by Nick Hornby
‘There’s a divorce epidemic,’ said Bill.
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ said Dennis.
‘Sorry,’ said Bill. ‘Forgot.’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Dennis. ‘You can’t go round apologizing to everybody.’ He looked at Bill searchingly. ‘Is this all because of bloody Till Death Us Do Part?’
Bill refused to make eye contact.
‘It’s really put your nose out of joint, hasn’t it?’
‘I just want to write something about the real world,’ said Bill. ‘And in the real world, a couple like Barbara and Jim would need help.’
Dennis sighed. He liked working with talented, thoughtful people, but sometimes he wished he could have the same level of success with unimaginative hacks.
‘And are they going to survive it?’ he said eventually. ‘Because I want this marriage to work.’
‘Let’s get them through to the end of the series and worry about the rest later,’ said Bill.
Nancy Lawson, the actress Dennis found to play Marguerite, was the poshest person that any of them had ever met. She was posher than Edith, even, the previous world record holder; Edith’s father was a doctor, but Nancy’s father was some sort of lord. He had a little castle somewhere in Northumberland and Nancy had gone to an expensive boarding school, before being expelled – for smoking during sex, she claimed. It was a line that she’d clearly used before, many times, but it still worked: not only did it get a laugh, but Tony noticed that Clive immediately started to fiddle with his packet of cigarettes. He didn’t offer Nancy one for a couple of minutes, though, in the hope that Sophie wouldn’t make the connection. (She did.)
Sophie was pin-up sexy, all legs and bosoms and blonde hair, but Nancy, who must have been ten years older, seemed to promise something darker and more dangerous. She also had a strange collection of filthy aphorisms, a parody of the kind of thing you might find in etiquette books: ‘A gentleman always lets a lady use the flannel first,’ for example. Or ‘A lady never uses her hands to put on a French letter.’ She wouldn’t have made a very good marriage guidance counsellor in real life, unless you went to her with a very specific set of marital problems. She was an excellent comic actress, though – Dennis had noticed her in a couple of the Brian Rix farces – and once they had made her do up a few buttons and tuck her artfully long, wavy dark hair up into a bun, she managed to convey the necessary gravitas. It was those rounded vowels they were after. Tony and Bill had, unusually for them, done a little research, and as far as they could tell, the ladies who worked for the Marriage Guidance Council were the bored private-school-educated wives of bishops, surgeons and captains of industry, and Marguerite would almost certainly go home every night to a nice house in Hampstead or Primrose Hill. Nancy was cut from a different cloth. Yes, one could imagine that she might have married a captain of industry once upon a time, but she would either have left him or, more likely, killed him within weeks of the wedding.
Tony and Bill rewrote their script when they understood how good Nancy was. In the first draft it took fifteen minutes to get Barbara and Jim into Marguerite’s office. They spent the first half of the script shouting and crying, before coming to the conclusion that they needed help. The misery was cut down to a couple of pages, and the show now started in the middle of a row which, it was suggested, had been going on for months – so that they could get to Nancy sooner.
And she brought the house down at the recording. She had the advantage of surprise, of course – nobody had come along expecting to see a three-hander. But the interplay between the characters seemed to give the show and the cast a whole new energy, and the theme attracted a lot of attention in the press. ‘No comedy show has ever attempted to deal with the subject of marital crisis, as far as this critic can recall,’ said The Times. ‘And with the shocking increase in the number of divorces since the turn of the decade, Barbara (and Jim) has become both timely and brave, while retaining its characteristic wit and charm. This is no mean feat.’
Tony found himself hoping that Marguerite was good at her job: the future welfare of his family was depending on her. Unfortunately, Marguerite could have been the best counsellor in the world, but she still wouldn’t have known what to do with Nancy.
