‘You know them so well.’
He was right. They loved Sheekey’s, not least because it closed at 8.30 and he had guessed, correctly, that they preferred to have their tea at six o’clock. If Sophie had been paying, they’d have walked out when they saw the prices on the menu, but they just kept asking Clive if he was sure, and telling him that he was very kind.
‘Are you courting, Clive?’ Marie asked him more or less as soon as they’d sat down.
‘Still window-shopping,’ said Clive.
‘You’re young yet,’ said Marie.
‘Our Barbara is still available,’ said George.
‘Sophie,’ said Sophie. ‘And I’m not “available”.’
‘Are you not?’ said George.
‘Tell us all,’ said Clive.
‘I mean, I want to get on in my career before I start thinking about all that.’
‘Clive can wait, can’t you, Clive?’ said George.
‘Of course I can,’ said Clive.
‘And it wouldn’t stop you courting anyway, would it?’
‘Of course it wouldn’t. Courting doesn’t get in the way of anything.’
‘There we are, then,’ said George.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Sophie.
‘What have we said now?’ said George, and rolled his eyes at Clive to indicate that there was always something.
‘Can we change the subject?’ said Sophie. ‘How’s work, Dad?’
But they hadn’t come all the way to London to talk about Blackpool. They wanted to know about the programme, and other television and film stars Clive and Sophie had worked with, and whether they had ever met the Beatles. (Clive had just missed Paul at a party, he told them, an anecdote greeted with much head-shaking and marvelling.) And then the magician and comedian Maurice ‘Mr Magic’ Beck sat down on the next table, on his own, and Clive’s near-miss was forgotten.
‘Good grief,’ said George. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
If this remark was intended for anyone, it was for Mr Magic, who smiled, and then did a big stagy double take when he saw Sophie and Clive.
‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
Sophie’s father roared with laughter and delight, and Sophie remembered how embarrassing he’d been when he realized that the local paper had sent their top photographer to take her picture.
A few moments later, the waiters were rearranging the tables so that the five of them could sit together, and a few moments after that, Mr Magic began the Mr Magic show. He was in the middle of last-minute rehearsals for a variety performance at the Palladium, so he gave them a preview of some of the smaller-scale, table-friendly bits of business while they ate. (Plaice and chips for George, smoked haddock with a poached egg for Marie.) He told jokes while making things disappear, watches and spoons and napkins, and Sophie was worried that her father was going to have another heart attack, such was the volume of his laughter and the intensity of his amazement.
Sophie found herself watching Maurice Beck’s face as much as she watched his hands. To her surprise, he was, in odd moments of repose, passably handsome. She had seen him on television, back in the days when she watched at home on a Saturday night, and he made so many odd faces – intended to indicate bafflement, mirth, disaster – that she would never have thought of him as being attractive. In the restaurant, however, he was only putting on half a show, and in any case Sophie could tell that he was aware of her attention. He allowed his face to sit still, most of the time, and she could therefore see that he had sharp cheekbones and deep brown eyes. He was younger than she’d realized too, maybe not even forty. He wasn’t as good-looking as Clive, but Clive was too vain ever to forget that women liked him. Or maybe he simply thought that his looks, and not his talents as an actor, were his prize possession, the gift that needed the most protection and attention, so he couldn’t afford the sort of animation that Maurice allowed. Sophie suddenly realized that Clive was never going to make it, not in the way he wanted to. He was a leading man or he was nothing, and he wasn’t a leading man.
‘Can I ask you two something?’ said Maurice. ‘Your show … is it just a show?’
‘How do you mean?’ said Sophie.
‘I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, that’s all. If the show isn’t just a show.’
‘Oh, I see where he’s going,’ said Marie.
‘Where’s he going?’ said George.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Marie.
‘No,’ said George.
‘He already said he can’t see,’ said Sophie. ‘And neither can I.’
‘Can you not? He wants to know if you two are courting in real life. And if you’re not …’
‘Marie!’ said Sophie. ‘He might not be saying that at all!’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ said Maurice. ‘You’re very astute, Marie.’
Marie looked delighted.