The Closed Circle by Jonathan Coe Page B

Malvina answered. “He had me pressed up against a wall for most of that rehearsal. You’d think it was enough that he’d already shagged my mother.”
    â€œYou know what’s the matter with all these people, don’t you?” Paul leaned in towards her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “
They’re all on
drugs.
” He directed her gaze to a large bowl of white powder which stood on the shelf in front of him. “I was offered that, you know. By the make-up girl, if you please. Brazen as anything. ‘Do you normally use this, Mr. Trotter?’ she said. Can you believe it? Can you imagine if I had, and she’d blabbed to the newspapers? That almost amounts to entrapment, don’t you think?”
    Malvina got up and inspected the contents of the bowl. She dipped her finger in, took a lick and grimaced.
    â€œPaul, calm down, can’t you? It’s loose powder, for God’s sake. You put it on your face. It covers up the sweat.”
    â€œOh.”
    Paul’s 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. Cadbury’s was a great British company. Why shouldn’t this story be given a bit of prominence?
    Malvina tapped him on the shoulder at this point and handed him the phone.
    â€œHave a word with this guy,” she said. “Philip Chase. From the
Post.
”
    Paul didn’t recognize the journalist’s name and his first response— thinking of a conversation he’d had with Malvina almost a week ago, about starting to build up a media profile in America—was to grab the phone and yell excitedly: “Hello, Washington!”
    â€œPhilip Chase here,” said the nasally accented voice at the other end. “Calling from Birmingham. Sorry if you were expecting Woodward and Bernstein. Is that Paul Trotter?”
    â€œSpeaking,” said Paul, flatly.
    Philip reminded him that they had been at school together—information in which, at that moment, Paul was not the slightest bit interested. He told Philip about the television programme he was about to record—information 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 yesterday’s 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.
    â€œCan I just get things clear, Paul?” Philip asked. “You’re saying that you’re happy about this announcement, are you?”
    Paul glanced at Malvina joyfully and took a deep breath before saying, as loudly as he could—and in a horrific mockney accent—“I should coco!” Then, reverting to his own voice—but even now barely able to keep a tremor of excitement out of it—he added: “And you can quote me on that!”
    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 Malvina’s black tights shifted against it. Streetlamps spotlighted her face at amber intervals. The arresting, beckoning action of traffic