Good Time Girl

‘Oh do try to be adult, Claire,’ Roger said baldly.

‘What do you mean “adult”? I trust you are not trying to tell me that you have fucked someone else?’

‘Well, of course I have.’

It had been said. There was a long frozen silence. She’d half suspected it for months. It wasn’t much of a shock, but it was numbing nevertheless. She felt icy inside. It explained everything – why he’d been ignoring her phone calls, his behaviour on the infrequent occasions they had been together. His lovemaking had been perfunctory; expert but almost clinical. Claire sat there appalled, not looking at him for ages.

Finally she said, ‘I’d better go.’

Roger had said nothing, but as she rose and picked up her things, he had fished inside his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. She had watched him, mesmerized, as he had written out a cheque for £500.

‘You’d better have it terminated,’ he said. He had not been able to bring himself to say the word ‘abortion’, she remembered. ‘This should take care of it.’

He handed the cheque to her. She’d taken it automatically, folding it and putting it away in her bag, hardly realizing what she was doing. She just wanted to get out of the room, away from him. She turned to go without saying a word.

As she reached the door, he said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Claire.’

She left the flat without looking back at him. She didn’t want his pity. She walked down the stairs and out of the main door in a dream. She never remembered driving away, only the pain in her chest, which was almost unbearable.

Sally re-entered the room bearing a tray.

‘You know, darling, what you need is a job. Here, try this. It’s not half bad.’

‘A job? I’m not fit for work,’ protested Claire feebly, shifting her limbs and hoisting herself up in the bed, to receive the soup.

‘Nonsense! If you were offered a part tomorrow, you’d be off like a shot, you know you would.’

Claire took the tray, before replying, ‘I suppose you’re right. I don’t know where I’d get the strength from, though. I feel as weak as a kitten.’

‘You look a bit like one, too. All sort of fluffy and vulnerable.’

Claire laughed in spite of herself. ‘I look a fright and you know it.’

‘That’s better,’ said Sally, smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to hear you laugh.’ Claire turned away. ‘It will get better you know. It will take time, but it will get better.’ Sally laid her hands gently on top of Claire’s.

‘Yes, I know … I’ve been reading the book you bought yesterday. It’s beautifully written.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Absolutely no sex or violence.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Makes one believe in a better world.’

‘There’s one out there waiting for you.’

Silence.

Finally Claire looked up and said, ‘Sal, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’d never have got through this without you.’

‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Sally breezily. ‘Now what else are we going to watch tonight?’

‘There’s one of those Hollywood biblical epics on later,’ said Claire, glancing at the paper, which was amongst the reading matter strewn across the bed.

‘Oh good, I love those,’ said Sally gleefully. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and, boy, could we do with one. And then there’s all those lovely hunky men wandering around in their little skirts – it’ll do you good to see that there are some other good-looking men around, even if they are all in Hollywood.’

‘As this movie was made in 1954, most of them will be pushing seventy,’ observed Claire.

‘Now, now, no ageist remarks, please. What’s wrong with older men? Come to think of it, it’s what you need, a nice older man to look after you. Might treat you properly.’

‘Do they get any better as they get older?’ asked Claire doubtfully.

‘Not really,’ replied Sally, who prided herself on being an authority on the sex. ‘Usually a bit more reactionary. Oh, and their balls get bigger.’

‘Really?’ Claire giggled. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Sal airily.

‘I might give it a try in that case,’ replied Claire.

Sally smiled her approval. ‘That’s better, you’re sounding a bit more like your old self.’

‘I can’t be my old self, not without Rog,’ said Claire bleakly.

‘I mean your old self,’ Sally emphasized. ‘The one you were before you met Svengali.’

Claire looked up, surprised.

‘Oh yes,’ Sally continued, ‘you’ve no idea how that man dominated your life. What was the big attraction?’

Claire reflected for a moment. ‘Sex – initially. It had never been so good with anyone before.’

That night, after Sally had gone home, Claire lay in the dark, trying to sleep. Her mind unwillingly turned to thoughts of Roger. Whatever his faults, he was a considerate and thoughtful lover. She had been astounded the first time they had been in bed together. It had been at his flat after a photo session. First he had stroked her neck and shoulders gently, and kissed her softly, running his fingers lightly down her throat to her breasts, just brushing the tips of her nipples. He had caressed her, lovingly kissing her body all over, driving her wild with anticipation. The sudden unexpected violence of his entry into her drew from her a gasping scream, which seemed to spur him on. His bottom lip glistened with lust as he thrust into her. She had become frantic, when he had suddenly withdrawn and started licking her clitoris avidly. Then sucking on it. She moaned and begged him to fuck her. His eyes had narrowed and the gleam of white, even teeth showed, an indication that he was amused by her pleading. Then he had slapped her sharply on the face, telling her to shut up. He would fuck her in his own good time.

