Then there’d been a very awkward pause.

His agent had apologized and said she could’ve put that better.

He’d told her not to worry about it . . .

749

Late, sweating and tearing down the dual carriageway approaching the city, Dr. Frankburg was caught by the same speed camera that had captured Michael Davies.

“Damn you!” shouted Frankburg, but he pressed on at the same speed nonetheless. He drove through the same underpass and was dimly aware of ferocious tire skids in the road.

Two roundabouts and a back road later, Frankburg parked and sprinted to his office.

748

. . . But Sam’s agent did worry about it.

Until five months ago, Sam had been her highest earner, her only earner. He was loyal. He’d stuck with her even after the You Too Can Fly fiasco for which she’d waived royalties and then seen it sell more copies than Gielgud Reads Dickens. She’d even managed to fluff getting him the sequel.

A bigger agency was courting him so she arranged for him to read for Tunnel Vision, a new BBC sitcom about the lives of a team of sewer workers in London. They needed an ox with a kind face and he got the job. He sent her roses and she wept with relief.

Then tragedy visited the set.

Halfway through filming, with three episodes completed, one of the actresses, a twenty-seven-year-old Scot called Kirsten, committed suicide in her hotel room.

Samuel took it hard. He’d believed there was a spark between them. Some chemistry. They were both Celts. They’d endured similar life events: late career changes, and the loss of a parent when they were very young; she a mother, he a father, both due to illness. Questionnaires in trashy magazines told them they had things in common.

The production closed down immediately.

There were a few news items on television, but not many; Kirsten was an unknown. There had been some newspaper coverage and a small obituary with a family snapshot. Kirsten with Dad.

The program’s director said that the country had lost a very, very talented performer.

Samuel and Kirsten’s last conversation had been on the set of Tunnel Vision. Samuel had been cleared to go. She had to stay to film an extra bit on her own. A running feature of the show was that each episode would end on a different character stuck down the sewer. It was Kirsten’s turn that week.

He threw a prop feces at her.

His last words to her had been “Hey, catch.”

This shit was resting on Kirsten’s bedside table when she was found. Samuel hoped it didn’t undermine whatever dignity Kirsten had sought in her end.

He attended the funeral, which was held in a little crematorium. She’d been a nurse before she was an actress. Most of the mourners were hospital staff. He was the only actor there. No one recognized him.