The Season To Be Jolly

Episode 14: The Season To Be Jolly

    According to Aunty Kate, the geese are getting fat. Well, they had them down the market nearest the flat when she went with Mrs Singh. Though she doesn’t think that stall’s very hygienic: Doris knows a nice shop that’ll be sure to have them. Uh, didn’t Miss Hammersley say something about geese being very, very fatty, something about Daddy being very fond of his Christmas goose but Mummy— Ooh, yes, and come to think of it—it’s all come back to me in a sort of horrible smothering cloud—that was goose we had last Chrissie in Washington immured in the house of the British Ambassador whose wife turned out to be, ya couldn’t of guessed, a rellie of Lady Mother’s. Though her cook does it rather well, quote unquote. Yeah, some of us did reflect it was bloody tactless not eating the national bird, but then, on the other hand, there were no Americans at Lady Norwich’s Yuletide board. Pronounced Norrish, youse yobs never guessed that, didja?

    “Um, yeah, actually me and John had goose last Chrissie, Aunty Kate.”

    “In America?”

    “You may well gasp.”

    “Don’t be silly, Rosie! And don’t call it Chrissie, for Heaven’s sake!” –What did my parents waste all that money sending me to a nice school for: yep. Also: Nobody over here will understand it’s only my way. She’s right, there. But gee, nobody back home ever understood I was taking the Mick, either, because guess what? The usage was native to them.

    Yeah, I am still in a bloody bad mood, actually. Coming up to town hasn’t helped but I’m not saying staying down at the cottage would of, either, though it would of stopped her deciding that since John can’t be here she will accompany me to bloody Derry Dawlish’s bloody pre-Christmas thing. (Greg let it out to her, the feebleized wanker that he is.) And of course I have to go to the Henny Penny Christmas party, what can I be thinking of?

    Largely I’m thinking that I’d rather sit at home and be miserable, since my hubby’s plonked out somewhere at sea—her and me had a fight over whether it was really the Persian Gulf or just a bit of the Indian Ocean—and only Terence Haworth has so far claimed, I’m not saying with anything approaching credibility, that Dauntless and the other longer-serving crews may—note may—be home for Christmas. Terence himself was actually very much overdue for leave, his sub had been out there for, cough, never mind, so that’s why they came home. So any time you see a pic of something shooting a HUGE missile, Rupy says I'm an idiot and they’re not missiles, from under the sea on the TV news, that’s not him. Unless it’s an old pic they’re recycling. Oh, and if ya wanna know, Corky came home because he’d been at sea for yonks, because of filling in for John all that time, but I’m not blaming you if ya don’t wanna know. And Terence thinks he, Corky, may be due for a new posting, possibly a command of his own. Fingers crossed, eh?

    Actually I don’t mind being in London for Christmas, it’s fun, with all the shops busy and the Christmas decorations and of course, Della’s Dance Studio’s Christmas show. Thank God having Baby Bunting has given me a really good excuse not to be in it this year. Because last year was more than enough for several lifetimes—more than. What with having to do the “Sisters” number from White Christmas with Gray in blue princess-length— Have I mentioned it before? What, me? Surely not. All right, I probably have, and that’s because the iron entered into my soul, see?

    Later. They are missiles, Miss Hammersley has explained to me that Rupy’s confused, he thinks that unless they’re nuclear, they’re not missiles.—Gee, does he? I’d say he isn’t alone in the year 2001 in thinking that, actually.—She’s staying in London for Christmas this year, since dear Kenneth will be on duty. Though not on Christmas Day, no. (Admiral Sir Kenneth Hammersley doesn’t share the flat with her but he does see a fair bit of her, he’s a civilised brother. It’s either their generation or the class thing or both.) And there will probably be some good news in the New Year’s Honours List! Dumb Rosie doesn’t get it so she explains he’s gonna get a knighthood. (They call it getting his K if your family’s like theirs.) Aunty Kate’s all excited, no mention is made of we don’t have them any more. No, we don’t, honest. You get the, uh, Order of Australia, I think it is. …Ugh, does this mean if John makes admiral, one day he’ll… Shit.

    Aunty Kate’s making plans to join up with them, God knows if Miss Hammersley wants us. I’m not arguing, you can’t argue with Aunty Kate McHale.

    The day of Della’s Dance Studio’s Christmas show has rolled round, at first one of us was thinking we might be let off the hook—make that, all of us were thinking we might be the one to be let off the hook, with luck—because someone has to baby-sit Baby Bunting. But no, Aunty June rings up and offers eagerly. (Dad’s sister—my cousin Joanie’s mum, okay? Has previously provided several smart bought knitted suits? No, all right, every excuse for not recalling them, amongst the thousands.) Producing Baby Bunting and living quietly in the country for several months, well, semi-quietly given our sociological survey and the mountains of correlation and analysis it’s now let us in for, does not mean the media has forgotten about me. Or let the public do so. In fact Henny Penny Productions has supplied several lovely shots of Lily Rose and infant to the media, even though it’s my real infant, it’s not the infant I may putatively produce with Rupy in the series, and in the series the wedding is only just due to air: the Christmas Special, right? And, talking of knitted sets, the knitted and/or crocheted sets are still coming in, and still being parcelled up for Oxfam and so forth. So when Barbara rings up sounding awkward and says she’s awfully sorry, but Timothy (her boss in PR) scheduled it behind her back, it’s no surprise to learn that the Press will be present at Della’s show and I will be expected to wear the appropriate garments. Gee, and I was gonna wear my grungiest old black tracksuit pants, the ones I wore in the evenings during that pretty disastrous stint filming at Eddyvane Hall, yep, them tracksuit pants, and my old, old daggy black sweater that dates back to my first year at uni—

    “Very funny,” she says sourly.

    So I bite the lip and ask her, without hope, if she’s heard from her nice Jimmy Parkinson, who is, you may not recall, at sea with John.

    “No,” she says, swallowing. “Um, sorry if I sounded ratty.”

    Her? She wouldn’t know the meaning of the word! “No, I did, I’m sorry, Barbara. I haven’t heard from John, either; I’m afraid they won’t be back for Christmas.”

    “No,” she agrees wanly. “His parents want me to go to them this year, but I don’t think… Well, I mean, we went last year, so I’ll have to go home this year.”

    “Yes, of course. Well, do you wanna come round and check out the wardrobe?”

    She does, yes. In other words, Timothy’s ordered her to.

    Of course Rupy is completely capable of choosing something entirely suitable for me, and tells her so, the minute she gets here.

    “No,” the poor girl says, blushing horribly, “it has to be something sweet with a hint of, um, the matronly, Rupy.”

    “What?” he screams.

    “Just a hint, Brian told Timothy,” she mutters.

    “After that pink sequinned thing he had her crammed into at that night-club appearance?” he screams.

