Malvina answered. âHe had me pressed up against a wall for most of that rehearsal. Youâd think it was enough that heâd already shagged my mother.â
âYou know whatâs the matter with all these people, donât you?â Paul leaned in towards her and lowered his voice to a whisper. â
Theyâre all on
drugs.
â He directed her gaze to a large bowl of white powder which stood on the shelf in front of him. âI was offered that, you know. By the make-up girl, if you please. Brazen as anything. âDo you normally use this, Mr. Trotter?â she said. Can you believe it? Can you imagine if I had, and sheâd blabbed to the newspapers? That almost amounts to entrapment, donât you think?â
Malvina got up and inspected the contents of the bowl. She dipped her finger in, took a lick and grimaced.
âPaul, calm down, canât you? Itâs loose powder, for Godâs sake. You put it on your face. It covers up the sweat.â
âOh.â
Paulâs mobile rang, and, while Malvina was answering it, he carried on thinking about his joke. To him it seemed every bit as funny as some of the wacky flights of fancy invented by his team captain (a popular TV comedian), or the cynical point-scoring of his opposite number (the smart-arsed editor of a satirical magazine). And besides, it was important that the public knew about this. Chocolate was of interest to everybody. Cadburyâs was a great British company. Why shouldnât this story be given a bit of prominence?
Malvina tapped him on the shoulder at this point and handed him the phone.
âHave a word with this guy,â she said. âPhilip Chase. From the
Post.
â
Paul didnât recognize the journalistâs name and his first responseâ thinking of a conversation heâd had with Malvina almost a week ago, about starting to build up a media profile in Americaâwas to grab the phone and yell excitedly: âHello, Washington!â
âPhilip Chase here,â said the nasally accented voice at the other end. âCalling from Birmingham. Sorry if you were expecting Woodward and Bernstein. Is that Paul Trotter?â
âSpeaking,â said Paul, flatly.
Philip reminded him that they had been at school togetherâinformation in which, at that moment, Paul was not the slightest bit interested. He told Philip about the television programme he was about to recordâinformation by which Philip, for some reason, did not appear to be remotely impressed. Philip, sensing that Paul was not in the mood for a lengthy conversation, asked him what he thought of yesterdayâs news from Birmingham. Paul, his mind still running on chocolate exports rather than motor industry redundancies, replied that it was good news for the industry, good news for Birmingham and good news for the whole country. There was a shocked pause at the other end of the line: obviously, Philip had not been expecting him to express himself quite so pithily.
âCan I just get things clear, Paul?â Philip asked. âYouâre saying that youâre happy about this announcement, are you?â
Paul glanced at Malvina joyfully and took a deep breath before saying, as loudly as he couldâand in a horrific mockney accentââI should coco!â Then, reverting to his own voiceâbut even now barely able to keep a tremor of excitement out of itâhe added: âAnd you can quote me on that!â
After which, it hardly mattered whether he managed to say it on the programme tonight or not.
A chauffeur-driven car took them back towards Kennington. It was more comfortable than a black cab. The seats were deeper, plusher, upholstered in some sort of yielding imitation leather that swished arousingly whenever the sheerness of Malvinaâs black tights shifted against it. Streetlamps spotlighted her face at amber intervals. The arresting, beckoning action of traffic
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