by Simon Brett
Charles Paris was too polite to ask which ‘great programmes’, as Mark went on, ‘No, creativity is a wild spirit. It’s the untutored, the anarchic, the bohemian. That’s what creates art – danger, risks being taken in the white heat of rehearsal – not a bunch of accountants poring over spreadsheets in offices.’
Charles searched for a safe, uncontroversial reaction, and came up with ‘Hm.’
Mark Lear shook himself out of his ‘misunderstood artist’ mode. ‘Right, same again, is it?’
‘Maybe I should move on to the wine . . .’
‘Time enough for wine. A couple more large Scotches first.’
Well, Charles comforted himself, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t worked hard. He’d earned some kind of reward. No, all things considered, his first day of reading an audio book hadn’t been too bad. And Dark Promises by Madeleine Eglantine was by no means an easy read.
As for the hangover, well . . . that’d probably been mostly nerves. There was a definite pattern to these things. Charles’s hangovers always seemed to be at their worst on days when he had something important to do. Days when he was relaxed, when he wasn’t stressed, he could wake up feeling fine, however much of a skinful he’d had the night before. He never quite knew whether it was the challenge of a difficult day ahead that exacerbated the hangover, or whether his anxiety pushed him to drink more the night before such difficult days. Either way, he knew he was feeling better now.
It wasn’t a bad achievement, actually, fitting in a couple of days’ reading in the middle of the rehearsal schedule for a play. That was the kind of thing stars did. ‘Doing a telly on that free Sunday before we open,’ actors like Bernard Walton would say airily, while the rest of the cast would sit, shrouded in misery, thinking, ‘There’s no justice. The bugger’s already being paid twenty times more than me for this show, and he’s cleaning up with a quick telly as well.’
Charles Paris’s current position wasn’t quite on that financial scale, but it was still rather heart-warming. Mark Lear had specifically asked for him to do the reading of Dark Promises, and had been happy to fit the dates into the brief break in the Not On Your Wife! rehearsals when the show transferred from London to Bath. That was quite a novelty in Charles Paris’s theatrical career – shoehorning bookings into a busy schedule, rather than planting tiny, distantly spaced oases of work into the arid wastes of his diary.
And he put from his mind the thought – no, the knowledge – that Mark had turned to him only because he was familiar, someone who wouldn’t shake the boat, someone who was safe.
The third large Bell’s was as welcome as its predecessors. Must watch it tonight, something in the recesses of Charles’s mind mumbled, just moderate intake tonight – OK? But who was going to listen to a voice like that, when the alcohol tasted so good?
‘Who’s directing this tatty show of yours?’
‘David J. Girton.’
‘David J. Girton? From the Beeb?’
‘Right.’
‘Good Lord. Presumably he’s left the old place?’
‘No longer on staff. Gather he still goes back to work on individual projects on contract.’
Mark Lear let out a harsh laugh. “‘Individual projects on contract”? Oh, that’s what they all say. It’s the equivalent of that movie euphemism, “having a script in development”, or “consulting” in advertising, or “wanting to spend more time with your family” if you’re a politician. Means he’s out on his ear.’
‘No, David did say he was going back to produce another series of one of his long-running sitcoms next month. I think it’s called Neighbourhood Watch.’
‘Oh?’ The news clearly pained Mark. It was all right so long as all his former colleagues were in the same boat, so long as they’d all been unceremoniously dumped, as he had. But he didn’t like the idea that one of them was still reckoned to be of value to his former employer. The thought brought a new viciousness into his tone. ‘He’s a lucky bugger, that David J. Girton.’
‘Oh?’ Charles prompted innocently.
‘Yes, a few years back he was extremely fortunate not to lose his job.’
‘What happened?’
‘Bit of financial fiddling.’
‘But surely that was always common practice in the Beeb? I thought doing your expenses was one of the most purely creative parts of the job.’
‘David’s fiddling was on a rather bigger scale than that.’ In response to Charles’s interrogative expression, Mark was about to say more, but changed his mind. ‘Let’s just say, he was lucky to keep his job.’
‘Ooh, you do know how to tease,’ said Charles in the voice he’d used as the outrageously camp Gorringe in Black Comedy in Ipswich (‘One of the best arguments for heterosexuality I’ve seen in a long time’ – Eastern Daily Press).
‘Who’s in the cast then, apart from you?’