She came to expect more shows of violence from him. On occasions, he would tie her by the wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then make her wait for the sublime lovemaking she knew was to follow. After a while, he would kneel astride her face and slowly push his cock into her mouth. He would bring himself almost to the point of orgasm before suddenly stopping and masturbating her until she had reached the same point.

Other times, he would be waiting for her, naked. ‘Tie me up,’ he would say, as she started to undress, eyeing her hungrily. She would see that his erection was already huge. He would stand obediently while she tied him with his hands behind his back to the posts at the foot of the bed. She would take her scarf and blindfold him, then spend an intensely pleasurable half-hour tantalizing him. On her knees she would work her way up his legs with small kisses. As she arrived at his balls, she would see his cock jerk in anticipation of her touch. She would then leave him to wait. He would groan and beg her to continue. After a while, watching him writhe in anticipation, she would suddenly take his cock into her mouth, pushing his foreskin back with her lips. She enjoyed the power of being in control of him sexually on these occasions. After these bouts of titillation, their lovemaking would be frenetic and entirely satisfying, leaving them both exhausted.

Claire lay unblinking in the dark. He’d become bored with her. That was all. He had needed new stimulation, which she could no longer give him. She knew he had not wanted to make any sort of commitment, and had not expected any from her. The last thing he had wanted was for her to have a child. Claire wondered for the hundredth time how she had managed to get it all so wrong. She had thought he loved her. She realized how that she had mistaken lust for love. Well, she’d know better next time. Next time? How could there ever be a next time? She only wanted him. She would never be able to do all those things with anyone else. What she could not put from her mind was the thought that Roger was perhaps doing them at this moment with someone else.

Whoever she was, she couldn’t possibly give him all that she, Claire, had given him. Four years was a long time. He’d soon realize his mistake. He’d start to miss her and come back to her. With this reassuring thought, Claire finally drifted off to sleep.

3

‘What did you think of last night’s episode?’ Hugh Travis, the producer of The McMasters, tentatively put the question to his immediate superior, Martin Roberts. They were both seated at either side of Hugh’s desk, reading through the next batch of episodes. There was a considerable pause as Martin mulled it over.

Finally he said, ‘Not bad, not bad – a bit slow in places, perhaps, but on the whole, it was – er – well, it was – er –’

‘Crap!’ announced Larry Matthews from the doorway. Both men looked up startled. Larry swung into the room, clutching some scripts and a pair of spectacles in his hands. He closed the door behind him and flung himself into the nearest available chair. ‘Unmitigated crap!’ he informed the ceiling. ‘Weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,’ he quoted for added effect.

The other two looked at each other. Hugh rolled his eyes heavenwards and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew that Larry was right. His verdict was perhaps a little forceful, but he had a point. The series was becoming stale, predictable and – dare one even think it? – dull. Martin looked dismayed.

‘Oh dear, do you think so? I thought it had moments …’ he faltered. ‘Moments of …’

‘It had moments’, interrupted Larry, ‘of hitherto unplumbed depths of dreariness.’ Here he adopted an attitude of extreme languor. ‘That simply dreadful scene with those two elderly juveniles droning on at each other, boring the pants off me and, I imagine, the rest of the country!’

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Martin genuinely puzzled.

‘I think he’s referring to Geoff and Bella,’ muttered Hugh. ‘Droning were they? It seemed quite a lively little scene to me,’ he added defensively.

‘Lively? Lively?’ Larry emitted a contemptuous snort. ‘It had about as much life as last week’s doughnuts!’

‘Why do you refer to them as “elderly juveniles”?’ persisted Martin.

Larry looked at him pityingly. ‘Because you know as well as I do that they’re both well into their middle years, yet they insist on prancing around like a couple of teenagers, Geoff in particular. Let’s face it, the succession of prepubescent pulchritude that has passed through these portals, over the last few years to enjoy the dubious pleasure of on-screen, and more often than not off-screen, amorous activities with our leading man, simply to pander to his vanity, has completely deballsed the series.’ He now had their undivided attention. ‘As I remember it, you, my venerable old friend,’ Larry was addressing his remarks to Hugh, ‘had a humdinger of an idea back in the dark ages, seven or eight years ago. A saga centred around a family business of fine arts, antiques, and paintings, the infighting, intrigue of the international art world, sibling rivalry, the struggle for power, at the core of which was a crumbling marriage and all the tensions attendant thereon …’

‘It was your idea, actually,’ Hugh interjected mildly.

