Part 37 (2/2)

'Three bonus questions on battles. What year was the Battle of Blenheim fought? Anyone? No one? Lucy?'

'Seventeen . . . twelve?' suggests Lucy.

'Nope. Seventeen-oh-four.'

'Where is the Bulge, as in the Battle of the Bulge? Anyone? The Bulge? Anyone have any idea at all? The Bulge. Come on, think about it, the Bulge, the Battle of the Bulge . . .'

'Holland!' I mutter from under my coat, partly just to stop him saying 'Bulge'.

'The Ardennes in Belgium,' says Patrick, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. 'Question number 3. Also known as the Battle of the Three Emperors, the Battle of Austerlitz was fought between which . . .'

'Patrick, can I just ask, what is the actual point of all this?' I say, leaning forward in my seat. The mean, do you honestly think that, by some miracle, any of these questions is going to come up in the actual quiz? Because if not, it's a bit of a pointless waste of everyone's time, isn't it?' 'Brian . . .' says Lucy, a hand on my arm.

'It's a warm-up, Brian!' screeches Patrick, leaning round in his seat so we're face to face. 'A warm-up for those of us who aren't quite as fresh this morning as we maybe ought to be?'

The don't know why you're getting at me!' I say, shouting now. 'What time did you get to sleep last night, Alice?' and she glares at me in the rear-view mirror, her cool, contemptuous head-girl glare.

338.

'Brian, we'll talk about it later, alright . . . ?'

'Talk about what later?' asks Patrick.

'Nothing,' says Alice, 'nothing at all . . .'

'So is it just the four of us today then, Alice, or have you got someone hiding in the boot?'

'What?' says Patrick.

'Brian, not here, alright . . . ?' hisses Alice.

'Will someone please tell me what's going on . . . ?' barks Patrick.

'Okay, everyone! Okay! Let's all ... just listen to some music shall we?' says Lucy, the peace-maker. One hand is holding on to my arm, kindly but firmly, and I almost expect to see a hypodermic syringe in the other hand, so I slump back into my seat, pull my coat up high over my head again to try to get some sleep, and we listen to a warped, warbling ca.s.sette of 'The Look of Love' by ABC over and over and over again, all the way to Manchester, until I think I'm going to start screaming.

Shortly after I accidentally breathe booze in Bamber Gascoigne's face, he disappears off to his office to look through the questions and it's left to our old friend Julian, the nice young researcher, to unveil the opposition for the first time. It's just as we feared. One word. Oxbridge. Patrick forces a great big smile, and the sound of his teeth grinding together echoes round the studio.

The four of them amble casually across the studio floor towards us in a long line, like gunslingers. They've all gone for the matching blazer-and-tie look, and are all wearing college scarves and spectacles in a further attempt to intimidate us. Theirs is an all-white, all-male team, so I suppose we can at least congratulate ourselves on striking a blow for s.e.xual equality by having two women on our team, even if one of them is a vicious, deceitful, scheming, two-faced witch.

Of course, our rivals have yet to discover Alice's true 339.

nature, so they all make straight for her, and cl.u.s.ter round as if they're asking for her autograph, while Patrick bobs uselessly at the edge of the circle, desperately trying to shake someone's hand, anyone's hand. Their captain, Norton reading Cla.s.sics - a complacently handsome broad-shouldered, floppy-haired type, the kind of good-looking b.a.s.t.a.r.d who looks as if he rows everywhere - is shaking Alice by the hand and refusing to let go. 'So - you must be the mascot!' he drawls lecherously, which strikes me as a pretty obnoxious and chauvinistic thing to say, and I have a moment of feminist indignation on Alice's behalf, but then I remember last night, the wardrobe. Besides, Alice doesn't seem to mind, because she's laughing too, and biting her lip, all doe-eyed, and tossing her freshly washed hair, and Norton tosses his lovely, glossy hair back, and she tosses her hair in return, and he tosses his, and she tosses hers, and it's like some mating ritual on a wildlife programme. I'm ashamed to say that the words 'p.r.i.c.k-tease' enter my head, but because the phrase is both gender-specific and misogynist, I suppress it, and instead stand just outside the group, with no one to shake hands with, and watch. Lucy Chang spots me, comes over, takes me by the elbow and introduces me to Partridge, a peachy skinned, balding nineteen-year-old from Saffron Walden, reading Modern History, and I smile, and smile, and chat, and smile and wonder if there's somewhere I can go and have a little lie-down.

