All language subtitles for A.Real.Summer 2007

Normally, I know how to start
any article I write, any column,

because I won't even sit down to write

until I have
the opening sentence planned.

But beginning this,
which is a rather strange story,

is difficult because it started
in such an unexpected way.

I am in somebody else's house,
a rather magnificent house, in fact,

surrounded by three Dalmatians.

The dogs belong to
a person I hardly know,

but who has had
a most peculiar effect on me.

How has this all come about?

(CLOCK CHIMING SOFTLY)

When you're a film critic,

you don't tend to get invited
to an awful lot of parties

by people in the entertainment industry,

because they are, rather
understandably, very wary of you.

Some of them hate you,

and they scuttle off
as quick as they can.

But since I've given up being a critic
and started this column,

I find myself altogether more popular.

Invited to all sorts of places.

And one of those being Pinewood Studios,

the heart of the British film industry.

I was determined
to be on my best behaviour.

Merely observe,

and not start any argument
about the insularity of British film,

which I know I've railed about
week after week with tedious regularity.

I thought I would be entering
a very hierarchical world.

The film directors arriving
in their chauffeur-driven Bentleys,

and young actresses,

being treated with patronising jollity
by these same directors.

"No, darling, that's not how you do it.

"Surely you can pick up a cigarette
lighter and talk at the same time?"

He'll wink at
the surrounding male technicians,

and then the director
rolls his eyes and sighs,

"I'll have to show you, darling,
won't I?"

Disappointingly, that is precisely
what I found, except more so.

And naturally,
my silence didn't last long.

At lunch, in their panelled boardroom,

we were served
some particularly leathery roast beef.

Maybe it was the experience
of trying to cut this meat,

which had the consistency
of a Wellington boot,

but I suddenly heard myself

asking the assembled
filmmakers and producers

whether they were ever tempted
to leave the safety of the studio

and the pretty Pinewood garden
and shoot an entire film on location,

like some Italian
and American directors had done?

"Go to an industrial city, or the wilds
of Northumberland," I urged.

Incredulity spread
across the dining room.

"But surely you understand,"
they said, talking very slowly,

"how films are really made?

"All the lights that are required,
the stars' dressing rooms?"

One of the producers leans towards me.

"It is the story that matters,
surely you know that.

"You know, why should you care
where a film is made,

"or what the Italians
and the Americans are doing?"

Put on the defensive, I'm afraid

I uttered the fatal words.
Very pompous, I know.

"But I care about what they're doing
because I'm passionate about cinema. "

This was greeted

with one of the most embarrassed
silences I've ever heard.

It was as if I'd come out
with a volley of obscenities.

The word "passionate" uttered
in the boardroom of Pinewood Studios.

Surely not.

Well, after that,
I was in a hurry to get away.

But there was a cocktail party
at a film producer's house

and Cary Grant was expected,

travelling all the way
from Elstree Studios

where he's making the movie Indiscreet.

The film producer's house
was quite near the studio,

a large mock-Tudor mansion.

Naturally, there's no sign
of Cary Grant.

Suddenly, I'm approached
by a young woman.

And let us call her Felicity,
although that is not her real name.

She's about my own age,
with an open, pretty face.

She says she hasn't the faintest idea
why she's here in this garden,

with all these people
from the film world.

Why she's been invited,
she hasn't the foggiest clue.

It can only be a mistake.

She asks me who I was and what I did.

"Oh, you must be frightfully brainy,"
she says.

Well, modesty demanded
that at least I tried to deny this.

"No, no, you're obviously so brainy,
and that's marvellous," she insists.

"I like clever people," she giggles.

"Actually, I don't get
to meet very many.

"And as for me, I'm a real dunce.
I can't hide it, so I just admit it. "

(GIGGLES)

She's laughing away merrily,
almost boastfully.

Suddenly, her face is quite close,
her pale blue eyes studying me.

"How do you choose what to write about
in your column every week?"

