by Nev Fountain
Now it looked like Robert was on the receiving end of Graham’s brutish and demanding personality. Graham was throwing words out like fists, punctuating his argument with a meaty finger, which he jabbed in Robert’s shoulder.
‘You need me Robert, I am essential personnel, and only I am qualified to host this,’ he said, in his trademark Irish brogue. ‘I personally saved the studio edits in ‘93 from the cutting room floor and successfully bought the shooting scripts from Nicholas Everett last year.’
‘Graham I don’t—’ Robert tried to reply, but Graham mowed into him, chopping Robert’s words into little pieces.
‘I can recite the words, not only to the broadcast version but the unedited non-broadcast version, the three drafts before that and the original spec proposal where Professor Daxatar was originally called Professor Dexadin, before it was changed because it sounded too much like a prescription pain-killer.’
Graham was always angry about something or other. When he first met him, Mervyn was reminded of the old out-of-date atlases he used in school—the pink bits denoting the British Empire perfectly matching the colour of Graham’s furious complexion. In fact, once Mervyn started to think of him in geographical terms, he found he couldn’t stop. Every time he met him, Graham’s face seemed to look more and more like an Ordnance Survey map of England and Wales.
Just as the Pennine mountains bisect the north country, Graham’s forehead was split in two by a craggy frown, meandering down from the top of his huge bald cranium to rest between tiny murderous eyes nestling close together; or, as Mervyn thought of them, Manchester and Sheffield. His swollen nose grew out beneath them in a way that could only be described as Birmingham, and all three features were sandwiched between huge damp cheeks; East Anglia on one side and Wales on the other.
Completing the effect was a huge hairy mole that squatted on the left side of his mouth—exactly where London would be. Ironically, just as the country’s capital sucked attention away from the regions; so too did Graham’s mole. When talking to him, your eyes were inexorably dragged away from his face and towards his large brown growth.
As they reached them, Graham Goldingay broke abruptly from arguing with Robert and proffered an outstretched hand to Mervyn. Quite why Graham picked him out to greet wasn’t clear, and that mystery alone caused Mervyn to flinch slightly, before reluctantly resting his hand in the middle of Graham’s slab-like paw.
Graham immediately started firing off meaningless sentences in all directions, like a local radio DJ terrified of leaving dead air.
‘Greetings. I’m Graham Goldingay. Pleasure to meet you, we have met before several times but you probably don’t remember, I do though. I loved Andrew’s book about you, you must sign my copy. Terrible about Simon, I never liked him, but you never wish that on your worst enemy, and I suppose he was my worst enemy, so there but for the grace of God go I. As you’re aware, there’s been some kind of mix-up. We’re in the process of sorting it out, I’ll be conducting the commentary for today.’
‘You will not!’ said Robert hotly, his shiny head blushing into a beetroot-coloured fury.
‘As you can see, there’s been a bit of a mix-up, but I’m sure we can sort it out.’
‘Graham, I told you that you’re not conducting the commentaries. We don’t need anyone to conduct the commentaries. We only do that if we’re doing programmes from the 50s and 60s where the guests have gone a bit…’ He realised he was in polite company. ‘Where a lot of time has passed, and the guests might not have complete recall of events, and don’t have sufficient grasp of all the details of the original recording.’
‘Look, Robert, you are producing an inferior product without me because I have expert knowledge that will turn this DVD into one of your best-sellers of all time. I will complain to the BBC.’
‘Graham, this is a Zappp! production. I am managing director of Zappp! The only reason we’re here is because I, as managing director of Zappp! have decided to hire BBC facilities. Complaining to the BBC will do you no good.’
‘I am offering my services for free and for gratis here and you are being deliberately and wilfully incompetent by passing this up.’
Robert had had enough. ‘Trevor! Will you put a call down to the front desk, and ask them to send up a couple of security people? We have an intruder here who is interfering with a recording session.’
Trevor started to move but Graham held up his huge hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point Robert, but let me tell you, you might be king of the castle in this bit of corridor, but out there, there will be repercussions, mark my words.’ Graham lumbered off in bad grace, giving a final booming response. ‘You will be hearing from my blog in due course.’
