Funny Girl(35)

‘It wasn’t really what I was looking for, so I said no.’

‘You mean it was work?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said his mother. ‘He’s always looking for work.’

‘Hasn’t he just found some? And turned it down?’

‘It doesn’t sound as though that’s what happened,’ said his mother.

Sometimes, Clive didn’t know which parent irritated him more. His mother’s blind devotion could be every bit as dispiriting as his father’s scorn; he was patronized either way. He decided, perversely, to turn on his mother.

‘Were you even listening? That’s exactly what happened. We made the Comedy Playhouse, it went all right, they offered me sixteen episodes, I didn’t like the part.’

‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything,’ said his father.

Clive groaned.

‘I thought that’s what you did believe? And you accused me of being work-shy? I was backing you up!’

‘You hadn’t told us the full story. The full story is not believable.’

‘Why not?’

‘Nobody’s going to offer you sixteen episodes on television.’

‘They just did!’

‘And you turned it down. Now what?’

‘I may end up going to the United States.’

‘Oh, Clive,’ said Cathy. ‘America?’

Clive’s imaginary plans seemed to be driving a distressing hole through their imaginary relationship.

‘Yes,’ said Clive.

His father put down his knife and fork and rubbed his hands.

‘What?’ said Clive.

‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

‘Why?’

‘Because whatever you’re about to say will be both amusing and untrue.’

‘God, Dad. You’re a monster.’

He tried to think of a lie that wouldn’t make his father laugh.

‘I’ve been offered something in The Virginian.’

‘The Virginian,’ his father said flatly. ‘The Western serial.’

‘Yes,’ said Clive. ‘It’s not much, but it might be rather fun.’

‘And do they know you cried when a horse came too close to you in Norfolk?’

‘Yes. I told them. They wanted me anyway.’

‘The Virginian!’ said his father. He was pretending to wipe tears of mirth away with his napkin. ‘So this might be the last time we see you for a while?’

‘Oh, Clive,’ said Cathy.

‘Unless I take the other thing,’ said Clive.

‘What other thing?’

‘The BBC comedy series.’

‘Oh, we’re still pretending that exists?’ said his father.

Clive was tempted to move to America and beg for the chance to play a cowboy, or even a cow, just to prove his father wrong. But then it occurred to him that there was an easier way of proving his father wrong, while at the same time earning a living at the only thing he was capable of doing.

He got Monty to phone Dennis the next day. The brackets were staying, the money had gone down and Clive had a job.

Sophie’s first-ever press interview was for a new magazine called Crush. The journalist had asked if she could do it in Sophie’s home, but as she was still living with Marjorie, Brian didn’t think it was a very good idea and told her to come to his office. She’d bought a new skirt for it, as short as she could find, and a new pair of shoes, and when Brian saw her, he shook his head and tutted, and reminded her that he was a very happily married man, as if she had made an improper suggestion.

When Diane from Crush arrived, Brian showed them into a spare room that had become a repository for broken furniture and old accounts, and they had to sit side by side on a dusty old brown sofa. For the first few minutes of the conversation, Sophie was distracted by a box file which was labelled ‘ARTHUR ASKEY 1935–7’.

‘Do they always make you come in here?’ said Diane.

Diane looked like someone from a pop programme on TV. She had long, dark hair, white boots and no bust. She was as skinny as Sophie’s twelve-year-old cousin.

‘Why would they make me come in here?’ said Sophie.

‘For interviews.’

‘Oh. No. I’ve never done one before.’

‘Gosh,’ said Diane. ‘Well, it’ll be painless. Have you seen Crush? It’s for girls. We just want to know what you wear and who your boyfriend is and what you cook for him.’