You know, I'm often asked this,
and I try my best to be vague,

because the truth is
embarrassingly chaotic and last minute.

So I'm just about to give
my usual evasive answer,

when she says,
"Why don't you write about me?"

This I was not expecting.

"Write about you?"

I can't quite keep
the amazement out of my voice.

"Yes!" she beams at me.

I have to admit, it is rare for me
not to know what to say next.

Eventually, I manage a blank,
non-committal,

"Well, I don't normally write
about specific people. "

Felicity is not impressed
by this argument.

"Oh, don't you? Why ever not?

"Then you should start
with a dimwit like me.

"Because if you can make me interesting,
then you really would be a good writer. "

What do you say to something like that?

I was trying hard not to be rude,
but I knew I had to get rid of her.

For some reason,
all I could manage was a feeble,

"Well, I have to know more about you
before I could... "

Felicity seizes on this.

"That's easy. Let's have tea, then.

"I'm... I'm sure
you're frightfully busy,

"but maybe you can fit in
a tiny tea with me. "

So I find myself having a tiny tea
in Fuller's in Knightsbridge.

Felicity is eating
a bright pink strawberry ice cream.

She's asked for two extra wafers,
which she's eating first.

In between munches, she suddenly says,
"Do you have a husband?

"Or a boyfriend
or a scrumptious lover of some sort?"

I said, "Not at the moment. "

There's a pause,
and Felicity's face clouds over.

"I was nearly married. I was engaged,

"but then I discovered

"he was still rogering about
four of his ex-girlfriends.

"At least four.
He was clearly not going to

"let a little thing
like a wedding with me stop him. "

"My family were very disappointed.
He was thought of as quite a catch.

"They didn't think
his bottom going up and down

"in lots of different bedrooms
all over London

"was nearly a strong enough reason
for stopping the marriage. "

She waves her wafer.

"You know,

"my sister Georgina's about to come out.

"It is the last season.

"The last time the debs are going to be
presented to the Queen.

"Isn't that extraordinary?
Stopping it after all this time. "

"Were you presented to the Queen?"
I ask, unnecessarily.

Her face lights up.

"Oh, yes. All us virgins
sitting in Buckingham Palace

"in neat rows,
and then curtseying to the Queen.

"And then curtseying to a giant cake
at the Queen Charlotte's Ball.

"Isn't that just completely crackers?

"All these women and a large cake. And,

"when you finally got to eat it,

"it turned out
to be a horrible old fruitcake. "

And then she's off,
prattling on about life as a deb,

all these balls and dances
in these great houses.

Floodlit gardens,
the incredible time and effort

that went into arranging
the whole thing.

Desperation of the mothers.

Terrible fear of rejection

if you didn't get enough partners
during each night.

And the dreamlike nature of it all,

because you're so short of sleep
all the time.

"My father's a duke,"
Felicity says, looking straight at me.

And then, as if willing me
to look disapproving, she adds,

"Afraid that is the case.

"Not a really, really big duke,
although he's quite tall,

"more a sort of middling one.

"Quite an ancient title, you know,
all the things that come with that,

"the big house in the country,

"lots of dogs
and a terrifying old nanny.

"Nanny Luckham.

"She taught me practically nothing
except how to make queen's pudding,

"which is, in fact, quite difficult.

"You know, she was a better cook
than the cook.

"That is what
she should have been doing.

"All sorts of things
might have been different. "

She stares for a long moment
at her last wafer

as she contemplates
the badly organised servants.

"What does your father do?"
she says, still staring at the wafer.

I tell her the truth,
that he is a carpenter.

She is completely stunned.

"Oh. My goodness, really?

"You're being serious?"

I can't resist piling it on,

because I know my northern background
will make it even worse.

"Yes, a carpenter in Manchester.

"That is where I was brought up. "

Felicity takes a moment to digest this.

