction . . . not just with Lenny, but if I’d been any good at school and stayed on and taken exams. I’d like to have been a veterinary nurse, or . . . I don’t know, something to do with animals. I might have been quite good, but I went to a
“Didn’t what?”
“Make me blush.”
“Well, if at first you don’t succeed . . .”
“Have a sardine kiss.”
“We must smell like two cats who’ve just raided a dustbin . . .”
“You know in cartoons, when there’s a dustbin, they always draw a fish bone, don’t they? Always very big . . . as big as . . . as a cat . . .”
“Alice?”
“Mmm? . . .”
“Shut up.”
The second time was even better. Lenny said, “ Now you’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are—see?” He handed me a very small mirror.
“Hardly . . . You nicked this from a budgie, didn’t you? Did you get the little bell to go with it?”
“Ha, ha.” Lenny took it out of my hand and tried to look at his hair. “It’s not too bad, is it? We’re filming next week.”
“Can’t you position yourself so the camera won’t see it?”
“I can hardly do the whole thing in profile, can I . . . well, not the whole show . . . maybe we could do something with it.”
“You mean . . . what you told me?”
“My dear child, can you imagine what would happen if one of us went on television and told a story about a dildo? We’d never work again. We’d certainly never get Mrs. Whitehouse off our backs.”
“I am not your dear child. I’m twenty-two.”
“As old as that? I never would have guessed.”
“Oh, stop teasing me. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.” He peered into the mirror again. “If the worst comes to the worst, I could always get Wardrobe to find me an Irish . . .”
“Eh?”
“Irish. Irish jig. Wig, you fathead. It’ll all fall out soon, anyway. That’s what happened to Dad.” He stopped grimacing in the mirror and turned to face me. “He told us he had to put his arms in a basin of water while they scraped out the phosphorus, and then they took him in a dark room to see if his arms were luminous because that’s how you tell a phosphorus burn, it glows in the dark. Must have been agony . . . It was phosphorus that killed him, being exposed to it all those years. Poisoned him.”
“Oh, Lenny . . .”
A week later I realised from something Jack said that Lenny’d lied to me about his age. He wasn’t thirty-four, he was thirty-seven.
I didn’t care, though, because I’d already fallen in love with him.
Six
I meant to do some weeding after I’d seen to the animals, but I spent the afternoon sunbathing instead. I’ve got no excuse because it’s so hot that I’m browner than I’ve ever been, even from holidays. I always take everything off—any unexpected visitors can just get an eyeful, can’t they? I don’t care. When I was married to Jeff I used to sunbathe topless on the roof of his studio until one day he came up to talk to me and spotted this bloke’s binoculars glinting in the sun. I thought it was funny—I stood up and waved to the guy—but Jeff did his nut and practically dragged me down the stairs. He kept losing hold of me because I was all slippery with Ambre Solaire and wriggling like mad. In the end he had to let go and I ran down the corridor and straight into a guy from an ad agency who was one of his biggest clients. That’s when I realised Jeff really didn’t have a sense of humour, because he refused to speak to me for about a week, but in the end he had to admit it was good for business, because the ad man gave him even more work after that.
I was trying to read—Harold Robbins—but it was useless because I wanted to lie on my back and anyway, I’m so slow with books that by the time I’ve got halfway through I’ve forgotten what happened at the beginning, so I gave up and thought about how it would be if my life had gone in a different direction . . . not just with Lenny, but if I’d been any good at school and stayed on and taken exams. I’d like to have been a veterinary nurse, or . . . I don’t know, something to do with animals. I might have been quite good, but I went to a
Similar Books
