New World in the Morning by Stephen Benatar Page B

endorsement: the phone at the shop rang merely a few minutes after I had walked in.
    â€œSam? Good morning. This is Moira Sheffield.”
    I’d recognized her voice on the first syllable. Although my heart at once reacted it hadn’t had time to monkey with either my pitch or my phrasing. “Sweet heaven,” I declared. “I was just thinking of you.”
    â€œReally? What were you thinking?”
    â€œOnly the worst.”
    â€œWhat a relief! How are you?”
    â€œFantastic. You?”
    â€œAlso pretty well. But listen, Sam. I’ve decided I shan’t be coming back to Deal next weekend, I—”
    â€œOh, no !”
    I shouldn’t have said that, obviously I shouldn’t, at least not with such emphasis. The words had been shocked from me. I felt cold with disappointment.
    â€œBut wait,” she said, “let me tell you why. I’ve been offered two tickets for that new American musical, the one at present getting so much hype, and frankly I hadn’t the chutzpah to turn them down. And then the title seemed to clinch it. Half a Farthing, Sam Sparrow? Oh, what relevance! They’re for next Saturday evening. I wondered if you’d like to come.”
    â€œMy God.”
    She laughed. “Is that a yes?”
    â€œExact translation: I should love to come. There’s nothing that could possibly give me any greater pleasure…” Yet I was speaking with deliberation. My brain was trying frantically to get to grips. In my own mind the sentence wasn’t finished but she didn’t realize this.
    â€œI’m so glad. I think that—despite the hype—the show should turn out to be fun.”
    â€œI haven’t really caught the hype, just the hit tune, which is as catchy as all get-out.” (Strange lyric, though: ‘You feel that you’re on trial, and so you’re in denial, you want to cry and run a mile, but still you lie and still you smile, and smile and smile and smile…’ Rather dopey.)
    â€œYes, hard to get it out of your mind, once it’s there; no doubt we’ll drive each other crazy! Now what I also thought was this: is there any chance of your making a full weekend out of it—coming here on Friday night—getting your assistant (Liz tells me she feels sure you have one) to be in charge on Saturday? There’s plenty of room at the flat and I’ve already made some plans for interesting things we could do together—you said the other day you don’t know London awfully well…” But then she faltered. “Or do you think I’m being presumptuous?”
    â€œPresumptuous? Good heavens, no. It all sounds out of this world, but…”
    â€œIs it your grandmother? I was worried it mightn’t be as easy as I hoped.”
    â€œYes. May I ring you back? Say—in an hour? Will you be home?”
    She gave me her number. “See what you can manage, then.” I promised that I would. We ended, a bit bathetically, talking about transport.
    Forty minutes later I rang Junie.
    â€œDarling, guess what! Guess whom I’ve just heard from!”
    â€œRADA. They’ve offered you a place.”
    â€œNot yet,” I said, “although I admit they’re being a little slow.”
    â€œThen I give up,” she said. “Who?”
    â€œJohn Caterham.”
    â€œJohn Caterham! Good gracious! You mean the John Caterham who was in our class at school?”
    â€œAs opposed to all the other John Caterhams we know?”
    â€œBut how—why—where? I wouldn’t have thought he’d even got your number! Or knew what the shop was called! Where was he phoning from? Or do you mean it was a letter?”
    â€œNo, I spoke to him. He asked after you, of course. Sent his love. Couldn’t believe our children are now old enough to be at the County High or that old Hinchcliff still hasn’t retired.”
    â€œBut what about his own