Gerald came to life, murmuring ‘coffee, coffee’, and almost ran into the kitchen, followed closely by Rex.
Honoria, having quickly constructed for herself a tottering tower of assorted goodies, returned to her seat, saying loudly as she passed Brian, ‘Your mouth’s open.’
Brian, furious at having been once more cheated of his moment d’estime and convinced he heard the words ‘common little man’ floating back over Honoria’s shoulder, snapped his jaws together. The circle broke up. Laura went to help with the coffee and found Gerald and Rex deep in animated conversation. They were patently disturbed when the door opened and Gerald frowned so forcefully that she immediately withdrew.
In the drawing room people had changed seats. Amy and Sue had moved closer to Max, who was nibbling on a cream-cheese wheel, to pose problems they had been too shy to ask about publicly. Laura glanced over what was left of the food. There was nothing she really fancied. In any case she was still experiencing a faint queasiness - a sensation she knew from experience would be with her until she was well away from Plover’s Cottage. She cut a fragile slice of Sue’s carrot cake and turned away quickly from the sight of Rex’s de Montargis pralines. They looked like the varnished brains of tiny mammals and she could not possibly envisage putting one into her mouth.
Brian, far from defeated and biding his time, sat, a well-filled plate on either knee, listening to the oh-so-predictable questions. Did Max work regular hours? (Nine till five.) Did he rewrite much? (Everything. All the time.) Did he start with plot or characters? (Indivisible. The characters are the plot.) Did he do much research? (As little as possible. Preferred an educated guess. Often wrong.)
At this point Gerald and Rex appeared with two cafetières and jugs of milk which they put on the sideboard already laid with cups and saucers. Honoria cried ‘At last,’ as if the pair were a couple of tardy waiters.
Amy left Max Jennings’ side at this point to fetch him some coffee and Brian seized his chance. Slipping into her place, he began to describe his thrice-weekly drama sessions.
‘. . . building rather than writing a play, which I regard frankly as a totally passé word. Not to say elitist.’
‘Which word?’
‘Pardon?’
‘“Building”, “writing”, or “play”?’
‘Oh. “Writing”.’
‘I see.’
‘We work in a very loose, inspirational way. Rapping, improvising, free association. We are talking totally knife edge here. You hit the ground running at my rehearsals, believe me, or you are out. O.U.T., out.’
‘Tough stuff.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Mike Leigh?’
‘Of course.’
‘What did you think of Naked ?’
‘Deeply patronising and sloppy.’
Brian fell back. One swift movement as if someone had punched him hard in the chest. He seemed bereft of speech and just sat there, aghast.
‘Not to mention far too long.’
‘Come and help yourself everyone,’ called Rex from across the room. They all did. Amy took some back for Honoria, who was by then asking their guest a final question.
‘Who do you think’ - she leaned forward, heavy legs in peat-brown shooting stockings set sturdily apart - ‘would be the best company, once my history is complete, to approach? I don’t want it published by just any old firm.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not a good person to ask, Miss Lyddiard. My contacts are all in the field of fiction.’
‘Really?’ Honoria sounded cross and nonplussed. ‘But we thought you’d have a much broader range of knowledge than that. Right across the board as it were.’ Her eyes bored into the remaining morsel of cheesy wheel on Max’s plate as if he had devoured the rest under false pretences.
‘I thought that too,’ said Brian quickly. Bloody celebrities. He’d had enough. Smug inflated self-important windbags. Who the hell did they think they were? Emptying his second
Honoria, having quickly constructed for herself a tottering tower of assorted goodies, returned to her seat, saying loudly as she passed Brian, ‘Your mouth’s open.’
Brian, furious at having been once more cheated of his moment d’estime and convinced he heard the words ‘common little man’ floating back over Honoria’s shoulder, snapped his jaws together. The circle broke up. Laura went to help with the coffee and found Gerald and Rex deep in animated conversation. They were patently disturbed when the door opened and Gerald frowned so forcefully that she immediately withdrew.
In the drawing room people had changed seats. Amy and Sue had moved closer to Max, who was nibbling on a cream-cheese wheel, to pose problems they had been too shy to ask about publicly. Laura glanced over what was left of the food. There was nothing she really fancied. In any case she was still experiencing a faint queasiness - a sensation she knew from experience would be with her until she was well away from Plover’s Cottage. She cut a fragile slice of Sue’s carrot cake and turned away quickly from the sight of Rex’s de Montargis pralines. They looked like the varnished brains of tiny mammals and she could not possibly envisage putting one into her mouth.
Brian, far from defeated and biding his time, sat, a well-filled plate on either knee, listening to the oh-so-predictable questions. Did Max work regular hours? (Nine till five.) Did he rewrite much? (Everything. All the time.) Did he start with plot or characters? (Indivisible. The characters are the plot.) Did he do much research? (As little as possible. Preferred an educated guess. Often wrong.)
At this point Gerald and Rex appeared with two cafetières and jugs of milk which they put on the sideboard already laid with cups and saucers. Honoria cried ‘At last,’ as if the pair were a couple of tardy waiters.
Amy left Max Jennings’ side at this point to fetch him some coffee and Brian seized his chance. Slipping into her place, he began to describe his thrice-weekly drama sessions.
‘. . . building rather than writing a play, which I regard frankly as a totally passé word. Not to say elitist.’
‘Which word?’
‘Pardon?’
‘“Building”, “writing”, or “play”?’
‘Oh. “Writing”.’
‘I see.’
‘We work in a very loose, inspirational way. Rapping, improvising, free association. We are talking totally knife edge here. You hit the ground running at my rehearsals, believe me, or you are out. O.U.T., out.’
‘Tough stuff.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Mike Leigh?’
‘Of course.’
‘What did you think of Naked ?’
‘Deeply patronising and sloppy.’
Brian fell back. One swift movement as if someone had punched him hard in the chest. He seemed bereft of speech and just sat there, aghast.
‘Not to mention far too long.’
‘Come and help yourself everyone,’ called Rex from across the room. They all did. Amy took some back for Honoria, who was by then asking their guest a final question.
‘Who do you think’ - she leaned forward, heavy legs in peat-brown shooting stockings set sturdily apart - ‘would be the best company, once my history is complete, to approach? I don’t want it published by just any old firm.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not a good person to ask, Miss Lyddiard. My contacts are all in the field of fiction.’
‘Really?’ Honoria sounded cross and nonplussed. ‘But we thought you’d have a much broader range of knowledge than that. Right across the board as it were.’ Her eyes bored into the remaining morsel of cheesy wheel on Max’s plate as if he had devoured the rest under false pretences.
‘I thought that too,’ said Brian quickly. Bloody celebrities. He’d had enough. Smug inflated self-important windbags. Who the hell did they think they were? Emptying his second
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