The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [349]
“What about Silas Marner?”
“Only boring in parts—like Hard Times. You’re going to have to do a little better than that—and if I were you, I’d use a bigger pan—but on a lower heat.”
“Right,” I said, beginning to get annoyed, “perhaps you’d like to cook? You’ve done most of the work so far.”
“No, no,” replied Gran, completely unfazed, “you’re doing fine.”
There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.
“Congratulations!” I called out.
“What for?” asked Ibb, who no longer looked identical to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb’s, which was beginning to go blond.
“For becoming capitalized.”
“Oh, yes,” enthused Ibb, “it’s amazing what a day at St. Tabularasa’s will do for one. Tomorrow we’ll finish our gender training, and by the end of the week we’ll be streamed into character groups.”
“I want to be a male mentor figure,” said Obb. “Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?”
“No,” I replied, testing their sarcasm response, “I’m giving my pet egg heat therapy.”
Ibb laughed—which was a good sign, I thought—and went off with Obb to practice whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.
“Teenagers,” said Granny Next. “Tch. I better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I’m going to have a rest.”
We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran’s gingham dresses.
“Hoping to be female?” I asked, passing Ibb a plate.
“Yes,” replied Ibb, “but not one like you. I’d like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless—the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and has to be rescued.”
“Really?” I asked, handing Gran the salad. “Why?”
Ibb shrugged. “I don’t know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that’s all—being carried off in big, strong arms sort of . . . appeals. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too—but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day due to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.”
“I think you’ll have no trouble getting a placement,” I sighed, “but you seem quite specific—have you used someone in particular as a model?”
“Her!” exclaimed Ibb, drawing out a much thumbed Outland copy of Silverscreen from beneath the table. On the cover was none other than Lola Vavoom, being interviewed for the umpteenth time about her husbands, her denial of any cosmetic surgery and her latest film—usually in that order.
“Gran!” I said sternly. “Did you give Ibb that magazine?”
“Well—!”
“You know how impressionable Generics can be! Why didn’t you give her a magazine with Jenny Gudgeon in it? She plays proper women—and can act, too.”
“Have you seen Ms. Vavoom in My Sister Kept Geese?” replied Gran indignantly. “I think you’d be surprised—she shows considerable range.”
I thought about Cordelia Flakk and her producer friend Harry Flex wanting Lola to play me in a film. The idea was too awful to contemplate.
“You were going to tell us about subtext,” said Obb, helping itself to more salad.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, a distraction from Vavoom a welcome break. “Subtext is the implied action behind the written word. Text tells the reader what the characters say and do but subtext tells us what they mean and feel. The wonderful thing about subtext is that it is common grammar, written in human experience—you can’t understand it without a good working knowledge of people and how they interact. Got it?”
Ibb and Obb looked at one another. “No.”
“Okay, let me give you a simple example. At a party, a man gives a woman a drink and she takes it without answering. What’s going on?”
“She isn’t very polite?” suggested Ibb.
“Perhaps,” I replied, “but I was really looking for some sort