Funny Girl

by Nick Hornby

  ‘No, but you saw me and went ahead anyway,’ said Sandra. ‘I’m honoured.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be,’ said Clive. ‘In an ideal world, you wouldn’t …’

  ‘Stop it now, Clive,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Are you actually going to get married?’ said Bill.

  ‘Why else would we get engaged?’ said Clive.

  ‘People like you are always getting engaged,’ said Bill. ‘And half the time there’s nothing at the end of it. It’s like a phantom pregnancy. Or wind.’

  ‘I take it all back,’ said Clive. ‘It’s just as well Sandra’s here to wish us well. We’ve got Bill comparing our engagement to a fart and nobody else saying anything.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tony. ‘We’re all very pleased for you.’

  They looked at Dennis, who still hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘I’m still trying to process it.’

  ‘In your own time,’ said Bill. ‘We’ll just wait here.’

  ‘The thing is, I was going to ask Sophie myself,’ and he gave a nervous little laugh.

  Tony hoped that he was the only person in the room who understood that Dennis was serious.

  ‘I see what you’re doing,’ said Tony.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ said Clive.

  ‘Very good. OK.’

  Tony stood up.

  ‘I am Spartacus.’

  Bill laughed and stood up with him.

  ‘I am Spartacus.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Spartacus,’ said Clive.

  ‘If we all ask Sophie to marry us, she won’t know how to choose, and she’ll be spared a fate worse than death.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Dennis. ‘Very good.’

  He stood up.

  ‘You don’t have to do it, Dennis,’ said Tony.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You started it. You can’t do it twice.’

  ‘I didn’t say, “I am Spartacus”, though. I just said I was going to ask Sophie to marry me.’

  ‘That was you saying, “I am Spartacus.” ’

  ‘Right-o,’ said Dennis. ‘I see.’

  Tony could see that he was sweating now – an indication that the strange bubble of insanity had floated right across the brain and out into the room. They could get on.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie.

  She was still looking at Dennis when everyone else had gone back to the script.

  Diane wanted to interview the happy couple for Crush, quickly, but Clive was nowhere to be found, so the two girls ended up going out for dinner, Diane’s treat, to celebrate.

  ‘How did he propose?’

  ‘He took me to the Tratt, bought champagne, got the pianist to play “And I Love Her”, produced a ring and got down on one knee.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘Oh, my God, good, or oh, my God, bad?’

  ‘Oh, bad. Terrible. Embarrassing. Cheesy.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told him not to be so bloody stupid. I told him that if the question were actually popped I’d leave the restaurant.’

  ‘And then he popped it and you said yes.’

  Sophie laughed and sighed at the same time.

  ‘Yes. Sort of. A lot later on. He kept on about it, and I said yes to shut him up, really.’

  ‘Beautiful. A fairy tale come true. I’ll have to be a bit more upbeat for Crush readers, or they’ll end up sticking their heads in their gas ovens. Anyway. A bit of the Diane gloss on it and you’ll make people very happy.’

  ‘Them again,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘ “People”. Will it make me very happy, that’s the question? I’m a person.’

  ‘So why on earth did you say yes?’

  ‘Because … Well, because it would make people very happy. It’s hard to resist, when everyone goes on about it all the time.’

  It wasn’t true, really. When they went out together, people smiled, asked for autographs, made jokes. Nobody ever said, ‘Please get married.’ A wedding would make newspapers and magazines happy, she knew that, but the overwhelming pressure to give the people what they wanted came from within. One very small step sideways and she could make everything fit together, Jim and Barbara and Sophie and Clive, and perhaps there would be a baby to match the baby that she was about to give birth to on television. There was a part of her that wished she was married already, pregnant already, because then everything would double back on itself and give her more pleasure than any ordinary woman or any fictional character would ever know. But she knew that the pleasure wouldn’t last long, because there was nothing real at the centre of it, and then she found herself longing for something else.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Diane. Perhaps it is time you left Crush,’ she said.

