‘Yes—’

‘The real trouble was living with Kate and Barney. They’re too newly married, really, to cope with having anyone else there. She didn’t actually say she didn’t feel welcome, but I could tell she was having a bad time’.

‘Was?’

‘Oh yes,’ Vivien said, almost airily. ‘We sorted the living thing at least’.

Edie closed her eyes.

‘She’s coming to live with me, for the moment,’ Vivien said. ‘That’s why I’m ringing, really. I thought you should know’.

Edie opened her eyes again. She gripped the telephone.

‘Let me get this straight, Vivi. Rosa is working in a travel agency, and living with Kate and Barney didn’t work out so she – she has asked to live with you?’

‘No,’ Vivien said, ‘I asked her. I could see she was desperate’.

‘Why,’ Edie cried, wishing she could restrain herself, ‘didn’t she ask me? Why didn’t she come home?’ ‘Ah. Now that I couldn’t say. I couldn’t tell you about that’.

‘You’re a smug, manipulative cow’.

‘Edie,’ Vivien said, ‘I am your sister and Rosa’s aunt. I’m family’.

‘I don’t want to talk to you any more’.

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic and silly. As long as Rosa is safe and comfortable, why does it matter whose roof she’s under?’

Edie scooped her free hand under Arsie and lifted him off her lap. Then she stood up.

‘You know very well why it matters’.

‘Only if you’re possessive’.

‘I’m not possessive!’

‘Well,’ Vivien said, ‘you think of another word for it’. Edie put a hand over her eyes. ‘To cook up this plan behind my back—’ ‘I’m ringing you’.

‘Rosa didn’t’.

‘Well,’ Vivien said triumphantly, ‘can you wonder?’

Edie looked down at the ground. The sheets of her script were scattered about and the cat was sitting, washing, on some of them.

‘I must go,’ she said to her sister. ‘You—’

‘Yes,’ Edie said. ‘Can’t talk any more. Got to learn my lines’.


Maeve was sorting the invoices for Russell’s quarterly VAT return. In the days before VAT she had entered all receipts and outgoings in a series of black analysis books and there were many occasions, either battling with the geriatric computer, or shuffling sliding piles of paper on not enough desk space, when she longed for those uncomplicated handwritten days, those peaceful, simple columns of in and out with their satisfactorily clear totals, written in red, at the foot of each one. Modern business life wasn’t just more complicated; there was also more of it, more paper, more checking, more duplicating, more choices. Choice, Maeve sometimes thought, accounted for far more of the current propensity for depression than stress did. Choice, if taken to extremes, could quite simply drive you mad.

The door to Russell’s office stood open, as usual. Russell himself wasn’t in his office, having gone to a meeting with a television production company that had secured an advertising contract for a major bank and was in search of both actors and actors’ voices. Maeve could visualise him at the meeting, slightly rumpled amid the black T-shirts and business suits, but not to be lightly dismissed on account of having known the business, and the people in it, since before some of his competitors were born. If Russell wasn’t the kind of agent who commuted to Los Angeles and had a country house for weekends, it was because he didn’t want to be.

‘Not blazingly ambitious,’ he’d said to Maeve when he first interviewed her all those years ago. ‘Just want to have a nice time. It’s what growing up in the North does to you – you’re either driven by the work ethic of your childhood, or you decide to react against it. What you see, Miss O’Leary, is my small rebellion’.

All the same, he probably wouldn’t come back from the meeting entirely empty-handed. He’d taken a few photographs, a few voice tapes, and he would proffer them casually, merely saying, ‘You might like to consider this,’ in the tone of voice he used to his clients when persuading them to accept a job that paid reasonably but only required a fraction of their acting skills. The clients, having reluctantly accepted, would then lie across the wicker sofas in Maeve’s office and groan to her.

‘I said I’d never be a lawn mower again. I promised myself no more cartoon bears. I swore not to be a tea bag. Not ever again. Not ever’.

Maeve had made a sign years before, which she had stuck on the back of her computer, the side that faced the sofa. It read: ‘Just think of the money’ and it had been there so long that the edges had stiffened and curled. It was supposed to save her saying it out loud, over and over, but of course everyone needed to be told, equally over and over, that being the voice of a northern Building society was going to pay the bills until that turning-point movie role became a happening rather than a hope.

