I can smell toast, although I'm fairly sure I'm still asleep. And there's a noise too, like... someone walking around nearby, although all I can see is the backs of my eyelids. Must be awake then, I'll just wait for my eyelids to catch up and I'll be... where? Aah yes, my old bedroom at my mother's house -she must be making me toast! Oh, it was a good idea coming back here; I've had nothing but trouble and disappointments since I left all those years ago. Yes, I think I'll tell my landlady I'm leaving, stay here forever, and just pretend the last couple of decades never happened. If only she'd bring me my toast here, instead of making me get out of bed for it... Aah, my eyelids are working! Hang on. This wallpaper in front of me – I'm back in that bedsit in Earl's Court! Of course, I came back last night, didn't I. Dear oh dear. What possessed me? I suppose the toast was a dream then. Except – no, I can still smell it. And those footsteps, they're coming closer! Who's in my flat, who's making toast in my flat?!
"Oh, you're awake." A strained, nasal squawk of a voice. "I made you some breakfast – just to show there's no hard feelings."
"Veronica?! How did you get in, what do you want?" Hancock coils the bedspread around himself like a protective shell, only his eyes visible as she approaches.
She seems to have tried to dress up for something; she has a plain black dress on and a grey jacket, the tight-waisted style that was in fashion a few years ago – indeed, it has dust on the shoulders as if it's been hanging up for a long time. There's a cup of tea in each of her hands, and a plate with three slices of toast on it sitting on the table beside the bed.
"You left the door unlocked," Veronica says as she puts down the teacups and pulls up a chair. "and I noticed your light was on as I passed by last night – I was on my way home from Olive's house, you see – so I thought I'd come round this morning and see if you wanted to discuss what happened. Only it had to be early, because we're going out this afternoon."
It's hard to tell, with that lopsided mug of hers, whether she's smiling or smirking. All too much to deal with this early in the morning. I could, of course, be dreaming. I could try pinching myself... no, I think it'd hurt. I'll assume this is real, then. So how does she know Olive, have I missed something? I think I ought to be worried about this, they might be looking for revenge after I rejected their acceptances of my proposals. I must tread carefully, and gather information.
"You went to see Olive? So you two...?"
"Are friends?" she laughs, and shakes her head. "No, no, I'd never met her before. If I had, I'd probably have dismissed her offhand as an insufferable bore. Fiona, too. But when something like that happens – well, once we'd all calmed down, we went back to Olive's flat, opened a bottle of wine, and realised we could all be very useful to each other. Are you going to eat your toast?"
"Hmm, very cosy."
"Yes, it was."
" Useful, you say? Ahaa, I see now! Very keen for me to eat that toast, aren't you?!" Hancock exclaims, and sits up in his blanket-armour, glaring accusingly at the plate. "You're plotting together, aren't you, you want revenge. It's poison, you're going to poison me! Make it look like an accident, like I choked on a crust perhaps, or caught botulism from the butter!" He stands up and begins waddling heroically up and down the floor, wearing the blanket like a cloak over his pyjamas. "And it would be Olive who found me the day after, wouldn't it, she can look innocent. 'He was just lying stretched out on the floor, stone cold!' she'd sob, 'He only proposed to me last week, I'd gone round to accept!' and it would be in all the newspapers because of course Fiona knows all the editors, and no-one would ever suspect think it could possibly be murder! Yes, you see, you thought you were clever but I've foiled your plan. Now go, leave, and take your tainted toast with you. I'll throw out everything in my kitchen behind you, you see if I don't!'
Veronica, who has been leaning back in her chair and watching the scene with mild amusement, picks up the plate. "I'll eat it myself then," she says. "it seems a shame to waste it."
"Oh! Oh, I see. This is just a hobby for you, isn't it. You go round accepting proposals of marriage, lulling poor unsuspecting men into a false sense of security, then you sneak into their houses while they're sleeping and scoff all their bread! How do you live with yourself, woman?!" He snatches up the plate and proceeds to cram as much toast into his mouth as he possibly can with one hand whilst holding his cloak with the other. He makes a brief attempt to continue his speech, but succeeds only in mumbling and dropping crumbs.
"Oh Anthony, you do make me laugh, you know. I suppose I ought to explain from the beginning. Sit down."
Hancock, still struggling too much with the oversized mouthful of toast to reply but satisfied it hasn't been tampered with, obediently dumps himself back on the bed and gives her his attention.
