Funny Girl(89)

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 …’