JERRY
Sounds good.
ROBERT
I was quite alone.
JERRY
Where was Emma?
ROBERT
I think asleep.
JERRY
Ah.
ROBERT
I was alone for hours, as a matter of fact, on the island. Highpoint, actually, of the whole trip.
JERRY
Was it? Well, it sounds marvellous.
ROBERT
Yes. I sat on the grass and read Yeats.
JERRY
Yeats on Torcello?
ROBERT
They went well together.
WAITER with food.
WAITER
One melone. One prosciutto e melone.
ROBERT
Prosciutto for me.
WAITER
Buon appetito.
ROBERT
Emma read that novel of that chum of yours – what’s his name?
JERRY
I don’t know. What?
ROBERT
Spinks.
JERRY
Oh Spinks. Yes. The one you didn’t like.
ROBERT
The one I wouldn’t publish.
JERRY
I remember. Did Emma like it?
ROBERT
She seemed to be madly in love with it.
JERRY
Good.
ROBERT
You like it yourself, do you?
JERRY
I do.
ROBERT
And it’s very successful?
JERRY
It is.
ROBERT
Tell me, do you think that makes me a publisher of unique critical judgement or a foolish publisher?
JERRY
A foolish publisher.
ROBERT
I agree with you. I am a very foolish publisher.
JERRY
No you’re not. What are you talking about? You’re a good publisher. What are you talking about?
ROBERT
I’m a bad publisher because I hate books. Or to be more precise, prose. Or to be even more precise, modern prose, I mean modern novels, first novels and second novels, all that promise and sensibility it falls upon me to judge, to put the firm’s money on, and then to push for the third novel, see it done, see the dust jacket done, see the dinner for the national literary editors done, see the signing in Hatchards done, see the lucky author cook himself to death, all in the name of literature. You know what you and Emma have in common? You love literature. I mean you love modern prose literature, I mean you love the new novel by the new Casey or Spinks. It gives you both a thrill.
JERRY
You must be pissed.
ROBERT
Really? You mean you don’t think it gives Emma a thrill?
JERRY
How do I know? She’s your wife.
Pause.
ROBERT
Yes. Yes. You’re quite right. I shouldn’t have to consult you. I shouldn’t have to consult anyone.
JERRY
I’d like some more wine.
ROBERT
Yes, yes. Waiter! Another bottle of Corvo Bianco. And where’s our lunch? This place is going to pot. Mind you, it’s worse in Venice. They really don’t give a fuck there. I’m not drunk. You can’t get drunk on Corvo Bianco. Mind you … last night … I was up late … I hate brandy … it stinks of modern literature. No, look, I’m sorry …
WAITER with bottle.
WAITER
Corvo Bianco.
ROBERT
Same glass. Where’s our lunch?
WAITER
It comes.
ROBERT
I’ll pour.
WAITER goes, with melon plates.
No, look, I’m sorry, have another drink. I’ll tell you what it is, it’s just that I can’t bear being back in London. I was happy, such a rare thing, not in Venice, I don’t mean that, I mean on Torcello, when I walked about Torcello in the early morning, alone, I was happy, I wanted to stay there for ever.
JERRY
We all …
ROBERT
Yes, we all … feel that sometimes. Oh you do yourself, do you?
Pause.
I mean there’s nothing really wrong, you see. I’ve got the family. Emma and I are very good together. I think the world of her. And I actually consider Casey to be a first-rate writer.
JERRY
Do you really?
ROBERT
First rate. I’m proud to publish him and you discovered him and that was very clever of you.
JERRY
Thanks.
ROBERT
You’ve got a good nose and you care and I respect that in you. So does Emma. We often talk about it.
JERRY
How is Emma?
ROBERT
Very well. You must come and have a drink sometime. She’d love to see you.
1971
SCENE EIGHT
Flat. 1971. Summer.
Flat empty. Kitchen door open. Table set; crockery, glasses, bottle of wine.
JERRY comes in through front door, with key.
Hullo.
EMMA’s voice from kitchen.
EMMA
Hullo.
EMMA comes out of kitchen. She is wearing an apron.
EMMA
I’ve only just got here. I meant to be here ages ago. I’m making this stew. It’ll be hours.
He kisses her.
Are you starving?
JERRY
Yes.
He kisses her.
EMMA
No really. I’ll never do it. You sit down. I’ll get it on.
JERRY
What a lovely apron.
EMMA
Good.
She kisses him, goes into kitchen.
She calls. He pours wine.
EMMA
What have you been doing?
JERRY
Just walked through the park.
EMMA
What was it like?
JERRY
Beautiful. Empty. A slight mist.