Clive was rapidly coming to the conclusion that being engaged to somebody meant that he spent an awful lot of time not doing things he wanted to do. That, as far as he could tell, was the difference between having a fiancée and not having a fiancée. Curiously, he didn’t seem to spend very much time doing things he didn’t want to do. Sophie didn’t want to prepare for their wedding or introduce him to her friends and family. She didn’t have any friends that he didn’t already know and she tried to avoid all members of her family whenever possible. It was the not-doing that he felt restricted by. The silly thing was that if he’d sat down and tried to explain it to Sophie, she would have been sympathetic and practical: she was neither naive nor censorious. She would, however, have pointed out that this indicated a certain unpreparedness for married life, and she may well have suggested that they call off the engagement. Looked at from one angle, he could see this made sense. He enjoyed being engaged to Sophie, though. People seemed to like him more. As a consequence, he was keeping extracurricular activity down to the very bare minimum. To all intents and purposes, he had been entirely monogamous.
Nancy, however, his new colleague, was an entirely different, unambiguous and frequent proposition. He knew he had only himself to blame, but it was more or less entirely her fault: why was she trying so hard to seduce him? Why did she keep making those off-colour jokes in front of him? (Yes, she made them in front of the others too, but he couldn’t help feeling that they were aimed at him.) Why did she constantly make references to deviant sex and her familiarity therewith?
The first time he slept with the woman who was supposed to rescue his fictional marriage to the character played by his actual fiancée, it was to settle a bet with himself: he was convinced that Nancy was all talk, probably frigid, possibly even a virgin. Unfortunately, none of this proved to be the case. There was no talk, Nancy was molten rather than frigid, and if she was a virgin, then there was no sign of the nervousness or modesty that frequently accompanied first nights, in his experience. He had yet to meet a virgin who had asked, loudly and repeatedly, to … Anyway. The long and the short of it was that the sort of temptation Nancy had placed in his way could only be resisted with the sort of fortitude and heroism that he knew he did not possess. Her relentless lewdness, her dependency on alcohol and pills, and her repellent name-dropping were all bad news, of course, and she was possibly mad – once or twice, Clive had found himself wondering whether he could count on her to be as discreet as he needed her to be. But, like all bad news, you could put your hands over your eyes and ignore it easily enough if there was good news on the very next page.
18
Dennis’s heart sank when he saw the middle-aged woman looking imploringly at Sophie outside the stage door, on her own, away from the people waving autograph books. If he was lucky, he was going to get fifteen or twenty minutes alone with Sophie: the cab ride to Ming’s in Bayswater, the only restaurant they’d found in west London that was open on a Sunday night, and then however long it took Bill, Nancy and Clive to finish their drinks in the bar and join them. Sophie didn’t like hanging around after recordings much. She liked it even less now that Nancy was part of the team, with her low-cut dresses and her loud voice and her off-colour jokes that made Clive roar with laughter. For the previous two or three weeks, Dennis had been the one to lead her away.
It wasn’t as if he even knew what to do with the time he got with her. If Barbara (and Jim) lasted for another twenty or thirty series, then perhaps the accumulated professional chit-chat during cab rides and the silent perusals of Chinese restaurant menus might add up to something. Sophie would eventually realize that he’d been constant and patient and sensitive to her quiet post-recording introspection and tell him that she loved him. And by
that time the engagement with Clive would surely be over. If he were a betting man, he’d put ten bob on it being ended by Sophie hurling the ring at him before they got as far as the church; a marriage and a divorce would be the safe each-way punt.
He would be in his sixties when the thirtieth series started, and the twentieth century would be nearly over, but if he ate his greens and went on lots of long walks and gave up his pipe, he might be fit enough to consummate the marriage. And actually, he wouldn’t care if he couldn’t. He wouldn’t care about it in thirty years’ time, and he was pretty sure he didn’t care about it now. It wasn’t essential to his vision of their relationship anyway. Could he tell her that, perhaps? Just to break the ice? Could he tell her that he was prepared to share a bed with her for the rest of his life without ever straying over to her side? Or would she find that odd? He could sleep in the spare bedroom, if they had one. As long as he could eat breakfast with her every morning, he’d be happy.