    “Shut up, Rupy, this is Show Biz, whoever expected it to be logical? –Go on, Barbara, choose something.”

    “He said the brown fur coat that you wear in the entrance hall scene in the Christmas Special.”

    “What?” he screams. “I was going to wear that!”

    “Um, were you? Um, sorry, Rupy. Um, actually Brian said he hoped, in view of the marriage to the Daughter, that you won’t, um, camp it up tonight,” she says miserably.

    “Hah, hah, hah! Now you’ll see what it’s like!” I crow.

    “Oh, pooh, I’ve been making public appearances all my life.”

    Right. He’s also been out of the closet all his life, he really doesn’t have a notion what it’s like to make a public appearance as someone you’re not.

    So we get into our outfits. Most of the audience will be in anoraks or crushed raincoats, Della’s Dance Studio is very much not West End, but this doesn’t weigh with a Henny Penny PR Person with the light of Duty in her eye. She’s sorry, Rupy (not aggressive, but very firm: she’s very good at her job), but that eyeliner won’t do. Not even a touch, no. Meekly he goes and takes it off.

    Not the pale blue frilly dress, Rosie, it is sweet, but it’s based on the one Marilyn wore for the big song and dance number with Frankie Howerd and Yves Montand in Let’s Make Love, it’s got the wrong connotations. I think she’s just proved that no-one of this generation remembers that film at all clearly, far from being able to pick up any connotations, but I don’t point this out, I just correct her mildly, over Aunty Kate’s choking fit: “Frankie Vaughan.”

    Miss Hammersley’s genuine Fifties full-length pale pink satin is lovely, yes, but not quite right (very kind), and everyone’s seen me in it on Parkinson. Where’s that little white cardigan that John liked me in in Series Two? Rupy points out he liked me in everything in every episode and gets told kindly but firmly that that lovely pale peppermint combo won’t do. He retires to his room, discomforted. Aunty Kate’s found the little white angora cardy. I thought that was for day wear? Added to which, won’t it of got a bit tight in the intervening two years since I wore it? (Don’t say any of it.) That’s it! Ideal! And the full-length deep rose taffeta skirt I wore last time I was on Parkinson, the one Daughter wears at the Yacht Club with the little frilled pale pink gauze top, Rosie. I venture that the top’s sweetly pretty, but it gets the thumbs down. So she gets me into it all. Blimey O’Reilly, sweet and then some. Dunno where the matronly bit comes into it, though—unless it’s the way my tits are bulging out of the fuzzy angora? Specially now that she’s unbuttoned it to there. Right, thought the sleeves were gonna get pushed up in the very Fifties three-quarters look. Oh, I can wear them pale pink bobbles of Henny Penny’s in the ears, can I? Thought I could, yeah. Now she produces the finishing touch, Dinah sent it over. Oh, well, in that case I’ll have to wear it, won’t I? Um, ’scuse me, t’isn’t the same shade of pink— No, Rosie, but that Look’s very Fifties, kind but firm again. So she ties the wide pink sash round my waist, is that taffeta too? Watered silk! her and Aunty Kate both gasp. All right, watered silk, beg ya pardon. Yeah, ace. (Why’s the bow at the front? –Don’t ask.)

    Rupy comes out of his room looking chastened in a severe black dinner suit and a very severe narrow black bow tie. Yes, lovely, removing the pale green artificial rosebud from the lapel. She’s got something for him! He doesn’t brighten. And for me! I don’t react at all. His is a red carnation, ya couldn’t of guessed, and he doesn’t even mention he owns a lovely red cummerbund, she’s got him so cowed. Mine’s a huge frilly white orchid, has Brian been counting them overseas royalties again? It only needs a puce centre to be a dead ringer for the ones the teenage bridesmaids carried at Lily Rose’s Wedding To Her Captain The Real Thing. And when we get there and I take my fur coat off, it has to be transferred to the shoulder of the— Does it, just? In that case she can come, too, we’ve got a spare ticket because Guess Who can’t make it? –No? Lemme give you a clue. Persian Gulf.

    Barbara demurs, she’s only in the suit she wore to the office.

    “Right, and the audience’ll be in anoraks or crushed raincoats. Or did you have something else planned?”

    She didn’t, serve her right. So we take all our finery off again, and sit down and have dinner. And get into it again, and here’s Aunty June, so we’re— Not off, I did forget to slather myself in ground-up sperm whales and flower essences, yeah. Never mind where the whales come into it, Rupy! Barbara comes into my room with me, doesn’t she trust me?—Don’t answer that.—She picks up the big spray of Chanel Number 5.

    “John gave me that, the deluded clot.”

    “Um, it’s lovely, Rosie.”

    “Yeah. The deluded refers to the number of big bucks it set him back. If ya don’t mind, I won’t wear it tonight.”

    “Um, no,” she says in a strangled voice. She picks up something else blindly. “Um, this?”

    It’s “Lily Rose”, the perfume. The quotes are part of the name, yeah. Well, you may not have noticed but they do appear regularly in the ads and if ya look closely they’re on the bottles, too. You thought it was just dim Ad Speak, didja? Good on ya. I let her squirt me with it and we go back into the sitting-dining room.

    “Are we going, or not?”

    We’re going.

    The flashbulbs pop and flash. “Lily Rose! Lily Rose! Over here, dear! Show us the teeth! Show us the tits! Lean on Rupy’s arm—That’s right, dear! Show us the—” Etcetera. It’s like all photo ops: give them what they want and they retire, satisfied. Well, dunno if they were entirely satisfied that Della in person, sixtyish, magenta-lippied like Dame Edna, moulded into excruciatingly tight emerald satin with the mountainous back-combing newly dyed pale orange, pushed into every shot at my Rupy-less side while Aunty Kate, in her new royal blue Thai silk evening dress, freshly yellow-rinsed and hairsprayed into total immobility, hung grimly on Rupy’s free arm in every shot. Too bad, they can lump it.

    Our seats are in the second row. Arthur Morrissey in person’s on the door, and shows us into them, beaming. Yep, the rest of the audience is in anoraks or crushed raincoats, all right. Some people might feel a trifle conspicuous because of this, as we progress down the aisle. Possibly Miss Hammersley and Miss Winslow do, even though they themselves are only in their good winter coats and hats, but it’s fair to say the rest of us are either so used to it that it flows off us like water off a duck’s, or so puffed up at being with the celebs, in the case of one— Never mind. I can never repay her for coming over to be with me when I had Baby Bunting, and if she wants to get gussied up in full evening regalia for Della’s Chrissie show, let her.

