‘It’s just … I’ve always said to myself, Maurice, if that girl’s not been taken already …’
‘It could be,’ said Sophie, ‘that the show is just a show, but I’ve got a boyfriend anyway.’
‘You just told us you weren’t courting,’ said George.
‘He didn’t know that.’
Clive was desperately looking for a way into the conversation. He felt as though he was at the Yalta Conference, and Europe was being carved up into pieces while he watched helplessly.
‘He does now,’ said George triumphantly. ‘She’s not courting, Maurice. She’s free as a bird.’
‘She might like it that way,’ said Clive.
‘You’ve had your chance,’ said George. ‘You didn’t take it.’
‘I’m sorry this is all so public,’ said Maurice, ‘but could I have your telephone number?’
He dug around in his wallet, found a receipt and a pen, and thrust them towards her. She didn’t know what to say. She was going to upset someone whatever she did.
‘What are you waiting for?’ said her father. ‘Maurice Beck has just asked for your phone number! You can’t just stand there gawping like a fish!’
She wrote her number down, just because it seemed like the quickest way of ending the embarrassment. For a moment she was afraid that Marie and her father were going to applaud when he picked the piece of paper up and tucked it back in his wallet, but they just nudged each other.
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s early days.’
When the bill arrived, Clive and Maurice fought over it, and Maurice won.
‘When I get home, nobody will believe that Mr Magic bought me dinner,’ said George.
‘They won’t believe he asked for your daughter’s phone number either,’ said Marie.
‘Thanks,’ said Sophie.
They said their goodbyes to Maurice outside the restaurant. He kissed Marie on the cheek and Sophie on the hand, and her father laughed in disbelief throughout. Maurice then pretended that he was going to kiss George, which took hilarity to unprecedented heights. Clive was largely forgotten, and Sophie felt bad for him: she suspected that Marie and George didn’t think of him as a star because she knew him and worked with him and therefore he didn’t count. And in any case they’d been watching Maurice Beck for years and years. They had a pre-existing relationship with him. Clive disappeared off into the night before they’d even hailed their taxis.
Mr Magic dug out his receipt and called Sophie’s number while she was drinking tea with Diane, the journalist from Crush. She had come to do a piece on Sophie’s flat. Diane’s editor had liked the story of the TV star with no telephone and no boyfriend, and Barbara (and Jim) was the most popular comedy series on television. The girls who read the magazine, all of whom wanted to be Sophie, would enjoy regular updates, the editor said. So Diane sat and listened while Sophie made monosyllabic plans for Saturday night, with as much mystery and obfuscation as politeness and her ingenuity would allow.
She put the receiver down, smiled, and tried to continue the conversation about the Habitat furniture and the poster she had just bought, of a big red sun setting over a deep blue sea.
‘Out with it,’ said Diane.
‘I’m not telling you my plans for Saturday night.’
‘You don’t have to tell Crush readers. You just have to tell me.’
‘It’s nobody you know.’
‘I know it wasn’t Clive.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t Clive?’
‘Because you said, “Hello, Maurice.” ’
Sophie opened her mouth, shrugged, laughed.
‘It was Maurice,’ she said.
‘There was some gossip about you and Clive. People keep seeing you out and about.’
‘If I was with Clive, I wouldn’t be going out with Maurice, would I?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t.’
‘The only Maurice I know is Mr Magic from Sunday Night at the London Palladium.’
Sophie blushed, and she saw Diane’s eyes widen. She wouldn’t just surrender the information, though. She would plough on.
‘What do you mean, the only Maurice you know? You were never at school with anyone called Maurice? You haven’t got a relative called Maurice? Why does it have to be a famous Maurice?’
‘You didn’t want me to know. You kept saying yes and no and thank you. And also, my Uncle Maurice is happily married to my Auntie Janet and living in Redcar.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘He’s not your sort. You’re going out on Saturday night with Maurice Beck!’
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Sophie. ‘Why did he have to call when you were here?’
‘He’s probably tried a thousand times when you were out.’
‘If you say anything to anyone I’ll kill you. We haven’t been on a date before.’
‘Mr Magic!’
‘Do you think I’m mad?’
‘No,’ said Diane thoughtfully. ‘He’s younger than he looks. And he’s better-looking than you think.’
‘Better-looking than I think?’ And Sophie groaned in mock-despair.
‘Where are you going to go?’