My Dear Boy

	Hugh in spectacles and bulging anorak is ringing the 
	doorbell of a prosperous-looking London house. It is 
	answered by Stephen, who is fat (yes, yes, get on 
	with it, we know that) and swathed in chinoiserie and 
	camperie. Possibly a tasselled smoking cap. As he opens 
	the door he regards Hugh with pleasure.


Stephen		My dear boy! Come in, come in, come in, come
		in, come in, come in, come in, come in!

	Hugh looks surprised.

		(Looking down at the floor) Don't mind Clothilda,
		she gets excited by strangers.

	Stephen scoops up a blue Persian cat and presses 
	against the open door to allow Hugh to pass through.

Hugh		This is 42 Cheyne Gardens?

Stephen		Come through to the atelier, my dear, and let me mix
		you something devilish of my own devising. A little
		thick cream, a suspicion of parfait amour, a whisper
		of orgeat, garnished with sprig of hyssop and, of
		course, a cocktail cherry. I call it my Moroccan
		Sunrise. It has caused, in it's time, my dear, many a
		son of Morocco to rise ... oh, I must stop myself,
		really I must. Please pay me no attention; Clothilda
		here will tell you that I am no better than I should
		be, won't you Clotty dear? I don't believe I caught
		your name?

	They are in a Chelsea studio. It is littered with tigerskin 
	rugs, louche art, bronzes, statuettes, paintings etc.

Hugh		Nigel Carter.

Stephen		Nigel Carter. Nigel Carter. There's a breath of
		something fine and ripe in that name, something
		impossibly noble and yet thrillingly rotten. Sit, Nigel
		Carter. Sit, sit, sit.

	Stephen pushes Hugh gently on to a seat which is 
	part of a double chair.

		It's called a lover's seat. I picked it up in San
		Gimigniano in 1963. That and so much else besides.
		You may keep your clothes on for the moment while
		I weave my magic with the cocktail shaker. Clothilda
		shall amuse you with stories of the gorgeous east.

Hugh		It's about the advertisement in this month's Model 
		Aeroplanes.

Stephen		Such a stimulating read. I never miss a copy.
		You have the bluest eyes, has anyone ever told
		you that? It was for eyes of such a hyacinthine
		blue that Apollo languished long ago on sunbleached
		Delos.

Hugh		Mm. Yes. (Takes out a cutting and reads) "Highest
		prices paid for all models. Apply Simbold Cleobury,
		42 Cheyne Gardens, SW3." That is you, isn't it?

Stephen		It is I. My parents christened me Donald, a
		name entirely without hope. Do you know, I think
		I'm going to give you two cocktail cherries? One
		for each of your blue eyes. I usually pay models
		thirty pounds a sitting. Does that seem fair, my
		dear?

Hugh		I've got a Sopwith Camel, full RFC markings,
		scale one twentieth. I brought a photograph.

Stephen		A camel?

Hugh		It's quite old, but in very good condition.

Stephen		Heavens! And where do you keep it?

Hugh		In my room at home. In Greenford.

	Stephen drops into the other seat next to Hugh.

Stephen		(Giving Hugh his cocktail) And they dare to claim,
		Nigel Carter, that the age of romance is dead. (As 
		Hugh sips) I think you will agree that it is the hyssop
		that makes all the difference. (Into Hugh's ear) I love
		hyssop, don't you?

Hugh		Very tasty.

Stephen		What is the name of this camel who lives with
		you in Greenford?

Hugh		Well, Sopwith.

Stephen		Sopwith! Too heavenly. Perhaps I shall paint you
		astride this Sopwith, Nigel. It is not impossible.
		But first I shall have you sprawled naked on the
		tiger-skin, firelight dancing on your shivering thighs.

Hugh		Erm ...

Stephen		Have you modelled before?

Hugh		Oh, all my life. Well, since I was four.

Stephen		Mercy, Nigel. Mercy. Since you were four?

Hugh		My grandfather started me off.

Stephen		So often the way.

Hugh		We both ended up covered in glue.

Stephen		Nigel, you amaze me.

Hugh		It was a Fokker.

Stephen		It sounds it, Nigel. In glue you say? You may
		fear no such extravagances from me. Perhaps a
		little light rubbing with oil to bring out your flesh
		tones, Nigel, but no more.

Hugh		Would you like to see my Jumbo?

Stephen		Nigel, I would like to see your Jumbo very much
		indeed.

	Hugh shows Stephen a photograph.

		(Looking at it) Nigel, that is a photograph of a
		large jet aeroplane.

Hugh		(Staring down at photo for a moment) Oh, I'm
		sorry, I don't know how that got in there. (Rifles 
		through) Here we are.

Stephen		My, that is a jumbo, isn't it? Now then, clothes
		off and on to the tiger-skin with you.

Hugh		(Stripping) Righto.

Stephen		It's less than a year since they
		ditched her and already she's for-
		gotten - consigned to the dustbin
		of history. She personally liberated
		all of Eastern Europe, but she's
		forgotten. That's how grateful we
		are to Margaret ... Margaret ...
		Datchett was it?