But he was almost certain that the middle-aged woman was Sophie’s mother, the mother who’d walked out on her when she was only a child. She looked like Sophie, a little, around the eyes and the mouth. And she looked so nervous and so forlorn that it was hard to imagine any other circumstance or any other explanation. It was only her plainness that gave any room for doubt. You had to be glamorous, surely, to run off with a married man? And it went without saying that you had to be glamorous to be Sophie’s mother. Fifteen years was a long time in the life of a woman, though, when those fifteen years had been disappointing.
Ever since Sophie had told him the story of her childhood, he’d been waiting for this moment: that’s what happened to famous people. Long-lost parents turned up, looking for the reflected glory that they thought they deserved, and usually for money too. And how long was it all going to take, the apologies and the self-justification, the anger and the accusations? Dennis couldn’t see how they’d get through it in under ten minutes. His blissful, sacrosanct Sophie-time was under threat.
‘Hello,’ said Sophie. ‘I was wondering when you’d turn up.’
‘I’m sorry,’ her mother said. ‘I know this must be a shock. You don’t have to talk to me. I just wanted to see you.’
‘Weren’t you watching the show?’
‘Yes. I applied for tickets over and over again, but I haven’t been very lucky.’
‘Well, you saw me in there, then, didn’t you?’
‘I wanted to look at you and have you look back at me. That’s all.’
‘Shall I see you there, Sophie?’ said Dennis. ‘Give you some time?’
‘No, just hold on a sec,’ said Sophie.
‘Well,’ said Dennis gently, ‘I’m no expert in these things, but I’m not sure a sec is going to do the job.’
‘Hello,’ said Sophie’s mother. ‘I’m Barbara’s mother.’
‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘I’d rather guessed as much. I’m Dennis. I produce and direct Barbara (and Jim).’
He shook her hand.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Parker.’
‘I don’t suppose she is Mrs Parker, is she?’ said Sophie.
Dennis could feel her anger from feet away. He could have warmed his hands on it.
‘I think you’d be better off asking her,’ he said. ‘While she’s here.’
Sophie’s mother smiled gratefully at him.
‘I’m Mrs Balderstone,’ said Gloria.
‘You can’t be Mrs Balderstone,’ said Sophie. ‘You can be Mrs whatever-his-name-is, or Mrs Parker if you didn’t marry him, but you can’t stick Mrs in front of your maiden name.’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve done,’ said Gloria. ‘You can call me whatever you like.’
There was no aggression or even indifference in her voice. These were the words of a penitent, someone who had made a mess of several lives and was aware of it. Sophie felt the first pang of sympathy, but she squashed it.
‘You can’t call me whatever you like,’ she said. ‘I’m Sophie, and that’s that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gloria. ‘Even though I keep reading about Sophie this and Sophie that, I always think, Oh, there’s our Barbara again. Sophie will probably take me a while to get used to.’
‘You haven’t got a while,’ said Sophie.
‘We’re going to a Chinese restaurant in Bayswater to meet Clive and a couple of the others,’ said Dennis. ‘Ming’s. You don’t have to have Chinese food. They do steak and chips. Or omelette and chips. Maybe …’
‘You can recite the whole bloody menu and it wouldn’t make any difference,’ said Sophie. ‘She’s not coming with us.’
Sophie marched towards the waiting taxi without looking back. Dennis made an apologetic face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I had to try,’ said Gloria.
‘See you again, I hope,’ said Dennis, and he started to walk away. Almost immediately, however, he turned back. He was the last link between one world and another, and he had a duty to keep the two worlds connected for as long as possible. ‘Are you staying in London tonight, Gloria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell me where?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m staying at the Russell Square Guest House. It’s not in Russell Square, by the way.’
‘Ah.’ And then, when no further information was forthcoming, ‘Where is it, exactly?’