    Gee, Arthur only has to chase out half a dozen ballet mums that have ignored the big “Reserved” signs he’d put on our seats. Eh? Of course we won’t mind if Mrs Morrissey comes and sits with us, in fact what’s he on about, we were expecting her to— He’s convinced and she comes and sits down with the knitting. Dark green, a very lacy pattern, it’s a jumper for their Maureen. Aunty Kate supposes it’s a pattern from the English Woman’s Weekly? That’s right! This can’t be good news after all, because Aunty Kate sighs heavily. It’s not as hard as it looks, dear. No, but the thing is, in Australia we don’t have the same size needles. (EH? Like, I knew the egg grading scheme was different— Forget it, I already knew humanity was mad.)

    As if to prove it, Della’s cast poor Vanessa as the Christmas tree! Yeah, she does tap a bit and wave her arms, um, branches, but heck, most of the time she just stands there, why didn’t Della let poor old Arthur do it and be done with it? He loved being the Christmas pud, last year. During the first interval Mrs Morrissey explains that Vanessa’s taller than Arthur. Uh—right. She would be, yeah.

    The show goes exactly as we’d expected, like, somebody’s tape jams in the middle of their number, somebody else trips over her feet, a very small somebody else falls over his partner’s feet and retires to the wings sobbing, and the curtain jams innumerable times. And on one glorious occasion it swings apart too early, catching a small, struggling male tapper’s bum being jammed into his tights by his Mum while a rather stout but still small female tapper’s Mum zips her skirt up fiercely, catching a hunk of flesh in the zipper, complete with the screech of pain. Three Christmas pierrots’ tall, pointed hats fall off in the middle of their big number but we’re not surprised, we already had the intel that those hats were a mistake.

    At the conclusion of the final big set-piece the curtains close to a roar of applause, and everybody takes a bow, and the principals from that number take a bow, and Della, Gray and Joelle, the ballet teacher, take a bow, beaming, and finally Della takes another bow by herself, and the audience, which had already started chanting some time earlier in the sequence of bows, is now positively bellowing: “Lil-y Rose! Lil-y Rose! Lil-y Rose!” And starting to stamp. And Gray helpfully comes to the side of the stage and swings the big spot that they used in the spectacular Christmas Circus number and the spectacular Moonlight Serenade number and the spectacular Volga Boatmen number and the spectacular Christmas Tribute To Our Gallant Men & Women In The Forces number on me. (Hired; they had to get their money’s worth out of it.)

    Well, blast! All right, Aunty Kate, they want me to do a number for them, I do realise that, yes! (Don’t say it, haven’t got a death wish. Not quite.) All right, Rupy, I’ll have to! (Don’t say it: no point.) Yes, Barbara, doubtless Brian would like me to do a number for them, all publicity is good publicity, even though this lot are already dedicated watchers of The Captain’s Daugh—I’m not gonna bother to say it. I’m going. I get up to a roar of applause, and Arthur comes shooting down the aisle and shows me up onto the stage like I haven’t already done two shows for Della in this old bingo hall, pardon me, theatre. Rupy comes too, whether or not Arthur was expecting him to.

    “Lil-y Rose! Lil-y Rose! Lil-y Rose! Lol-li-pop! Lol-li-pop! Lol-li-pop!”

    In the wings Della comes up to me with a silly grin on her mug. “I’d really rather you didn’t do The Good Ship Lollipop, Rosie.”

    “So would I, Della. Specially in this long skirt.”

    “Some of them are yelling ‘Daddy’,” notes Arthur helpfully.

    Della winces. Gee, doesn’t she want my famous X-rated version of My Heart Belongs To Daddy? Oh, it wasn’t like that on Parkinson? No, ya right, it wasn’t, Brian would have killed me. But it sure as Hell was like that at the Chipping Ditter Festival 2000 that me and Rupy and Gray performed at, and a few venues in between. And Gray, we’ve long since had the intel, has shown Della and the entire Dance Studio, with the possible exception of the real littlies, exactly what it was like.

    Gray comes over to us, grinning. “Before we’re all deafened, Rosie, dear, what about Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend?”

    “None of them are yelling that,” Arthur notes dubiously.

    “Shut up, Arthur, nobody asked you,” says Della grimly. “It would be very appropriate, but I hope you’re not envisaging supporting her in that, Gray?”

    Gray’s in his costume for the last number. I know he’s officially a teacher, but heck, they gotta have something on the stage that can actually dance, don’t they? Added to which it’s beyond human capacity to keep him off it. Given that the number was the spectacular Christmas Carol Spectacular he’s got up as the (very dancy) Ghost of Christmas Present in a flowing shiny green robe not long enough to trip him up, decorated with boughs of holly and wreaths of fur and twinkling gold thingos and God knows what, open over shiny sequinned green tights and a shiny sequinned red, um, singlet is the only way to describe it, there’s very little of it. With a huge wreath, mixed fur and holly, on the wig of exuberant chestnut curls, and huge twinkly gold things in the ears. He offers to dash and get into his uniform! (From the spectacular Christmas Tribute To Our Gallant Men & Women In The Forces number, right.)

    Vanessa was back in her Christmas-tree costume for the last number so she sidles over to us, sort of crab-wise, and hoots: “They’re getting very impatient, dears!”

    Yeah, we can hear that. “Um, haven’t you got a dinner suit, Gray?”

    “Not with me, Rosie, no.” He squints at me. “What’s the matter, darling?”

    Scowl. “Nothing.”

    Rupy takes a deep breath. “Gray, you total prat, you are not going to appear next to her in full Royal Naval captain’s paraphernalia when John’s in the Persian Gulf!”

    Poor Gray’s horribly overcome, so I say quickly: “It’s all right, Gray, of course you can. Most of the time he wears his big Navy jumper with the little leather bits on the shoulders, anyway.”

    Rupy’s put his arm round me. “No,” he mouths at Gray. “Rosie, dear, what say you give them something light and frothy to start with, then Gray and me’ll support you in Diamonds, and then we can do our special White Christmas.”

    Like, Brian’s got us doing it in the Christmas Special, heads framed mistily together by a window, against a misty background of sprayed-on snowflakes and very fake enlarged snow crystals. I wear very pale blue fluff with just a few snowflakes lingering on the tips of the fluff and of the adorably just-ruffled gold curls (laminated in place with the giant hairspray bomb, yep) and Rupy looks very manly and supportive in his Commander’s uniform jacket, why he’s wearing it in the house at Christmas holiday time not explained. Actually it goes quite well as a duet.

    “Um, Rupy, pre-empting the Christmas Special?”

    “Yes,” he says, his pleasant mouth firming, “and what’s more I’ll tell them so, it’ll go over a treat. Now, what’ll you start with, dear?”

    “Que Sera, Sera,” suggests Vanessa.

    “Um, do you like it, Vanessa?”

    She tries to nod, I think, but all that happens is that the star on the tip of the Christmas tree trembles slightly. “Love it, dear.”

