Hugo’s car was trapped behind a long line of cars, lorries, taxis and buses; but mainly cars, driven by home-going business men who were wondering, for the hundredth time, whether it wouldn’t have been more sensible to come up to town by train. There was fog ahead, and already the queues were beginning to build up on the motorways and the illuminated diversion signs were being switched on.
The driver, who was from the television studio pool, and knew that part of London like his own back garden, said, ‘Once we get past this road junction I can slip off to the left, and we can say goodbye to this crowd. We shall need a bit of luck at Chiswick, but I reckon it’s worth it.’
‘I leave it to you,’ said Hugo. ‘We’re in very good time. They can’t start without me.’
They were telerecording Episode 92 that evening. ‘The Return of the Tiger.’ By popular demand, thought Hugo. No doubt about that. Had not the first person to telephone him when he got back to England been Sam? They’re falling over themselves to cash in on all this gorgeous publicity,’ he said. ‘I can sign you up for two more series of thirteen, with a one-way option on a third series. And listen, I think I can get you a percentage on the resale to America.’
He had not been keen, but Tammy had overruled him. She said, ‘Take the cash. You can always quit at the end.’
‘Then do what? Live on my wife?’
‘Why not? It’s a comfortable sort of life I imagine. I can’t see why men object.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Hugo. The conclusion of his arms deal with the American Government had left him with enough money not to worry too much about the immediate future.
They jerked on a dozen yards and stopped again. It was warm in the car and Hugo turned down the side window, but this let in such a gout of freezing fog that he quickly shut it again.
There had been good moments and bad ones, in the six months since his return. The best had been his mother’s reception of Tammy. They had got on to terms immediately. His mother had said, ‘The real trouble with Hugo is that girls have tended to fall down and worship him. I’m sure you won’t make that mistake.’
‘I’ll fight against it,’ said Tammy gallantly.
After that they got straight on to discussing the wedding arrangements.
‘As long as it isn’t a show-business wedding,’ said Mrs. Greest. ‘You know what I mean. Caxton Hall Registry Office, crowds blocking the traffic, the bridegroom carrying the bride in his arms, and a funny man from the B.B.C. cracking jokes on the pavement.’
Tammy shuddered and said, ‘Nothing like that. Technically I understand we ought to get married from my home. It’s a place called Nantasket, and it has a very pretty little church with a white clapboard steeple.’
In the end they had decided that this would be too complicated, and the wedding took place in Richmond Parish Church with a reception at the Star and Garter Hotel. Sam, of course, had come. And Hugo had, after some hesitation, invited Arnold Taverner who had returned a diplomatic refusal. The only disruption had been caused by the Tiger Fan Club, who had got into the reception ahead of the guests and taken away most of the wedding cake as souvenirs.
The car made thirty yards.
‘Any minute now,’ said the driver.
The bad moments had mostly been regret for Umran. When the weather was particularly vile he had thought about it a lot. The arch of the sky, deep blue above, fading to pearl on the horizon. The heat that pressed down on you like a weight, that hurt and anaesthetised the hurt at the same time, until in the end, like Martin Cowcroft, you lived in it and on it, a salamander in the fire. And the smell of musk and tamarisk and rotten fish and boiling tar, all mixed with the smell of the real desert, which was indescribable and which he had known when he was young.
That was the truth of the matter, he decided. It was a young man’s land. When he had tried to explain this to Tammy she had said, ‘To listen to you, anyone would think you were seventy. You’ve got more than half your life ahead of you. When this series is over, we’ll go to America and I’ll show you some real deserts. You could lose Arabia in some of them.’
The car shook itself free of the traffic and bowled down a side street of small suburban houses. Front doors were opening, letting out a stream of light and letting in the breadwinners, home to a quiet evening of supper, television and bed. They were his public. The ninety-nine point nine per cent, who liked to live quietly and were happy to enjoy their excitements vicariously. Sensible people, who only knew vaguely where the Persian Gulf was, and had never heard of Umran.
They reached the television studios with half an hour to spare. Hugo signed six autograph books, and stopped in the entrance hall for a word with George, the one-armed commissionaire.
‘Very glad to see you back, Mr. Greest. My family always look forward to your show.’
‘Thank you, George. I hope we don’t let you down.’