Larry glanced at Hugh affectionately. ‘I seem to remember, you dear old thing, that you dreamed up this stunning scenario to provide a suitable showcase for the not inconsiderable talents of the love of your life, the then breathtakingly beautiful Bella – am I right, or am I right?’

There was a pause as the two men regarded each other across the desk.

‘Hot on the alliteration today, aren’t you?’ was all Hugh said.

‘Aren’t I though,’ replied Larry equably.

Martin shuffled his feel uneasily and adjusted his position in his chair. The conversation seemed to have drifted into emotional waters and Martin was feeling like the proverbial fish. He was well aware of Hugh’s abiding passion for Bella. As was Hugh’s wife, Mona. She had learned to live with it. She knew that by comparison with Bella, she was ordinary, the unkind might even say plain. She also knew that Hugh would never leave her. Bella knew it, too. She had been aware from the beginning that the series was a sort of consolation prize. Hugh was giving her all that he was able.

Bella had had a drink problem for some time, ever since she had realized that her career was not going to go the way she had hoped. She had wanted to be up there alongside the greats, among the great classical actresses of her generation. That’s why she had come into the profession. She was not able to put her finger on exactly what had gone wrong. But whatever it was, it had been compounded by seven years as the star of the most popular drama series of the decade, and the alcohol helped to blunt the keenness of the disappointment. She had been twice married and had had innumerable affairs, nearly always with younger men. Hugh had remained the constant element in her life, a sort of father confessor. They had long since ceased to have physical relations. For him, however, she had never ceased to hold an all-consuming fascination. He admired her undeniable talent, her husky beautifully modulated voice, her voluptuous good looks, but he loathed her drinking, not least because he knew he had contributed in part to her reliance on its dubious comfort.

‘We’ve lost the bite this show had at the beginning. The almost unbearable tension between warring husband and wife. The will-they-won’t-they-make-it situation. Everybody knows they won’t because he’s been floating around with a flotilla of fatuous floozies.’ Larry was getting into his stride. ‘And furthermore,’ he continued, ‘I have spent the morning wading my way through Episodes Ten and Eleven and I am now seized with an urgent desire to find a quiet corner somewhere and hang myself!’

The other two regarded him steadfastly and waited. They knew that this histrionic outburst was simply the prelude to an inspired suggestion. Larry would attack the problem in the most extreme terms and then quite casually supply the solution.

Larry Matthews’s position at South Eastern Television was unique. He was ostensibly PA to Hugh Travis, and responsible for the smooth running of the studios during recording days. But he had somehow managed to engineer himself into a position immediately behind Hugh’s right ear, and had a very large say in the casting, story lines and even budget allocation. He had been at drama college with Hugh twenty-five years previously, where they had become fast friends. When Hugh had reached his exalted position as Head of Series at SETV, Larry had suddenly turned up one day demanding a job. Acting, he had said, bored him. He needed a new challenge and it was absolutely certain that he, Hugh, was the man to provide it. It was true that Hugh was at that very moment in need of a personal assistant, a fact that he was quite sure Larry had somehow ferreted out for himself. They had gone off for a long luncheon together, during which Larry had poured out his heart to Hugh. His personal life, he confided, was in disarray. He needed a new start in life. He begged his old friend to give it to him. He was prepared to work his balls off for the chance. Hugh knew, looking at the intelligent good-looking face, now showing signs of age, that Larry would be as good as his word. He also knew he would make an invaluable assistant. As to what personal problems Larry might have, Hugh did not know and didn’t care to enquire. He had never been quite sure as to Larry’s sexual predilections – he had a feeling that he had possibly had a string of attachments of both sexes, but he let that pass. He gave him a job, and after a couple of minor successes together they had thought up and put on The McMasters, which was, and had been from the first episode, a smash hit. Hugh regarded him now with an amused tolerance. Larry had certainly breathed life into South Eastern Television. Things were never dull when he was around.

‘I take it you have a solution?’ Hugh said eventually, aware that Larry was waiting for a cue.

‘Of course,’ replied Larry languidly. ‘I’ve rewritten them,’ and he closed his eyes, as though the exertion of his labours had been too much for him.

