‘What does that mean?’
‘When you’re on TV, you’re not you. You’re playing a part. But when I’m on TV, I’m me. I’m Maurice.’
This part was true, unfortunately. The private Maurice was very similar to the Maurice that the public knew. He never seemed to go anywhere without make-up, for a start, and that toothy, insincere smile flashed on and off, randomly, like a faulty car headlight.
‘I’m sure there’s a lot more to you than that,’ said Sophie.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There really isn’t. What you see is what you get with me. And I’m not ashamed of that. You could be married to me for a thousand years, and I’d still be the person you see on Sunday Night at the London Palladium.’
Sophie was tempted to thank him for the evenings out by advising him that he should never say that again, to any woman, unless he wanted his date to kill herself for some reason.
‘I’m sure,’ said Sophie.
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Maurice, ‘is … I should just give it time. And we should keep going out. And we must kiss and cuddle a lot.’
That was one of the things wrong with him: he used expressions like ‘kiss and cuddle’. It was the sort of thing her grandparents said. There was probably an old music-hall song called ‘We Must Kiss and Cuddle a Lot’; there would never be a Rolling Stones song with the same title. Or a Yardbirds song, she imagined, although she still didn’t know what the Yardbirds sounded like. And also, what kind of a job was comic magician? She didn’t think she could bear to be married to a comic magician, even if his breath was sweeter than Parma violets and his kisses were like atom bombs. Comic magicians belonged on seaside piers. Comic magicians were what she had come to London to escape, not to find, and certainly not to marry.
‘I don’t think I am saying that really,’ she said eventually.
‘Oh.’
‘I think what I’m saying is that giving it time won’t make any difference.’
‘Why not?’
He was looking at her earnestly. He really wanted to understand.
‘I don’t think I’m right for you.’
‘You are. Definitely. I know that.’
‘Ah. Well. I think it must be the other way around, then.’
‘I’m still not following you.’
She didn’t think she’d ever shown enough gratitude for the quick wits of the people she worked with, and if the evening ever ended, which it showed no signs of doing, she would rectify that. She would buy them all flowers or whisky and write a card thanking them for being so clever. There were a thousand reasons why she would never have this conversation with Dennis. He would never have made an engagement ring appear in her champagne glass, of course, but once he’d realized that she was never going to put it on, he wouldn’t have asked her why not. She didn’t want to be a dim comedy magician’s wife, and she didn’t have to be, but she also saw that it wouldn’t amaze people if that was the choice she made.
She explained, as clearly as she could, and broke Maurice’s heart, and then she went home on her own.
13
When Bill had become used to the idea, and was no longer quite so dismissive of the first and depressed by the second, he liked to joke that Tony was responsible for two pregnancies in the same month. Tony didn’t spoil the joke by pointing out that the paternity of the other child was in doubt: Tom Sloan was a suspect, and Dennis, too. And Bill himself could hardly be considered blameless. But yes, fatherhood. There was suddenly a lot more of it in Tony’s life than he could ever have predicted.
He and Bill had moved into a bigger office now, one which could accommodate Hazel while allowing them to work in the room at the back. When June came to see him to tell him the news, she didn’t walk straight through, as she usually did when she dropped in; she stood by Hazel’s desk and waited while Hazel came through to tell him she was there. He knew what it was about as soon as he saw her.
He took her outside on to the street, away from curious eyes, and hugged her tightly.
‘Can you believe it? You’ve knocked me up,’ she said, and Tony laughed at the implication of violence, or at least vigour, in the phrase. He hadn’t knocked her up. There had been a lot of patience, coaxing, maybe-tomorrows, never-minds and I-think-sos. Just recently, there were signs that it was getting better, or at least less complicated.
‘We’ll have to move,’ said Tony. ‘A house with a garden.’
‘Hold your horses,’ said June. ‘We’ll be all right for a bit.’
They lived in a flat in Camden Town, and June loved the shops, the cinemas and the market.
‘Somewhere leafy and quiet. Pinner or somewhere.’
‘Really? Oh, dear. Anyway, there are other things to worry about before that.’
‘What have we got to worry about?’
‘Childbirth, for a start. I’m terrified.’
‘Sorry. Yes.’
‘And whether I’ll be a good mum.’
‘You’ll be a wonderful mum.’