Funny Girl(74)

Edith’s true opposite was a quick-witted, unpretentious, high-spirited, funny, curvy, clever, beautiful blonde. Dennis had been in love with Sophie for far longer than he would ever admit, but it had only occurred to him relatively recently, probably because of this plague of anti-Ediths that was being visited upon him, that every single one of the qualities that he worshipped in Sophie was absent in his former wife. Maybe he was being unfair and she’d changed since he’d last seen her, but he doubted it. It was hard to imagine that Vernon Whitfield had brought out Edith’s previously buried fun-loving side.

He wasn’t, as far as he could tell, Sophie’s type. Both Clive and Maurice were what one might call conventionally good-looking, if you were prepared to overlook Clive’s rugger nose and Maurice’s deranged smile. They were also famous, and though Sophie would be horrified by the implication of the observation, he knew to his cost that it made a difference. Maybe Edith had gone off with Vernon Whitfield because of his mind, but if that mind had been buried deep in some dusty varsity history department, then she might have decided that it was best enjoyed in the pages of the Times Literary Supplement rather than in bed.

Dennis had been working on the assumption that it was best to suffer in silence. A declaration of love would almost certainly be met by embarrassment and, if he was lucky, a little speech about how lovely he was, how much she valued his friendship and professional support. And anyway, what kind of producer would risk damaging his relationship with his leading lady and possibly, if Sophie were indiscreet, his leading man, by confessing a devotion that might well be a direct result of recent psychological trauma anyway?

He was finding it increasingly hard to keep it bottled up, however. That wasn’t the point of love, in his opinion. Love meant being brave, otherwise you had already lost your own argument: the man who couldn’t tell a woman he loved her was, by definition, not worthy of her. He had finally decided that he had to say something when Clive and Sophie announced their engagement.

They told everyone on the first day of rehearsals for ‘The Arrival’, right at the end of the read-through. The last couple of pages of the script, written by Tony in anticipation of his own emotional state, were serious, shot through with love and tenderness, and clearly the happy couple had been so overcome that they could no longer keep the news to themselves. The audience for the announcement included Sandra, the rather difficult and unlikeable actress that Dennis had cast as the midwife. Sandra was the first to speak; Tony, Bill and Dennis merely gaped in disbelief and, in Dennis’s case, misery.

‘That’s marvellous news,’ said Sandra. ‘I’m so happy I was here for it.’

‘We didn’t know you were going to be here for it, to be honest.’

‘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.’