‘Oh. You’re very kind. Farringdon Road. I’m going home in the morning. I’ll be leaving at around 10.30.’
‘Right-o.’
Dennis realized that a home address might be useful too. Sophie’s rage was unlikely to have subsided by the morning.
‘And actually, where do you live? Will you write it all down?’
As she fumbled in her bag for a piece of paper, Sophie’s taxi drove away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gloria. ‘She’s gone without you.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Tell her that I don’t want anything,’ said Gloria.
‘I will.’
It was sincerely meant, but Dennis knew it couldn’t possibly be true.
He hailed a cab, and when he arrived at the restaurant he found Sophie sitting on her own. There was a God after all.
‘What were you talking to her about?’ she said.
‘Can I get a drink first?’
They stopped serving alcohol at ten o’clock on a Sunday and he wanted to get a couple of drinks down as quickly as possible. He’d been rattled by Gloria’s appearance, and the show had not gone very well. The cast had tried their best, and Nancy had tried too hard, but since Barbara and Jim had begun using the services of a marriage guidance counsellor, the jokes seemed to have been pushed out to the edge of the script. He ordered a bottle of beer and a glass of wine, and drank the beer before answering Sophie’s question.
‘I asked her where she lived.’
‘What did you do that for?’
‘In case it came in handy.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘She lives in Morecambe.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe you should ask her yourself. I didn’t know that living in Morecambe required an explanation.’
‘After all that fuss, she’s a few miles up the coast.’
Dennis was about to point out, flippantly, that Morecambe’s proximity to Blackpool seemed like an odd detail to get snagged on, but he stopped himself just in time when he worked out why it had seemed remarkable. Clearly, Dennis had never thought about it much before, but on the whole mothers tended not to dump their children and disappear off with colleagues, never to be seen again. Sophie must have spent a lot of her younger life in a perpetual state of shame and humiliation. Gloria should be living somewhere a long, long way away, somewhere unimaginable, Patagonia or Tasmania.
‘What’s she doing in London anyway?’
‘I’m presuming that she came to see you.’
‘Well, I’m not going all the way to bloody Morecambe,’ said Sophie.
‘You don’t have to,’ said Dennis. ‘I know where she’s staying.’
‘Oh, hell,’ said Sophie. ‘What should I do?’
‘Do what you want.’
‘You think I should go. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone back.’
‘No, that’s not what I think. I wanted you to have the choice. I didn’t want you sitting here all agonized because you’d made a mistake.’
‘That was it,’ said Sophie.
‘That was what?’
‘I’ve just realized. That was it, and I missed it, because I was too angry. That was what it was all about, right from the beginning. I wanted to make myself so famous that my mother would read about me in the paper or see me on the telly and come and find me.’
‘And then what?’
‘I’d tell her to bugger off.’
‘There you are. You’ve done it all.’
‘But I missed it. Because I was too angry. I didn’t notice it was happening.’
‘Well, I suppose that was always likely to happen, in the circumstances.’
‘So now what?’
‘It all depends on whether you have any use for a clearly rather pathetic and very remorseful middle-aged lady who used to be your mother.’
‘I don’t, really.’
‘Do you want an apology? Because she seemed to me like a woman who wanted to offer one.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ Sophie said. ‘I do, I think.’ And then, ‘Thank you.’
Clive, Nancy and Bill turned up, tipsy and loud and stupid. Nancy immediately launched into a story about a friend of hers who had performed a sexual act on a former government minister in a box at the Royal Opera House. She seemed to have a suspiciously large number of friends who got up to that kind of thing, Dennis had noticed, and yet the stories always seemed to contain detail that friends would never have provided. Clive also seemed to have taken the view that they were all thinly disguised autobiography, and as a consequence he always listened with rapt, gleeful attention, like a small boy sat cross-legged in front of the family radiogram during Dick Barton.
‘Could you take me home?’ Sophie said to Dennis quietly, amidst the gasps of shock and the roars of laughter.