    “Okay, why not?” I go on and hold up my hand for silence. Then I hold up both hands. Then I laugh and put both hands over my ears. Oh, well, it’s giving Gray time to change out of the sequins. Finally I can gasp: “Thank you! It’s lovely to be here with you all again!”—Frenzied applause. Some of the dads and uncles actually stand up and bellow: “Knickers!” It’s not an insult, it’s a reference to my version of The Good Ship Lollipop.—“I can’t do The Good Ship Lollipop for you in this frock, I’m afraid.”—Frenzied booing and cat-calling.—“I’m going to do a special request. You might have seen me do it in The Captain’s Daughter,”—plug for Brian’s show, right; it’s got so it’s automatic, I don’t even have to wonder where to insert it—“standing on the deck of the boat”—afraid that one was deliberate, there’s delighted laughter, because of the all the stress there’s been in the show on teaching Daughter the right seamanlike terminology—“at sunset.” Lovely smile. “Wondering who I’m going to marry, y’know?” Loud clapping, loud shouts of: “Euan Keel!” and: “Commander!” and, from the real wits: “Captain Haworth!”

    “Yes. Captain Haworth!” I’m afraid I salute at this point: sorry, John. I’m getting carried away, you see: get me out on stage in front of a live audience and I’m every bit as bad as Gray. No, worse, he’s a professional, I’m only in the Business by accident. “Anyway, it’s Que Sera, Sera, it’s for Vanessa”—somebody’s burst into tears in the wings, oops—“and Heather’s going to accompany me; thanks awfully, Heather.” Heather is Della’s usual accompanist, a mountainous presence in layers of woollies. She’s celebrated this evening’s show by taking out the curlers she usually wears and tying a blue and pink gauze scarf over the grey curls. She just nods and says: “Ready?”

    And I nod and launch into it. Well, take a deep breath, all wide-eyed and coo: “When I was just a little girl—” Doris Day, it ain’t. Nauseating, it is.

    They love it, even though most of them, apart from the older grandmas and granddads, can’t possibly be old enough to have seen Doris do it when the film first came out. Either film: Mum reckons it wasn’t just The Man Who Knew Too Much, she did it in another film, too, only she can’t remember its name. Make that any film: Aunty Allyson reckons she did it in two other films only she can’t remember their names.

    The curtain wobbles uncertainly and then closes over the applause and I discover that Gray’s in tennis shoes (no, truly, not sneakers) and grey flannels with an old school tie used as a belt and an open-necked white shirt, and Rupy’s taken his dinner jacket off and let his bow tie dangle, and found a long cigarette holder. Jade. Well, pale green. All right, we’ll do the pansy’s friend’s version of Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend. Fortunately none of this audience will consciously realise that’s what it is, though I’m not kidding myself their instincts will be mistaken. After Barbara told him not to camp it up, too! Oh, well, he’s doing his best. We originally did it in the show with full chorus of uniformed young officers, but Rupy, Gray and me have worked up a three-person version. So they’ll be fine. Let’s just hope I can remember the moves.

    So we take up our positions and the curtain swishes, um, wavers back, and there’s a roar of applause, and Heather bashes the shit out of the old upright and we’re off! Fortunately none of us is kidding ourselves it’s even a fraction as good as Marilyn’s version but the audience laps it up anyway.

    They’re still yelling “Lollipop” and “Daddy”, in fact they’re yelling “Dad-dee, Dad-DEE!” but I’m not gonna be persuaded, it takes too much oomph. Then Gray has a total inspiration: he’ll do it for me! He’ll borrow one of Vanessa’s wigs and just slip into my skirt—

    “No,” says Della with horrible finality.

    “It would be a laugh,” I admit wistfully.

    “Yes! Aw, come on, Della, ducks—”

    “No. Not on my stage. And don’t call me ducks. I’ll announce the next number.” Grimly she stalks on. While she’s waiting for the amateur helper in charge of the curtain to sort it out I squeeze Gray’s hand and hiss: “Never mind! Come to Derry Dawlish’s Chrissie thing and do it there, instead.”

    “Really?” he hisses, while horror fights delight on Rupy’s face.

    I just have time to nod madly before Della’s announcing firmly that the final number will be Lily Rose Rayne and Rupert Maynarde singing White Christmas, not neglecting to stress the fact that it’s the première performance of the Captain’s Daughter version, and we’re on. Just as well Rupy’s got perfect pitch and Heather knows her stuff, that first line’s a pig to get right. No? All right, you try it. There was more to old Bing than ya mighta thunk.

    It goes over a real treat, and there’s not a dry eye in the house. They are yelling and clapping, but given that when Della’s announced something firmly no-one’s gonna believe the contrary, that really is It for the night, and the curtain at last wavers closed and stays closed. Phew!

    Of course, that isn’t It for us, we have to go and celebrate. Only to the local pub, Della’s pupils aren’t into the glitzy club scene. Or even the tawdry club scene. Well, not most of them. After a bit some of the younger ones slide out, abandoning their mums and aunties, and in several cases their offspring. Oh, well, good on them, you’re only young once. But finally even Vanessa admits that she can’t face another Baby Cham and Len had better take her home and pour her into bed. Mrs Morrissey’s long since taken Arthur off: he was starting to get silly. Unquote. And with affectionate hugs and kisses, and reiterated thanks from Vanessa for the song, we all crawl home to bed.

    On the way both Rupy and Aunty Kate try to point out that Derry Dawlish’s horrible crowd will laugh at Gray doing My Heart Belongs To Daddy for the wrong reasons, but I already thought of that, see? So I explain that first I’m gonna do two nauseating numbers, probably including the rude version of The Good Ship Lollipop, and then he’s gonna come on for the third number. Rupy goes into hysterics, so even Aunty Kate has to admit that’d work. Adding weakly: “But will Mr Dawlish want you to sing, dear?”

    “Leave it out, Aunty Kate!”

    Rupy’s so stunned he’s stopped having hysterics: his mouth just sags open.

    “Oh,” she says feebly.

    Yes, oh.

    I don't have to be sweet but slightly matronly for Derry Dawlish’s bloody do, but Barbara phones anyway to check what I’m gonna wear. So I take the opportunity to ask has she seen Katie lately? No, being the answer. Haven’t I? No, actually. Um, she thinks Euan Keel’s been away, looking at locations with Mr Dawlish. Gee, does she? Funnily enough I’ve seen that publicity shot of Euan, D.D., and assorted blurred-out slaves and hangers-on in front of a Scottish castle complete with the castle’s owner (not Scottish) and D.D.’s latest girlfriend, not the same one he had last time I saw him. Blonde. Maybe he’ll cast her as the Daughter The Movie Version and let me off the hook? Barbara reports she isn’t an actress. Gee, has that stopped him in the past, Barbara? She means, she can’t act. Oh. Well, that might stop him. And, the Scottish castle owner’s hopes to the contrary, he won’t film any part of anything there: he’s done the Scotch thing. Barbara agrees. She doesn’t offer any explanation why Euan’s traipsing round Britain with D.D. instead of making up with Katie, though. Could this be because there isn’t any explanation, it’s merely Euan Keel all over?

