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Authors: Joanna Trollope
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wonderful line to read’.
‘I do?’
‘The line, “There you see the power of a bad conscience.”‘
‘Well,’ Edie said, making an effort, ‘I at least ought to know about
that’.
The director leaned forward. ‘We should start. There are other appointments’. Edie looked at the script in her hand. ‘Where would you like—’
‘I will start,’ Ivor said, ‘I will start with the line: “It almost makes my head reel.”‘ Edie looked at him. ‘No script?’ He smiled. ‘No need’.
Edie gave a little laugh.
‘How very disconcerting—’
‘Not at all. Quite the reverse. Reassuring for you’.
‘Oh?’
‘Like,’ Ivor said, smiling, ‘playing tennis with someone much better than you are’.
Edie swallowed. A rising tide of temper was beginning to eliminate the sensation of sickness.
‘Of course’.
‘We will begin’.
‘Very well’.
‘And I will indicate when we will stop’.
Edie glanced at the director. He was looking neither at her nor at his own copy of the script. She cleared her throat.
‘Sorry,’ he said, without moving. ‘Sorry, Ivor.
I’ll
tell you when to stop’. His gaze travelled slowly across the room and came to rest on some object outside the window. The producer was looking at his fingernails.
‘Fire away,’ the director said.
Ruth Munro was, as was her wont, one of the last to leave her office. She felt that, not only did her conscientiousness set a good example, but it also gave her thechance to leave everything in the state she would like to find it in the following morning: desk orderly, as many emails from the US cleared as possible, work-to-do papers assembled in a pile weighted with a large, smooth grey-and-white pebble, picked up on a north Devon beach during the first weekend that she and Matthew Boyd had ever spent away together. Being alone in the room also gave her the chance to slow the pace, to be reflective, to take advantage of that brief noman’s-land of time between the working day and the evening ahead. It also gave her time to stay in touch.
Ruth’s closest friend, Laura, had gone to Leeds two years previously, to join a law firm. In those two years, Laura had become engaged to a fellow lawyer and had bought an apartment on Leeds’ regenerated waterfront that had two bathrooms, a balcony and a basement laundry on the Swiss model. It was Laura, now owner of a Tiffany engagement diamond and with plans for Vera Wang shoes for her wedding day, who had intimated to Ruth, with the effect that only close friends can have, that if she did not buy a flat of her own soon she would be making a grave mistake.
Ruth had emailed Laura photographs of the loft on Bankside. Laura had been most approving, especially of the glass brick walls and double-height ceilings.
‘Go for it!’ she’d written.
Ruth had waited three days while she adjusted her need to confide against her loyalty to Matthew, and then she’d written, ‘I really want to. But there’s Matt’.
‘Doesn’t he like it?’
Another two days elapsed.
‘Yes,’ Ruth wrote reluctantly, ‘I think he does. But he’s worried about the money’.
Laura was marrying a lawyer who earned more than she did. Ruth sometimes thought it made her a little callous.
‘You mean he can’t afford it?’
‘Yes’.
‘Can you?’ ‘Yes,’ Ruth wrote.
‘Well?’
Ruth looked up from the screen. With no one in the office, she could hear the faint purring hum of the airconditioning system and, beyond the immediate silence of the office, the bigger hum of Liverpool Street outside. If the truth were told, Matthew had not actually said he could not afford to share equally in the loft on Bankside: he had, instead, made it very plain that he would -could? – not talk about it. He had been very busy in their present flat, fixing all kinds of things that Ruth regarded as the future tenants’ responsibility, but he had eluded any attempt at the kind of conversation Ruth was trying to have. She
‘I do?’
‘The line, “There you see the power of a bad conscience.”‘
‘Well,’ Edie said, making an effort, ‘I at least ought to know about
that’.
The director leaned forward. ‘We should start. There are other appointments’. Edie looked at the script in her hand. ‘Where would you like—’
‘I will start,’ Ivor said, ‘I will start with the line: “It almost makes my head reel.”‘ Edie looked at him. ‘No script?’ He smiled. ‘No need’.
Edie gave a little laugh.
‘How very disconcerting—’
‘Not at all. Quite the reverse. Reassuring for you’.
‘Oh?’
‘Like,’ Ivor said, smiling, ‘playing tennis with someone much better than you are’.
Edie swallowed. A rising tide of temper was beginning to eliminate the sensation of sickness.
‘Of course’.
‘We will begin’.
‘Very well’.
‘And I will indicate when we will stop’.
Edie glanced at the director. He was looking neither at her nor at his own copy of the script. She cleared her throat.
‘Sorry,’ he said, without moving. ‘Sorry, Ivor.
I’ll
tell you when to stop’. His gaze travelled slowly across the room and came to rest on some object outside the window. The producer was looking at his fingernails.
‘Fire away,’ the director said.
Ruth Munro was, as was her wont, one of the last to leave her office. She felt that, not only did her conscientiousness set a good example, but it also gave her thechance to leave everything in the state she would like to find it in the following morning: desk orderly, as many emails from the US cleared as possible, work-to-do papers assembled in a pile weighted with a large, smooth grey-and-white pebble, picked up on a north Devon beach during the first weekend that she and Matthew Boyd had ever spent away together. Being alone in the room also gave her the chance to slow the pace, to be reflective, to take advantage of that brief noman’s-land of time between the working day and the evening ahead. It also gave her time to stay in touch.
Ruth’s closest friend, Laura, had gone to Leeds two years previously, to join a law firm. In those two years, Laura had become engaged to a fellow lawyer and had bought an apartment on Leeds’ regenerated waterfront that had two bathrooms, a balcony and a basement laundry on the Swiss model. It was Laura, now owner of a Tiffany engagement diamond and with plans for Vera Wang shoes for her wedding day, who had intimated to Ruth, with the effect that only close friends can have, that if she did not buy a flat of her own soon she would be making a grave mistake.
Ruth had emailed Laura photographs of the loft on Bankside. Laura had been most approving, especially of the glass brick walls and double-height ceilings.
‘Go for it!’ she’d written.
Ruth had waited three days while she adjusted her need to confide against her loyalty to Matthew, and then she’d written, ‘I really want to. But there’s Matt’.
‘Doesn’t he like it?’
Another two days elapsed.
‘Yes,’ Ruth wrote reluctantly, ‘I think he does. But he’s worried about the money’.
Laura was marrying a lawyer who earned more than she did. Ruth sometimes thought it made her a little callous.
‘You mean he can’t afford it?’
‘Yes’.
‘Can you?’ ‘Yes,’ Ruth wrote.
‘Well?’
Ruth looked up from the screen. With no one in the office, she could hear the faint purring hum of the airconditioning system and, beyond the immediate silence of the office, the bigger hum of Liverpool Street outside. If the truth were told, Matthew had not actually said he could not afford to share equally in the loft on Bankside: he had, instead, made it very plain that he would -could? – not talk about it. He had been very busy in their present flat, fixing all kinds of things that Ruth regarded as the future tenants’ responsibility, but he had eluded any attempt at the kind of conversation Ruth was trying to have. She
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