of this. I’ve been working on an idea –’
‘He saw me, you know,’ said Helen. ‘That boy, Jamie, the one she keeps as a pet? He told me when he was showing me where the loo was. He saw me shopping in Waitrose in Swaffham when he came home to visit his mother at Easter. He said he thought I was dead. Dead!’
‘He’s a producer.’
Helen threw herself onto the sofa under the window. ‘He doesn’t look old enough to have produced anything that doesn’t involve glue and sticky-backed plastic.’
‘He’s won awards, apparently,’ said Arthur wistfully, staring at his cigar.
‘For what? The tidiest desk? Best guinea pig in show?’
‘Most promising newcomer, and some sort of arty short on Channel 4. He’s the next big thing apparently.’
Helen laughed. ‘And we all know how that works out, don’t we? I remember a time when I was the next big thing.’
‘And it could you be again, sweetie. Remember June Whitfield in AbFab? You know Lena Paige who Ruth was talking about got a part in the last Bruce Willis film on the back of her being in Roots.’
Helen raised her eyebrows.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Arthur, ‘So she got shot during the opening titles. But at least it was work. Second bite of the cherry. Look, Helen, speaking as your friend, you know that if you don’t want to do the show then it’s fine by me – it’s not too late to pull out, we’re not committed, nothing’s signed yet. But as your agent I’m telling you, you’d be bloody mad to turn it down. A whole hour on prime time TV? All about you? Jesus, what’s not to like?’
‘I know what you’re saying, Arthur, but I’m not the kind of person who washes their dirty linen in public. I never have been. You know that.’
Arthur sighed. ‘Yes, but when you look at what else is on offer, it’s a chance in a million.’
‘So what else is on offer?’
‘Pantomime somewhere out in the boondocks. I could probably get you a cameo on Holby City as a down-and-out.’
‘Is that chap Nettles still murdering people? Didn’t their producer say that I’d make a great corpse?’
‘There are always voice-overs,’ continued Arthur.
‘Funeral expenses insurance and female incontinence pads. I don’t think so,’ Helen said, taking a long pull on her fruit juice. ‘I’d like some real work.’
‘There’s not just those. I mean the yoghurt thing was fun, you said so yourself.’
‘I was a Friesian cow.’
‘I know, and they loved you, sweetie, you know they did. And they’re keen to use you again, so they’re always an option. We’ve already had this conversation, petal. Getting yourself onto Roots is a genuine opportunity, and it’s the first really exciting one that’s come along in a long while. We both know that. It could be the first step on the road back home, and let’s be honest: it’s either this or the bush tucker route.’
‘No!’ Helen said emphatically.
‘It can be the way into the nation’s heart. Look at Christopher Biggins. And you were right up there with the best of them, Helen, don’t ever forget that – remember they had an item on News at Ten when you retired?’
‘Retired? You make it sound like I had a choice, Arthur. If you remember, the writers blew me up in a gas explosion in a specially extended episode. That woman who comes on News at Ten did a segment about faulty boilers on the back of it.’
‘Jammed the phone lines,’ said Arthur, philosophically, sniffing his cigar. ‘People wrote in to the papers. And don’t forget the six weeks on life support. The whole nation was totally gripped. People cared, Helen. They really cared. When they finally turned your machine off the whole country mourned.’
‘Don’t tell me, Arthur. I was the one with a tube stuck up my nose and that bloody machine pinging all the time. You know it took wardrobe hours to do me up like that? So yes, Arthur. I understand. Once upon a time I used to be big.’ Helen looked heavenwards. ‘And no, before you ask again: no, no bush tucker. I couldn’t stand it. No moisturiser, surrounded by self-pitying whiners, has-beens and hyperactive third-raters, the self-obsessed and actors who should be in therapy. And I’m not eating anything that moves.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Arthur. ‘Where exactly is the boy wonder today?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bon? He’s downstairs working out in the gym, I think. And if you’re going to be nasty about him then you can leave now, Arthur. I don’t have to justify my taste in men to you of all people.’
‘Just as well really, isn’t it,’ murmured Arthur.
It was an old battle; the lines were well drawn. Helen chose to ignore him. ‘He’s good for me.’
‘So is spinach, but you don’t have to have it on your plate twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, do you? In my opinion he’s not as good for you as you are for him. You’re not going to marry him, are you?’
‘We haven’t talked about it,’ said Helen.
‘Well, don’t. The idea of you saddling yourself with him makes my flesh creep. Your taste in men is appalling, sweetie.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you would know.’
‘He’s just a phase.’
‘You’re suggesting that I’ll grow out of him?’
‘You will if you have any sense. He’s going to break your heart.’
‘And you didn’t? You’re only jealous, Arthur – you’ve done nothing but sulk since what’s-her-name ran off with that footballer. Besides, I need a new project.’
‘Then do something to the house, remodel the garden, get a dog – anything.’
‘I was thinking of something a bit bigger. Bon was talking about us buying a bar together, somewhere warm and sunny. Somewhere with a little stage, where we could have live music. I’m thinking about going to have a look in the Canaries. See what’s on offer.’
Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘What’s on offer in the Canaries, sweetie, is total bloody oblivion. For God’s sake Helen, you’re so much better than that. What’s it going to take to get you to see sense?’
‘Bon loves me.’
Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘So did that Pekinese my mother used to have, but I didn’t feel obliged to change my life to accommodate it.’
‘You loved that dog.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. You need something new to get your teeth into. Something big –’
She sighed. ‘Something special.’
‘Exactly, something special,