  She knew immediately she’d been too sharp with her. It wasn’t the silliest question to ask a girl who had just become engaged.

  ‘Can I say, “I couldn’t bear to let another girl steal my Jim”? ’ said Diane.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘That will do.’

  The Daily Express found out about the engagement before Crush came out, and a couple of other newspapers printed the story too. Another newspaper claimed to have found out that Barbara was having a boy. The return of the series felt, to them at least, as though they were the only thing happening in the whole wide world.

  It was an exciting week. On Thursday, Dennis got a message saying that Tom Sloan had called and wanted him to phone back straight away.

  Dennis stood up.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Bill. ‘He can at least wait until the end of the scene.’

  Dennis sat down. He knew that Bill and Tony regarded him as a Corporation lickspittle, and every now and then he liked to make a small gesture that might help to convince them that he was his own man, even if, as in this case, someone had told him to do it.

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘I was just wondering whether the midwife would say a little more at this point?’ said Sandra the midwife. She spent a lot of the rehearsal time wondering whether the midwife should be saying a little more; to Sandra, a midwife was a combination of medical professional, counsellor, priest, third parent and Greek chorus.

  ‘No,’ said Bill.

  ‘I’m not sure I agree,’ said Sandra.

  Dennis stood up again.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Clive.

  Dennis decided that he couldn’t sit down again just because someone had told him to, and in any case he couldn’t concentrate, so he went to call Tom.

  ‘Well,’ he said when he came back.

  ‘Good or bad?’ said Clive.

  ‘I’ll let you be the judge.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Bill.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If it’s a matter of judgement, it can’t be good. It can’t be a raise, for example.’

  ‘I don’t think Tom Sloan suddenly decides to give everyone more money. We’ve signed contracts.’

  ‘What does he decide, then?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Well,’ said Dennis. ‘Ultimately, he’s responsible for all the Light Entertainment output on …’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Clive. ‘She didn’t mean that. She meant, What did he phone you about?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dennis. ‘Well.’

  ‘That’s what you said when you came in two hours ago,’ said Tony. ‘And we’re still none the wiser.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Marcia Williams.’

  ‘You never have!’ said Bill. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘We don’t know who Marcia Williams is,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Bill. ‘Why d’you think I said, “You never have”?’

  ‘I thought you were being sarcastic. Who is she, then?’

  ‘She’s the Prime Minister’s secretary. You know what they say about her, don’t you?’

&nb
sp; ‘Be very careful,’ said Dennis. ‘We’re on BBC premises.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such an ass, Dennis,’ said Bill. And then, just to be perverse, he started shouting, ‘THEY SAY THEY’RE AT IT!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘WILSON AND MARCIA!’

  ‘It depresses me that I am attempting to wring a sophisticated comedy series out of such childish minds,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Go and boil your head,’ said Bill.

  ‘Is that true?’ said Sophie, wide-eyed.

  ‘Supposed to be,’ said Clive.

  ‘ “Supposed to be”,’ said Dennis scornfully. ‘If there was ever a phrase that encapsulated the futility of gossip, that’s it. “Supposed to be true” … Dear God.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know for sure,’ said Clive.

  ‘No. If we knew for sure it would be a fact.’

  ‘But that’s what people say?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘It’s gossip.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Bill. ‘He’s not human. He’s a robot.’

  Dennis looked wounded. ‘Just because I don’t have the same level of prurient interest in other people’s affairs doesn’t make me a robot,’ he said. ‘It just makes me … decent.’

  ‘What a lot of cock you talk,’ said Clive.

  ‘Shall I tell you what Marcia and I spoke about?’ said Dennis. ‘Is anyone interested?’

  ‘Get him,’ said Sophie. ‘ “Marcia and I”.’

  ‘She wanted us to know how much they all enjoyed the programme. Harold and Mary never miss it, apparently.’

