Professional Smile By Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
‘What are you doing that for? Your shooting practice night isn’t until Wednesday.’Fortunately his wife stopped him as he attempted to load his air-pistol. He hesitated before he spoke. ‘I was just…er…cleaning it, Sandra.’
‘You were doing no such thing, Roger.’
She gave him one of her looks.
‘I was just going to send out a warning shot. I was hoping to scare him a bit. It’s probably the only day of this wash-out of a summer and it’s ruined by some so-called musician murdering a perfectly good tune.’
‘Murder is an unfortunate choice of word. You could’ve killed him.’
‘I just wanted to give him a little fright. It wouldn’t have hurt … that much. Modern jazz, I ask you? Ruining my Sunday afternoon with his bloody saxophone. I’m not even sure his balcony was within range.’
This didn’t seem to impress her. He put the pistol away into his case.
She stood in the doorway and decided to attempt to be conciliatory. ‘Can I help you get ready? That bow-tie is ever so fiddly.’
‘I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you very much. Besides, we’ve got ages.’
‘Not really. We have to leave in half an hour.’
Sandra knew that retreat was her best option at this point. They dressed in separate rooms in silence. After years of experience, she knew it was her role to break the ice. ‘You look very smart, darling.’
He grunted and muttered something about her dress being nice. Sandra decided not to press the issue.
‘When’s the car getting here, Roger?’
He looked at his wristwatch. It’s due in ten minutes. Just time for a stiff drink. After all, it is Mahler tonight. Joining me?’
‘Yes please.’
He poured two generous gin and tonics and they clinked glasses.
‘Why on Earth couldn’t they invite us to something like ‘South Pacific’ –a show with tunes? You could come out of that humming any one of the songs. It would even put a smile on the face of a miserable old sod like me.’
‘Now, that would be a miracle.’ She blew him an air kiss. ‘Only teasing, Roger.’
The driver was parked outside. He knew better than to sound his horn. Roger locked up the house as Sandra confirmed the venue with the chauffeur.
In the back of the car they sat in companionable silence and gazed out of the darkened windows. After a few minutes, he spoke – ‘Why don’t we make our excuses and duck out of this one? There’s a Morse marathon on the box tonight. We could both put our feet up and ‘chillax’ in the immortal words of our dear Prime Minister. We could have a take-away. You wouldn’t even have to cook.’
‘Thank you kindly, Sir. After the Sunday lunch I slaved over today for ten of us, the kitchen is most definitely closed. Anyway, they always have food at these things if we get to the reception on time. You know that you have to show your face.’
‘You know what it’s like, though – all that poncy finger food and that mindless small talk.’
‘And you will do it all with a smile on your face.’
They arrived at the concert hall and as soon as Roger left the car, his professional smile became fixed on his face and remained there until the driver came back for them at the end of the evening. As they drove off he began his rant.
‘Call that food? I wouldn’t give it to a dog. Thinking about it, it probably was dog. And who was that dreadful woman? I couldn’t give her the slip. She wouldn’t stop talking and then she turns out to be sitting next to me all evening. Surely, we could have swopped seats?’
‘Now that would have been rude Roger. You know perfectly well that she was the wife of the conductor.’
‘I can’t believe we had to sit through that depressing tripe. The second half seemed to last for hours.’
‘Well, just be grateful that it wasn’t Wagner’s Ring Cycle.’
‘It’s just not fair. I never get to do what I want to do. Nothing ever seems to go right. I’ve had enough. It’s been a miserable excuse of a summer. First there was the crass wall to wall coverage of the Jubilee. The Beeb wouldn’t know what gravitas meant if it woke up in bed with it. Euro 2012 was a travesty. For God’s sake, who’d have thought we’d invented the game. Then Team GB’s disastrous effort at that embarrassment of an Olympic Games. Beaten in the medal table by Luxembourg. Let’s gloss over the ignominy of Murray’s Wimbledon attempt. It’s been a lousy summer –Test matches have been rained off and the first and only decent day of good weather was wrecked by a jazz saxophonist. I expect we’ve got something awful like the ballet booked for tomorrow night.’
