Kate O’Mara - Good Time Girl

‘Fuck Colin,’ replied Larry blithely. He opened his eyes and looked at them. ‘You’re the producers of the series, you’re the arbiters of taste, for God’s sake, and we all know that what has been served up in Episodes Ten and Eleven is nothing more or less than sentimental drivel!’

There was a longish pause, then Hugh said, ‘Right! Well, we’d better hear your rewrites then.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ observed Larry dryly, as he sat up, put his half-glasses on the end of his nose and opened the first script. ‘That’ll teach me to take holidays,’ he muttered as he found the right page. ‘That load of twaddle that passed for “prime-time drama” last night was perpetrated when I was in San Francisco, of course. Ah, here we are. Now first of all I think I should mention I’ve introduced two new characters –’

‘You’ve done what?’ exploded Hugh, sitting bolt upright. This time Larry had gone too far.

‘Two new characters,’ repeated Larry patiently.

‘Without consulting me?’ Hugh was outraged.

‘I’m consulting you now,’ said Larry, unimpressed by Hugh’s outburst, ‘that’s why I’m here. This is the consultation.’

‘Have you any idea how much two new actors will cost the series? Yes, of course you have,’ said Hugh, answering his own question. ‘We’ve been over the budget together!’

‘I know exactly how much it will cost – and we solve the problem by losing two of the others.’

Throughout this exchange Martin had looked aghast and was incapable of speech.

‘Who do you suggest?’ asked Hugh, scarcely able to believe his ears.

‘Well, the appalling Patsy for one,’ Larry said, looking beadily at Hugh, whom, he noticed, had the grace to blush. ‘Crotch casting never works,’ Larry had stated bluntly at the time. ‘Then, there’s dear old Fred – he’s finding the going a bit rough. We could put him out to pasture – or not have him in the series quite so often,’ he added hurriedly, seeing their horrified faces. ‘Oh come on, girls, we’ve got a hit series on our hands here, which has at least another couple of years’ life in it. We’ve got to keep it up to scratch or, let’s face it, we won’t be asked back again. It’ll go down the pan at the end of the season.’

There was another silence as they considered the prospect.

‘All right,’ said Hugh, finally. ‘What’s your idea? Who are these newcomers?’

Larry looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘I want to put the cat among the pigeons,’ he said quietly. ‘A threat, a rival, a stunning young woman. She tries to steal Paul McMaster’s clients, his business, and, finally, his heart.’ There was another pause.

‘I like it,’ said Hugh simply. Martin nodded in agreement. Larry allowed himself a small smile. ‘And the other character?’ asked Hugh.

‘An American,’ said Larry, watching their faces closely. ‘A rich American playboy with a weakness for fine art, who falls for the new girl and decides to back her financially.’ And he sat back to watch their reactions. They both stared at him unblinking.

‘I like that, too,’ said Hugh sanguinely.

‘What do you think, Marty?’ demanded Larry cheekily.

‘I think you’d better read us your rewrites,’ was the quiet response.

‘Attaboy!’ said Larry enthusiastically, drawing his chair up to the table.

‘And then,’ said Hugh, ‘we’d better draw up a shortlist of possible actresses.’

‘And possible Americans,’ added Martin, determined not to be left out. ‘Quite a few live in this country, I believe.’

Larry delivered his final bombshell. ‘I thought we might import someone from Hollywood,’ he said airily. ‘Shall I start reading?’

Geoffrey Armitage stood in the untidy rambling kitchen of his spacious home. The face that featured so effectively in The McMasters , making millions of female hearts beat faster every Sunday evening between 7.45 and 8.40, was at this moment gazing with unseeing eyes at the deep yellow wall in front of him. The intensity of the colour offended him to the depths of his soul.

‘Why yellow?’ he had asked his wife, Sukie, as he stared aghast at the deep yellow ochre walls after they had just moved in.

‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’

‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.

‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’

‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’

‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.

‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.

‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’

‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.

‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’

‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.

‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.

Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.

‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.