‘What am I thinking?’ said Sophie.
‘Good point,’ said the other idiot. ‘What was she thinking, idiot?’
Both idiots had London accents, which made Sophie warm to them, despite the unpromising start. They couldn’t throw her out because she was common, at least.
‘She was thinking, Oh, they’re laughing at me because I look so wrong for the part. But it wasn’t that at all.’
‘What was it, then?’ said Sophie.
‘You look like someone we know.’
The fourth man, who was neither idiot nor pipe-smoker, looked at her properly for the first time. Up until that point he’d been smoking and doing the crossword in the newspaper.
‘She was probably too distracted to be wondering why you were all laughing,’ he said.
‘We weren’t all laughing, thank you very much,’ said the pipe-smoker.
Sophie had sorted out who was who, to her own satisfaction anyway. The crossword-puzzler was Clive Richardson, the pipe-smoker was Dennis the producer, the idiots were Tony and Bill, although she didn’t know which one was which.
‘Why was I distracted, then?’ said Sophie.
‘Because you were too busy worrying about how wrong you look for the part.’
‘You’re Clive, aren’t you?’ said Sophie.
‘How did you know that?’
‘I recognized your voice. Because of Captain Smythe.’
Captain Smythe from The Awkward Squad, the factory owner’s dim-witted, public-school-educated son, spoke in a ridiculous voice, like the Queen if she’d been born simple.
This time all three of the other men laughed, although Clive was clearly stung.
‘Have you actually read your own work?’ he said to the idiots. ‘ “Well spoken, petite, varsity-educated, the daughter of a vicar”.’
‘You don’t think I’m petite?’ said Sophie. ‘This duffel coat makes me look bigger than I actually am.’
She made her Lancashire accent broader, just to make sure she got the laugh. She did, from three of the four. Clive, on the other hand, looked as though he might never laugh again.
‘All this laughter,’ said Clive. ‘It’s ironic, really, considering the script we have in front of us.’
‘Here we go,’ said Tony or Bill.
‘Excuse me,’ said Sophie. ‘Which one are you? Bill or Tony?’
‘I’m Bill.’
He was the older-looking one of the two. He wasn’t necessarily older, but Tony had a young face, and his beard wasn’t as bushy.
‘Sorry,’ said Dennis, and he introduced everyone.
‘Clive thinks this is the worst comedy in the history of television,’ said Tony. ‘That’s why the laughter is ironic.’
‘And he’s right. We haven’t laughed much today,’ said Bill gloomily.
‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ said Sophie. ‘It must have been fun to write.’
The writers both snorted, at exactly the same time.
‘ “Fun to write”,’ said Bill. ‘Ooh, that was fun to write, Tony!’
‘Wasn’t it just,’ said Tony. ‘I’m so glad I’m a writer!’
‘Me too,’ said Bill. ‘It’s just fun all day!’
They both stared at her. She was mystified.
‘It wasn’t,’ said Tony. ‘It was horrible. Torture. Like everything else we do.’
‘And before you say anything,’ said Bill, ‘the question mark was Dennis’s idea, not ours. We hate it.’
‘I do wish you’d stop going on about the wretched question mark,’ said Dennis. ‘That’s the first thing you’ve told everybody who walks through the door.’
Dennis began to bash his pipe furiously against one of the half-dozen ashtrays on the table. All of them were overflowing, and the hall smelled like a smoking carriage on a train even though they were only occupying one small corner.
‘Our names are underneath your bloody question mark,’ said Tony. ‘We are trying to make a living writing comedy. You’ve made us unemployable.’
Dennis sighed.
‘I’ve agreed it was a mistake, I’ve apologized, we’re going to get rid of it, now let’s try and put it behind us.’
‘But how can we, when you’re supposed to be a comedy producer, and we now know what you think comedy is?’
‘What do you want me to do? Tell me, and I’ll do it.’
‘It’s too late,’ said Tony. ‘It has been sent out to our fellow professionals.’
‘Like Sophie here,’ said Clive. She knew he was being sarcastic again.
The annoying thing, Sophie thought, was that he was very handsome. Actors who looked like him didn’t usually speak in silly braying voices on radio comedy shows; they were always too busy rescuing busty damsels in distress on the television or in the cinema. He was, she thought, even better-looking than Simon Templar. He had the most disconcertingly bright blue eyes, and cheekbones that made her envious.
‘Did you think it was funny, Sophie?’ said Dennis.
‘The question mark?’
‘No,’ said Bill. ‘We know that’s not funny. The script.’
‘Oh,’ said Sophie. ‘Well. Like I said. I enjoyed it very much.’