Their Finest Hour and a Half by Lissa Evans Page B

‘did I tell you about Philip Cadogan?’
    â€˜Heroically joining the army? Yes, you did. More than once.’
    â€˜But did I tell you that he was evacuated with the BEF? Three days on the beach at Dunkirk dodging Shtukas and then picked up by trawler. He said he shlept for a solid twenty hours when he got back. I bumped into him in Black’s and we had such a jolly talk. I think service life suits him, he’s looking far more mature. I think that once this is all over he’ll find that he’s moved seamlessly from juvenile to leading man.’
    Not unless he’s seamlessly acquired a chin from somewhere, thought Ambrose, glancing over his shoulder towards the kitchen door. Still no sign of the cutlets. ‘So what did you think of the new prints?’ he asked, turning back. ‘I have to admit he’s clever, that photographer chap. All that business with shadows and filters. I thought the three-quarters profile with cigarette for Spotlight , and the full-face for publicity, the one where I’m wearing the fedora.’
    â€˜Ah yes . . .’ Sammy looked uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to have a word with you about those . . .’ He looked down at his hands, one podgily intact, the other a partial, rosy stump. ‘I was thinking that a little change of tactic might be in order . . .’
    â€˜What d’you mean, “tactic”? I thought they were jolly good.’
    â€˜Yes, but I’m not sure that making you look so very . . .’ He searched for a word, his expression pained. ‘. . . so very callow is quite the direction that . . .’
    Ambrose found himself temporarily bereft of speech. Sammy floundered on: ‘I think it might be more fruitful in terms of casting to embrace your . . . your . . . your . . . your . . . your . . . exshperience – yes, your impressive exshperience. More fruitful. In terms of casting. In terms of being in line for the role of . . . of senior ranks in service movies, for instance, there’s going to be a lot of call for that, I’d imagine, rather than for the . . . the . . .’ He looked desperately around the room. ‘I say, they’re an awful time with the order, aren’t they?’
    â€˜Clive Brook,’ said Ambrose, his voice a sliver of steel. ‘Clive Brook is older than I am and he is still playing leading men. Are you going around telling Clive Brook that he should start playing senior roles?’
    â€˜Not my client,’ said Sammy, in a tiny voice, pleating the tablecloth between his fingers.
    â€˜Leslie Banks – again, older than me. Are you telling Leslie Banks that he—’
    â€˜Ambrose . . .’
    â€˜. . . that he should be playing Polonius instead of Hamlet?’
    â€˜Ambrose, my job is to find you work.’
    â€˜Well, why don’t you do your blasted job, then?’
    â€˜Because I can only do it with your cooperation. You may remember that you turned down a perfectly decent film offer last month.’
    â€˜Playing Audrey Cane’s uncle? Fifteen lines, shuffling round in a smoking-jacket, while Leslie Banks – older than me – gets to do an entire mad-act as her unstable lover?’
    â€˜You turned down The Merchant at Wyndham’s.’
    â€˜Playing Old Gobbo ?’
    Sammy shrugged, his little currant eyes blinking unhappily. ‘Character roles,’ he said, softly, ‘are not to be shneered at.’
    â€˜Christ, Sammy, have you seen the “Character Actors” section of Spotlight ? You can’t honestly think that I . . . ?’ Ambrose lifted his spoon and peered at the convex side; he saw a giant nose, a slit-trench mouth, eyebrows like twin hedges. His eyes, though, even through the distorting murk, were still as green as Venetian glass. Reassured, he