Maurice Arnold. Terence has always been registered as Terence, and so Luke leaves him where he is. He still has all his memories; nothing has changed them or what he is, let alone the people who are still his parents in surely every way that counts. As Sophie reaches for his hand, having watched his actions in wistful silence, the phone rediscovers its voice.
Someone apparently doesn't want to show their number. Luke cuts off the ringtone before it can predict what June will do and enquires "Hello?"
"Mr Arnold?"
The woman's question is sharp enough for a challenge. "That's my name," Luke says and tells himself it's true.
"Luke Arnold the comedian?"
"That's still me."
"This is Brittan's Resolutions, Mr Arnold."
"I thought you might be. Have you been talking to my mother? I hear you weren't too pleasant to her."
"We just wanted to know why she didn't tell us what you are when she rang us, Mr Arnold."
Each repetition of his borrowed name makes him feel like an impersonator, but not the kind he is onstage. "She's a fan of yours," he says. "If you want to have a go at anyone, try me."
"Why didn't you mention you were a performer?"
"Nobody asked me."
"That isn't very funny, Mr Arnold. I hope your act's better than that. Jack thinks you came looking for material."
"I didn't, but you can tell him I found plenty."
"Have you nothing better to do than imitate people, Mr Arnold? I was brought up to know it's rude."
This silences Luke but not Sophie, who says "That isn't all Luke does by any means."
As Luke switches the phone to loudspeaker mode Brittan's researcher says "Are you the lady we put in the audience?"
"That's her, Sophie Drew. She's a performer as well. Maybe you know her album Bach to Folk. She could have sung you a song."
"I don't think there's any need for that, Mr Arnold." Quite as reprovingly the researcher says "We might have offered you some help in tracking down your parents."
"Don't bother. And a lot more to the point, don't go bothering—" At last he realises what he called Freda, which makes him feel he has been enacting a pretence. 'Just leave the Arnolds alone," he says and ends the call.
Sophie watches him pocket the mobile and says "Do you think the net might help you find them?"
"If I wanted to it might." He has very little idea if he does, but her suggestion sends him to the slender metal desk opposite the window in case anybody has been trying to contact his web site.
"Luke Arnold casts a spell with his use of language, physical as well as verbal. You may end up wondering if you're his next character, because you could imagine he has stored up everyone he's ever met..." That's a quote from his Edinburgh Fringe review, and he still can't believe how far he has come since university—from putting on a show there and the first time he saw Sophie onstage too. There are emails to demonstrate he must be doing something right, and he beckons her to look. Three of today's emails are from theatres and clubs wanting to book him—more than he generally sees in a week. Sophie rests her hands on his shoulders like a promise of a massage. "They're after you," she murmurs, and too briefly for him to understand why, the words unnerve him.
OUT OF THE AUDIENCE
"Who's your daddy?"
In a moment Luke locates the heckler in the fifth row from the stage of the basement club. He's a man of about Luke's age—thirty—and his stance looks like a challenge. He's sitting with his big hands planted on his knees, his shoulders hunched, his large resolutely bald head lowered and thrust forward. "If you can tell me yours," Luke says, "I'll tell you mine."
The man's shout roused hoots and groans, and so does Luke's response, but he's also rewarded with laughter and applause. More than ever he feels distanced from his audience, as though he's observing them as much as amusing them. He has never really grasped why people find him entertaining; he remembers his bemusement with it when he was a child. Now he could
Someone apparently doesn't want to show their number. Luke cuts off the ringtone before it can predict what June will do and enquires "Hello?"
"Mr Arnold?"
The woman's question is sharp enough for a challenge. "That's my name," Luke says and tells himself it's true.
"Luke Arnold the comedian?"
"That's still me."
"This is Brittan's Resolutions, Mr Arnold."
"I thought you might be. Have you been talking to my mother? I hear you weren't too pleasant to her."
"We just wanted to know why she didn't tell us what you are when she rang us, Mr Arnold."
Each repetition of his borrowed name makes him feel like an impersonator, but not the kind he is onstage. "She's a fan of yours," he says. "If you want to have a go at anyone, try me."
"Why didn't you mention you were a performer?"
"Nobody asked me."
"That isn't very funny, Mr Arnold. I hope your act's better than that. Jack thinks you came looking for material."
"I didn't, but you can tell him I found plenty."
"Have you nothing better to do than imitate people, Mr Arnold? I was brought up to know it's rude."
This silences Luke but not Sophie, who says "That isn't all Luke does by any means."
As Luke switches the phone to loudspeaker mode Brittan's researcher says "Are you the lady we put in the audience?"
"That's her, Sophie Drew. She's a performer as well. Maybe you know her album Bach to Folk. She could have sung you a song."
"I don't think there's any need for that, Mr Arnold." Quite as reprovingly the researcher says "We might have offered you some help in tracking down your parents."
"Don't bother. And a lot more to the point, don't go bothering—" At last he realises what he called Freda, which makes him feel he has been enacting a pretence. 'Just leave the Arnolds alone," he says and ends the call.
Sophie watches him pocket the mobile and says "Do you think the net might help you find them?"
"If I wanted to it might." He has very little idea if he does, but her suggestion sends him to the slender metal desk opposite the window in case anybody has been trying to contact his web site.
"Luke Arnold casts a spell with his use of language, physical as well as verbal. You may end up wondering if you're his next character, because you could imagine he has stored up everyone he's ever met..." That's a quote from his Edinburgh Fringe review, and he still can't believe how far he has come since university—from putting on a show there and the first time he saw Sophie onstage too. There are emails to demonstrate he must be doing something right, and he beckons her to look. Three of today's emails are from theatres and clubs wanting to book him—more than he generally sees in a week. Sophie rests her hands on his shoulders like a promise of a massage. "They're after you," she murmurs, and too briefly for him to understand why, the words unnerve him.
OUT OF THE AUDIENCE
"Who's your daddy?"
In a moment Luke locates the heckler in the fifth row from the stage of the basement club. He's a man of about Luke's age—thirty—and his stance looks like a challenge. He's sitting with his big hands planted on his knees, his shoulders hunched, his large resolutely bald head lowered and thrust forward. "If you can tell me yours," Luke says, "I'll tell you mine."
The man's shout roused hoots and groans, and so does Luke's response, but he's also rewarded with laughter and applause. More than ever he feels distanced from his audience, as though he's observing them as much as amusing them. He has never really grasped why people find him entertaining; he remembers his bemusement with it when he was a child. Now he could
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