Pause.
I sat down for a bit, under a tree. It was very quiet. I just looked at the Serpentine.
Pause.
EMMA
And then?
JERRY
Then I got a taxi to Wessex Grove. Number 31. And I climbed the steps and opened the front door and then climbed the stairs and opened this door and found you in a new apron cooking a stew.
EMMA comes out of the kitchen.
EMMA
It’s on.
JERRY
Which is now on.
EMMA pours herself a vodka.
JERRY
Vodka? At lunchtime?
EMMA
Just feel like one.
She drinks.
I ran into Judith yesterday. Did she tell you?
JERRY
No, she didn’t.
Pause.
Where?
EMMA
Lunch.
JERRY
Lunch?
EMMA
She didn’t tell you?
JERRY
No.
EMMA
That’s funny.
JERRY
What do you mean, lunch? Where?
EMMA
At Gino’s.
JERRY
Gino’s? What the hell was she doing at Gino’s?
EMMA
Having lunch. With a woman.
JERRY
A woman?
EMMA
Yes.
Pause.
JERRY
Gino’s is a long way from the hospital.
EMMA
Of course it isn’t.
JERRY
Well … I suppose not.
Pause.
And you?
EMMA
Me?
JERRY
What were you
doing at Gino’s?
EMMA
Having lunch with my sister.
JERRY
Ah.
Pause.
EMMA
Judith … didn’t tell you?
JERRY
I haven’t really seen her. I was out late last night, with Casey. And she was out early this morning.
Pause.
EMMA
Do you think she knows?
JERRY
Knows?
EMMA
Does she know? About us?
JERRY
No.
EMMA
Are you sure?
JERRY
She’s too busy. At the hospital. And then the kids. She doesn’t go in for … speculation.
EMMA
But what about clues? Isn’t she interested … to follow clues?
JERRY
What clues?
EMMA
Well, there must be some … available to her … to pick up.
JERRY
There are none … available to her.
EMMA
Oh. Well … good.
JERRY
She has an admirer.
EMMA
Really?
JERRY
Another doctor. He takes her for drinks. It’s … irritating. I mean, she says that’s all there is to it. He likes her, she’s fond of him, et cetera, et cetera … perhaps that’s what I find irritating. I don’t know exactly what’s going on.
EMMA
Oh, why shouldn’t she have an admirer? I have an admirer.
JERRY
Who?
EMMA
Uuh … you, I think.
JERRY
Ah. Yes.
He takes her hand.
I’m more than that.
Pause.
EMMA
Tell me … have you ever thought … of changing your life?
JERRY
Changing?
EMMA
Mmnn.
Pause.
JERRY
It’s impossible.
Pause.
EMMA
Do you think she’s being unfaithful to you?
JERRY
No. I don’t know.
EMMA
When you were in America, just now, for instance?
JERRY
No.
EMMA
Have you ever been unfaithful?
JERRY
To whom?
EMMA
To me, of course.
JERRY
No.
Pause.
Have you … to me?
EMMA
No.
Pause.
If she was, what would you do?
JERRY
She isn’t. She’s busy. She’s got lots to do. She’s a very good doctor. She likes her life. She loves the kids.
EMMA
Ah.
JERRY
She loves me.
Pause.
EMMA
Ah.
Silence.
JERRY
All that means something.
EMMA
It certainly does.
JERRY
But I adore you.
Pause.
I adore you.
EMMA takes his hand.
EMMA
Yes.
Pause.
Listen. There’s something I have to tell you.
JERRY
What?
EMMA
I’m pregnant. It was when you were in America.
Pause.
It wasn’t anyone else. It was my husband.
Pause.
JERRY
Yes. Yes, of course.
Pause.
I’m very happy for you.
1968
SCENE NINE
Robert and Emma’s House. Bedroom. 1968. Winter.
The room is dimly lit. JERRY is sitting in the shadows. Faint music through the door.
The door opens. Light. Music. EMMA comes in, closes the door. She goes towards the mirror, sees JERRY.
EMMA
Good God.
JERRY
I’ve been waiting for you.
EMMA
What do you mean?
JERRY
I knew you’d come.
He drinks.
EMMA
I’ve just come in to comb my hair.
He stands.
JERRY
I knew you’d have to. I knew you’d have to comb your hair. I knew you’d have to get away from the party.
She goes to the mirror, combs her hair.
He watches her.
You’re a beautiful hostess.
EMMA
Aren’t you enjoying the party?
JERRY
You’re beautiful.
He goes to her.
