have to be off. I’ve got two stories to hand in. The deadlines are tomorrow.” Honor, rebuffed, felt a familiar prickle of scepticism.
“Stories? So what else are you writing about?”
“Oh, one’s a piece about culture, a festival really. And the other’s more of a feminist feature.”
Feminism. That clapped-out old jade. Of course. But Honor would not have had Tara, with her shopgirl packaging, her proffered cleavage, down as a natural Sister, one of Isadora Talbot’s monstrous regiment. Perhaps it was a pose: the ninny wanted to be “taken seriously.”
“Well, of course. I wouldn’t like to stand in the way of The Cause,” Honor said, prising herself from her chair.
“It’s been amazing,” Tamara said. “Thank you so much.” She could not wait to leave this cranky old woman and her gloomy flat.
“I’ll see you out,” Honor said coolly. The girl’s sudden departure felt like an insult.
Tamara walked briskly to the door, keen to step out of the suffocating fug of the flat into the purer air of the high street below, to hear thereassuring hum of London traffic instead of the old woman’s self-satisfied drone. But she knew her work was unfinished.
“I wondered, though, since we’ve run out of time, if we might maybe meet again for another chat?”
“I don’t think that will be possible.”
“Just another half hour sometime? I’ve learned an awful lot today, but I know we’ve only scratched the surface, and it would be a pity to leave it there. A drink somewhere?”
“I don’t think so, no,” Honor said.
“But I found your conversation so instructive, and inspiring. You really are a heroine for young women journalists. For young people who want to make a difference. And I loved the new book so much,” Tamara said.
“All of it?”
“Every last word. I don’t know how you do it.”
Tamara reached for the door handle.
Honor was smiling again, her falsely modest gaze directed downwards to the bundle of newspapers on the floor by the door.
“I did wonder about the Bing Crosby story,” she said with a shrug.
“Oh really?” Tamara was surprised by this outbreak of humility and the tantalising offer of new information—had Bing been a lover too?
“Why was that?”
“Didn’t it all seem just a little baroque?” Honor asked.
This was dangerous ground. Tamara was unfamiliar with architectural terminology and could not think how it might apply to the immortal crooner, beloved of generations of viewers of prime-time Christmas TV classics. She hadn’t seen any reference to Crosby in the cuttings, and once more she wished that she’d had time to look at Tait’s book more closely
“How do you mean? I thought it worked brilliantly.”
“That’s kind of you. But I thought it, you know, was a little
de trop
, you know—too much.”
“Oh no. So vivid. So
vrai
!”
Tamara knew she should be inveigling her way back into the flat, switching on her Sony again and encouraging the old woman’s eleventh-hour indiscretions, but right now all she wanted to do was to run from this cramped mausoleum with its musty smell of neglect.
Honor leaned towards her and whispered girlishly, “I worried thatperhaps I’d said more than I should. Overstepped the mark. With Bing, I mean.”
“Absolutely not. Pioneering stuff,” Tamara said, shaking her head. “A revelation. One of the best parts of the entire book. By far.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “What was he
really
like, Bing?”
“Divine! Just divine!” Honor Tait’s laugh was a surprisingly merry tinkle.
Tamara released her grip on the door handle.
“Did he sing to you? When you were together? Alone?”
“Oh, all the time. He was a real songbird. Forever trilling. And he loved to dance!”
Damn, thought Tamara. The first words of any real interest and she had packed her tape recorder and notebook away.
“Did he?”
“Did I tell you what a marvellous, fleet dancer he was?” the old woman said, her
“Stories? So what else are you writing about?”
“Oh, one’s a piece about culture, a festival really. And the other’s more of a feminist feature.”
Feminism. That clapped-out old jade. Of course. But Honor would not have had Tara, with her shopgirl packaging, her proffered cleavage, down as a natural Sister, one of Isadora Talbot’s monstrous regiment. Perhaps it was a pose: the ninny wanted to be “taken seriously.”
“Well, of course. I wouldn’t like to stand in the way of The Cause,” Honor said, prising herself from her chair.
“It’s been amazing,” Tamara said. “Thank you so much.” She could not wait to leave this cranky old woman and her gloomy flat.
“I’ll see you out,” Honor said coolly. The girl’s sudden departure felt like an insult.
Tamara walked briskly to the door, keen to step out of the suffocating fug of the flat into the purer air of the high street below, to hear thereassuring hum of London traffic instead of the old woman’s self-satisfied drone. But she knew her work was unfinished.
“I wondered, though, since we’ve run out of time, if we might maybe meet again for another chat?”
“I don’t think that will be possible.”
“Just another half hour sometime? I’ve learned an awful lot today, but I know we’ve only scratched the surface, and it would be a pity to leave it there. A drink somewhere?”
“I don’t think so, no,” Honor said.
“But I found your conversation so instructive, and inspiring. You really are a heroine for young women journalists. For young people who want to make a difference. And I loved the new book so much,” Tamara said.
“All of it?”
“Every last word. I don’t know how you do it.”
Tamara reached for the door handle.
Honor was smiling again, her falsely modest gaze directed downwards to the bundle of newspapers on the floor by the door.
“I did wonder about the Bing Crosby story,” she said with a shrug.
“Oh really?” Tamara was surprised by this outbreak of humility and the tantalising offer of new information—had Bing been a lover too?
“Why was that?”
“Didn’t it all seem just a little baroque?” Honor asked.
This was dangerous ground. Tamara was unfamiliar with architectural terminology and could not think how it might apply to the immortal crooner, beloved of generations of viewers of prime-time Christmas TV classics. She hadn’t seen any reference to Crosby in the cuttings, and once more she wished that she’d had time to look at Tait’s book more closely
“How do you mean? I thought it worked brilliantly.”
“That’s kind of you. But I thought it, you know, was a little
de trop
, you know—too much.”
“Oh no. So vivid. So
vrai
!”
Tamara knew she should be inveigling her way back into the flat, switching on her Sony again and encouraging the old woman’s eleventh-hour indiscretions, but right now all she wanted to do was to run from this cramped mausoleum with its musty smell of neglect.
Honor leaned towards her and whispered girlishly, “I worried thatperhaps I’d said more than I should. Overstepped the mark. With Bing, I mean.”
“Absolutely not. Pioneering stuff,” Tamara said, shaking her head. “A revelation. One of the best parts of the entire book. By far.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “What was he
really
like, Bing?”
“Divine! Just divine!” Honor Tait’s laugh was a surprisingly merry tinkle.
Tamara released her grip on the door handle.
“Did he sing to you? When you were together? Alone?”
“Oh, all the time. He was a real songbird. Forever trilling. And he loved to dance!”
Damn, thought Tamara. The first words of any real interest and she had packed her tape recorder and notebook away.
“Did he?”
“Did I tell you what a marvellous, fleet dancer he was?” the old woman said, her
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