by Nick Hornby
‘I’d never hear the last of it.’
‘I can’t be a friend?’
‘They don’t understand friends. Not on a Saturday night. They understand husbands and wives and courting couples and that’s it.’
‘I’ll book at Sheekey’s. They’ll like it there.’
‘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.
‘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?’
‘I don’t know. He’s picking me up. He said he wanted to go somewhere fun.’
‘Go to a discotheque.’
‘Ooh, I’d love to go somewhere like that,’ said Sophie. ‘Do you know any?’
‘I like the Scotch,’ said Diane.
‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Sophie.
‘The Scotch of St James. It’s quite classy.’
‘Not too with-it?’
‘Not for you. And he’s famous. People forgive you a lot if you’re famous.’
Sophie used the same groan.
‘Will you call me afterwards? I’ll be dying to know how it goes.’
Sophie told her that she would, and she meant it too. It hadn’t really occurred to her before that, while she had a lot of things she hadn’t ever anticipated getting her hands on, she didn’t have any friends.
At first they were told that Maurice – or Sophie, she supposed, but the man on the door was working on the presumption that this was the gentleman’s business – had to pay three guineas for a temporary membership of the Scotch of St James, but then a couple of girls queuing up behind them asked for their autographs and suddenly they were both made honorary members. This immediate recognition made them both nervous, but once they were inside they were ignored. There was something almost studiedly self-conscious about this lack of attention, Sophie felt, as if they were being told that they weren’t famous enough, or were famous for the wrong kind of thing. All the girls looked like Diane, skinny and dark, short skirts, panda eye make-up, and all the men looked like guitarists or maybe even singers in a pop group. Sophie had dressed up, but Maurice, bless him, was wearing a suit and tie. Sophie couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dating Diane’s Uncle Maurice from Redcar, although it was a very nice suit that Maurice was wearing.
There was dancing downstairs and a bar upstairs, and smoke, noise and tartan everywhere. The tartan seemed to explain the name of the club, or the name of the club seemed to explain the tartan, but neither explanation was very satisfactory. They went upstairs, because not even Sophie could walk straight in off the street and begin dancing. She sat down at a table in the corner, and after they’d waited a few minutes for someone to take their drinks order, Maurice went up to the bar.
A handsome young man with very long hair and wearing a loud striped blazer replaced Maurice in seconds.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Keith.’
Sophie smiled at him, but didn’t introduce herself.
‘We’re friends, am I right?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sophie.
‘Oh. But … We’re not, you know. Not friends.’
‘I don’t think we’re not-friends,’ said Sophie. ‘I just think that we don’t know each other.’
‘Good. That’s a relief to me.’
‘How would we be not-friends?’
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ said Keith. ‘Sometimes it turns out I’ve met a bird before and one thing has led to another and then because of my busy lifestyle I’ve not really seen her again.’
‘Not really? What does “really” mean?’
Keith laughed.
‘You’re right. “Really” means “never”.’
‘I think I get the gist anyway,’ said Sophie.
‘Don’t let it put you off,’ said Keith.
‘Oh, no,’ said Sophie. ‘You sound like a dream date.’
Keith stared at her again.
‘But we are friends, aren’t we?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘But I don’t think we’re not-friends.’
‘I just got déjà vu,’ said Keith. ‘I feel like I’ve stood in this exact spot having this exact conversation. Have you ever had that?’
‘I got it just now. Just this second.’
‘My mum and dad,’ said Keith suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My mum and dad like you, but I don’t know how they know you. Or how I know they know you. And like you.’
He seemed genuinely perplexed. Sophie understood what her relationship with Keith’s parents consisted of, but saw no reason why she had to go into it.
‘I don’t blame them, by the way. You’re gorgeous.’
‘Thank you.’
Maurice came back with their drinks, but Keith didn’t move.
‘My friend has come back now,’ said Sophie gently. ‘It was nice talking to you.’
Keith looked up at Maurice.
‘Him?’ he said to Sophie. ‘Really?’ He stood up and peered into Maurice’s face as if it were a mirror and he was looking for pimples. ‘How old is he?’
‘Do you mind?’ said Maurice.
Sophie managed to suppress the temptation to laugh. It would have been disloyal and unfair. And though Maurice was at least ten years older than Keith, it wasn’t the age difference Keith was referring to, she didn’t think; it was something else. Maurice seemed to belong to another time altogether. He looked like a magician who appeared in variety shows, while everyone else in the club looked as though they lived in a world that had just been specially invented for them. She didn’t want to sound like her father, who’d spent his entire visit shaking his head at just about everybody under the age of twenty-five, but Keith and all the other faces in the Scotch of St James were a little like Clive’s face: unmarked by life somehow. She’d wanted to live in a city that felt young, but now she was beginning to wonder whether there wasn’t something rather shifty about these people, as if they’d got away with something.
; ‘I think you should clear off now, Sunny Jim,’ said Maurice.
‘Mr Magic!’ said Keith. ‘Fuck me! Show us some magic, Mr Magic!’
Maurice looked confused and a little frightened, Sophie thought.
‘I can’t do tricks in a discotheque,’ he said eventually.
‘Why not?’ said Keith.
‘Did you come with anyone, Keith?’ said Sophie. ‘Because perhaps you should go and look for them. They’ll be worried about you.’
But she’d said too much. The sound of her voice sparked something in the recesses of Keith’s memory.
‘You’re the missus! In that programme! That’s why I know you. My dad’s in love with you! I went round there for my dinner and I wasn’t allowed to speak! They had to watch. They never miss it. What’s it called? I don’t believe this. Mr Magic and the bird my dad loves off the telly! I’m Keith from the Yardbirds. Pleased to meet you.’
He offered his hand to Maurice, who had to put the drinks down on the table to take it. Sophie gave him a little wave.
‘Well,’ said Keith. ‘I don’t watch either of you myself, but God bless the pair of you for keeping the oldsters happy. Anyway.’
‘Anyway’, it turned out, meant ‘goodbye’. Keith walked away.
‘Who are the Yardbirds?’ said Maurice when Keith had gone.
‘They’re a pop group,’ said Sophie, but she had never heard of them. She just wanted to feel that she knew more than Maurice about that sort of thing. Neither of them confessed to discomfort, but they finished their drinks quickly, and went on to a restaurant where it was quiet and they could talk and eat and sit down and not be afraid. It wasn’t as if Sophie felt old – she didn’t. She felt young and alive and successful, full of hope and ambition. But she was an entertainer, and even though she suspected that Maurice Beck was not the right man and this was not the right life for her, she was on his side.
Sophie went out for dinner three more times with Maurice over the next few weeks. After the second dinner date she invited him in for coffee and kissed him, just to see if a kiss made any difference, but long before their lips touched, she was alerted to old-fashioned bad breath, the sort of thing she associated with schooldays and in particular a girl called Janice Stringer, who, legend had it, didn’t own a toothbrush. Sophie didn’t want to be thinking about Janice Stringer when she was kissing someone. The kiss was followed by some unfortunate and undignified wrestling, of the sort that Marjorie had warned her about but that Maurice seemed to think was all part of the fun. She knew then that she’d have to tell him that their relationship had run its course, but she couldn’t do it ten seconds after he’d kissed her, so there would have to be another dinner, another evening spent listening to stories about the Magic Circle and the Bournemouth Winter Gardens, and a difficult conversation afterwards.
