LITMIR.BIZ

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very relevant,’ says Dominic soothingly. ‘It was terribly “now”. That’s what tellyvision is all about.’

      We are in the saloon bar of the pub opposite the studio having what Dominic calls an ‘unwinding drinkypoo’ and I am wondering if one is going to be enough to get out all the twists.

      ‘Does your sister often behave like that?’ asks Miss Mealie.

      ‘You mean like when she threw me through the glass window?’

      ‘I was thinking of when she tried to strangle you with the microphone lead.’

      ‘She took evening classes in karate. That’s where she got the technique, she always had the temper.’

      ‘Remarkable. I sometimes think these programmes bring out the worst in the mothers.’

      ‘They don’t do a lot for the kiddies either,’ I say, gingerly rubbing the ankle that Jason tried to separate from the rest of my leg.

      ‘I won’t miss him,’ says Miss Mealie with feeling. ‘I don’t think I offend you too much when I say that?’

      ‘Oh no,’ I agree, ‘I wouldn’t miss him if I was looking down the sights of a rifle.’

      Miss M. takes another hefty swig at her brandy and I signal for the barman to repair it.

      ‘He has some very nasty habits. He never went to the toilet, you know. When we came to check his locker we found out why.’

      ‘We had the same trouble with the broom cupboard at home,’ I say. ‘Mum used to think it was the cat. She belted the living daylights out of the poor bleeder.’

      ‘What have you got on tonight, Timmy?’ says Dominic suddenly, giving me one of those funny looks, as if he means in the underwear line.

      ‘Well, I – er,’ Miss Mealie is screwing up her eyes in a ‘don’t do it, buster’ grimace, ‘I’m going out with one of my mates,’ I lie. Miss Mealie nods approvingly.

      ‘I thought of having a few people round for drinks,’ says Dominic expansively. ‘Why don’t you and your friend drop in?’

      ‘I think he’s got tickets for something,’ I gulp.

      ‘Well, afterwards then.’

      ‘If we don’t get out too late. Ta very much.’

      Dominic’s eyes narrow. ‘I hope you’ll be able to make it,’ he says firmly. ‘I want to get this situation regarding the new format straightened out as soon as possible. With us having to replace young Noggett it’s a good moment to introduce a new face at the head of the table.’ He looks at Miss Mealie whose smile is about as natural as a set of orange peel gnashers.

      ‘Jason is definitely out, is he?’ I ask trying to conceal my satisfaction.

      ‘Definitely. He’s lost the public’s confidence. They can accept what happened but they won’t want to bite their nails down to the quick waiting for a repetition. It’s not fair on the child, either.’

      ‘Indeed, no,’ I say, shaking my head gravely.

      ‘I must be off,’ says Dominic giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got to chill the crème de menthe. Do hope you will be able to look in later. It will definitely be worth your while. And – er, do bring your friend, there’ll be lots of people. Forty-seven Carmarthen Mews. You won’t forget it, will you?’ He gives a little wink and practically dances out of the pub.

      ‘The place is riddled with them,’ says Miss Mealie disapprovingly, before he is out of earshot.

      ‘U-mm,’ I say. It is occurring to me that I might be on the outskirts of a dicey situation. Dominic Ralph may well have a scrambled hormone balance but he is in a position to turn me into a telly star. As the solution to any sexual hang-ups that I feel in the next few minutes, Miss Mealie has a much bigger future, but she is obviously not sobbing with gratitude about the prospect of sharing the billing with Uncle Timmy. Maybe I had better keep the demon lust under control tonight and slip round for an arm distance chat with Dominic later.

      ‘I never meet a real man these days,’ says Miss Mealie, running her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Only poofs and snotty little kids.’

      ‘Don’t you like children?’ I say innocently, sliding her glass towards her.

      ‘Are you kidding? Hey – did you hear that? Joke.’

      ‘Fantastic,’ I say.

      ‘The only thing I hate more than kids is mothers. But then you know that. Do you know what I like?’

      ’No,’ I lie to her.

      She leans forward and whispers in my ear. ‘Does that shock you?’

      ‘These days, nothing shocks me. It’s funny though, isn’t it? You liking that though you don’t like kids.’

      ‘It never occurred to me to consider that there might be a connection until you mentioned it. It’s like being told that filling a fountain pen makes babies.’

      ‘Yes,’ I say. I am coming to the conclusion that Miss Mealie is well on the way to becoming very successfully pissed. This, of course, is sad but not so sad that I am going to lose any sleep about it. In fact I may well be able to use it as the framework of a very pleasant evening. If I take Miss Mealie home and put her to bed – and at a pinch myself – I can then go on to Dominic’s and seal my star status over a pitcher of crème de menthe.

      ‘You were lucky you managed to talk your way out of going to Dominic’s place,’ says Miss Mealie, colliding with my thoughts. ‘It’s a very kinky set-up. I don’t know who he’s living with at the moment but it’s quite awful, the things that go on there. I know that what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own affair – or affairs – hey, did you hear that? I made another joke.’

      ‘Great.’

      ‘Well, laugh when I make a joke. Haven’t you got a sense of humour?’

      ‘I laugh a lot inside.’

      ‘You should let it bubble to the surface a little more often. Anyway, where was I?’

      ‘You were saying I should laugh more.’

      ‘No! Stupid. I was telling you about Dominic’s flat. I was saying how awful it is. You’re – er, not like that, are you?’

      ‘As a clockwork orange. Why do you think I’ve got this far with Dominic? There’s a kind of chemistry between us.’

      ‘Don’t be stupid! I can tell them a mile off. There’s nothing queer about you.’

      ‘I don’t think you should say that without proof.’

      ‘Are you serious? You’re having me on, aren’t you? You think you can talk me into taking you into my bed so that I can prove that you’re not queer.’

      ‘I’m confused already. Let’s just go to bed.’

      ‘You’re cool, aren’t you?’

      ‘You told me what you liked.’

      ‘I didn’t say anything about you.’

      ‘That would have been forward.’

      Miss Mealie is now walking up the buttons of my shirt with her fingers. She gets to the collar, clambers over my chin, tramples on my lips and ends up on my nose. ‘Bite off your nose!’ she says gaily.

      ‘Let me take you home,’ I husk.

      Five minutes later she has made a tellyphone call and I have poured – and pawed – her into a taxi. This evening had better come to something because it is costing me a fortune. There was a time when a bird could reckon she was in for a good time if I ordered a Babycham and two straws.

      ‘Oh, I’m feeling a sleepy girl,’ murmurs Miss

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