Ed had felt tense all day. He had woken just before it was light, and he had sat out on his balcony, wrapped in his bathrobe, smoking a cigar and watching the grey waters of the lake. Behind him, in his bedroom, Della McIntosh had lain sleeping on his bed, her red hair spread out over the pillow, her knees drawn up like a child. She had knocked on his door at midnight, and he had let her in without a word. They had said nothing to each other at all – nothing about motives or betrayal or politics. They had made love three times, and the last time she had sat on top of him, while he had reached up with his hands and cradled her heavy breasts. They had kissed once, almost a chaste kiss, and then slept.

After breakfast, Ed had watched the television technicians for a while. Then he had swum up and down Shearson’s triangular pool. He had thought of calling Season in Los Angeles, but somehow he had felt disinclined. There was too much on his mind. Della was no substitute for Season, but Season was so much more complicated. The day was sunny but cool.

At three o’clock, after everybody had sat around the lunch table for a gargantuan lobster salad, and Shearson had retired to his suite of rooms to doze and belch for an hour in private, the TV director had introduced Ed to his make-up lady and his continuity girl and the silent, elegantly-dressed black prompter who was going to hold up his short speech for him on large idiot boards. Then Ed had been given a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans to put on, his hair had been washed and blow-dried, and a small touch of blush had been rubbed along his cheekbones.

‘We want you to look healthy and rural,’ said the director.

‘Even though I’m destitute, and my crops have been wiped out?’ asked Ed.

‘Listen – people don’t want to be reminded of The Grapes of Wrath. They don’t want haggard sharecroppers. They want a healthy, friendly, young fellow who’s been hit by a tragic bolt from the blue.’

‘Would you like me to endorse somebody’s breakfast cereal at the same time?’ Ed had asked, sarcastically.

‘Just read what’s on the cards and sound as if you mean it,’ retorted the director. ‘And for Christ’s sake don’t smile.’

Ed was placed against a background of bare wooden floorboards and walls with only Andrew Wyeth’s severe painting of Dil Huey Farm behind him. The director had asked him to run through his words, and he had haltingly obliged. What had made it worse was that he had known all along he was never going to say them.