“ Look, about the thing on “Lunchtime Live”. I really meant what I said I think they should see me for the part of Jackie. It’s often been said there’s a certain similarity in the bone structure. The squarish jaw, wide mouth, hair coloring. She’s got to age from teens to death at sixty-four, right? Well, that’s no problem, especially if the actual assassination takes
place behind gauze in a strobe, as it does on Broadway.”
“You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, last year when George did that White House special. They gave it to a nobody out there. Now, I may be an ex-somebody but I’m not a nobody.”
She leaned forward over the desk, her strong features showing passion as if it were a pain.
“I know everyone wants the chance to play it but I have a right to be considered. Robin. I know I could do it! For the sake of our friendship. you’ve got to get them to see me. Just let me prove to them that it’s my part. Please, Robin, do it for me?”
He sipped his rosehip tea impassively as she spoke.
Having replaced the china cup silently in the saucer and turned it so the handle was exactly parallel with the edge of the desk, he gave a thin, sad smile and spoke.
“Everything and I mean everything you’ve just said to me I said to the producer yesterday afternoon. Barney was very polite, he listened to what I had to say. I’ve sent some
of your tapes over to his London office and he said he’d look at them. I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. But I have to be honest, my love, and say it’s going to be an uphill
struggle.”
“But Robin-”
“I know, and I agree. You could do that part standing on George’s head, but it’s not me you have to convince. Barney Jungsheimer is one tough cashew nut, as they say.
The good thing is that its early days. For heaven’s sake, the production isn’t even definite yet; there’s all the hassle over cross casting to be settled with Equity first. It could be that they’ll go for an American Jackie and a British JFK.”
“Oh, God, Kenneth Bragger.”
“We can only pray not.”
“There were all those ridiculous stories about Madonna when the thing opened. Is it true she only pulled out over a row about the costumes?”
“So I’ve heard. They wouldn’t let her wear her bra made out of enamel funnels.”
‘No!”
“That’s not the worst; there was a canard on the loose about a certain…” Robin looked around theatrically and leaned towards her. “Whoopi Goldberg.”
Kate’s face was immobile with shock for a second.
“Robin! You’re winding me up.”
“You’re right. But remember these are not sane, rational people we’re talking about; they are Americans.”
“True. But even so”
“Even so. I know you want to be seen for that part and I’ll do everything I can to make it happen. But… don’t, come on dit, hold your breath.” He gave her the look of a
kindly uncle to an eager child to make sure she understood.
“However, it’s not all doomski-und-Glomski.”
“Oh?” Kate paused in mid-sniff of rosehip.
“No, no. We’re waiting to hear about the two telly jobs, of course; the market-gardeners and the disabled thingummy. The nice part that; you’d look fab in a wheelchair. But there’s something else that might tickle your Lanny. Bryan Harvey-Jones is casting for a pre-London tour of a rather entertaining new play. It could be just up your Strasse. It’s called Murder in Triplicate. I’ve told him you just might be interested.”
“Oh, Robin, no. Touring a thriller? I’m worth better than that. Aren’t I? After all my years in the biz? No, I won’t do it. Absolutely not.”
“Never say James, my dear. Now then, you’re not drinking your tea. Would you prefer blackcurrant?”
