A Decent Interval by Simon Brett

Author:Simon Brett [Simon Brett]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2013-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

The scenes featuring Ophelia in the Saturday matinee of Hamlet at the Grand Theatre Marlborough were a little tentative, but by the evening Milly Henryson had overcome her nerves and the general view among all the cast was that they had given their best performance yet. So a large number of the company (though not, Charles noticed with regret, Geraldine Romelle) adjourned to the nearest pub to celebrate. Again the landlord’s relaxed approach to the licensing hours allowed them to fit in an hour’s drinking.

When time was finally called, Charles Paris floated from the pub to the bottle of Bell’s in his digs. As he sat in front of the television, cradling a glass and watching yet another catch-up on the progress of the current Top Pop series, he started to feel maudlin. Plaintive words formed in his mind. Where have you gone, Geraldine? Where is it you go after every rehearsal, every performance? Why don’t you join me here? We’d really get on, you know.

He woke cold and cramped at a quarter to four, staggered to his bed and managed a few more sweaty, restless hours of sleep.

He didn’t feel good when he woke at quarter to nine. Thank God, he thought, that the place where he was staying was self-catering. The idea of facing a landlady over breakfast was more than he could bring himself to contemplate.

On the other hand, ‘self-catering’ did carry with it the implication that he should cater for himself. And he hadn’t got in much in the way of supplies. Except for the bottle of Bell’s … which bizarrely seemed overnight to have emptied itself.

Charles Paris felt grouchy and self-pitying. Eating something, he knew, would help, and he was sure Marlborough must boast cafés that would be open on a Sunday morning – indeed, he’d seen a plethora of them along the High Street. And yet the thought of sitting in public and …

The pubs would be open at twelve, no doubt offering deals on Sunday Roasts. And after a few drinks he’d be able to eat more easily. But twelve o’clock seemed an awfully long way away.

A shower would help. Stop him feeling so sweaty, at least; get rid of the sense of dampness around the collar of the shirt he’d slept in.

But no. First he needed to ring Frances.

Yes, of course. Once he’d had the idea, he couldn’t think why he hadn’t had it earlier.

Frances would cheer him up. She was still his wife, after all. And she’d be free, no school on a Sunday. Charles knew there hadn’t been a railway station in Marlborough since the Lord Beeching cuts of the 1960s. But he could get a cab to Swindon, then the train from there to London only took about an hour. He and Frances could meet for lunch. Or maybe she’d cook for him. Wow, Sunday lunch with his wife – how nostalgic would that be?

Alternatively, she might offer to drive down to join him for lunch in Marlborough. They’d

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