    Barbara doesn’t think I ought to wear the lovely pale pink model dress I got off Miss Hammersley, in view of what Derry Dawlish’s parties can develop into, and in view of there’s only so much dry-cleaning can do. Right. Goddit. Black? I venture. Ye-es. Well, black’s not so In as it was a year or so back but— Goddit, three quarters of the moos there’ll be in it. Well, shit, I dunno, I’m hopeless at choosing clothes! (Also at the back of my mind is that it’s gotta be either something Gray can get into or something we can duplicate for him, because when he does the third Lily Rose number he’s gonna come on as me, geddit?) What can she suggest? (Look, don’t kid yourselves, folks, they’ll’ve already decided at Henny Penny.) Do I remember the long one that I wore back whenever? No-o… She reminds me laboriously of that scene in How To Marry A Millionaire when Marilyn has a date with the guy with the eye-patch. That dress was dark purple, for Chrissakes! Deep puce, she corrects me. All right, if you say so, Barbara, but Henny Penny’s never let me wear anything approaching— No, the style. Um, lemme think, Marilyn’s was definitely skin-tight, strapless, almost impossible to walk in… Oh, yeah, I do remember that dress, it was blue. Ice-blue, she corrects me firmly. Okay, if she says so. Didn’t that go back into stock, it wasn’t in the agreed percentage of Captain’s Daughter dresses that— I’m right, it did go back into stock but nevertheless they can make it available! –Very eager. Oh, go on, ya talked me into it. Wonderful, she’ll send Mike over with it. (Read, he’s already on his way.) Oh, well, Gray’ll love it.

    Mike not only turns up in the limo with the dress (and the matching shoes), he also turns up with the information that Brian says he has to drive me on the night. Make that me and Gray and Rupy and Aunty Kate, Mike. He thinks, grin, grin, the limo can manage that, and can he have a peek at Baby Bunting? Yeah, he can, so we go into my room and he has a gloat over the bassinet, favouring me with sundry details I’ve heard before, like, thought Baby Bunting’d never get here safely, thought John’d never get back in time for him, and blah, blah. Not favouring me with the intel that he rung up John in the States and told him I’d worked myself up into a state over the preggy, though, because he still fondly imagines that I don’t know.

    “Yeah. Hey, ya know that blonde wig they made for one of my doubles, back in, um, the second series, I think. Ya reckon they’d still have it?”

    “They never throw anything away. Why? Ya want me to nick it for you?” he says blandly.

    Yes, actually. “No, just wondered if I could borrow it.”

    He wants to know what for, so I tell him, why not, he’s driven carloads of super-pseuds in his time. So he laughs himself sick. Though warning as he wipes his eyes: “They’ll only think you’re having a go at the show, Rosie, not at them.”

    “Yeah, but we’ll know, Mike; that’ll more than make up for it. And actually, Derry Dawlish may look like the pseud to end all pseuds, but he’s bloody sharp: he’ll get it, don’t you worry.”

    “Yeah. It won’t put him off making the film version, though,” he notes shrewdly.

    No, that’d be too much to hope for. In fact, the answering machine’s still taking calls, though since I agreed to go to this bloody Chrissie thing they’ve slackened off.

    Funnily enough as we roll up to the glitzy club that D.D.’s hired the whole of for the night, nobody asks why Gray’s lugging a giant make-up case. Mike’s into his proper-chauffeur rôle, he’s holding the door for us and as he helps me out he winks and wishes us Good luck. Don't think we’ll really need it, Mike, D.D.’s crowd’s sure to be half-seas over already, but thanks anyway. Inside it’s a welter of silver walls, looks exactly like cooking foil, and decorations specially for the party composed of white Christmas trees with silver bobbles and frizzy silver drapings, and myriads of tiny twinkling lights. Tree lights, yep. Gee, each table’s decorated with a small white Christmas tree with a shining lit-up star on its tip, that’s a smart touch. Yeah, lovely to see you, too, Derry (plus and all those paparazzi ya had stationed out front, not to mention the extra photographers you’ve got stationed in here, snap, flash, pop!). And kiss, kiss, his is real, ugh, but mine sure as Hell doesn’t touch the cheek or the beard. As usual he smells wonderful, Saint Laurent Pour Homme, according to the experts. He immediately spots the dress. “Marilyn. How To Marry a Millionaire, no?” So either he’s done his homework or Brian and he are plotting again. Or still. Because aeons back, D.D. was at the second round of auditions when they were casting the part of Daughter, remember that? Yeah.

    He’s thrilled I agreed to do some numbers for them, and look, they’ve had a little stage area set up for me, and do let him introduce David Somebody-or-Other, he did the music for ye Old Russia-in-Prague epic. Gee, did he really? I thought, though I’m musically ignorant, that Mr Tchaikovsky done that, Derry. I shake hands with him anyway, and blow me down flat, he grins at me and says in a very posh Pommy accent (when I thought all musicians hadda be fake Cockney these days): “Most of the credit should go to Tchaikovsky, actually. I just strung it together.”

    “Gee, and I thought it was just my ignorance suggesting I’d heard those tunes before, David.”

    He’s laughing like anything when Aunty Kate bursts out of the throng and throws herself at him, gasping: “David! It is you! How wonderful to see you again! Rosie, this is David Somebody-or-Other, you’ll never believe it but he used to be our next-door neighbour in Adelaide!”

    I will, actually, ya boasted about it enough after he got his name puffed all over the arty-tarty pages of The Australian when his concerto premiered at one of the Adelaide festivals. Then he came to Sydney and repeated the triumph before going on to overseas fame and fortune and, apparently, the task of stringing together bits of Tchaikovsky to accompany Euan in a stiff collar making love to a very authentic Russian peasant girl who’s actually an Austrian actress in extremely authentic Russian peasant costume from an identifiable area of Old Russia. And don’t ask what an English composer was doing in bloody Adelaide. If ya do, Aunty Kate’ll tell ya; the full saga only takes three hours and a fresh pot of tea.

    Actually he looks quite interesting: a thin, dark, sardonic-looking joker, reminds me a bit of Perry Horton from 1 Mill Lane, Upper Bellingford, but gee, none of the rest of us is ever gonna get the chance to find out if he is, because she’s monopolising him.

