CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Early in 1965, as Jasper Murray prepared for his final university exams, he wrote to every broadcasting organization in the USA whose address he could find.

They all got the same letter. He sent them his article about Evie dating Hank, his piece on Martin Luther King, and the assassination special edition of The Real Thing. And he asked for a job. Any job, as long as it was in American television.

He had never wanted anything this much. Television news was better than print—faster, more engaging, more vivid—and American television was better than British. And he knew he would be good at it. All he needed was a start. He wanted it so much it hurt.

When he had mailed the letters—at considerable expense—he let his sister, Anna, buy him lunch. They went to the Gay Hussar, a Hungarian restaurant favored by left-wing writers and politicians. “What will you do if you don’t get a job in the States?” Anna asked him after they had ordered.

The prospect depressed him. “I really don’t know. In this country, you’re expected to work for provincial newspapers first, covering cat shows and the funerals of long-serving aldermen, but I don’t think I can face that.”

Anna got the restaurant’s signature cold cherry soup. Jasper had fried mushrooms with tartar sauce. Anna said: “Listen, I owe you an apology.”

“Yes,” said Jasper. “You damn well do.”

“Look, Hank and Evie weren’t even engaged, let alone married.”

“But you knew perfectly well that they were a couple.”

“Yes, and I was wrong to go to bed with him.”

“You were.”

“There’s no need for you to be so bloody sanctimonious. It’s uncharacteristic for me, but it’s just the kind of thing you’d do.”

He did not argue with that because it was true. He had on occasion gone to bed with women who were married or engaged. Instead he said: “Does Mother know?”

“Yes, and she’s furious. Daisy Williams has been her best friend for thirty years, and has also been extraordinarily kind to you, letting you live there rent-free—and now I’ve done this to her daughter. What did Daisy say to you?”

“She’s angry, because you caused her daughter such pain. But she also said that when she fell in love with Lloyd she was already married to someone else, so she does not feel entitled to too much moral indignation.”

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Except that I’m not really sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went to bed with Hank because I fell in love with him. Since that first time, I’ve spent almost every night with him. He’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met, and I’m going to marry him, if ever I can nail his foot to the floor.”

“As your brother, I’m entitled to ask what on earth he sees in you.”

“Other than big tits, you mean?” She laughed.

“Not that you aren’t good-looking, but you are a few years older than Hank, and there are about a million nubile maidens in England who would jump into his bed at a snap of his fingers.”