‘I thought you might have,’ said Hugh mildly.

‘What’s Colin going to say?’ Martin looked perturbed.

‘Fuck Colin,’ replied Larry blithely. He opened his eyes and looked at them. ‘You’re the producers of the series, you’re the arbiters of taste, for God’s sake, and we all know that what has been served up in Episodes Ten and Eleven is nothing more or less than sentimental drivel!’

There was a longish pause, then Hugh said, ‘Right! Well, we’d better hear your rewrites then.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ observed Larry dryly, as he sat up, put his half-glasses on the end of his nose and opened the first script. ‘That’ll teach me to take holidays,’ he muttered as he found the right page. ‘That load of twaddle that passed for “prime-time drama” last night was perpetrated when I was in San Francisco, of course. Ah, here we are. Now first of all I think I should mention I’ve introduced two new characters –’

‘You’ve done what?’ exploded Hugh, sitting bolt upright. This time Larry had gone too far.

‘Two new characters,’ repeated Larry patiently.

‘Without consulting me?’ Hugh was outraged.

‘I’m consulting you now,’ said Larry, unimpressed by Hugh’s outburst, ‘that’s why I’m here. This is the consultation.’

‘Have you any idea how much two new actors will cost the series? Yes, of course you have,’ said Hugh, answering his own question. ‘We’ve been over the budget together!’

‘I know exactly how much it will cost – and we solve the problem by losing two of the others.’

Throughout this exchange Martin had looked aghast and was incapable of speech.

‘Who do you suggest?’ asked Hugh, scarcely able to believe his ears.

‘Well, the appalling Patsy for one,’ Larry said, looking beadily at Hugh, whom, he noticed, had the grace to blush. ‘Crotch casting never works,’ Larry had stated bluntly at the time. ‘Then, there’s dear old Fred – he’s finding the going a bit rough. We could put him out to pasture – or not have him in the series quite so often,’ he added hurriedly, seeing their horrified faces. ‘Oh come on, girls, we’ve got a hit series on our hands here, which has at least another couple of years’ life in it. We’ve got to keep it up to scratch or, let’s face it, we won’t be asked back again. It’ll go down the pan at the end of the season.’

There was another silence as they considered the prospect.

‘All right,’ said Hugh, finally. ‘What’s your idea? Who are these newcomers?’

Larry looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘I want to put the cat among the pigeons,’ he said quietly. ‘A threat, a rival, a stunning young woman. She tries to steal Paul McMaster’s clients, his business, and, finally, his heart.’ There was another pause.

‘I like it,’ said Hugh simply. Martin nodded in agreement. Larry allowed himself a small smile. ‘And the other character?’ asked Hugh.

‘An American,’ said Larry, watching their faces closely. ‘A rich American playboy with a weakness for fine art, who falls for the new girl and decides to back her financially.’ And he sat back to watch their reactions. They both stared at him unblinking.

‘I like that, too,’ said Hugh sanguinely.

‘What do you think, Marty?’ demanded Larry cheekily.

‘I think you’d better read us your rewrites,’ was the quiet response.

‘Attaboy!’ said Larry enthusiastically, drawing his chair up to the table.

‘And then,’ said Hugh, ‘we’d better draw up a shortlist of possible actresses.’

‘And possible Americans,’ added Martin, determined not to be left out. ‘Quite a few live in this country, I believe.’

Larry delivered his final bombshell. ‘I thought we might import someone from Hollywood,’ he said airily. ‘Shall I start reading?’

4

Geoffrey Armitage stood in the untidy rambling kitchen of his spacious home. The face that featured so effectively in The McMasters, making millions of female hearts beat faster every Sunday evening between 7.45 and 8.40, was at this moment gazing with unseeing eyes at the deep yellow wall in front of him. The intensity of the colour offended him to the depths of his soul.

‘Why yellow?’ he had asked his wife, Sukie, as he stared aghast at the deep yellow ochre walls after they had just moved in.

‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’

‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.

‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’

‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’

‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.

‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.

‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’

‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.

‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’

‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.

‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.

Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.

‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.

‘Ugh!’ Nicky exclaimed in disgust. ‘Brambles has farted! What a pong!’

‘Nicky,’ protested Sukie feebly.

Geoff decided to be firm. ‘Kindly get on with your breakfast and if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all – and you don’t need that.’ He deftly removed the sugar packet that Sukie had obligingly found and put on the table. He crossed to the kettle, which had just boiled, and poured water onto instant coffee in a cracked mug.