It is as if she'd known
I was different, but not that different,

and maybe all this
was too much to handle

and the tea
should come to an abrupt end.

(CLOCK CHIMES SOFTLY)

After due consideration,
she decides to let it continue

and wants to hear all about
my scholarship to Oxford,

when I lost my Manchester accent,
how my parents view me now.

And all the time, she's interjecting,

"You're even brainier
than I thought you were.

"Here I am, knowing simply nothing. "

I think maybe I should at least try
to contradict this for politeness' sake,

but for the first time,
Felicity becomes quite forceful.

"No, it is true.

"I know absolutely nothing,
I promise you. "

Her eyes are fierce.

She won't be contradicted.
I have to nod and agree with her.

"I could've known more.

"I met George Bernard Shaw,
for instance.

"Sat on his knee
when he came to stay with us.

"And I went to Queen Mary's funeral
with my father,

"because my mother
was away in the country.

"And I met the Duke of Windsor there.

"Did you know, the royal family
had a meal that night, all together,

"and they never invited him?

"The day of his own mother's funeral.

"How could they have done that?

"Mind you, he's meant to be
thicker than me. "

She then leans towards me
and fixes me with an intense look.

She says slowly,

"Somebody at the party said
you were very pleased with yourself. "

Well, I...

I try to take this in my stride.
Probably not very successfully,

because undoubtedly,
there is a shred of truth in it.

So I mutter something along the line of,

"I really hope
I didn't give that impression. "

Felicity continues to peer at me.

"I don't think it's true,"
she finally pronounces,

and then she smiles.

"You said
you were passionate about cinema.

"That made them very cross.
Very cross indeed.

"I'm glad you did, though.

"What a wonderful thing to be,

"passionate. "

Suddenly, she's in very close,
her tone almost urgent.

"You know,

"I have never been to a foreign film.

"Ever.

"Will you take me to one?"

I hesitate.

The very last thing I want to do

is act as a one-woman
finishing school for this ex-deb.

Her eyes are pleading with me.

"Please, Mary, do that for me?"

So, I take her to a little cinema
tucked behind Paddington Station.

I had no idea what sort of
foreign film she wanted to see,

so I decided on
Henri-Georges Clouzot's Les Diaboliques.

Strong story, I told myself.
One that was easy to follow.

As we approach the cinema,

a thunderstorm explodes
over the dark streets of Paddington.

And inside,
the auditorium is almost empty,

except for three strange-looking men,
two of them grotesquely fat.

So the atmosphere's a little eerie
even before the film begins.

Just as the film starts,

one of the grotesques
comes and sits right behind us,

wheezing and blowing smoke
against our necks.

Now, those of you
who have seen Les Diaboliques

will know it casts a spell
of extraordinary evil,

rancid and claustrophobic.

I have to admit, even though
I've seen it three times,

and know the twist,
even I still find it quite frightening.

About halfway through,
Felicity clasps hold of my arm,

holding it so tight it hurts,

and doesn't let go
till the end of the film.

She's like a child on a roller coaster.

And when it's
a particularly nasty murder,

somebody being held down in a bath,
she lets out a mewl-like cry.

(MEWLING)

And when we creep around the house
near the end of the film

and visit another bathroom

and see a corpse rise
from under the water,

which causes the heroine
to have a fatal heart attack,

I can feel Felicity's breathing
getting faster and faster.

And I glance at her.

Her eyes are full of terror.

I don't think I've ever seen
anybody look quite so afraid.

(BREATHING HEAVILY)

Even before the lights come up,
I feel terrible.

I have punished her
for asking for my help,

by taking her
to the most terrifying film I could find

in a seedy cinema

where we're menaced by
ghoulish men sitting right behind us.

Outside, on the pavement,
as the rain lashes down,

Felicity turns towards me.

She's standing without an umbrella,
getting completely soaked.

Her eyes are shining.

"Mary,

"that was the most wonderful film
I've ever seen.

