Julian himself was in the front room, marooned wretchedly on an island of bottles, glasses and ash-trays. ‘Oh, Charles, thank God you’ve come back. I need someone to talk to. It’s started.’ ‘Started?’ ‘The baby.’ ‘Oh yes.’ He nearly added ‘I’d completely forgotten’, but decided that might show an unwelcome sense of priorities. ‘Waters broke, or whatever it is they do, about nine. I took her down to the hospital, they said nothing’d happen overnight, suggested I came back to get some sleep. Sleep, huh!’ ‘She’ll be okay.’ ‘Yes, I’m sure she will, but that doesn’t make the time till I know she is any easier. It’s like quoting the statistics of normal childbirths, it doesn’t make you any more convinced that yours is going to be one.’ ‘No. Well, you have a drink and keep your mind off it’ ‘Drink, huh, I’ve had plenty of drinks.’ Julian was playing the scene for all it was worth. Charles had the feeling that he often got with actor friends in real emotional situations, that they rose to the inherent drama and, though their feelings at such moments were absolutely genuine, their acting training was not wasted.