    Aeons later it turns out Derry’s asked David to accompany us. Me and Rupy and Gray try very hard not to look at his left hand, we’ve already spotted the last two fingers are crooked and wasted-looking and there’s a huge purple mark all across the back of it. So he says, very dry: “I think I can manage the fingering for Steam Heat” and we all gulp.

    “Um, good,” I say lamely as neither of them is volunteering a syllable. “Well, it’s Steam Heat first, David, if the costumes arrived okay.”

    They did, so we get into them. Black tights for me, with a tight sequinned black evening jacket. Silver toppers for all, and the two of them are in evening dress with rather unfortunate silver waistcoats. Oh, well, it’s Show Biz. I chose the number for Rupy’s and Grey’s sake, we originally did it together for the Chipping Ditter Festival 2000. We do it to a roar of appreciation even though the black rehearsal pants I'm wearing over the tights are miles more modest than anything you’d see on Bondi Beach.

    Then the glitzy super-pseuds and Big Names and hangers-on start throwing stuff, bits of small white Chrissie trees, mainly, and shouting: “Lollipop! Lol-li-pop!” and “Knickers!”—boy, don’t they think they’re witty—and: “Dad-dee! Dad-DEE!” and whistling very loudly. So I hold up my hand, both hands, for silence and after about an age it quiets down enough for me to announce: “All right, since it’s you,”—cheers, more whistles, some very rude shouted remarks that I can only pray Aunty Kate hasn’t picked up—“we’ll do Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend by special request,”—they all think I mean Derry, they’re grinning and nodding knowingly—“and then I’ll give you My Heart Belongs To Daddy. If you insist?” They insist, there’s a terrific rumpus though some of them are still shouting “Knickers!”

    “But I’ll have to change,”—shouts of “Take it off!” and other expectable witty comments—“so do have some lovely drinkie-poos on Derry!” –Me and Rupy have got a bet on with Gray that I can make the super-pseuds pick up “drinkie-poos” as next year’s In phrase. Rupy and me maintaining I can and Gray maintaining, though it’s a lovely thought, dear, that I can’t, they’ll spot me. It’s immaterial if they spot me or not, Derry’s only gotta say it once and it’ll be all you hear amongst the super-pseud crowd until he picks up another one. He got that “delishimo” of his off something totally obscure out in New Zealand that one of the actors in his Midsummer Night’s Dream started copying for a joke, but the derivation’s unimportant when it’s Derry saying it. Oh, ya got that yonks back, sorry, sorry.

    So they settle down, more or less, to expensive French fizz and strange cocktails and very odd party food at Derry’s expense, and we retire to the cramped dressing-room in the back regions and I get back into the long blue, beg ya pardon, ice-blue dress. Boy, it’s tight, even though Ruth from Wardrobe’s thoughtfully readjusted it to my latest measurements. Before Barbara rung me, of course. –I said: Henny Penny had it all worked out yonks back.

    So we put over Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend to the expectable applause, whistles, and throwing, most of it ironic, and all go off. In the dressing-room Grey gets into my dress, suitably padded as to the top, and the wig I borrowed from Henny Penny, and does the face, while Rupy slides out and mutters into David’s ear. Coming back to report the super-pseuds didn’t notice the pianist collapsing in giggles, and now he’s playing something terribly clever, dear, kind of Fifties pot-pourri, only slightly snide. Yeah, I can hear that, or I could if you’d shut up, Rupy. And we go back to the wings, me in the Steam Heat gear minus the topper, and wait until the lights are all lowered and the stage is blacked out, Derry having previously been asked if they could do this for the Big Number, and Grey goes on stage and takes up the posish, half turned away, leering coyly over the shoulder—and then the spot comes on him and he launches into My Heart Belongs To Daddy. Given that it’s me to the life—his soprano’s actually better than mine—and the spot’s horribly white and they’re all pissed out of their tiny minds it’s an appreciable while before it dawns. In fact Rupy has time to hiss in horrid glee: “Haven’t they guessed yet?” before someone gives a loud snigger and Derry shouts: “Bravo, Gray, caro!” Which sort of gives them the idea that it isn’t me.

    They do let him finish out the song, though not much is audible over the laughter, cheers, and whistles, and then of course he takes the wig off and there’s terrific applause. Yep, they think he’s been getting at The Captain’s Daughter, all right. So up theirs. And then me and Rupy run on and we all take a bow, with gestures at the pianist, he stands up looking wry and bows, more bows all round and we finally run off. Phew!

    And there’s just about time to get our breaths before Derry surges up here in a wave of Saint Laurent Pour Home. Hugs and kisses all round, wonderful, Gray, given him a whole new slant on how he might handle the film—what a lie, and if I’d of seen that coming I’d never of let Gray do it—and blah, blah. And we get dragged back to his table, like, where he’s enthroned, ya got that, didja, good on ya, while assorted super-pseuds crowd round and the band comes back and a few couples manage to get up and dance drunkenly, and just coincidentally more photographs are taken, we must have a souvenir of this—right, you and the tabloids, Derry, who are ya kidding—and just coincidentally again, who else is at Derry’s table and has to be in the shots with his arm round my tight black sequinned evening jacket? Right, Euan, no prizes for guessing.

    Going home—we haven’t made poor Mike collect us, we made Derry provide transport—Aunty Kate notes wistfully that it would be rather nice if I made the film of the Daughter, and David could do the music. Especially if he films it in Sydney, she adds wistfully. And did Dot write me that it’s possible he may use her friend Isabelle’s motel in Queensland for the locations?—Steaming Singapore in Steaming Queensland, right.—Dot’s one of my cousins, my Aunty Sally’s eldest girl: they live in Sydney, not far from Mum and Dad’s. No, Dot didn’t (probably because she knew what my reaction would be), but gee, she didn’t need to. Because Mum did, Aunty Sally did, Aunty Allyson did, my oldest friend Joslynne did, and Joslynne’s Mum did. I’m not gonna bother to say it, what’s the use? I just make a grunting noise.

    And my mother would so like to see something of me and Baby Bunting!

    Rupy’s half asleep after Derry Dawlish’s grog, but at this he rouses and notes: “Ought to get over that phobia of hers and get on a plane, then.” And nods off again.

    Yeah, well, phobias aren’t something you get over, and who am I to criticise her, with my terror of heights? I can’t even stand on a chair in the middle of the room without panicking, as Ruth and Dinah discovered that time they were trying to straighten the hem of— Yeah, well.

    “Rosie?”

    Deep breath. “Aunty Kate, I’m not even going to discuss it until John gets home and I can talk it all over with him.”