"It was fantastic.
It was completely gorgeous. "

We walk in the rain for a little while.

I have a strong sense
of what her next question will be,

and I know I'm going to say yes.

She stops and stares straight at me.

"We can't, can we?
Go to another flick together?

"Or maybe a play?
Something new and different.

"I've heard about
all these new sorts of plays,

"with lavatories on stage
and ironing boards

"and people boiling kettles!"

I realise

I'm going to spend
a few more days with Felicity.

She's obviously decided I'm going to be
her own private guide to this new world,

and I find it impossible to say no.

I have to admit,
and you've already guessed this,

I was getting rather intrigued by her,
although I can't quite work out why.

There's a loneliness there, obviously.

But also a hunger.

And a sense of fun.

She's obviously decided
I'm going to be

her own private guide to this new world,

and I find it impossible to say no.

So during this last season,

as the debs are being presented
for their final curtsey to the Queen,

Felicity and I
go on an alternative season,

an orgy of avant-garde work.

We see a play at the Royal Court
about a working class family

with a very provocative title,
Live Like Pigs.

We go and see
Ingmar Bergman's Wild Strawberries,

which has been
such a critical sensation this month.

And we see a play at Stratford East

by a 19-year-old girl from Salford,
Shelagh Delaney,

called A Taste of Honey,
which is amazing.

And we see a rather good
amateur production of Waiting for Godot.

"I think Godot must be rather
like my doctor," pronounces Felicity.

"He always says, 'I'll pop round,'
but he usually finds an excuse not to. "

I also take Felicity to a royal gala
premiere of a British war film

where she can see
all Pinewood's finest on display.

I hear her voice ringing out loudly

across the foyer
of the Empire Leicester Square

before the film starts,
just as Jack Hawkins walks past.

"I have a new love in my life.

"This adorable mad Irishman,
Mr Samuel Beckett. "

You know, all the time

she is anxious
to show me bits of her world.

We drive along Park Lane.

And watch all the debs
pour into their balls,

stare through lighted windows
at all the decorations,

and see party goers drunkenly
throwing bits of food and clothing

out of the window of their hotel suites
onto the heads of the passers-by below.

Four days ago,

we were coming out
of a special press preview

of Mr Hitchcock's Vertigo,

a very dark and dreamlike movie
about obsessive love,

when Felicity turns to me.

"Well, Mary,

"I think you've changed my life.

"And I'm sure that's a good thing.

"In fact, I know
that's an absolutely splendid thing.

"So I should give you a present. "

I remonstrate,
"No, no, that's not necessary.

"It has been really good to see
some of these plays and films again,

"watch them with new eyes

"and to discover
some totally fresh things, too. "

Felicity is staring straight at me.

"Good.

"Then you won't mind very much,
I know this is monstrous of me,

"if I ask you for yet another favour?

"Do you mind?
Oh, well, here goes anyway.

"I have to go down
to the country this week,

"my sister's having
her coming-out ball there.

"And here in London, I have three dogs,
Dalmatians, actually.

"Augustus, Beatrice and Tilly.
I love Dalmatians.

"101 Dalmatians
is one of my favourite books.

"And I don't want them
to be alone for two days.

"You see, here in London,
I've hardly any servants now.

"I can't really afford to
run two big houses any more.

"My grandfather died suddenly
in an accident

"and my father became duke very fast
and had to move to the country,

"and everything's
a bit of a muddle and...

"My dogs, very definitely, do not
get on with the dogs in the country,

"and I don't want them to be alone

"with two grumpy chambermaids
to look after them.

"Could you stay with them for two days?"

She's imploring me with her big eyes.
"I mean,

"you might find it interesting,
our house.

"You could poke around,
find things to write about.

"And the chambermaids,
they won't be grumpy with you. "

I'm speechless. Utterly speechless.

Her face is thrust close to mine,
waiting for my answer.

And I realise,

here is somebody who is so used
to getting what they want.

