Apparently, I do it rather well. I suppose one shouldn’t need a reason to visit one’s brother, but I have such an aversion to his dismal little flat above the theater that I must find compelling motives to go there at all. Discovering what happened with his muse is one. Telling him about my illness is another. Whilst I’ve thus far managed to admirably cover up my episodes with excuses about exhaustion and headaches and too many cocktails, I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the pretense. And yet I struggle to find the words to tell them: Perry, Bea, Cockie, Elsie, Hettie, Aubrey, Mother and Father. How exactly does one bring such a grim and depressing matter into the conversation? “Ice and a slice?” “Yes, please, darling. Oh, and by the way, I’m dying. They tell me I have a cancer. Dreadful nuisance, isn’t it. Anyone for croquet?” If only somebody could write the script. If only I could rehearse the lines and deliver them as if it were all another performance.
What do You think about The Girl From The Savoy (2016)?