    She sinks back into her seat with this smirk round her mouth, what’s that in aid of? Well, pleased I’m not plotting behind John’s back, yeah, but I don’t think that's wholly it. I glance cautiously at Rupy. He appears to be asleep. Gray’s definitely asleep, he let Derry sucker him into trying some bloody Mexican cocktail thingo. Look, ya load of peanut-brains, I don’t want to be a fillum star! True, I’d like a few months back home at D.D.’s expense and yeah, I would like Mum to see Baby Bunting and even, it could be interesting making the film of the show, if Derry’s got anything approaching a concept. But that’s as far as it goes, and whatever John decides, will be It, I,T, see? Because funnily enough I care much, much more about him and our marriage than I do about anything to do with the bloody Captain’s Daughter, Derry Dawlish, and all the bloody arty-tarty Cannes Film Festival entrants that ever were or ever could be.

    Suddenly Rupy rouses. “Yes.”

    “Yes, what?” I croak.

    “Yes, let John decide.” Falls asleep again.

    “Look, I never said—” Oh, well. He’s known me for a long time, after all.

    By contrast with the Grate D.D.’s idea of a good time, the Henny Penny employees’ Christmas party is pure enjoyment, apart from the obligatory posed shots as we arrive. Brian’s had to hire a hall this year, there’ve been so many shows in production that we couldn’t possibly all cram into his giant house, even with the two reception rooms thrown together. Hiring the hall means that people can bring a spouse or partner or even guest but Rupy and me have basely not let on about this to Aunty Kate, we’ve just brought each other. Given that there’s a sort of tradition that people can wear what they like to the Christmas party—put it like this, I started it last year and I mean to continue it—I’m wearing my cheongsam. It isn’t really, but it has got a Chinese collar and it is tight and short and, the best thing about it, not Fifties. Silvery satin, Rupy says it’s cheap material. Also the shoes aren’t really appropriate. I ignored that as well. After we’ve escaped from Penny Hendricks’s detailed enquiries about Baby Bunting’s health and progress, we look round for Katie. No sign of her.

    However, we spot Yvonne, my Personal Dresser, largely because that new turquoise dress she’s in stands out like a neon sign. She’s tall, yellow-haired, and busty, and the dress was designed for an anorexic model. Draped turquoise gauze spattered with silver thingos, the hem very uneven and only one shoulder covered, over strapless, skin-tight turquoise satin. Possibly not intended by the designer to be skin-tight. Rupy mutters in my ear as we approach: “Those earrings she’s wearing are all wrong.”

    “Shut up.”

    “Where’s Li?” he mutters, uncrushed.

    Shit, where is he? “Shut up! –Hi, Yvonne! You look ace!”

    After compliments all round she says: “Have you seen Katie?”

    Shit, before even asking after Baby Bunting? “Um, no.”

    “Maybe she’s having a rapturous reunion with Eu—”

    “Shut up, Rupy,” we both groan.

    “All right! A hint’s as good as a nod to a blind man!”

    Huh? Think he’s got that slightly wrong. Never mind, she’s asking me about Baby Bunting and at least I can answer that with some appearance of Yuletide jollity. Let’s just hope she doesn’t ask me about John.

    So Brian’s grog flows and delicious little savouries circulate, crumbs, what are they? Penny Hendricks must have got her caterers to do the whole thing. Unlike some employers Brian doesn’t make the staff club pay for the Chrissie wing-ding, in fact there isn’t a staff club at Henny Penny and the office staff all get their morning tea and coffee, including the milk and sugar, for free (though the actors and crews don’t: we have to pay in the canteen). Yvonne asks me about John, knew she would. In revenge Rupy asks her about Li, the long-term boyfriend. (Short for Lionel, whaddelse?) He had to, quote unquote, drive his mini-cab tonight. Yeah, maybe. Yvonne’s in her mid-thirties, for Chrissakes, her biological clock is ticking. The trouble with Li is—well, besides the fact that he won’t get off his chuff and propose—he’s already done the cosy domesticity bit. Added to which it was a Catholic marriage, and though the wife did sign the divorce papers she now claims that they're still married in the sight of God. Li never goes to church, true, but although Yvonne’s very strong-minded and has told him to tell the ex to take a running, she isn’t strong-minded enough to tell him to tell God to take a running. Though whether it would do any good if she did is anyone’s guess.

    After a bit Barbara extracts herself from a clump of PR people all talking about their jobs and comes and joins us. She doesn’t ask after John, she’s got tact, she just says she thought the pics taken at D.D.’s party turned out very well and how’s Baby Bunting?

    Quite some time later. The buffet was ace, Penny definitely had her caterers on the job, and the dancing was average, specially the bits I was involved in, have you ever tried dancing when you’re very full of delicious Chrissie buffet and free champers? All of my partners managed it with superb grace, however, not excluding Harry, the Head Storeman, sixty if a day and weighing in at around sixteen stone, Rory, one of the cameramen, twenty-two, six-foot four and around eight stone, and of course Michael Manfred, the hair more silvery than ever, the smile more flashing, and the tongue more willing. Think he found the mistletoe within five seconds of entering the room, well, he danced me under it with unerring accuracy. He was disturbed to see Katie isn’t here, he reports. Was he, just? Maybe she decided she’d avoid the tongue for one night, Michael. I don’t say it, after all it is Christmas.

    At long last Rupy says, yawning: “How many of them have you kissed under the mistletoe?”

    “Speak for yourself.”

    He sniggers.

    I tip the last dregs of the last bottle into our glasses. “Head for home?”

    “Mm…” He sips slowly. “Did you notice Yvonne getting off with one of Dean’s sound men?”

    “Pete Somerset, yeah. Hard to miss. Well, she’s pissed off with Li. Hard to blame her.”

    “Why doesn’t she dump him?”

    I get up. “Possibly because only morons like Pete are offering besides him, and what they’re offering is only on a very temporary basis. Are you coming?”

    He hauls himself up, yawning, and we go.

    We both get up very late for breakfast. Aunty Kate was just waiting for us, now she’s gonna pop down to the shops and give Baby Bunting an airing.

    “Wuff! Wuff!”

    “I think he knows that airing’s a euphemism for W,A,L,K,” I note.

    “Very amusing, Rosie,” she says, trying not to laugh, hah-hah! Got her there! But she’s looking at him uneasily, and I now know she’s always afraid, because he’s so strong, that she’ll lose control of his leash if she takes him walkies when she’s got the pram, so I say kindly that I’ll do it later. And she and Baby Bunting go.

    “Wuff! Wuff! Wuff!”

    “Shut up, Tim! SIT!”

    He sits, poor fella.

    “We’ll go later.”

    “Don’t think he understands L,A,T,E,R.”

    “Shut up, Rupy, ya not funny.”

    “At least she didn’t ask if Katie was there,” he notes brilliantly.

    “No, because she never imagined in her wildest dreams that she wouldn’t be! And Brian wasn’t too pleased, didja notice? The Stars”—grimace—“are expected to turn up at the staff wing-dings.”

    “Thought the word was hooleys?”