‘No, actually, that’s on Tuesday. According to your schedule you have the Rumanian mime troupe tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh God, that’s all I need. That bloody Marcel Marceau has a lot to answer for. I swear if any of them come on with clown’s make-up and start pretending they’re trapped in a box I shall get up and leave.’
‘You know you’ll do no such thing. You’ll sit through it all and congratulate them at the end. Now, calm down, darling. I know exactly what you need.’
She opened her handbag and handed him a brown paper bag. He breathed in and out several times and after a few minutes his face no longer quite resembled the colour of a beetroot.
‘That’s better. The doctor’s warned you not to get yourself worked up.’
Roger sat, looking sheepish, in the back of the car. ‘I’m sorry. I feel pretty foolish now. Thanks for stopping me. I just get so worked up. Everything’s on top of me at the moment. You’re ever so good for me, old girl,’ as he placed his hand on hers.
‘Less of the old, thank you very much. Besides I know you so well. It’s like this every year. You’ll be happy when you’re back at work, darling. When does term begin again?’
‘You know perfectly well that it’s not called that. You don’t know what it’s like to be Sports and Culture Secretary – this year of all years. The timing’s awful. It’s probably the worst moment in history to have this job. Everything’s gone wrong for us. I’d rather have been in charge of prisons or sewage facilities. It wasn’t my fault that some imbecile in the department signed off a billion pound scheme to promote Shakespeare in Swahili around our nation’s primary schools. The press had a field day with that one, especially during our time of austerity. I can’t be expected to check every decimal point. If the boss hadn’t ordered a three line whip to ensure all government ministers “staycationed” – ghastly phrase –we would be in the South of France like a shot. Apparently we’re all in this together. Parliament doesn’t open until the end of next month.’
‘Well I shall be counting the days.’
Copyright Andrew Campbell-Kearsey 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27666/professional-smile to download (try the QuickReader free app and you can download direct from feedbooks)
‘You were doing no such thing, Roger.’
She gave him one of her looks.
‘I was just going to send out a warning shot. I was hoping to scare him a bit. It’s probably the only day of this wash-out of a summer and it’s ruined by some so-called musician murdering a perfectly good tune.’
‘Murder is an unfortunate choice of word. You could’ve killed him.’
‘I just wanted to give him a little fright. It wouldn’t have hurt … that much. Modern jazz, I ask you? Ruining my Sunday afternoon with his bloody saxophone. I’m not even sure his balcony was within range.’
This didn’t seem to impress her. He put the pistol away into his case.
She stood in the doorway and decided to attempt to be conciliatory. ‘Can I help you get ready? That bow-tie is ever so fiddly.’
‘I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you very much. Besides, we’ve got ages.’
‘Not really. We have to leave in half an hour.’
Sandra knew that retreat was her best option at this point. They dressed in separate rooms in silence. After years of experience, she knew it was her role to break the ice. ‘You look very smart, darling.’
He grunted and muttered something about her dress being nice. Sandra decided not to press the issue.
‘When’s the car getting here, Roger?’
He looked at his wristwatch. It’s due in ten minutes. Just time for a stiff drink. After all, it is Mahler tonight. Joining me?’
‘Yes please.’
He poured two generous gin and tonics and they clinked glasses.
‘Why on Earth couldn’t they invite us to something like ‘South Pacific’ –a show with tunes? You could come out of that humming any one of the songs. It would even put a smile on the face of a miserable old sod like me.’
‘Now, that would be a miracle.’ She blew him an air kiss. ‘Only teasing, Roger.’
The driver was parked outside. He knew better than to sound his horn. Roger locked up the house as Sandra confirmed the venue with the chauffeur.