Robert glared at his retreating form. ‘Trevor, will you escort Mr Goldingay to BBC reception, and makes sure he safely gets out of the building?’
‘Certainly. Sorry. I don’t know how he got up here. Sorry about that…’ Apologising all the way, Trevor pursued Graham along the corridors.
It was Robert’s turn to grovel. ‘I’m sorry about that. Trevor’s not the only one with no idea know how he got in here. He must be able to fly in windows like a vampire bat.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Mervyn. ‘I know Graham only too well. The advantage of being pugnacious to the point of obnoxious means that he usually manages to bully his way into places he shouldn’t.’
‘Oh crikey, yes,’ added Brian. ‘Do you remember when he managed to find his way into the green room after we recorded one episode? He pestered everyone he could find, and talked the ears off the producer with some mad idea about him becoming the series continuity adviser—even made himself a badge with “continuity adviser” written on it—talked to Nicholas for hours until he was strong-armed and evicted by one of our rougher cast members…’
Mervyn grinned. ‘Wasn’t that Vanity Mycroft?’
Brian tried a nonchalant ‘Cheeky? What me?’ expression and failed miserably. A grin sneaked across his face. ‘As I said. One of our rougher cast members…’
‘I’m sure Graham knows dozens of people here,’ Mervyn assured Robert. ‘Any one of them could sign him in if he asked them.’
‘You’re quite right,’ sighed Robert. ‘Doesn’t stop him being a majorly bloody nuisance, though. Please, come through.’
CHAPTER FIVE
They were ushered into a tiny green room dominated by a large window, beyond which Mervyn could see the recording suite. There were dinky little bowls of chocolates and crisps and bottled water by the gallon arranged neatly on low tables. The edges of the room were lined with squashy squared-off chairs in delicate shades of corpse grey, with just a hint of asphyxiation purple.
Languishing on one of the chairs was a hippyish woman flicking idly through a newspaper. She was wearing a frilly shirt, a brown Hessian waistcoat and faded jeans with a swirly, vaguely Chinese pattern stitched on to them, running from thigh to ankle. Her round face was swamped by a pair of huge spectacles which had fallen out of fashion in the late 80s and wild yellow hair, black at the roots, with authentic nicotine highlights. She was late 40s, dressed like she was 20, and looked almost 60.
She was surrounded by rubbish; sugar sachets, showbiz magazines, a half-eaten sandwich in its plastic shell. Her bag had disgorged most of its contents on to the floor, vomiting lipsticks, pens, books—two obscure historical romances by an author Mervyn had never heard of—and a dog-eared script. Detritus had gathered around her feet, as if she were building a nest.
Mervyn remembered that Samantha Carbury never so much arrived in a room as crash-landed. It was said that you could tell how she was, how her day had been and whether she was seeing anyone by simply inspecting the floor around her ankles and reading it like tea leaves. As Mervyn and Brian entered she looked up, gave a girlish smile, and the years fell off her face.
‘Oh gosh, chaps, lovely to see you, haven’t seen you in ages!’ Her voice was floaty, distant; like talking to som
eone through a pane of glass.
Brian gushed fulsomely, as actors do. ‘Samantha, darling! You look marvellous! My gracious, you haven’t changed a bit, how do you do it?’
‘Hello Samantha, lovely to see you again,’ said Mervyn.
Mervyn and Brian dutifully stood with their cheeks out so Samantha could graze them with her lips.
On Vixens from the Void Samantha Carbury played Elysia, sadistic henchperson, sidekick and dogsbody to the Princess Arkadia. Mervyn remembered that she looked particularly good in studded leather. Elysia was an interesting character for most of the series run, but in this particular episode her part had been unusually meaty.
‘This is very exciting,’ she gushed, gesturing around the green room. ‘But I’m not absolutely certain what I have to do here. I mean, what does one do in a commentary?’
Behind the nibbles and bottled water there were two big chrome cylinders. Being a writer, Mervyn was a natural scavenger and made a beeline for anything that was available for free; coffee was his main weakness. He grabbed a polystyrene cup, pressed the button on the top, and the nozzle gushed; hot coffee splattered into his cup, on to the table and on his hand.
