title, but they'd never settled on what Denton was supposed to say or do to get his attention aside from using the title in some form, mumbled if necessary or said in the midst of a cough.
"Yes? What is it, Charlie? Are you off, then?"
He shook his head. "I've been already."
"And?"
"One never knows about these things. I thought the manner of dress would do it, but there were no words of approbation from the director."
"Were there not? Damn."
"Hmm. I did hear someone murmur, „He has the look,' but that was it. The rest is waiting."
"As always," Lynley said. "How long will it take?"
"For a callback? Not long. Commercials, you know. They're picky but they're not that picky."
He sounded resigned. It was, Lynley thought, the way of the acting world. Making one's way there was a microcosm of life itself. Desire and compromise. Putting oneself in a position of chance and feeling the slap of rejection more often than the embrace of success. But there was no success without taking the chance, without risk and consequence, without a willingness to leap.
He said, "In the meantime, Charlie, while you're waiting to be cast as Hamlet ..."
"Sir?" Denton said.
"We need to pack up this room. If you'll make us a jug of Pimm's and bring it up here, we should be able to accomplish it by the end of the day."
Chapter Seven
MEREDITH FINALLY TRACKED GORDON JOSSIE TO FRITHAM. She'd assumed he'd still be working on the building in Boldre Gardens where Gina Dickens had met him, but when she got there it was obvious from the state of the roof that he was long gone to another job.
The thatch had been dressed and Gordon's signature piece was in place on the ridge: an elegant peacock whose tail protected the vulnerable corner of the ridge and trailed in sculpted straw several feet down the roof.
Meredith muttered a disappointed expletive - low so that Cammie couldn't hear it - and said to her daughter, "Let's wander over to the duck pond, shall we, 'cause there's supposed to be a pretty green bridge over it that we can walk on."
The duck pond and the bridge ate up an hour, but it turned out to be well spent as things happened. They stopped at the refreshment kiosk afterwards and while purchasing a Cornetto for Cammie and a bottle of water for herself, Meredith learned where she could find Gordon Jossie without having to ring him and thus allow him time to ready himself to see her.
He was working on the pub near Eyeworth Pond. She gathered this from the girl at the till who apparently possessed the information because she'd had her eye on Gordon's apprentice for the entire time the two men had worked at Boldre Gardens. She'd managed to make inroads into this person's affections, apparently, and despite - or perhaps because of - having legs so bowed she was shaped like a turkey wishbone. That's where Meredith could find the thatchers, she said, near Eyeworth Pond. She narrowed her eyes and asked which one of the men Meredith was looking for. Meredith wanted to tell her to save her anxiety for something worthwhile. A man in any condition, of any age, and in any form was the last thing she wished to add to her life. But she said she was trying to find Gordon Jossie, at which point the girl helpfully indicated the exact location of Eyeworth Pond, just east of Fritham. And the pub was nearer to Fritham than it was to the pond anyway, she added.
The idea of another pond and more ducks made it easy to get Cammie from the lawns and flowers of Boldre Gardens into the car, never her favourite place to be because she positively loathed the restrictions of her car seat and the vehicle's lack of air-conditioning, and she had long been very happy to make her displeasure known. As luck would have it, though, Fritham was some quarter hour only from the gardens, just on the other side of the A31. Meredith drove there with all the windows rolled down and instead of her affirmation tape, she popped in a cassette that was a favourite of Cammie's. Cammie was partial - of all things - to tenors, and she could actually warble "Nessuno Dorma" with astonishing operatic flair.
It was easy enough to find the pub in question. Called the Royal Oak, it was a mishmash of styles that reflected different periods when extensions had