For that reason alone,
I am trying my hardest to say no.

So, that is how I've ended up
in this room, surrounded by Dalmatians.

Somehow, in the space of three weeks,
after a chance meeting,

Felicity has scooped me up,
I've given hours and hours of my time,

and now deposited me in this house,
waited on by silent servants.

I'm even wearing my very best dress,

as if I were attending
a great society occasion.

When, in fact, I'm here all on my own.

How has she managed
to compel me to do this?

There is something about her
to suggest that...

(TELEPHONE RINGING)

- Hello, Mary.
- Hello, Geraldine.

- Here I am with the dogs.
- Good.

This house is amazing.

Your great-grandfather seems
to have built an Indian temple.

(CHUCKLES)

I've been reading your column.
I saw it today.

You're making me sound too sensible.
You haven't caught my full silliness.

Oh, I don't know about that.
I'm doing my best.

Why did you call me Felicity?

- Oh, it's just a name. I needed a name.
- You could have chosen a prettier name.

How are the dogs?

Oh, oh, the dogs are well.

I think at least Augustus
quite likes me.

Augustus likes everybody.
He has no judgement at all.

You all right, Geraldine?
You sound a little angry with me.

No. No.

I'm just standing in the passage
in a dress I might wear tomorrow.

I tried on two or three tonight.

Outside, there are 20 little Greek
temples specially built for the ball.

Tomorrow they will all blaze with light

and it will be intoxicating
and dreamlike.

- Well, it sounds spectacular.
- I'm sure it will be.

I'm sitting now,
it could make all the difference.

My mother keeps
all the Sunday newspapers

for at least a year
after they've appeared.

She never seems to read them,
but she never throws them out.

So I've been able to read
some of your old columns.

You're very outspoken, aren't you, Mary?

You don't mean rude?

Well, like I'm reading here.

"Kenneth More has all the sex appeal
of an old English sheepdog.

"If we are to compete
with the Americans,

"we have to find
actors with real danger,

"and not just constantly feature
chuckling men

"who never seem to have been young. "

Should you write about film actors
like that, Mary?

Oh, I don't see why not.

But I agree,
it could be a little wittier.

I like it
how you blast everything, though.

Attacking lots of smug men,
that's rather fun.

You're not exactly cruel,
that isn't quite right...

You're impatient, Mary.

Impatient for change.

I'm sure that's what I am, yes.

I bet all your friends are saying,

"Why are you spending all that space

"writing about
that silly young heiress, though?

"What could have possessed you?

"You've already spent
two columns on her. "

That's what they're saying, aren't they?

- All your sophisticated friends.
- Nobody has said that.

I'm not sure anybody's reading it,
but nobody has said that.

You're lying, Mary.

You're not a very good liar,
do you know that?

So people tell me.

The truth is,
you got a bit fascinated with me.

And yet, you don't really know why.

That is the truth. Yes.

Have you poked about in
all my cupboards yet, like I told you?

Tried on my shoes? I'm sure
we've both got the same nice feet.

Read my diary? Have you?

Well, how do I answer that?

You won't believe me if I say no.

- So you have, then?
- Not yet.

Go ahead. Go on.

Promise me you will.

If you insist, I will promise.

You know, I quite like the Felicity
you created in your column.

Made me laugh, some of it.

When we went off to see that play

about the two queer
Italian trapeze artists.

That was jolly.

At the time it was funny,
but you made it funnier.

Well, good.

But she is not me.

No, not completely.
I've not got all of you, not yet.

Not so far.

You're a detective now, are you?

Going to get to the bottom of things.

Mary, if only I wasn't here.

- You can't imagine what it's like.
- Geraldine?

What is it?

Got to go.

Got to go, Mary.

I'll call you later.

Be by the phone at 11:00.

Be there for me, Mary.

(CLOCK TICKING)

She's late.

Why am I so concerned
about her, Augustus?