    “Whatever. You wanna make some toast?”

    He makes some toast.

    Tim’s just eating my last Vegemitey crust for me when the phone rings and Rupy bounces up to answer it. Look, it won’t be delish Joey from the Art Department or divine Keith from PR or glorious little Max from that mindless teeny-bopper show of Brian’s that’s topping the Ratings in the mindless teeny-bopper shit class, because all of them bar none think that, lovely though you are, you’re old, Rupy. (Don’t say it. For one thing, he knows, already. Though hope springs eternal in the gay breast.) It isn’t, it’s Barbara. For Pete’s sake, it’s Saturday! Ya mean she’s already vetted the papers— Oh, that’s the time, is it?

    “You’d better speak to her,” he says after a bit. There’s a funny look on his mug, what’s that in aid of? Our paper’s got a lovely shot of me, muffled up in something fake-fur-collared that Brian sent over from Wardrobe, and him, muffled up in Miss Hammersley’s Fifties brown mink coat (it is half his), smiling brilliantly as we dash out of the cold and into the hall. True, we repeated the dash five times before all the photographers were happy with it, but as publicity shots go, there’s nothing wrong with it. Um, the paparazzi can't have noticed that Katie didn’t turn up, surely? That would have required cognitive functions like counting and memory.

    So he brings the phone over on its long cord and I groan: “Yeah, hi, Barbara, are you actually awake?”

    She is, and she wonders if I’ve seen— No. I have seen the pic in— Yes. Not that, Rosie. For God’s sake, girl, put me out of my misery! “What?” I shout.

    There’s a stupid snippet in that stupid gossip column in—

    “Read it!” I shout.

    She reads it. It’s so blitheringly stupid, not to say coy, that it takes a while to sink in. Finally I say: “Sorry about the shouting, Barbara. Run that by me again, would you?”

    First she says miserably: “I don’t know where it can have come from, Rosie.” Then she runs it by me again. It amounts to Guess Who were spotted cosying up to each other in a certain Captain’s Wife’s, quote unquote, cosy cottage not so long since. Coincidentally there’s a lovely pic in the next column of me and Euan at bloody Dawlish’s rave-up. I am in the very low-cut sequinned black evening jacket, yes, and his arm is round it, yes, and his hand is on one tit, yes.

    “Rosie? Are you there?”

    Deep breath. “Yeah, I’m here, Barbara, and given that Terence Haworth is a decent bloke and given also that Euan wouldn’t bloody dare, there is only one possible source for this snippet.”

    “Um, buh-but it’s not true, is it?” she quavers. “Um, who?”

    “Bloody Corky Corcoran, who else?” Grimly I tell her about the episode at the cottage.

    There’s a considerable silence. Then she says limply, forgetting to call me Rosie: “Lily Rose, why on earth didn’t you tell me? Then at least we could have been prepared.”

    Gee, mainly I didn’t tell you because there was nothing in it, and partly I didn’t tell you because you, Barbara, lovely person though you are, are a PR Person, and ya might just of thought ya hadda tell ya boss (note that “we” that’s just come out of ya mouth), and bloody Timothy Carlton could of done anything at all with it. Anything at all. Depending largely, but certainly not entirely, on just how far Brian’s involved in bloody Dawlish’s Double Dee Productions’ project to make The Captain’s Daughter The Movie and how much Double Dee want Euan to take over the suitor side of Rupy’s rôle.

    “Because there was nothing in it, Barbara.”

    “No, of course not!” she agrees quickly. “I’ll get on to Timothy straight away. We’ll put out something to counter it.”

    “That’ll only make them believe it.”

    “No, no! We won’t acknowledge it’s even been printed, of course! We’ll put out something that shows you in a favourable light, Rosie!’

    Gee, they all do that, Barbara, ain’t that half the trouble? (Don’t say it). “Um, ye-ah… Ugh, ya want me to be snapped at a children’s home or like that, like Princess Di every time the Palace leaked another piece of dirt?”

    She swallows, so she probably was thinking along those lines. “Nothing like that, no. Um…could you do something with, um, some Navy wives, perhaps?”

    “Honestly, Barbara!”

    By now Rupy’s got his head jammed next to mine. “Obvious, dear,” he reproves her.

    “Added to which it’ll rub in the Captain’s Wife bit,” I note.

    “But it’ll show the true picture, Rosie!”

    No, it won’t, it’ll show a faked-up PR— Never mind. “Okay, anything you say. Um, hang on, Admiral Hammersley did mention something about a Navy children’s party down at Portsmouth.”

    “Ideal! Why didn’t you say?” she cries.

    “Um, it’d meaning going back down… Didn’t think it was relevant,” I mutter.

    Of course it was relevant! Reinforcing the Navy theme, showing me in a really good light, Brian will love it! –Right, especially he’ll love it if I turn up for it draped in some nauseating Fifties creation.

    “Yeah. Well, I’ll give the Admiral a buzz, see if it’s still a goer, okay?”

    Yes, and do it now. Cringe, will the old boy be up?

    “Go on!” urges Rupy, as I’m hesitating.

    I’m still hesitating.

    “Before Kate comes back!”

    Ooh, heck! I dial quickly. Admiral Sir Kenneth Hammersley is up, phew. Weakly I ask if the invitation still stands. It does, they’ll be thrilled—I doubt it, the mums won’t want a ruddy captain’s wife around the place, the Navy’s bloody hierarchical, and this is party for ratings’ kids—but why have I changed my mind? He’s the most genial old joker in the world, and loves the ladies, but believe you me, the steel’s showing under the geniality. So I tell him about the snippet in the paper. Rustling noises ensue, and then some very heavy breathing through the nose, hope the old joker’s not gonna have a fit or something. No, he comes back on the line and doesn’t even ask if it’s true, he asks how the papers got hold of it. Oh, shit.

    “We don’t know, Admiral.”

    Gee, doesn’t believe a word of it. So he drags the whole thing out of me. Rupy’s so horrified he absentmindedly eats his toast crusts.

    “Wuff!”

    “Ooh, sorry, Tim!” he goes.

    “Ssh! Um, Admiral, it, um, well, Corky probably told his wife, and um, you know what Navy wives are, she could have mentioned it to another lady and they wouldn’t of meant to leak it but—”

    Gee, he doesn’t believe a single, solitary syllable. He’ll speak to Corcoran.

    “No, please don’t do that, Admiral!”

    “Rosie, my dear, this sort of thing won’t do, y’know.”—Gulp. Thought it wouldn’t, no.—“Between you and me, the man’s about to get a promotion.”

    Quite. He doesn’t say we don’t want that sort of thing in the Royal Navy but it’s bloody clear he’s thinking it. And he assures me his secretary will give me the details of the party and rings off.

    “Oh, shit,” I note.