  ‘At least Mary knows he’s not at it at eight o’clock on a Thursday,’ said Sophie.

  ‘With anyone else, anyway,’ said Bill. ‘Maybe that’s their Big Night In.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so vulgar,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I’m just going to ignore you all and plough on,’ said Dennis. ‘Marcia said –’

  ‘Get him,’ said Sophie. ‘ “Marcia said”.’

  ‘Marcia said the Prime Minister wished he had someone as clever as Jim working for him in real life. And then she asked if we’d like to go to Number Ten and have a look round.’

  ‘We’re going to meet Marcia?’ said Sophie.

  ‘I think we might be going to meet the Prime Minister,’ said Dennis.

  Sandra the midwife clapped her hands together in excitement.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Number Ten?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dennis. ‘That’s the thing.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ said Sandra the midwife. ‘Not after everything I’ve done this week.’

  This, they could only presume, was a reference to her relative punctuality and her willingness in rehearsal to read the lines as they were written.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Dennis.

  ‘They specifically said I couldn’t come?’

  ‘No, but … they don’t actually know you exist.’

  ‘But if they watch every week, they’ll see me next week, and –’

  ‘They invited “the team”, said Dennis. ‘Would you say you’re part of “the team”?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandra. ‘You’ve all made me feel very welcome.’

  Dennis looked at Sophie helplessly. None of the others would be any use to him.

  ‘If there is a spare place,’ said Sophie, ‘it should probably go to Betty Pertwee.’

  Betty Pertwee, who played Barbara’s mother, had appeared in the show three times so far, and Tony and Bill were planning to use her again in the christening episode.

  ‘But I don’t think even Betty is going to be able to come,’ said Dennis.

  ‘But she’s your mother!’ said Sandra.

  ‘I know,’ said Sophie glumly. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’

  And thus Sandra was mollified, and a crisis in morale averted. And it was all Sophie’s doing. She was so clever, Dennis thought, and so kind, and he found the familiar gloom descend upon him.

  That night, Sophie called her father, who wasn’t as impressed as she’d hoped he might be.

  ‘My dad says we should refuse to go,’ she said at work the next day.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to your dad,’ said Bill. ‘I’m bloody going.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Tony.

  ‘Good,’ said Clive. ‘As long as Harold can get his photo taken with the writers he’ll be happy.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Bill.

  ‘May we ask what objections your father has?’ said Dennis.

  ‘He thinks the country’s going to the dogs,’ said Sophie, ‘and we shouldn’t prop him up.’

  ‘And in which direction are these dogs going?’ said Bill. ‘Where are the kennels?’

  ‘Are you asking what he’s unhappy about?’

  ‘I think he was, in his own ponderous and pretentious way,’ said Clive.

  ‘He doesn’t like the balance of payments,’ said Sophie.

  ‘None of us do,’ said Clive. ‘But I’m sure the nation can still run to a pot of tea and a few biscuits.’

  ‘And he’s worried about the coloureds.’

  ‘Are they causing him a lot of trouble in Blackpool?’ said Bill.

  ‘A coloured man whistled at me last week,’ said Sandra. ‘A window cleaner.’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ said Bill. ‘Send him back. No white man has ever whistled at a woman in the entire history of window cleaning.’

  ‘No white man has ever whistled at me before,’ said Sandra.

  There was a respectful silence.

  ‘And he thinks Harold should have offered more support to Mr Smith in Rhodesia.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bill. ‘That explains everything.’

  ‘Does it?’ said Sophie hopefully.

  ‘Yes. Your old man is an imperialist buffoon. I’ll bet he reads the bloody Daily Express.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Do you think these things?’ said Bill. ‘Or is it just your dad?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve never really thought about them before.’

  ‘You’ve never thought about what you think?’

  ‘Sounds funny when you put it like that.’

  ‘You’re a clever girl,’ said Clive. ‘Why do you trot out that poisonous rubbish?’