"Well, as I said, once we'd all noticed you'd left and realised the absurdity of the situation, Olive invited us back to her house and we all compared stories and laughed about how silly we'd been. I think Fiona was still quite upset, but more that she'd been your third choice than because she'd really wanted to marry you. She seems alright now. Anyway, Olive mentioned that meeting you again had brought her to the realisation that she was deeply under-educated, and so I said I'd lend her some books – that's why I was at her house last night – then Fiona invited us both up to her parents' country house to see their art collection. Well, that's what she said, I think really she's just bored and lonely. She's sending her driver down to pick us both up at ten, that's why I came so early. And Olive lent me this dress so I could look a little more presentable to potential wealthy patrons... Yes, it's worked out quite conveniently for the three of us. All thanks to you, of course."
Hancock reaches for his tea and takes a sip as he turns this information over in his mind and ponders whether there is any reason to disbelieve any of this. There is a long, awkward pause. He's finding something intimidating about her presence, about her nonchalance, the way she just came waltzing in here while he was asleep as if she owned the place. He'd noticed it when they'd met before, too – then he realises what it is. She's a superior being, an authority; he almost fears her. How embarrassing. She hasn't put enough sugar in this tea, but he daren't ask for another spoon.
"So," continues Veronica, "where have you been these last... is it three, four days?"
"Me? Oh yes, me, well, I've been, um..." he scrabbles around in his mind for something more impressive than the truth, but fails to find anything at such short notice. The truth will have to do. "I just went to stay with my mother for a while, until it all blew over."
"Hm! You must think we have very short memories. So, tell me why you've come home already, if you were so afraid we were plotting to kill you?"
"Well, I asked my landlady to feed my cat, but she was being funny about it, so... Well, I assumed when I left that you wouldn't expect me back so soon. Look, what do you want to hear? Do you want me to apologise? I'm sorry, I'm sorry I proposed to you! And the others, too. I really am sorry, you know. I've never been more sorry, and believe you me, I have many, many regrets, but none more so than the time I attempted to find myself a bride. Oh yes, you'll go off to spend the day at the Ffortsecue-Ffrench place with your friends, and laugh, laugh together about what a lucky escape you had, how awful I am, what a monster I am, haa-haa-haa! Yes, you get the last laugh. Maybe you'll name a villain after me in your next play; a philanderer perhaps, trampling on the hearts of innocent young women for sport. Then he'll meet a sticky end at their hands when they discover the truth, and they'd all laugh, laugh, laugh, and go to look at some art... Yes, that's how the name of Hancock shall be remembered by posterity. If only I'd been more careful what I wished for!" He tosses the now empty plate aside, and curls into a ball with the covers over his head and sighs a long, despairing sigh.
"Please don't upset yourself, Anthony." Veronica murmurs in the most soothing tone she can manage as she edges her chair closer, "No-one hates you, no-one wants revenge. Really, fundamentally, all three of us think you're quite endearing in your own way. That's why we each accepted your invitation to dinner, you see; we liked you. Because you're sweet, you're really very sweet." she reaches out to rest her hand on the section of blanket corresponding to his shoulder and begins to gently stroke his back.
He flinches at her touch at first, but gradually allows his protective shell to slip aside and reveal a slice of face. He repeats her final word, as if shocked by it: "Sweet?!"
"Oh, I know, it's not what men are supposed to be – a little anxious, completely non-threatening, vulnerable, even – but Anthony, you don't know what that does to a woman! Why, I never thought I had a maternal bone in my body until I met you, you were so adorable I could have carried you home and - Oh, I don't really know..."
"You wanted to tuck me up with some hot milk and read me Peter Rabbit or something?"
"Well, not quite that extreme, but... take care of you, keep you warm, I don't know. It's all quite new to me, I can't explain it well, but I mean it as a compliment. That's why I had to come when you invited me to dinner. No-one else has ever fascinated me in quite the same way."
Hancock gazes up at her for a moment as the new idea works its way into his consciousness and the cover slips from his head. It's not an image he's ever tried to give out, but somehow it seems to have worked. And he could really, really get used to having his back stroked like that. It's strangely hypnotic. He can feel all the anger ebbing away... Sweet. Endearing. Vulnerable. He feels compelled to rest his head on her shoulder and close his eyes, and Veronica closes her arms around him.
