road again. You should be thanking Jamie, never mind whisking golden boy off on another jolly. And Roots do it so well. Have you watched any of the programmes?’
Cautiously Helen nodded. ‘I think I have. I’m not sure. I saw the one about a ballet dancer. Some posh blonde girl with buck teeth whose family went back to Elizabeth I?’
‘They’re biking round a boxed set for you. Basic format – they whisk you back to your old home town in a limo, put you up in a luxury hotel, then you drive around and point out the sites, you go and see a few old friends and your family and then they whip out your family tree, along with a few black and white photos and the odd black sheep, you ooh and ahh in all the right places, cry a bit and tell them it’s been the most moving experience of your whole life.’
Helen laughed. ‘You are such a cynic, Arthur.’
‘And you’re not?’ Arthur asked, rolling the cigar for added dramatic emphasis.
‘I didn’t used to be. I was a nice girl when I first met you.’
He smiled gently. ‘And you still are, Helen. Appearing on Roots will be a walk in the park for someone with your talent. Now – about my other plan. I’ve been thinking, while we’re red hot and rolling, how about we reprise the one-woman show you used to do? I mean you don’t have to be a genius to see that there’s a tie-in here. You’ve got loads of material. Do a few songs, tell a few stories about the good old days, a behind-the-scenes look at Cannon Square, some jokes – and you’ve got those monologues you used to do. You know the kind of thing; An Evening With – what’s the name of the town where you grew up?’
‘Billingsfield.’
‘Okay, well there you go then, Billingsfield’s favourite daughter, Helen Redford, comes home to roost at long last. For one night only –’ He lifted his hands, fingers spread to create an imaginary billboard. ‘It shouldn’t be that hard to find a venue, somewhere intimate and not too big.’
‘You mean cheap.’
Arthur grinned. ‘That isn’t what I said, and that most certainly isn’t what I meant, but I’m just thinking that that way we can test the waters; see what the response is. If it bombs then we’ve lost next to nothing and if it doesn’t and we time it right then we could maybe take it on the road. I’ll see if I can sort out a few dates – it can’t hurt. Cash in on the TV show –’
‘On the road?’
Arthur nodded. ‘Yes, why not? It would be just like the good old days. You used to love it, remember? Take you right back to where you started from. Where was that place in Billingsfield?’
‘The Carlton Rooms.’
He laughed. ‘That’s it. There you go then, that’s where we should start the tour. You went down a storm there last time, remember?’
‘Do you know how many years ago that was?’ Helen laughed. ‘Those rose-tinted spectacles are going to be the death of you, Arthur.’
‘I thought I’d maybe have a chat with Ruth at Roots about it. See what we can organise. It would give their show a real focus too. And you never know, maybe we can work out a book deal on the back of the TV programme?’
Helen looked sceptical.
‘What?’ said Arthur.
‘It’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it? Maybe ten years ago, when I was strapped to a gurney fighting for life, I might have swung it, but now? Memoirs of a has-been? The public have got a horribly short memory, Arthur.’
He pulled a face. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t be so bloody hard on yourself, Helen; not if you’re up there all over again, babe – and you could be. And let’s face it, you’ve had an interesting life. Kids who’re still wet behind the ears are writing bloody autobiographies these days – that little fat bird who got married to that footballer, and the one with the –’ he mimed a pair of pantomime breasts. ‘Kiss and tell, reality TV, it’s all the go now, sweetie – and you’d be a natural. Everybody’s doing it.’
‘Doing what?’ said a voice from the stairs. Helen looked up as Bon jogged into view. She could hear by the rhythm that he was taking the steps two at a time, which for some reason made her smile. Arthur rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.
Bon was tall and blond with broad shoulders and a body that reflected all the hours of work he put in at the gym and in the studio. They’d met while she was doing pantomime in Croydon. She was playing the fairy godmother. He was in the chorus. Well, that’s what they told people. Actually he had been doing the choreography for the show and had been standing in one night when one of the dancers was off sick, but it made a good story for the tabloids. He was somewhere in his late thirties but looked younger, while Helen was in her early fifties and looked well preserved.
She had never imagined ending up with a younger man.
When they were alone together those things didn’t matter; he made Helen laugh and she adored what they had, but in company the cliché sometimes made her defensive. It was obvious that Bon was younger than she was. She didn’t dwell on exactly how many years but it was enough to be notable in the gossip columns. On the plus side, Bon was beautiful and kind, warm and funny, and he made up for all those men along the way who hadn’t been, and – Helen kept telling herself – if it didn’t turn out to be forever then as far as she was concerned what they had had was still worth it.
He smiled at her.
Sometimes, Helen knew, it was better to have a little drop of something wonderful than a whole lifetime of something ordinary. Two years on they were still together, although she often wondered if he saw her as a stopgap, a place marker to hold the page until the right woman came along, someone young whom he could have a family with – although she kept those thoughts to herself.
Even as the idea rolled through her head, Bon’s smile broadened, and leaning closer he kissed her.
‘Hiya honey,’ he purred, his body language freezing Arthur out. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look lovely, and you smell divine? I really love that perfume.’
Helen looked up at him. ‘Birthday present from my lover,’ she said.
From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur mime retching, and laughed, breaking the intimate connection between her and Bon. Bon glanced round and grinned. ‘A bit too much for you at your age, Arthur?’
‘Bit too much for anyone at any age,’ huffed Arthur miserably.
‘You’re only jealous,’ said Bon. ‘So, what is it that you’re up to?’
‘Arthur was talking about people, more specifically me, writing their memoirs,’ said Helen, as she pulled away.
‘I think that you should do it,’ Bon said. ‘I’ve told you that before – you’re a natural and I’m sure Arthur could get you a bit of help if you needed it, couldn’t you Arthur? A ghost – I’m not saying you couldn’t do it yourself –’
Helen laughed, ‘Which I couldn’t. But I know what you mean.’
‘And how did the rest of the day go?’
‘Arthur wants me to take my old show on the road.’