I don't know why I should think
anything's the matter,

anything more than she's
a bit sad today, a bit melancholic.

I don't know why
I'm really worried about her.

But I must be, mustn't I?
Because I'm talking to you.

(DIALLING TELEPHONE)

- Is that Calverton?
Yes.

This is Mary Gilbert. I just wondered
if I could talk to Geraldine, please.

I'm not at all sure where she is,
hold on.

Sorry?

- What did you say? Oh, hold on.
- Hold on.

Right.

Have you been there?

I'm imagining some
huge old spooky house.

- Hello?
- Hello.

- I can't find her.
- What?

- Maybe she's in the east wing.
- You can't find her?

She's either in the east wing or left.

What do you mean,

she's either left
or she's in the east wing?

Can't you go and look for her
in the east wing?

I don't think so. I'm not sure.

- Who am I talking to?
- Geoffrey.

- Sorry?
- Mr Geoffrey.

Mr Geoffrey.

- You are?
- I'm the butler.

- Oh, the butler, right.
- Yes.

Well, could you, Mr Geoffrey,

if you see Geraldine by any chance
in the east wing,

- could you get her to ring Mary?
- (GRUNTS)

(RINGS OFF)

(CLOCK TICKING)

- Good night, Miss.
- Good night, Betsy.

(TELEPHONE RINGING)

- Hello.
- Ah, Geraldine, there you are.

What's the matter?

You missing me?

No, no, I was just
expecting you to ring.

You sounded unhappy.

You scared me.

I scared you? When?

That film,

terrifying French movie,
it really scared me.

I shouldn't have done that, no.
I'm sorry.

No, you shouldn't.

We had some good times, though,
after that.

We did.

Geraldine, you sound very low,
is there something I can do?

- Like what?
- I don't know.

- Help in some way.
- You want something,

an answer, a secret,
but there isn't anything.

Not anything big,

just a series of small,
not very special puddles.

Puddles? What do you mean?

Some not very heroic incidents,
that's what I mean.

Grandfather didn't die
in an accident, of course.

He shot himself two years ago.

He was almost naked
with a gun in his mouth.

Never told anybody why.

And you had guessed that had happened,
hadn't you?

Maybe.

Both him and my father are very silent.

Were

very, very silent.

My father's even more silent now.

I watched him tonight.
He's losing his daughter Georgina.

She's going to marry the very first
deb's delight that kisses her breasts.

You just know that will happen.

He's losing her.

He'll never say anything.

Never say, "I love you, darling. "

When I was 15,

I came upon my father and grandfather
sitting on the floor in the library.

They were looking at pictures
and there they were,

sitting on the floor in total silence.

Like measuring their respective lives
out in silent chunks.

I think there's every chance my father
will go the same way as my grandfather.

- Not quite yet, but one day.
- Geraldine, I'm sure that won't happen.

But you know what really scares me?
I think, when will it stop?

What about Georgina's boy?
When she has a boy.

Will it go on and on?

You know, my grandfather
was in the First World War

and my father was in the Second.

So maybe that's got
something to do with it, war.

So I don't know about that, Mary.

Maybe they never would have talked,
whatever happened.

They made the world slow down so much
by never saying anything.

When I was growing up,
I screamed for each week to end.

- Well, that's finished now.
- Has it?

I missed my chance, Mary.

I'll never forgive myself for that.

How did you miss your chance?

- Are you going to write about this?
- No, of course not.

Really?

Is Felicity suddenly going to turn
into a troubled mad heiress, too?

I'm not going to write about this.

How will you end her, then?
If you don't use this?

I'll think of a way.

Of course you'll write about it,
because writers are cold.

- Cold, cold, cold.
- That is undoubtedly true, Geraldine.

But I would never write about
this conversation,

because it wouldn't fit.

My Felicity was very frivolous
and you aren't.

Remember, though,
you wanted me to write about you.

That's right.

But then I knew you'd write about me
the way you did.

What was the opportunity
you missed, Geraldine?

