Good Time Girl

‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’

‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.

‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’

‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’

‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.

‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.

‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’

‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.

‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’

‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.

‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.

Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.

‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.

‘Ugh!’ Nicky exclaimed in disgust. ‘Brambles has farted! What a pong!’

‘Nicky,’ protested Sukie feebly.

Geoff decided to be firm. ‘Kindly get on with your breakfast and if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all – and you don’t need that.’ He deftly removed the sugar packet that Sukie had obligingly found and put on the table. He crossed to the kettle, which had just boiled, and poured water onto instant coffee in a cracked mug.

‘Is it a studio day?’ asked Sukie. ‘I’ve lost track.’

‘No, it is not a studio day,’ Geoff said with elaborate politeness. ‘It is a read-through day. We are reading through the next two episodes.’

‘Well, let’s hope to God they’re better than last Sunday’s horror,’ said Sukie calmly.

‘Thank you for those few words of encouragement and support,’ replied Geoff satirically, after a brief pause. ‘I appreciate your keen interest in my work and I’m gratified to learn that you rate my talent as an actor so highly.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your talent as an actor,’ she retorted. ‘I’m just saying that the episode was bloody awful, that’s all.’

Nicky decided he could make a useful contribution to the conversation. ‘Timpson Minor said it was stupid,’ he said, then clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing that ‘stupid’ could hardly be classified as ‘pleasant’ and said hurriedly, ‘His sister loves it. She’s six.’

‘That’s about the age group it’s aimed at,’ Sukie agreed. ‘And as for that bimbo what’s her name, Patsy? Yes, Patsy Hall. Where on earth did they find her?’

Geoff lowered his head to hide the fact that he was blushing furiously. He had been having an intermittent fling with Patsy ever since she’d joined the series. He was aware that she was totally talentless, but she smelt, felt and tasted delightful. He decided to employ double bluff tactics.

‘Oh come on, she’s not that bad.’

‘She’s appalling.’ Sukie poured herself some tea. ‘She can’t act, she can’t move, she can’t speak and, worst of all, she has absolutely no class!’

‘I think she’s one of Hugh’s mistakes,’ Geoff said lamely.

‘I really think you should have a word with Hugh. He may be losing his grip.’

‘Have I met him?’ asked Geoff, abruptly changing the subject and addressing his son – ‘this Timpson turd?’

‘Geoff,’ Sukie remonstrated.

‘No, Dad, his parents are very rich. I’d hardly bring him back here, would I?’ asked Nicky, giving his father a pitying look.

‘Oh that’s nice, isn’t it? Are you suggesting that your home is not good enough for turdfeatures Timpson?’ enquired Geoff icily.

‘Geoffrey, please,’ interposed Sukie.

‘Dad,’ said his son calmly, ‘if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all.’

‘I shall say what I bloody well please,’ said Geoff venomously. ‘You can tell Timpson Minor from me that I think he’s a pain in the arse.’

‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’ panted Ben, as he came in through the back door clad in running gear. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Hello, Ben,’ said his father, surprised. Ben was fifteen and as laid-back as Nicky was energetic. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here, remember?’ replied his son easily.

‘I meant, why aren’t you at school, and what are you doing in your tracksuit?’

‘Marathon practice,’ replied Ben briefly. ‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’

‘Ben,’ said Sukie sternly.

Nicky filled him in. ‘I was telling Dad that Timpson Minor thought Sunday’s episode of The Old Bastards was stupid.’

‘Nicky!’

‘Well yes,’ said Ben, ‘but he only said that because Timpson Major said it.’

‘Who the hell do these Timpsons think they are?’ Geoff asked in a voice rising with sarcasm and disbelief. ‘Are they experts in the field of the television dramatic critique or what?’

‘No, of course not, Dad,’ replied Ben equably, ‘but on this point you must admit it’s a fair assessment.’

‘Did you see Sunday’s episode?’