Sucking his fingers, he looked over at Samantha. ‘Didn’t Robert or Trevor explain anything to you?’
‘Well yes… The thin one did try to explain it…’ She absent-mindedly twirled a lock of her hair around a little finger, like a distracted child. ‘But I didn’t quite understand what they were driving at; I mean, aren’t we talking about this episode in front of an audience, like we do in the conventions?’
‘It’s not quite like that,’ said Mervyn gently. ‘What happens is, we watch the episode in the studio, and while we watch it, we talk about our memories, impressions, anecdotes; anything that comes to mind. Robert and Trevor record us, and they put our comments on the DVD so people can hear us while they watch it.’
‘But… Won’t the people who buy the DVD get all distracted with us chuntering away all the time?’
Mervyn grinned. ‘Don’t worry Samantha, our chuntering is optional. They can watch the episode without the commentary, and if they want to hear us talk about it, they can press a button and hear it with us.’
‘Ohhh… I see.’ Samantha said, slowly and cautiously. Mervyn wasn’t 100 per cent certain she did see, but she was too polite to admit that his explanation failed, and he was too polite to raise the possibility that she was too stupid to understand his explanation. When they were filming the series, she’d always managed to take every piece of information and lose it somewhere inside her pretty head. It was a small miracle she’d managed to turn up to the studio on time, in costume and make-up, with the lines at her fingertips.
‘Where’s Marcus?’ said Brian suddenly, to the room in general. ‘Didn’t he get in here ahead of us?’
‘Is Marcus here?’ Samantha sat up pertly, like a sixth-former waiting for a particularly dishy supply teacher to enter the classroom. ‘How lovely! Where is he?’
‘Ah!’ Brian slapped his forehead. ‘He must be in his dressing room.’
‘Oh? Have we got dressing rooms?’ Samantha clutched at her bag, ready to leave.
Robert looked uncomfortable. ‘Um. Not exactly…’
Mervyn realised that Brian—the mischievous old bugger—had waited for Robert’s entrance to mention Marcus’s preferential treatment in front of Samantha.
Brian piled on the embarrassment. ‘Don’t worry. I imagine yours is right next to Marcus’s, Sam.’
‘It’s just that…’ Robert blustered. ‘The thing is… There’s normally lots of shows on and they take a lot of the available dressing rooms. And there weren’t that many rooms free in the first place. So as a precedent, we don’t actually supply rooms, as we’re pretty much in and out in a few hours…’ Robert sank slowly up to his neck. ‘However, as Marcus’s agent asked specifically and as there was one going begging… We didn’t think anyone would particularly… Oh! I think there’s a problem. Trevor’s gesturing me through the glass.’ Robert vanished with great relief to join Trevor, who hadn’t gestured at anyone.
* * *
‘Hello playmates!’
Marcus poked his head round the door, causing Samantha to emit squeals of delight.
‘Marcus! Marcus, Marcus, Marcus!’ She rushed to him, shuffling on platform heels, draping her arms over his shoulders as she half hugged, half fell on him.
‘Sammy! How are you doing, my darling?’
‘All the better for seeing you. My gosh, what have you got on? You smell so scrummy!’
Marcus’s hands almost grabbed her bum, but realising he was surrounded by loose-tongued actors and staff, overrode his instincts. He stopped them about an inch from her body, one hand hovering over each buttock. He gave Brian and Mervyn a mock-exasperated ‘What can you do?’ look. He released her, and disentangled her arms from his neck. ‘So… How have you been? I saw you on that documentary about the 80s last week. You were great!’
‘Oh my gosh, I was so dreadful on that. They edited it to make me sound like some sad druid from the loony society, or something. I couldn’t bear to listen to the rubbish I was coming out with.’
‘Who said anything about listening? I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. “Wow,” I thought. “Sammy looks even better now than she did then!”’
Samantha blushed.
Marcus glanced at his ferociously impressive watch. ‘Oh flip, am I really 20 minutes late? Sorry all, had to liaise with the staff—Siobhan and Carlene, my PAs, and Aiden my minder. Told ‘em to get a proper coffee from Costa and collect me in an hour and a half. This won’t last longer than that, will it?’