  ‘Do you think it’s rubbish?’ said Sophie. ‘And poisonous?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Clive.

  ‘Everyone does,’ said Bill.

  Sophie looked round the table. There was no sign of dissent, unless one was to count Sandra’s sudden hunt for a cough sweet in her handbag.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’

  It took her a month. She listened to Any Questions? and she talked to anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest in what was going on in the world. She bought the New Statesman and the Listener, because Bill told her to, and made herself read three articles a week. She didn’t understand everything, but she came to understand that Bill was right: everyone thought that her father’s views were poisonous rubbish. Feeling sorry for Ian Smith, or complaining about the coloured problem, was like saying you preferred ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window’ to ‘Twist and Shout’. And, in the end, that was all the education she needed. She wasn’t sure that the people she worked with and listened to and admired were right about everything, and as she got older it only became more confusing. But she had learned that, to her friends and colleagues, all the things her father believed were as musty and unattractive as a trouser suit in a department store sale. You could refuse to care about fashion if you wanted to, but if you were going to spend all your time in the company of with-it people, you needed to know when they were laughing at you.

  Bill had cared a lot about viewing figures, once upon a time. But after ‘The New Bathroom’ he began to crave the approval of people who would never be caught dead watching a popular BBC comedy programme. He wanted to be respected by the people he saw at the fringe theatre shows, and by the producers of the
satirical shows who were turning down his sketches. He wanted to impress the clever young homosexuals he picked up in the arts clubs, and even the television critics who had loved the show once but who hadn’t bothered writing about it since the first series. He and Tony had had all that once upon a time, and they’d lost it, and hadn’t worried about the loss very much. They needed love, then, as much as they could shovel in, and love came from an enormous popular audience. Now they had grown fat on love, and Bill found himself looking enviously at the social realists and the surrealists and the experimentalists and the satirists who would always be scrawny and pale. It was all to do with money, he supposed. He had it now and he didn’t need quite so much of it as he did, and anyway he had the means to make more whenever he wanted. So of course he’d set his sights on something else entirely.

  But the things he wanted weren’t going to come with Barbara (and Jim), and ‘The Arrival’ made matters worse. He wasn’t particularly proud of the work, although it had done a job: labour pains, Jim lost in a meeting, a catastrophically nervous taxi driver, a midwife – played by Sandra with surprising charm and spirit – who wanted Barbara to join her in estimating the royal family’s grocery needs, and then a baby, and love. Out of the corner of his eye, Bill noticed that Tony was weeping during the recording, although he managed not to let anyone else see him at it. Bill felt only a slight sense of self-disgust. They got their highest viewing figures to date; as it turned out, they got the highest viewing figures they would ever get. Before the recording, someone in the press office borrowed a baby, a real one, from a girl in Contracts, so that Sophie could pose for pictures with her newborn. (He was indeed a boy – Timothy, to be known as Timmy.) Most of the popular papers carried the pictures before the broadcast. And, as Bill had feared, Timmy the baby made everything harder. The christening episode was good: they invented a vicar who had lost his faith, but who was too lazy, elderly and unqualified to do anything else. And ‘The Soirée’ had some good things in it too. Jim invites an old college friend and his wife round for dinner, and decides that he has to take over the cooking after Barbara tells him what she has planned. Jim doesn’t say as much, but he’s clearly worried that Barbara’s menu is too plain, too old-fashioned, too English. The first half of the episode, Bill thought, was sharp and fresh, and poked fun both at Barbara’s working-class insularity and Jim’s middle-class aspirations. But then they lost their nerve and went back to the safety of ‘The New Bathroom’; in the second half, the front two rows of the audience had to be provided with waterproof mackintoshes as a protection against flying béchamel sauce, much to their giddy excitement. Dennis told them afterwards that his superiors had loved the cooking part and hated all the chat beforehand: the headline note from on high was ‘More Béchamel Sauce, Less Elizabeth David’.