even a customer as far as they were officially aware.
[Pause] It was the wrong time of day to call Australia, but I did it anyway. I knew the number, even though I haven’t called it for five years at least. It rang just twice and then – [impersonates Julian; impatient] “Do you know what bloody time it is?” It was Julian. At home in Sydney. In bed, asleep. Not on a plane. No macademia nuts in his flight bag. No weird sheepskin artefacts. Just asleep, thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles away. With his little brother a million miles from his thoughts. “It’s Timmy,” I said. [Julian is pleased to hear from his brother] “Timmy!” he said. “You in trouble? What’s up? Oh no, [laugh] who do you want me to beat up for you this time?” It was a bit hard not to weep at that moment, I’ll confess. It was a bit hard not to break down. “Julian,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Um, you didn’t write to me about a – er, an impending visit?” He said no, not at all. And sorry he hadn’t e-mailed recently; business was fan-bloody-tastic. Come to think of it, he had called while I was in New York, he said, to ask about iPod and Region 1 DVD prices in London, and a posh bloke called Gideon had been quite friendly. “He seemed to be amused by the idea of me calling you Timmy,” he said. “I got the feeling he was making a note. I hope you’re not in love with that little tick.” [Pause] Typical of Julian. Five years since I last spoke to him, and he hits the bull’s eye first time. [Faltering] “Why on earth do you say that?” I said. “Sounded like a taker to me, Tim. Chaps like him can spot sad loveless quasi-homosexual losers like you a mile off.” At which point Dougie appeared, at the door to the gallery, and I said I had to go. I’ll call you back, Julian, I said. I’ve had a bit of bad news. Sorry I won’t be seeing you. Bye.
Considering that I now had no immediate funds to pay him, Dougie was an absolute rock. “Do you actually know Gideon’s in Paris?” Dougie asked, and I had to confess [laugh] I didn’t know that, no. He could be anywhere. I cast my mind back to the scene in the gallery on Tuesday morning: to the boxes ready for shipping; the van outside; Gideon, in his blue suit, holding his passport in readiness; the peck on the cheek as he whispered, “It’ll be all right, Teedge; I’ll take care of everything.” Those boxes. How do I know there was anything in them? I don’t. My precious stock might have been sold already, or just hidden, at any time during my American sojourn – a trip, I now remembered, Gideon had quite vehemently encouraged me to take. On Tuesday morning, those forms from the bank were ready for me to sign, and the shredder hummed in anticipation. After that conversation about our unconscious bond, and how easily little brothers can be taken advantage of, Gideon knew that all he had to do was write that letter to me from Julian, and my automatic panic reaction would make me entrust my entire livelihood to my lovely assistant – an assistant I’d known only a few months, of course, and had never even kissed. [Dougie] “I knew it. This is your own writing paper, you idiot,” said Dougie. I looked at it; it was. When he forged the letter from my brother, it seems, Gideon banked on me being so agitated by its contents that I wouldn’t even spot that the stationery was from my own desk.
I kept thinking of Julian’s first response when he heard my voice. “Oh no, who do you want me to beat up for you this time?” [Emotional] He meant that, you see. [Laughs] He’s my big brother! Oh God. Now I come to think of it, he got one of his sadism awards for doing something to a chap who’d stolen my cricket bat. Imagine if he weren’t there. I’d be on my own. No one else will ever offer to beat someone up for me, will they? On the other hand, of course, no one else will ever refer to me like that as a sad loveless quasi-homosexual loser, either. So I suppose it evens out.
[To get his attention] “T.J.!” Dougie said. Dougie was thinking what to do. Or possibly he was picturing a recently devoured choux bun, it’s always a possibility. He asked me if I had any pictures of Gideon, and of course I didn’t, because Gideon always said he was self-conscious about photographs, and refused to pose. Dougie said ah-ha! this showed just how deeply Gideon had laid his plans, and I said – and I’m afraid I may have been a little bit snappy, by now – [impatient, voice rising] that I really didn’t see the point of anatomising all the cunning stages in Gideon’s cunning, cunning, cunning plan. Gideon had merely deduced that my fatal weakness was my abnormally strong feelings of guilt, fear and resentment towards my older brother; it hardly required psychoanalytical genius, actually, to WORK THAT OUT.
[Recovers from outburst] “So,” I said. “Why is everyone so keen on Region 1 DVDs all of a sudden, Dougie? What are they all talking about?”
Dougie said he didn’t know. The modern world was such a mystery to him, he was hoping soon to be appointed to the judiciary. “If it’s any consolation, T.J.,” he said. “I’d have done all the same things. Whenever Hamish calls up, I make the children tell him I’ve been kidnapped by Chechnyans. Marian says I’ve traumatised them, making up a story like that, because they’re only eight and six, but I say what’s the point in shielding them from the realities of life? By the way,” he said. “Heard the good news?”
“What?” I said.
“Your namesake’s doing very well at Wimbledon.”
[A sinking heart] “What?” I said. “Oh no.”
“Yes. Tim!” he said. “You know. Your namesake. They say he’ll make the final this year, no problem. I’ve got debenture tickets tomorrow, would you like to come?”
And for the very first time, I felt like crying.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “I don’t understand.”
[Tearful] “That’s all I needed to hear, Dougie,” I said. “Oh God, that’s all I needed to hear.”
HENNY is a very nice person, good-humoured, self-effacing, a bit fussy; her problem is that she accepts criticism too readily.
Scene One: Henny has just got home from her work at a petting zoo. When she finds that husband Steve is not home yet, she is quite (guiltily) relieved, because she was worried about talking to him
I got this biscuit tin on the way home today, they were having a sale at the Trumpet Major tea rooms. It’s more of a barrel really, and it took me ages to decide whether I could justify it because the old one’s all right, just empty as it happens, because I finished off the bourbons last night while the news was on and gave it a nice wipe round, and you don’t get rid of a biscuit tin just because it’s empty, but on the other hand when does a biscuit tin wear out, it’s hard to say isn’t it, I’ve had mine for twenty-five years since I was married, and as Steve often points out it gets a lot of wear and tear our biscuit tin, what with Henny – that’s me – having no willpower “What So Ever”, well that’s true of course, but they last for centuries so when can you buy a new one, and in the end I thought oh go mad, Henny, it’s only two pounds fifty and if Steve really hates it you can take it to work, and charge the two pounds fifty to the Henny’s Mistakes account which is definitely in credit at the moment because I paid in all my birthday money to cover that wall clock from Dorchester with the lemons on it that gave Steve the abdabs but they wouldn’t take back.
[Opens tin] I think Steve will like this though. He might like it. I hope he likes it. I’m not sure I like it now actually. So, [sound effects] I’ll just put all the new biscuits in it and hand it to him with our nine o’clock cuppa and see how he reacts. I mean, the woodland blackberry design is ever so inoffensive and I said to the woman in the shop, I don’t want that one with the cuddly cute mice on it, I’ve learned my lesson, my husband can’t stand cuddly cute mice crawling over teapots and aprons and chopping boards – especially