Nothing very much.

I missed a golden chance.

When I was tiny, before the war,
there was a house that...

A magical house
in the middle of London, Holland House.

Now it's a ruin
in the middle of Holland Park,

but then, just like a castle
in a fairy story.

A few weeks before war broke out,
there was great ball

attended by everybody
that was everybody.

The King and Queen, foreign princes,
prime ministers, Noel Coward, too.

I was only five,
of course I didn't go to the ball but...

I overheard everybody talking about it.

My nanny had shown me the house.

It was raining the night of the ball.

For some reason, I wanted to stay awake
to hear them all come back.

I heard the voice of my father
down the passage.

Suddenly,

the door of my bedroom was opening
and there he is,

standing there,

very tall and handsome,
and he is soaked from head to foot.

And he looks so happy.

The only time I ever remember him
really smiling.

My parents were so exhilarated
by that night,

they'd left the chauffeur and the car
and walked all the way back in the rain.

The ball had been that magical.

My father

comes over to me,
he's very close, and he says,

"My angel.

"My little angel. "

That's nice.

- So he did put it into words.
- Don't get sentimental on me, Mary.

I was, in fact,
quite a fat little child, rather ugly,

not the skinny thing I am now.

You've got to imagine
this podgy child lying there.

I'm imagining that.

I'm under the sheets.

I remember it so clearly, I...

I nearly, so...

very nearly, stretch out
my little fist and touch his wet cheek.

But for some reason, I didn't.

I can't understand why I didn't.

What difference would that have made?

You're a fool if you can't see that,
it would have made all the difference.

He remembers the ball but
he doesn't remember coming to see me.

If I had raised my hand,
he wouldn't have forgotten that.

If I had touched him,
because we never...

Because we never ever touch.

Of course he remembers coming in
and staring down at you.

No, he doesn't remember doing that.

I know that for a fact.

Everybody's life changed
after that ball.

Forever.

The war came a few weeks later,
then the house was bombed.

They told us
nothing would be the same again.

In some ways that's true.

But then, here I am.

All this time later, lying on this bed,
the night before another ghastly ball.

Everybody going through the motions.

The world doesn't seem
to have changed after all.

I don't know how that's really possible.

How have we let that happen?

Will it ever change?

You must get away from there, Geraldine.
Start doing something different.

All the new interests you've discovered
over the last few weeks, remember?

Yeah. That's sounds nice and simple.

No doubt it will happen.

Geraldine?

Are you still there?

Geraldine?

Geraldine?

Geraldine?

Still here.

Anyway,

you mustn't worry about me, Mary,

under any circumstances,
and do you know why?

I'm not worrying, but tell me why.

Because I'm going to marry
a rich Argentinean.

I fancy living in South America.

I haven't met him yet
but I can see him clearly

and I'm sure I'll come across him soon.

- That sounds terrific.
- It is.

The real reason you mustn't worry
about me, Mary, is...

I'm much more concerned about you.

About me?
Why on earth are you concerned about me?

I will tell you,
but you won't listen to me.

I will listen.

You're lying again.

Are we friends, Mary? Tell me honestly.

- In a way.
- In a way, good.

That's a good way of putting it.

Because we're hardly going to
see each other.

In fact, you don't need to stay
until I'm back on Monday.

So it is possible
we'll never see each other again.

I'm sure that's not going to happen.

It is what will happen.

If you insist.

So, why are you worried about me?

Because you were brave,

and terribly,
terribly clear about everything.

But in a way,
and quite a different way to me,

you were foolish, too.

Be careful, won't you?

This is not a time to take stupid risks.

I won't take stupid risks.

Not everybody likes to be seen clearly.

You are the one that will make enemies,
you should listen to me.

- I am.
- You should, but you won't.

I would hate for something
to happen to you.

We may not see each other again but...

I will be thinking about you,

often.

Be careful, Mary.

Be careful, won't you?