Lost in a good book Read Free Page A

you to say the new ending is improved, ” put in the small and bespectacled Chesterman, “and talking about any of the characters you met within Jane Eyre might cause some viewers to suffer Xplkqul-kiccasia.”
    The condition was unknown before my jump into Eyre. It was so serious that the Medical Council were compelled to make up an especially unpronounceable word to describe it.
    Lush looked at them, looked at me and then looked at his script.
    “How about if I just said her name?”
    “That would be admirable,” intoned Flanker, “except you might also want to assure the viewers that this interview is uncensored. Everyone else agree?”
    They all enthusiastically added their assent to Flanker’s suggestion. I could see this was going to be a very long and tedious afternoon.
    Lush’s entourage came back on and made the tiniest adjustments, I was repositioned, and after waiting what seemed like another decade, Lush began again.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, in a frank and open interview tonight, Thursday Next talks unhindered about her work at SpecOps.”
    No one said anything, so I entered, shook Lush’s hand and took a seat on his sofa.
    “Welcome to the show, Thursday.”
    “Thank you.”
    “We’ll get on to your career in the Crimea in a moment, but I’d like to kick off by asking—”
    With a magician’s flourish he pulled a serviette off the table in front of us, revealing a platter of toast with assorted toppings.
    “—if you would care for some toast?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Tasty and nutritious!” He smiled, facing the camera. “Perfect as a snack or even a light meal—good with eggs, sardines or even—”
    “No, thank you.”
    Lush’s smile froze on his face as he muttered through clenched teeth:
    “Have . . . some . . . toast.”
    But it was too late. The floor manager came on the set and announced that the unseen director of the show had called cut. Lush’s face dropped its permanent smile and his small army of beauticians came on and fussed over him once more. The floor manager had a one-way conversation into his headphones before turning to me with a concerned expression on his face.
    “The Director of Placements wants to know if you would take a small bite of toast when offered.”
    “I’ve eaten already.”
    The floor manager turned and spoke into his headphones again.
    “ She says she’s eaten already! . . . I know. . . . Yes. . . . What if . . . Yes. . . . Ah-ha. . . . What do you want me to do? Sit on her and force it down her throat!?! . . . Yesss. . . . Ah-ha. . . . I know. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Okay.”
    He turned back to me.
    “How about jam instead of marmalade?”
    “I don’t really like toast,” I told him—which was partly true, although to be honest I think I was just feeling a bit troublesome because of Braxton and his entourage.
    “What?”
    “I said I don’t—”
    “She says she doesn’t like toast!” said the floor manager in an exasperated tone. “What in hell’s name are we going to do!?!”
    Flanker stood up.
    “Next, eat the sodding toast will you? I’ve got a meeting in two hours.”
    “And I’ve a golf tournament,” added Braxton.
    I sighed. I thought perhaps I had a small amount of control on the show, but even that had vanished.
    “Does marmalade fit in with your plans, sir?” I asked Braxton, who grunted in the affirmative and sat down again.
    “Okay. Make it granary with marmalade, go easy on the butter.”
    The floor manager smiled as though I had just saved his job—which I probably had—and everything started over once again.
    “Would you like some toast?” asked Lush.
    “Thanks.”
    I took a small bite. Everyone was watching me, so I decided to make it easy for them.
    “Very good indeed.”
    I saw the floor manager giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up as he dabbed his brow with a handkerchief.
    “Right,” sighed Lush. “Let’s get on with it. First I would like to ask the