Mark Lear raised an eyebrow at the mention of Bernard Walton. ‘He’s quite a big name. They must have hopes for the West End if he’s involved.’
‘Oh yes, I should think Bernard’s secure, but the rest of the company might change a bit on the way. Bill Blunden’s shows have a reputation for touring with a cheapish cast, which gets more upmarket when the show “goes in”.’
‘So you think you might not stay the course?’
‘I’d like to, obviously, but . . .’
‘Hm.’ Mark Lear nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, of course, Charles, you always have been a cheapish actor . . .’ He seemed unaware that he might have said anything mildly offensive. ‘And if Maurice Skellern’s still your agent . . .’ His grimace completed the sentence more effectively than any words could have done. ‘Bernard Walton, though,’ he went on. ‘Well, you should be all right. He’s definitely bums on seats, isn’t he?’
‘That’s the idea. Though apparently the box office advance isn’t as good as they were hoping for.’
‘Probably pick up by word of mouth.’
‘Maybe. You ever work with Bernard, Mark? I’m sure he did radio back in the early days.’
Mark Lear shook his head. ‘No. I was first aware of him on the telly. That ITV sitcom . . . forget the name . . .
‘What’ll the Neighbours Say?’
‘That’s the one. So who else have you got in the cast?’
Charles continued his run through the dramatis personae of Not On Your Wife! His friend reacted to the mention of Pippa Trewin.
‘Do you know her, Mark? Have you worked with her?’
Mark shook his head in puzzlement.
‘It’s pretty unlikely you would have done, actually. She only finished drama school last year.’
‘Hmm . . . No, I know the name in some connection, can’t remember where.’
Charles pointed to Mark’s whisky glass. ‘That rotting the old brain, is it?’
But his friend didn’t respond to the jocularity in the question. ‘Perhaps it is,’ he replied slowly. ‘Certainly there’s a lot of stuff I don’t remember these days. Not that it matters much. I’m not doing much these days that’s worth remembering.’ With an effort, he shook himself out of this melancholy downward spiral. ‘You have that problem, Charles? The old memory? Can you still remember your lines?’
‘Pretty well.’ It was true. Memorising lines was simply a matter of practice, and Charles hadn’t lost the knack. When that facility went, then it really would be time to cut down on the booze.
Strange, he contemplated, how many of his thoughts these days finished with the phrase, ‘then it really would be time to cut down on the booze’. If he ever actually screwed up a job because he was too drunk or too hungover to do it, then it really would be time to cut down on the booze. If he ever woke up somewhere and genuinely couldn’t remember how he’d got there, then it really would be time to cut down on the booze. If he found he was consistently impotent, then it really would be time to cut down on the booze.
And yet he’d been close to all of those situations. A harsh critic might say he’d b
een in all of those situations. The prospect of having to cut down on the booze was stalking Charles Paris, a looming, distant shadow on the horizon, but a shadow that was drawing closer all the time.
This sequence of reasoning always prompted the same two thoughts in Charles. First – but if I gave up the booze, it’d ruin my social life; everything I do in my leisure time involves drinking.
Second – could I actually give up the booze if I wanted to?
And, that particular evening, the two recurrent thoughts were joined by a third. What did happen between me and Cookie Stone on Thursday night?
Mark Lear continued asking Charles about the cast of Not On Your Wife! The other name that prompted a reaction from him was Ransome George.
‘Old Ran. He still up to his old tricks?’
‘Which tricks are those?’
‘Borrowing money. Sponging. He always used to be entirely blatant about it.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles.
‘Had a terrible reputation. You’d think everyone in the business must’ve heard about it, but he’d still always manage to find some innocent sucker to bum a fiver off.’ Mark chuckled, shaking his head at the follies of humankind. ‘There’s one born every minute, isn’t there?’
‘Ah,’ said Charles.
Mark Lear was caught by something in his tone and looked up sharply. ‘He hasn’t tried to touch you, has he? You haven’t fallen for the old “left my wallet at home” guff, have you?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Charles.
Mark looked thoughtful, then chuckled again. ‘Well, your company seems to have more than its fair share of skeletons in its cupboards.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘David J. Girton . . .’ Mark mused, ‘and Ransome George . . .’
‘What? Do you know something bad about Ran? I mean, apart from the fact that he bums money off people and doesn’t pay it back?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mark, enjoying the power of telling his story at his own pace. ‘Yes, I know something very considerably worse about Ransome George than that. Goes back to the early 1970s, I suppose . . .’