Listen. I’ve been watching you all night. I must tell you, I want to tell you, I have to tell you –
EMMA
Please –
JERRY
You’re incredible.
EMMA
You’re drunk.
JERRY
Nevertheless.
He holds her.
EMMA
Jerry.
JERRY
I was best man at your wedding. I saw you in white. I watched you glide by in white.
EMMA
I wasn’t in white.
JERRY
You know what should have happened?
EMMA
What?
JERRY
I should have had you, in your white, before the wedding. I should have blackened you, in your white wedding dress, blackened you in your bridal dress, before ushering you into your wedding, as your best man.
EMMA
My husband’s best man. Your best friend’s best man.
JERRY
No. Your best man.
EMMA
I must get back.
JERRY
You’re lovely. I’m crazy about you. All these words I’m using, don’t you see, they’ve never been said before. Can’t you see? I’m crazy about you. It’s a whirlwind. Have you ever been to the Sahara Desert? Listen to me. It’s true. Listen. You overwhelm me. You’re so lovely.
EMMA
I’m not.
JERRY
You’re so beautiful. Look at the way you look at me.
EMMA
I’m not … looking at you.
JERRY
Look at the way you’re looking at me. I can’t wait for you, I’m bowled over, I’m totally knocked out, you dazzle me, you jewel, my jewel, I can’t ever sleep again, no, listen, it’s the truth, I won’t walk, I’ll be a cripple, I’ll descend, I’ll diminish, into total paralysis, my life is in your hands, that’s what you’re banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the state of catatonia? do you? do you? the state of … where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you.
EMMA
My husband is at the other side of that door.
JERRY
Everyone knows. The world knows. It knows. But they’ll never know, they’ll never know, they’re in a different world. I adore you. I’m madly in love with you. I can’t believe that what anyone is at this moment saying has ever happened has ever happened. Nothing has ever happened. Nothing. This is the only thing that has ever happened. Your eyes kill me. I’m lost. You’re wonderful.
EMMA
No.
JERRY
Yes.
He kisses her.
She breaks away.
He kisses her.
Laughter off.
She breaks away.
Door opens. ROBERT.
EMMA
Your best friend is drunk.
JERRY
As you are my best and oldest friend and, in the present instance, my host, I decided to take this opportunity to tell your wife how beautifu
l she was.
ROBERT
Quite right.
JERRY
It is quite right, to … to face up to the facts … and to offer a token, without blush, a token of one’s unalloyed appreciation, no holds barred.
ROBERT
Absolutely.
JERRY
And how wonderful for you that this is so, that this is the case, that her beauty is the case.
ROBERT
Quite right.
JERRY moves to ROBERT and take hold of his elbow.
JERRY
I speak as your oldest friend. Your best man.
ROBERT
You are, actually.
He clasps JERRY’s shoulder, briefly, turns, leaves the room.
EMMA moves towards the door. JERRY grasps her arm. She stops still.
They stand still, looking at each other.
MONOLOGUE
Monologue was first shown on BBC Television on 13 April 1973.
MAN Henry Woolf
Directed by Christopher Morahan
Man alone in a chair.
He refers to another chair, which is empty.
MAN
I think I’ll nip down to the games room. Stretch my legs. Have a game of ping pong. What about you? Fancy a game? How would you like a categorical thrashing? I’m willing to accept any challenge, any stakes, any gauntlet you’d care to fling down. What have you done with your gauntlets, by the way? In fact, while we’re at it, what happened to your motorbike?
Pause.
You looked bold in black. The only thing I didn’t like was your face, too white, the face, stuck between your black helmet and your black hair and your black motoring jacket, kind of aghast, blatantly vulnerable, veering towards pitiful. Of course, you weren’t cut out to be a motorbikist, it went against your nature, I never understood what you were getting at. What is certain is that it didn’t work, it never convinced me, it never got you onto any top shelf with me. You should have been black, you should have had a black face, then you’d be getting somewhere, really making a go of it.
Pause.
I often had the impression … often … that you two were actually brother and sister, some kind of link-up, some kind of identical shimmer, deep down in your characters, an inkling, no more, that at one time you had shared the same pot. But of course she was black. Black as the Ace of Spades. And a life-lover, to boot.
Pause.
All the same, you and I, even then, never mind the weather, weren’t we, we were always available for net practice, at the drop of a hat, or a game of fives, or a walk and talk through the park, or a couple of rounds of putting before lunch, given fair to moderate conditions, and no burdensome commitments.
Pause.
The thing I like, I mean quite immeasurably, is this kind of conversation, this kind of exchange, this class of mutual reminiscence.
Pause.
Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten the black girl, the ebony one. Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten me.