Funny Girl(20)

At which point Sophie walked in. She had Gaye Gambol’s wasp waist, large bust, blonde hair and big, fluttery eyelashes, and Tony and Bill burst out laughing.

Sophie and Clive ended up performing the script from beginning to end, mostly because Tony and Bill wanted to keep Sophie in the room. They loved her. She delivered her lines with an ease and a sense of timing that had been beyond the reach of every other actress they’d seen that week, and she even got a few laughs out of the script, much to Clive’s chagrin, although some of the laughs were derived from her decision to read Cicely in her Jean Metcalfe voice. Sophie smiled politely at a couple of his lines, but that was the most she could manage.



‘That’s not fair,’ said Clive.

‘What isn’t?’ said Bill.

‘You might at least have pretended to laugh. I have been reading the bloody thing all bloody day.’

‘The thing is,’ said Bill, ‘you hate comedy.’

‘He does,’ Tony said to Sophie. ‘He’s always moaning about it. He wants to do Shakesper-hear and Lawrence of Arabia.’

‘Just because it’s not my favourite thing doesn’t mean I don’t want laughs,’ said Clive. ‘I hate the dentist, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want fillings.’

‘Nobody wants fillings,’ Tony said.

‘No, but … if they need them.’

‘So laughs are like fillings to you?’ said Bill. ‘Painful and unpleasant, but necessary? What a bundle of joy you are.’

‘You’re good at comedy, though,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re very funny as Captain Smythe.’

‘He hates Captain Smythe,’ said Tony.

‘Well, forgive me if I’d rather play Hamlet than some twittish upper-class ass.’

‘Sophie, what would you like to do?’ said Tony.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘What character would you like to play?’

‘Well,’ said Sophie uncertainly, ‘Cicely, really.’

‘No,’ said Tony. ‘Cicely’s dead. Gone. Chucked out of the window.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Clive.

‘What?’ said Bill.

‘You’re offering to write something for her?’

‘We’re just chewing the fat.’

‘You are. You’re offering to write something for her. Bloody hell. You’ve never asked me what I want to do. You just say, “Here’s an upper-class twit with a silly voice. Make him funny.” ’

‘Because you’ve made it very clear that you’re destined for better things,’ said Bill.

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind having my own series.’

‘Oh, that would dull some of the pain, would it?’

‘Yes. It would, rather.’

‘You see, we can’t even tell if you’re joking,’ said Tony.

‘Which is why we’re not rushing to write you your own comedy series,’ said Bill.

‘Where are you from, Sophie?’ said Dennis.

‘I’m from Blackpool.’

‘You see, that’s interesting,’ said Dennis.

‘Is it?’ Sophie was genuinely surprised.

‘Coming from Blackpool is more interesting than being a vicar’s daughter.’

‘Couldn’t she be a vicar’s daughter from Blackpool?’ said Tony.

‘She’s no vicar’s daughter,’ said Clive.

‘I’m assuming that’s rude,’ said Sophie.

There was something in the room, Dennis thought. It had been a long day, with unsuitable actresses reading from a very average script, but Sophie had energized everyone, and she and Clive were sparky with each other.

‘What’s interesting about her coming from Blackpool anyway?’ said Bill.

‘There hasn’t been a North–South romance in a comedy series that I know of.’

‘Would anyone buy it, though?’ said Clive.

‘It’s an odd-couple romance. That would be the fun of it.’

‘Stone me, Dennis,’ said Bill. ‘Two people coming from different parts of the country means they’re an odd couple?’

‘He thinks anyone’s odd who hasn’t been to Cambridge.’

Dennis looked momentarily embarrassed.

‘I take your point. Their geographical roots would form only a small part of their incompatibility. When did you first meet someone from London, Sophie?’