ORTON   (to Peggy) I’ve started on the script for the Beatles. I’m using some of a novel I wrote years ago. I’m surprised how good it is. (He puts down the phone and goes to put his trousers on.)

HALLIWELL   You didn’t write this. We wrote it.

ORTON   So what were you planning on doing? Selling it to Warner Brothers?
Orton goes back to work, but can’t, as Halliwell is now pacing the room.

HALLIWELL   I wouldn’t care if you gave me some credit. If you only said … told people I helped you. Tell the Beatles I helped you.

ORTON   You’re not being much help now. Have you nothing to do?

HALLIWELL   (who is cleaning up) Look at me.

ORTON   I hate your pinafore number.

HALLIWELL   So you do it. Try a spot of post-coital dusting yourself. (shoving the mop or whatever at him, shouting) It always has to be me!
A knock at the door. Sudden silence. Whispering.
Who’s this?
Orton gives a ‘search me’ shrug.
It’s the police. It’s one of your pick-ups. Your sex life has caught up with you. Now you’re going to have to pay.
Orton gets up wearily and opens the door. It is Mrs Sugden.

MRS SUGDEN   I thought you might like a preview of my frock. It’s for the firm’s get-together in a month or two’s time. The venue’s not definite yet, but it’s thought to be one of the leading London hotels.
She parades in a gaudy full-length dress of some printed material.
There’s been some dispute about the design. It’s a floral motif, obviously. All hand-done. Only I say these are roses. And Mr Sugden will insist they’re peonies.

HALLIWELL   This could be a lily.

ORTON   Looks more like a rhododendron to me.

MRS SUGDEN   That’s a thought. I’ll go and try that one out on Clifford. Do you notice I’m limping? Spilt a hot drink over my dress. My vagina came up like a football.
She goes. Orton and Halliwell are hysterical with laughter and collapse on the bed.

ORTON   If you were successful … so successful you couldn’t walk down the street, what would you do? I’m thinking of the Beatles.

HALLIWELL   I’d have a home in the country. Servants.

ORTON   I wouldn’t. I’d just screw everything in sight.
Halliwell touches Orton.
Lay off. Have a wank.

HALLIWELL   (furiously tidying up the flat) Have a wank? Have a wank? I can’t just have a wank. I need three days’ notice to have a wank. You can just stand there and do it. Me, it’s like organising D-Day. Forces have to be assembled, magazines bought, the past dredged for some suitably unsavoury episode the dog-eared thought of which can still produce a faint flicker of desire. ‘Have a wank.’ It’d be easier to raise the Titanic.
Orton typing.