Joan was a spinster, which was of little surprise given her terse and truculent personality traits. She professed that her single status was by choice, but Evelyn suspected her sister was deeply bitter about her failure to find a husband and so felt able to make allowances for Joan’s general unpleasantness. Their brother, Peter, weak-chinned and lily-livered, had found himself an equally feeble wife and together they had created a neat ‘one of each’ family, which seemed to work well for them but which was Evelyn’s definition of hell. Peter, however, was also unlikely to stand up to Joan on the question of their inheritance, and so the status quo rolled on year on year.
Sometimes Evelyn almost felt sorry for her sister, but it never lasted for long. Joan had picked up the mantle of disapproval of Evelyn from where their parents had let it fall and, if anything, was even more vociferous in her objections to Evelyn’s lifestyle than they had been. On the list of things about Evelyn of which Joan did not approve were: living in London; living in a flat share; being an actress; being single at thirty （the irony of this one seemed to pass her by）; and failing to stay in Suffolk to be near their parents and thus leaving the responsibility for them and their home to her. And this was why Evelyn would have to be destitute or desperate or, more likely, both before she would even consider going back home.
The Daily Mirror was lying on the table. Brenda’s chap must have left it there. Evelyn began to flick idly through it. They were calling it the ‘Winter of Discontent’， and the country was starting to feel very jumpy, edgy almost, as more and more trade unions called their members out on strike. These were strange times indeed. And Sid Vicious was dead, apparently. That was a shame, she thought, but not really a surprise.
If she got this part, she would be a success, maybe even a household name. Then Joan would no longer be able to scoff at her and accuse her of wasting her life on a pointless whim. In fact, Joan would have to congratulate her and admit that she had been wrong all along.
And how Evelyn was going to enjoy that moment.
8
Evelyn sat in the chair opposite Julian and grinned as she waited for him to give her the news.
‘Well, you certainly impressed them,’ he said. ‘They thought you showed’ – he paused, running his finger down his notes until he came to the right place – ‘“remarkable insight” in your reading of the character.’ He looked up at her, his eyebrows raised and a quirky smile on his lips. Then he dropped his gaze back down. ‘Apparently you brought an “added dimension” to the character that even the writer himself hadn’t considered.’ He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Well done, Evelyn. Very well done indeed.’
Praise as fulsome as this was rare, and Evelyn could feel heat rising in her cheeks. She gave a modest smile. ‘And DC Karen Walker features in every episode?’ she asked, even though she already knew this to be true, having clarified it several times since the audition.
Julian put his stockinged feet up on the desk as if he were in his living room rather than his office. Evelyn found this state of undress a little disconcerting, but she tried to ignore his scarlet socks and focus on his face, which was now smiling broadly at her.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘It’s a big part, Evie.’
Evelyn nodded, but then a wave of anxiety twisted in her gut. It was all very well them liking her, but as yet they hadn’t formally offered her the part.
‘What’s your feeling, Julian?’ she asked him. ‘Do you think it’s mine?’
Julian examined his nails and gave them a quick buff on his trousers. ‘I think quite possibly. From what they said to me, anyway, darling, but it all depends on MacMillan. If he likes you then you’re in. But then he does like you, or so you said. So it shouldn’t be that hard to convince him that you’d be perfect.’
Evelyn’s stomach hit the floor. What if she had imagined it all? What if MacMillan had said exactly the same thing to every young actress at the party? She swallowed hard and tried to push the thought out of her head. She needed this job. Her life in London was depending on it.
‘And the meeting with him is at four thirty tomorrow afternoon at the Hilton? On a Sunday? Are you sure?’ she asked doubtfully. A meeting on a Sunday didn’t seem right to her.
Julian checked his notebook, running his pen down the indecipherable scrawls until he found what he was looking for. ‘That’s right. Sunday. He’s a busy man, our Rory. They don’t work nine to five, you know, these television executives. Just go to the hotel reception and ask for him and they will direct you. Now, off you scamper. I do have other clients apart from you!’ He fluttered a hand to shoo her away.