It's a bit different, but - Yes. Yes, I think I could cope with this. It could be an even better plan than going back to Mother actually, she always insists I get out of bed before she'll feed me. Aah, Veronica. It had to be you really, didn't it, you're far superior to those other two, you're on my wavelength. Just to prove it, I'll go to the library this afternoon and swot up on all those things I've been pretending to know about to impress you. What were they again, er... classical music, that was one. And philosophy, or was it psychology? I always muddle those two up. Well, I'll have a look at both, just in case. And you're vegetarian, so you'd be cheap to run. You don't even really look all that bad without that massive jumper-thing on, apart from the wonky cake-hole of course, but one can't have everything, can one? Yes, I'll marry you and you can look after me to your heart's content. You do the writing, I'll do the typing. What could be better?
"I'm going to have to go in a moment" says Veronica at length, "but I ought to tell you, after I went home that night I thought about what you'd said about marriage, and how your family talk about you, and I came to understand completely why you have to get married and have a child so suddenly. I don't think there's anything wrong with that at all. That's why I'm prepared to sacrifice my principles for you – and only for you."
"You do? Well, that's good, that's very good. The engagement's still on then?"
"Yes. Also, I think you're right – you and I could produce a wonderful child."
"We would, wouldn't we? With your talent and your brains and my... er... Yes, yes we would. Wonderful!"
"And once we'd fulfilled our duty to the human race, we could each do whatever we liked – but we'd always be the best of friends. We could call it an open marriage, if you want to meet some men. In fact, I know one or two I could introduce you to if..."
"...Men, what men?" he sits up again and brushes off her embrace as realisation dawns. "Oh! You mean you think – you think they're more my type, don't you?
"There's no need to be defensive, Anthony. I understand if you can't come out of the closet to your family. I'll marry you."
"Dear oh dear, why would you think that? Because I've worked in the theatre, I suppose?"
"You mean to tell me you aren't gay?"
"No, not even slightly, and I don't know why you'd think I was!"
"Like I said, you mentioned something about how your relatives think it's strange that you live here on your own and then proposed to me on our second date, how do you think that looked? Then when I found you'd proposed to two other semi-strangers in as many days, that just confirmed it. Or so I thought. So if it wasn't a smokescreen you wanted, what was it?"
"A son, I wanted a son! So he could be Prime Minister, of course, and do all the things I'd have have done if only I'd not done all the things I did do instead of what I should have done." He sighs, and looks to the floor. "I suppose I can see why you might think something else though, now you've explained it. That must be why I've had so few second dates, I'd always assumed I was doing something wrong, or I was just hideously ugly. Well, I'm glad we've got that cleared up before I ended up in an open marriage. Urgh! So, when and where shall we do it? I'm usually free on Thursdays."
"We've discussed this, you know how I feel about traditional marriage!" snaps Veronica as she searches for her handbag. "I really do need to go now. I think I've still got your number, you've got mine, haven't you? We'll meet up again sometime if you like and talk about it, but I draw the line at marrying just to adhere to your pathetic, outmoded views of morality or to pander to your relatives."
"But you really fancied me a minute ago, what happened to that?"
"I said you were sweet Anthony, it's not the same. Aah, here's my bag. I'll see you soon, anyway. Goodbye."
"What about our child, you said you had a duty to the human race to –" he finds himself talking to a closed door. He begins to follow her, to call down the stairs to her that he loves her, but then remembers that the neighbours would hear, and stomps off into the kitchen have another cup of tea and feed the cat instead. Had there been some hope there, is it just the concept of marriage she's still struggling with, or was she trying to say 'leave me alone' politely? It's all far too bewildering. He comes back into the living room, paces up and down aimlessly, and gets dressed to feel more like himself again. Now what. He collapses back onto the bed, jumps up again to remove the plate, and has another attempt at lying down. Successfully, this time.
"That turned out to be a very strange awakening," he sighs to an imagined audience, "at least I could go down in history as being the only man to have had a proposal turned down because he's not gay. Hmm. Maybe could call her and say actually I am, I just got a bit confused. Or I could always try calling Olive again in the meantime, she could be quite bearable once she's educated herself. Just as a backup plan of course. Not Fiona though, oh no, she's far too high maintenance. And I know where I've been going wrong all these years too. If I meet someone else, I'll tell her about all the birds I've been out with so she doesn't get the wrong idea. Maybe invent a few more, just to make sure. And I'll practice pulling cute faces in the mirror, they love that sort of thing apparently. Yes, I've learned enough today, I don't think I should go to the library really or I'll overload my brain and have one of my turns. I'll just lie down and go back to sleep for a while, I think. Start afresh in an hour or two. Yes, that sounds like a plan. Goodnight."