But there's no time, because Julian is jollying us over to our seats for a quick rehearsal, just for fun, with him standing in for Bamber. Needless to say, Patrick has fixed the seating plan, so that I'm at the very, very end, as far away from him and Lucy as possible, more or less in the next studio, in fact. Alice sits between us, which would have been fun twenty-four hours ago, but now is just pure misery, and we sit there, staring blankly and silently ahead, as Julian reminds us that it's only a bit of fun, only a game, the 34O.

important thing is to enjoy ourselves. The desk and buzzers all feel surprisingly shoddy and make-s.h.i.+ft, as if someone's knocked them up in a woodwork cla.s.s, and I can actually see the bare light bulbs that are illuminating my name on the front of the panel. I could unscrew one if I wanted to, maybe steal it after the show and keep it as a souvenir, as a kind of studenty, undergraduate lark. I think about pointing this out to Alice, then remember that we're not meant to be talking to each other, and feel sad again. Julian, meanwhile, is inviting us to try out our buzzers, just to get the feel of them. We all do so, and I lean forward over the front of the plywood desk, to see my name flas.h.i.+ng on and off. Jackson. Jackson. Jackson . . .

'At last! My name's in lights!' says Alice. I don't look at her of course, but can tell by her voice that she's smiling desperately. 'You know, I always thought the only way I'd get my name in lights is if I changed it to Fire Exit!' she says, but I don't smile, I just tap out some Morse code on the buzzer; dot dot dot, dash dash dash . . .

'Strange, isn't it? Finding ourselves here! After all this time . . . I'

But I still don't reply, so she reaches across and takes my hand, pulls it off the buzzer.

'Brian, talk to me, please,' says Alice, unsmiling this time, then in a whisper, 'Look, I'm sorry about last night, and I'm sorry if you feel I've led you on, but I never made any promises, Brian. I was always honest with you, always very, very clear about how I felt. Speak to me, Brian, please? I can't bear you not speaking to me . . .'

I turn to her, and she looks sad and beautiful and tired around the eyes. 'I'm sorry, Alice, but I don't think I can.' She nods, as if she understands, and then before we can say anything else Julian is clearing his throat and the rehearsal is beginning.

'The final separation between the Eastern and Western 341.

mi Christian churches, sometimes known as the East-West Schism, happened in which year?'

I think I know this one, so I buzz.

'Fifteen-seventeen?'

'No, I'm sorry, I think you may be thinking of The Reformation. I'm afraid that's a five-point penalty.'

'Ten fifty-four?' says Norton, with the floppy hair, reading Cla.s.sics.

'Correct,' says Julian, and Norton smiles and gives his lovely hair a victory toss. 'So Norton, that's ten points, and your team now get the chance to answer three bonus questions on the Roman G.o.ds . . .'

And ironically, of course, I actually know all the answers.

At the end of the fifteen-minute rehearsal, which is just for fun, just to get us all relaxed, remember it's only a game, we've lost by 115 points to 15. Standing in the scenery dock behind the set, Patrick is so angry that he can barely speak. He just walks in tight little circles, clenching and unclenching his fists, and squeaking. Actually squeaking.

'Good, aren't they?' says Alice.

'They're okay,' says Lucy, 'they got lucky, that's all. Partridge is the one to watch . . .'

'. . . three years I've been waiting for this, three years . . .' mutters Patrick, walking in his tight little circle.

'. . . we're just a little on edge, that's all,' says Lucy, 'we just need to lighten up a little! Start to have fun, relax!'

I suddenly need a drink. Is there a bar in the building, I wonder? 'Maybe we should all just go to the bar, have a pint or two, just get loosened up a bit?' I suggest.

Patrick stops walking. 'What?' he hisses.

'You don't think it's a good idea, then?'

'Brian, you answered eight starter questions during that rehearsal and got six of them wrong. That's minus thirty points . . .'

342.

'That's not true . . .' I insist. 'Is it?1 and 1 look to Lucy for some support, but she's just staring at her shoes. Patrick turns on her.

'Lucia, dimmi, parli Italiano?' and, embarra.s.sed, Lucy says, lSi, un pochino.''

<script>