Mervyn shook his head.
Samantha raced back to her seat, tucking her knees underneath her and patting the chair beside her. ‘Sitsitsit… You must tell me everything that’s happened to you in the last five years.’
Marcus stepped gingerly over the mess on the floor and sat by her. ‘Oh, the usual boring stuff. Telly interviews, book tours, heading back and forth across the Atlantic, radio interviews, more book tours…’
‘Oh, that sounds so fantastic!’
‘It sounds more exciting than it is, believe me. I spend my life eating airline food for lunch and hotel food for dinner.’ He realised that his hand had found its way on to one of her knees, and slowly withdrew it. ‘So how about you chaps? Mervyn—how’s life treating you?’
‘Oh much the same as you. Planes and hotels. Back and forth to the US. It never stops…’
‘Oh yes. Science fiction conventions?’
‘That’s right.’
He didn’t assume I was flying to America to discuss a film script or a book deal, thought Mevyn. Not even for a second.
Marcus steered the conversation back to all things Spicer. ‘Good stuff! Keep the old Vixens flame alive, eh? The Yanks need a culture injection now and again. They keep asking me to do conventions, but of course, I’m too damn busy. The minute I finish a book these days the pre-publicity gets under way, the book tours get planned…and off I go on the merry-go-round all over again. Yes, it would be nice to go one day, particularly as the money they’re offering goes up each time the phone rings. I’ll do one, one of these days, when I’m old and decrepit.’
Mervyn remembered that Marcus was always one of those types who didn’t ask about other people’s lives with any sincerity; he did it to demonstrate he was interested in people, and then he used what they said as a trampoline to bounce back on to his favourite subject: himself. He used to do it when he was a struggling writer, but his shabby charm conjured up forgiveness from most people. Now he was sleek and successful, it prompted raw and unvarnished irritation from Mervyn. He never did it as shamelessly as this, surely? Perhaps Mervyn’s memory of Marcus had yellowed with age until it had transformed into a beautiful, sepia-tinted photograph.
‘And how’s it going with you, Crowbridge?’ Marcus asked with mock severity.
‘Oh, good, Marcus. Very good.’
/> ‘Great.’
‘Not to say I haven’t had a few pile-ups on the road to recovery, but the head doctors helped push me off the hard shoulder and on to the motorway…’
Nonsensical metaphors started to flow thick and fast from Brian. It was obvious that he had enlisted every ‘professional’ he could find to sort himself out, from doctors to psychiatrists to life coaches; probably mediums and horse whisperers too.
‘It took a while but they convinced me I have a compulsive self-hating personality which causes me to destroy anything good that comes into my life. I’ve done a lot of group therapy and one-to-one sessions that have helped me find myself…’
Never ask a recovering alcoholic or drug addict how he’s doing, thought Mervyn. Not unless you’re prepared to bed in for the long haul.
‘It’s been a long and difficult process. Dr Lewis took me by my hand, and she’s helped me enormously. She’s metaphorically held my clothes and watched while I paddled; then slowly but surely, I waded in up to my waist, and then I finally kicked off my shoes, dived in and swam out from the coast of denial and into the ocean of me…’
Marcus’s eyes had glazed by the fifth word, and were flipping around the room by the tenth.
‘Yes, well, madness is what madness does. I do get a lot of crazies myself, as you’ll have noticed—the Jesus freaks outside. They do tend to follow me around on my tours. Luckily, my fans keep them at a distance. Not that they’re any saner. Have you met them? Oh boy, now that’s a kooky bunch…’
But Brian wasn’t to be deflected that easily. ‘Yes, she’s told me that, just because I share myself with others, it doesn’t mean I’m not being selfish, it’s actually the most selfish thing you can do, in many ways. I had to learn to just share myself with me, and only share either of us to others when they want it…’ From the frozen smile on Marcus’s face, it was obvious that he wasn’t keen on Brian sharing any bits of himself, but Brian wasn’t taking any hints. ‘Anyway, you know all this. When you were in rehab she probably did much the same with you.’
