Keith Waterhouse - Collected Plays

CHEEVERS’ voice: Cheevers here, Angie. Just coming up to noon, Wednesday. Give me a bell at the Gallery, would you? Ciao.

Pause.

ROGER: But what I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how special these special feelings, was a ruminating interest in your sex life in general, Cheevers in particular. (He hangs up the print.)

ANGIE enters. Like JUDITH at the end of Act I she has been shopping — probably at the same store. The clothes she is wearing are new and of altogether better quality than any of her outfits we have seen earlier.

ROGER crosses and kisses her.

ROGER: Angie, you look stunning.

ANGIE: What are you doing here?

ROGER: Come to carry you off to lunch.

ANGIE: Have you been snooping?

ROGER: You did give me a key, darling.

ANGIE: Not to use carte du jour.

ROGER: Or even carte blanche.

ANGIE: Not carte anything. It was in case I was out when you very kindly brought round my new duvet.

ROGER: Well, today I’ve very kindly brought round a new print. What do you think?

ANGIE: (Looking at it indifferently.) Is that Venice?

ROGER: It’s not the Paddington Basin.

ANGIE: Very nice. Thank you, darling.

ROGER: You don’t sound too keen.

ANGIE: Possessions have never been important to me. Besides, like my lovely new clothes, they cost money. You mustn’t spoil me.

ROGER: I wanted your flat to look lived in. (He produces a bottle of champagne, already opened, and pours two glasses.) A glass of bubbles afore we go. It’s not very cold, I’m afraid — we must buy you a little fridge.

ANGIE: (Unconvincingly.) No, you can’t!

ROGER: One more reason to hang on to your latch key. (He moves to the answering machine.) This thing’s flashing — did you know?

ANGIE: I’ll play it back later. It’s probably Belle.

ROGER: No, it’s Cheevers.

ANGIE: Have you been listening to my phone calls?

ROGER: (Teasingly.) Oh, yes — I have your telephone line tapped, didn’t you know?

ANGIE: (Relaxing again.) I wouldn’t put it past you… Don’t you want to see what I’ve bought? (She produces a froth of lacy underwear from her shopping.)

ROGER: I think I’d rather see it on you.

ANGIE: I was going to buy you a present too but I ran out of money.

ROGER: You’re my present.

He pours more champagne and they kiss lightly. The atmosphere is now loving and relaxed.

Angie…if I ask you something, will you promise not to ask why I want to know or what does it matter or why is it important?

ANGIE: Kiss and promise.

ROGER: I want you tell me about your friend Cheevers.

ANGIE: He’s not my friend, and I don’t carry his PVC about with me, darling.

ROGER: CV.

ANGIE: That either. I’ll answer your questions if there’s anything that’s bothering you, but I’ve already told you as much as you need to know.

ROGER: Or as much as you want to tell me.

ANGIE: Now don’t start. Take a deep breath, have some champagne, and tell me what you want to know while I get changed. (She changes her dress during the following.)

ROGER: All right. Why do you always call him Cheevers?

ANGIE: It’s his name, darling.

ROGER: You know what I mean. Men who are known only by their surnames are usually shits or whizz-kids or possibly both. Which is he?

ANGIE: Don’t be silly. He’s known as that because he has the same name as his father who owns the Chelsea Auction Galleries.

ROGER: Which is where you met?

ANGIE: I never said that.

ROGER: Then where did you meet?

ANGIE: At a party. He took me home.

ROGER: To bed.

ANGIE: Perhaps. (Defensively.) It isn’t as if I didn’t know who he was, Roger. After all, I did work for his father.

ROGER: (Drily.) One of the family, almost.

ANGIE: So. We had a little fling, then off he went on a business course or something, and then I left the Galleries, and then he got married, and then we lost touch.

ROGER: Until?

ANGIE: I heard it hadn’t worked out and he was back on the flesh market, as it’s called.

ROGER: By whom?

ANGIE: Oh, the sort of set I used to go around with. You know — sort of clubby people.

ROGER: Clubby people. Clubs like the Screw, you mean? Pick-up joints?

ANGIE: If that’s the quaint old-fashioned expression you want to use.

ROGER: And you came across him again in one of these places, did you?

ANGIE: Yes.

ROGER: Did you go looking for him?

ANGIE: I may have done.

ROGER: Why?

ANGIE: Boredom, I suppose.

ROGER: (As a narrative aside.) And so you re-started your affair. You hoped he would leave his wife but it didn’t happen. He brought you her cast-offs, though, which you’d accept as a token of his serious intent. How weird.

ANGIE: It was proof of his kindness. So very few people had ever been kind to me. It showed that he cared for me.

ROGER: Not that he was a cheapskate trying to ingratiate himself into your bed?

ANGIE: He didn’t have to do that.

ROGER: Of course not — the bed was always available, whenever he was of a mind to turn up at your flat for supper.

ANGIE: (Sadly.) Sometimes I’d make the supper and he wouldn’t turn up.

ROGER: And then he’d come round but wouldn’t stay for supper. And so you arrived at this bleak screwing arrangement, where he’d drop in late night on his way home and you’d repair to bed for a couple of hours. And your explanation was simple and heart-rending.

ANGIE: I was lonely and I didn’t have any proper relationships with men. I never had had, Roger, not real ones. It was something to cling on to, however threadbare and shabby. It gave my life continuance.

ROGER: Continuity, my Lady Malaprop. Come along — let’s eat.

They cross, not to the restaurant, but post-prandially to the champagne bar, swaying a little.

And let’s drink. (As a narrative aside.) I loved you, I love you. I could have given you continuity, if nothing else — continuity by the bucketful…

The champagne bar.

An opened bottle awaits them as they cross, continuing a discussion that has gone on all lunchtime.

ROGER: But when we first met, according to Gunby T. Gunby you were in the habit of dining frequently with Cheevers at the World’s End Brasserie.

ANGIE: Not frequently — sometimes. To stop him coming round.

ROGER: Why see him at all?

ANGIE: You wouldn’t understand.

ROGER: Try me.

ANGIE: I wanted his friendship. Without strings.

ROGER: You mean without sex.

ANGIE: I longed for the experience of someone — anyone — just one man — wanting to take me out with no prospect in view — at all — except the pleasure of my company. Ego trip. And the wrong choice.

ROGER: So then you chose me… You’re not still seeing him, Angie, are you?

ANGIE: Yes and no.

ROGER: (Wearily.) Go on.

ANGIE: Don’t be angry, darling.

ROGER: I’m not angry, I’m bloody astounded. When did you see him last?

ANGIE: Don’t swear at me.

ROGER: When did you see him last?

ANGIE: And don’t shout. If you shout I shan’t tell you.

ROGER: Angela!

ANGIE: Yesterday lunchtime. Well thereabout.

ROGER: Where?

ANGIE: Here.

ROGER: (As a narrative aside.) I would give you up, cut my losses, retrieve my sanity — my dignity too while I was about it. Not make a scene: just thank you nicely for everything and walk away without ever turning back.

ANGIE: Don’t you want to know why?