In the back of the car they sat in companionable silence and gazed out of the darkened windows. After a few minutes, he spoke – ‘Why don’t we make our excuses and duck out of this one? There’s a Morse marathon on the box tonight. We could both put our feet up and ‘chillax’ in the immortal words of our dear Prime Minister. We could have a take-away. You wouldn’t even have to cook.’
‘Thank you kindly, Sir. After the Sunday lunch I slaved over today for ten of us, the kitchen is most definitely closed. Anyway, they always have food at these things if we get to the reception on time. You know that you have to show your face.’
‘You know what it’s like, though – all that poncy finger food and that mindless small talk.’
‘And you will do it all with a smile on your face.’
They arrived at the concert hall and as soon as Roger left the car, his professional smile became fixed on his face and remained there until the driver came back for them at the end of the evening. As they drove off he began his rant.
‘Call that food? I wouldn’t give it to a dog. Thinking about it, it probably was dog. And who was that dreadful woman? I couldn’t give her the slip. She wouldn’t stop talking and then she turns out to be sitting next to me all evening. Surely, we could have swopped seats?’
‘Now that would have been rude Roger. You know perfectly well that she was the wife of the conductor.’
‘I can’t believe we had to sit through that depressing tripe. The second half seemed to last for hours.’
‘Well, just be grateful that it wasn’t Wagner’s Ring Cycle.’
‘It’s just not fair. I never get to do what I want to do. Nothing ever seems to go right. I’ve had enough. It’s been a miserable excuse of a summer. First there was the crass wall to wall coverage of the Jubilee. The Beeb wouldn’t know what gravitas meant if it woke up in bed with it. Euro 2012 was a travesty. For God’s sake, who’d have thought we’d invented the game. Then Team GB’s disastrous effort at that embarrassment of an Olympic Games. Beaten in the medal table by Luxembourg. Let’s gloss over the ignominy of Murray’s Wimbledon attempt. It’s been a lousy summer –Test matches have been rained off and the first and only decent day of good weather was wrecked by a jazz saxophonist. I expect we’ve got something awful like the ballet booked for tomorrow night.’
‘No, actually, that’s on Tuesday. According to your schedule you have the Rumanian mime troupe tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh God, that’s all I need. That bloody Marcel Marceau has a lot to answer for. I swear if any of them come on with clown’s make-up and start pretending they’re trapped in a box I shall get up and leave.’
‘You know you’ll do no such thing. You’ll sit through it all and congratulate them at the end. Now, calm down, darling. I know exactly what you need.’
She opened her handbag and handed him a brown paper bag. He breathed in and out several times and after a few minutes his face no longer quite resembled the colour of a beetroot.
‘That’s better. The doctor’s warned you not to get yourself worked up.’
Roger sat, looking sheepish, in the back of the car. ‘I’m sorry. I feel pretty foolish now. Thanks for stopping me. I just get so worked up. Everything’s on top of me at the moment. You’re ever so good for me, old girl,’ as he placed his hand on hers.
‘Less of the old, thank you very much. Besides I know you so well. It’s like this every year. You’ll be happy when you’re back at work, darling. When does term begin again?’
‘You know perfectly well that it’s not called that. You don’t know what it’s like to be Sports and Culture Secretary – this year of all years. The timing’s awful. It’s probably the worst moment in history to have this job. Everything’s gone wrong for us. I’d rather have been in charge of prisons or sewage facilities. It wasn’t my fault that some imbecile in the department signed off a billion pound scheme to promote Shakespeare in Swahili around our nation’s primary schools. The press had a field day with that one, especially during our time of austerity. I can’t be expected to check every decimal point. If the boss hadn’t ordered a three line whip to ensure all government ministers “staycationed” – ghastly phrase –we would be in the South of France like a shot. Apparently we’re all in this together. Parliament doesn’t open until the end of next month.’
‘Well I shall be counting the days.’
Copyright Andrew Campbell-Kearsey 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27666/professional-smile to download (try the QuickReader free app and you can download direct from feedbooks)