Maeve got up from her desk and went into Russell’s office to collect the small receipts that he threw into an old leather collar box on the cluttered shelves behind his desk. The collar box had belonged to his grandfather, whose initials, the same as Russell’s, could still be seen, faintly stamped into the leather below the fastening. What would that Russell Boyd, Maeve sometimes wondered, that hard-working, God-fearing manufacturer of fish barrels for the fleets that worked off the northern coasts, close to Hull, have made of his grandson being in a poncy job like this? And what of those framed photographs, signed by some of Russell’s better-known clients, all parted lips and smouldering eyes and flourishes? Maeve took down the collar box and opened the lid. There wasn’t much in it. Russell might like a nice life in some ways, but that didn’t include, it seemed, taking many taxis.

From her own office, the street doorbell rang. Maeve put down the collar box and pressed the audio button on the intercom.

‘Russell Boyd Associates’.

‘It’s Edie,’ Edie said.

‘You come on up,’ Maeve said. ‘He’s not here, but I’m expecting him’.

She pushed the door release, and a second later heard its muffled crash, closing behind Edie. She opened the office door and waited for Edie’s steps up the stairs, light and quick, to come closer. Edie was wearing jeans, and a green wool jacket, with her hair pushed into the kind of cap Maeve remembered people wearing in the sixties, a gamine kind of cap, with a big peak.

‘I’ve to congratulate you,’ Maeve said, as Edie reached the final landing, ‘on getting that play’.

Edie gave her a pat on the arm. They had known one another for twenty-five years and had never kissed. Edie was not the kind of woman, Maeve considered, who scattered kisses about just anyhow, actor or no actor, and in any case a mutual sense of propriety had kept them friendly but formal.

‘It’s good,’ Edie said. She was panting slightly. ‘I’m enjoying it. No wonder Ibsen went to Italy. You couldn’t breathe, then, in Norway’. She looked into Russell’s office. ‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Meeting with Daydream Productions. Should be back any minute. Now, will you have a cup of coffee?’

Edie considered.

‘I don’t think so—’

‘I make it all day,’ Maeve said. ‘It’s never enough for these people just to come here and see Russell and go. They need nourishment and a sympathetic ear and I’m the provider of both’.

Edie walked over to the window of Russell’s office.

She said, almost idly, ‘I suppose Rosa hasn’t been in?’

‘Not for a while,’ Maeve said. ‘Not for a month or so. Looking at you, I can’t see where that height of hers comes from’.

Edie shrugged.

‘They’re all taller than me. I used to have to buy shoes in Chinatown’.

‘It’s modern nourishment,’ Maeve said. ‘It’s all this feeding. When I was growing up, in County Sligo, you could have put three children into a modern one’. The street door crashed again.

‘That’ll be him,’ Maeve said. ‘You’re a family of slam-mers. Not another soul in this building slams the way he does’.

Edie took her cap off and put it on Russell’s desk. Then she sat down in his swivel chair and leaned back.

‘If you’re taking him away,’ Maeve said, ‘I’ve some letters for him to sign before you do’.

Edie shook her head.

‘I just want to ask him something’.

Russell’s footsteps could be heard on the landing and then crossing Maeve’s office.

He appeared in the doorway.

‘Well,’ he said. He was smiling. ‘How lovely’.

Edie regarded him.

Maeve said, ‘And how did it go?’

Russell was looking at Edie.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. Several nibbles that might well amount to a bite or two’.

He put the battered canvas bag in which he carried papers down on a chair and went round his desk, stooping to kiss Edie.

‘Hello’.

Edie said, ‘I could have rung but I was restless’. ‘Good,’ Russell said again. He perched himself on the edge of his desk. ‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise’. Maeve moved towards her office.

‘Will I shut the door?’

Russell half turned.

‘Don’t bother’. ‘Please,’ Edie said, past him. He turned back. ‘What’s happened?’

Edie waited until Maeve, with elaborate care, had closed the connecting door. Then she said, ‘Something a bit puzzling—’

‘What?’

She put a half-closed hand up near her face, as if she was examining the cuticles. ‘Vivi rang’.

‘And?’

‘She said Rosa was moving in with her’.

‘Well,’ Russell said, a shade too cheerfully, ‘isn’t that a good thing?’

‘Why didn’t I hear it from Rosa?’

‘Well, perhaps Vivi got in first—’

‘Why isn’t Rosa ringing? Why don’t I know what’s happening to Rosa?’