Scene one

Fade to black.

 

When the song finishes, the screen shows a blank, white backdrop. Hazel Morse gradually walks into the shot. The screen remains switched on throughout the course of the play, the image moving very, very slowly, until, by the end of the last song. Haze! Morse has sat down and is seen toasting the camera with a glass of whisky.

Big Blonde.

(Instrumental. Mid-tempo, Western style; played with bravado)

The stage is in total darkness.

 

Light fades up on the band.

 

The band starts to play Big Blonde. While they are doing so the television is switched on, revealing a fuzzy screen.

VOICE OVER. Dear Tom,

Well, here I am! New York City! I've found a nice enough place to stay. Cheap enough, too - which is more to the point! I 'phoned that number Clarence gave me and I have an interview on Tuesday afternoon. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for me, will you? I know you still think modelling's a dumb occupation, but it's what I want to do, so at least pretend to be happy for me? Anyway, must dash - lots to do in the City That Never Sleeps! Your loving sister. Hazel.

 

During the voice over Hazel Morse enters stage right, walks across to the armchair. She is wearing a dress, coat, shoes etc. - all black. By the time she has crossed the stage, the light has faded up, revealing the armchair.

 

She sits on the arm of the chair.

HAZEL MORSE. I met my husband, Herbie, when I was twenty-nine years old. I'd moved into town about a year earlier and was modelling at a wholesale dress-suppliers at the time. He was one of the many salesmen I'd flirted with, and I ended up going out for drinks with him. Of course, I never touched alcohol but I still managed to earn a reputation as a Great Sport. 'Good old Hazel', they'd say; 'She's alright'.

 

The thing is, by the time Herbie proposed to me (five weeks after we met, I might add; we were married a week later!) I was getting a bit tired of being a good sport; it was wearing me out. Staying in our apartment all day, while Herbie was out at work, suited me just fine. I would cook all sorts of stuff and try to do the dutiful wife bit. And I must admit, I rather enjoyed it. If I wanted company I would chat to the delivery boys, or the

laundry maid or someone. It was an easy, enjoyable life.

 

Herbie was a good, kind man and we had some fine times together. I don't know if I could say that I was ever truly in love with him, but that doesn't seem to count for much anyhow. For the first year of our marriage we were all over each other like a dose of measles. Boy, did we have fun!

Fade to black.

 

Fade up.

HAZEL MORSE. In spite of my easy lifestyle, it was 'round about this time that I began crying over the slightest thing. I would read about an abandoned baby or a widow who'd been mugged or murdered, and I'd be off. Naturally, this eventually got on Herbie's nerves, and he'd scold me for always crabbing on at him about all the sadness in the world. I mean, he was kind of sympathetic at first, but that sort of thing can only go on for so long before it becomes tedious. So Herbie would stay out later and later as the months went by. There I'd be, sitting at home imagining him under a truck or worse, and he'd come swanning in like nothing had happened, stinking of booze and ready for a good argument. With Herbie, black was never black, but neither was it white. It could be anything, just as long as it was something I disagreed with. At least he was original, I suppose.

 

I decided to revive the old Hazel for the sake of our marriage. He'd come in from work and I'd pounce on him, pestering him to take me out for a meal some place. 'I've been a real crab, Herbie', I'd say, 'Come on, let the dead take care of themselves while we live it up. There'll be plenty of time for hanging around doing nothing when we get to die ourselves. What do you say?' It'd be just like old times, I'd tell him.

 

Only it wasn't like that at all. I'd had to alter some of my clothes as I was beginning to fill out a little. And, where once I could watch him drink all night, dancing with waiters and whoever else was there, now I just sat there counting each drink, hoping it was his last. We'd argue in restaurants or taxis instead of at home, and it was back to square one.

Fade to black.