Reluctantly Home(8)

‘I have this one project in the pipeline,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘It’s very new. A TV cop drama, but the thing about it is, get this, the lead role is a woman.’

He emphasised the last word, his eyes open wide at the shock of it all. Evelyn had mirrored his expression to encourage him to keep talking, but all she could think was, ‘I could do that.’

‘Think emotion and brains rather than car chases and beating up suspects,’ he continued. ‘It’s a very modern concept.’

Evelyn’s heart started to beat faster. She could see herself in the role already. Move over John Thaw and Dennis Waterman. It was her turn. This was the cusp of the 1980s, after all; change was blowing in the air.

‘Although you might be a little too young,’ Rory MacMillan continued. ‘I don’t know how long it takes to climb the ranks in the police.’

Considerably longer for a woman than a man, Evelyn thought, but as pointing that out wouldn’t help she didn’t say it out loud.

‘I can play older,’ she said helpfully, and gave him her most winning smile.

‘Actually, there’s a junior sidekick too,’ MacMillan added thoughtfully. ‘Feisty, smart, attractive . . .’ His hand slipped from the small of her back to her bottom and he gave it a little squeeze. ‘You’d be perfect,’ he concluded. ‘Get your agent to ring my secretary after the holidays and we’ll fix something up.’



Evelyn reached the offices of Coleman, Travis & Scott, Theatrical Agents (Julian was the Travis, having inherited his part of the business from his uncle) just before two o’ clock and made her way up the stairs. The reception desk was manned by a succession of bright-eyed young actresses who had come to London to seek their fortune on the stage but had been forced to take an office job to tide them over. Evelyn always wondered at their choice. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to work in a place that employed actors when one couldn’t get employment oneself.

The receptionist this time looked even younger than usual. She was putting letters in envelopes, but things seemed to have become muddled and Evelyn, having watched for a moment or two, wasn’t convinced that the right people would be receiving the right missives with their morning paper.

‘Evelyn Mountcastle for Mr Travis,’ she announced in a clear, confident tone. Evelyn lived in hope of one day turning up and being recognised without having to give her name, but that had yet to happen. It wasn’t as if she was a total unknown. She had had bit parts in Upstairs Downstairs and three episodes of a drama set in World War I, but she was hardly a household name. That was her ambition, though. She knew that fame could be a double-edged sword, but she was perfectly prepared to take that risk.

The receptionist, who looked as if the muddle with the post might actually reduce her to tears, nodded and then cocked her head in the direction of Julian’s office.

Julian was on the phone. Evelyn could hear him before she entered his room, his languid tones floating out along the corridor.

‘Yes, I see that, darling, but look at it from my point of view. She’s no spring chicken and she’s not getting any younger. If we don’t give her this then it might be last-chance saloon time.’

Evelyn tried not to listen, but she couldn’t help but wonder which of his clients Julian was discussing and, more worryingly, how old she was. Older than her, of course. She was just thirty which was no age, was it? She could still pass for a character in her twenties with no difficulty, and could even play a schoolgirl with the right hair and make-up. But it always bothered her when she heard Julian talking in this vein. They were both aware that time was ticking by.

Julian looked up when she came in, gave her a grin, pulled a face at whoever was on the other end of the phone and then flapped an arm feebly in the direction of the chair opposite his desk. It was piled high with cardboard files, which Evelyn lifted carefully and placed on the floor at her feet.

‘Of course,’ Julian was saying, with a gesture that told Evelyn he was trying to wind the conversation up. ‘Well, do your best, darling, and let me know how you get on. Yes. And love to everyone at your end. Toodle-pip.’ Then he put the phone back in its cradle with an exaggerated flourish and turned his attention to her. ‘Evelyn. My dear girl. How delightful it is to see you.’

He said it as if her arrival was entirely impromptu and not to attend a prearranged meeting. In days gone by, this would have unsettled Evelyn, but now she knew his vagueness was just a conceit and Julian was entirely in control of every aspect of his life.

‘Hi Julian, darling. How are you?’ she said. ‘You look well.’

‘Lord knows how,’ he replied as he indicated the piles of files, but Evelyn could see that he was pleased to have been complimented. ‘It’s been bedlam around here for weeks. I’m never off the phone these days.’

She gave him an indulgent smile. ‘Come on, Julian. You wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘Too true, too true. Now. This Rory MacMillan project,’ he said, switching effortlessly to the matter in hand. For all that Julian liked to play his part as fuzzy and abstracted, he was actually as sharp as a sea urchin’s spine and knew exactly what was what at all times. This was precisely why he was Evelyn’s agent. ‘They’re thinking of you for the part of Detective Constable Karen Walker. Lots of screen time for her, as she’s generally trailing after her boss. Not heard who they’re seeing for the boss yet, but I think we can expect it to be someone that the public will know. And that all bodes well for you, Evie, sweetie. Assuming you can pull it off.’