of her, one, Etta recognized, by John Bratby, graced the walls, photographs of her and Seth in plays were everywhere, and Polaroids, from photographic sessions, adorned the mantelpiece. As in Marius’s house, every surface was covered by trophies, BAFTAs, Oliviers, even an Oscar.
‘Hello, darling,’ Etta stroked Priceless, then to Seth, she added humbly, ‘I thought you might like something to snack on, and brought you some flapjacks.’
‘How brilliant.’ Seth opened the tin and took one out. He broke off half for Priceless. ‘God, these are wonderful. I’m rather over-casseroled. I am a casserole model,’ he grinned. ‘In fact a boeuf bourguignon was in collision with a coq au vin by the war memorial last night. Come and look.’
He led her off to an even messier kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside were four full casserole dishes topped by cling-film.
‘Irish stew from Direct Debbie, Lancashire hot pot from Miss Painswick, shepherd’s pie from Mop Idol, coq au vin from your daughter-in-law, Romy, “by my own fair hand,” she said. Alan told me you did all her cooking for her.’
Etta felt a surge of irritation. ‘I didn’t make that. She must have got it from William’s Kitchen.’
Seth roared with laughter. ‘I’ll be too fat to play Trigorin soon. She’s very up herself, that Romy. Conversation always comes back to her: “That reminds me of a time when I …”’
Etta tried not to laugh. He had caught Romy’s deep, patronizing tones to perfection.
‘Martin’s up himself too. I know he’s your son, but the first time I met him, not knowing they were married, I told him I wouldn’t mind giving Romy one. And he chortled himself insensible, then said, “Actually, old boy, I do that every night. I’m her husband.” Yuck, as the divine Trixie would say.’
‘Romy is very pretty,’ protested Etta.
‘Pretty ghastly. Priceless loves Direct Debbie’s Irish stew, but then he’s Irish.’
As they wandered back, stepping over clothes and books, Etta noticed a copy of Antony and Cleopatra spine side up.
‘Bloody long part,’ sighed Seth.
‘Would you like me to hear your lines?’ Etta was shocked to hear herself asking.
Seth grinned. ‘Romy, Direct Debbie, Ione and Phoebe (no casserole from her, you notice, the little sponger) have each offered an ear, but they’d all start questioning my interpretation and my pronunciation. I’d much rather you heard me. I’ll drop in if I may when I’m further down the line, or lines. After The Seagull Corinna’s touring in Macbeth – in America, thank God, as she always becomes the part she’s playing. I wish she was doing the Duchess of Malfi and I Bosola, so I could smother her,’ Seth half laughed.
‘You’ll adore Corinna,’ he went on in mitigation. ‘She’s very exacting, but she’s fun and wonderful at pulling down the mighty from their country seats. She’ll annihilate Romy and Direct Debbie and she’ll be a riot on the syndicate bus.’
‘She was Sampson’s favourite actress,’ sighed Etta. ‘He’d have so loved to have met her.’
Seth topped up his glass and helped himself to another flap-jack. ‘These are bloody good. Do you miss him?’
‘Yes … no,’ said Etta. ‘I miss what he expected. I feel guilty about reading in the bath, eating between meals and putting on weight.’ She squeezed a spare tyre. ‘He’d have hated that, he used to weigh me every week. When I’m alone I talk to him. He doesn’t answer,’ she gave a shrug, ‘but he didn’t much when he was alive.’
Then she gave a cry of anguish. ‘I didn’t mean to be disloyal. I’m sorry. I just feel so utterly miserable about Mrs Wilkinson going into training.’
‘The heart is a muscle like any other, and must be exercised,’ said Seth gently. ‘Let’s discuss the syndicate, who are all so excited about her future.’ He topped up her glass. ‘I adore your son-in-law, Alan, and Trixie’s enchanting. Tilda’s a kind old rabbit and Woody, Jase and Joey are great and I like old Painswick. Beneath that heaving mono-bosom is a heart of lust and passion craving for Hengist Brett-Taylor.’
‘Really?’ giggled Etta. ‘Is he nice?’
‘Gorgeous. Shagger’s hell, “a bitter heart that bides its time and bites”, and Toby’s a drip. Phoebe’s a professional poppet, a raging snob, flings herself on to people’s knees, “Any room for a little one?”’
‘You don’t fancy her then? She’s so pretty.’
‘Absolutely not. Chris and Chrissie are on the make, affection beaming out of one eye, calculation out of the other. They aim to do very well with the Fox as the established syndicate meeting place.’