But suddenly the producer’s manner changed. The slyly conspiratorial was replaced by the irresponsibly drunk. Charles followed Mark’s eyeline to see that Lisa Wilson had just entered the bar. She looked stem, a mother come out on to the recreation ground to tell her son it was bedtime – and no arguments.
As if it was some ritual the two of them had been through many times before, Mark played up to the image. He whinged to Lisa like an eight-year-old about what a spoilsport she was, and how she wouldn’t let him have a life of his own, and how he was a grown man, for God’s sake, and at least Vinnie never treated him like – ‘Well, I’ve got to be off, anyway,’ said Charles. He didn’t want to get caught in crossfire of a domestic argument. ‘Haven’t checked in at my digs yet.’
‘OK,’ said Lisa. ‘Ten sharp in the morning, for more Dark Promises.’
‘Sure,’ said Charles. ‘I’ll be there. Can’t wait. You never know – tomorrow may be the day that either the heroine or the hero shows a spark of character . . .’
And he left Lisa Wilson to gather up her recalcitrant charge. Somehow, Charles reckoned that the minute he’d left, Mark Lear would turn all docile and follow her obediently home. But he also reckoned, once Mark had got home, that he would continue drinking.
Charles Paris’s accommodation had been sorted out from London. The stage door of the Vanbrugh Theatre, Bath, kept a digs list, and he’d easily found a suitable landlady who had a vacancy for a couple of extra nights before most of the not on your wife! company arrived.
She was a pale, anonymous woman – Charles Paris never seemed to end up with the larger-than-life, characterful landladies who people theatrical legend. The one in Bath was possessed of either a permanent sniff of disapproval, a bloodhound’s nose for alcohol, or a bad cold. She showed him the room, which was fine, offered him an evening meal, which he declined, and directed him towards a late-opening supermarket, where he bought a chicken pie and, it has to be admitted, another half-bottle of Bell’s.
By his standards, he didn’t reckon he’d had that much, but the effects of alcohol are cumulative and, as he slipped, later than intended, into a drunken sleep, Charles Paris knew he’d have another hangover with which to face his second day of reading Dark Promises by Madeleine Eglantine.
His last thought, before he surrendered consciousness, was once again – What did happen between me and Cookie Stone?
Chapter Four
COOKIE Stone sidled up to him at the Vanbrugh Theatre in Bath on the Monday afternoon, and winked. ‘I remember what you said on Thursday night.’
Charles Paris smiled weakly. He wished to God he did.
Fortunately, there wasn’t much time for embarrassment. The rest of the day ahead promised to be too busy for reminiscence or recrimination. The cast of not on your wife! was about to rehearse the play for the first time on set, and they all knew that, whatever standard the show had reached in the rehearsal room, on stage everything would be different.
The schedule for the next two days was tight. The get-in to build the set had happened on the Monday morning. (In the old days, Charles Paris reflected nostalgically, that would have taken place on the Sunday, but now prohibitive overtime rates made any theatre work on Sundays a rarity.) On the Monday afternoon the lighting director would work out a basic lighting plot, to be tweaked and refined during the tech. run, which was scheduled to start at five, and to take as long as it took. Fortunately, not on your wife! was not a complicated show from the technical point of view. The basic set of the two adjacent flats, once built, did not change throughout the play, and the lighting plot was a simple matter of switching between the two acting areas.
The Tuesday morning was to be reserved for final adjustments to the set and lights. The company would then be called at twelve o’clock for notes arising from the tech. run. At two-thirty they would start a full dress rehearsal, which everyone in the company knew would not be enough to drag the show back to the standard it had reached on the previous Thursday in London.
Then, on the Tuesday evening at seven-thirty, not on your wife! would face its first-ever paying audience, amongst whom would be critics from the local press. This last detail, when announced, had distressed many of the cast – particularly Bernard Walton. The show, he argued, would be terribly rough on the Tuesday night. Give it a chance to run itself in for a couple of performances before admitting the press. But for once the star didn’t get his own way. The view of Parrott Fashion Productions, relayed through the company manager, was that, yes, the show might have rough edges, but, more important, they needed to get newspaper reviews as soon as possible. The Western Daily Press, as its title implied, came out every day, but Bath’s other local newspapers had midweek deadlines. If their critics came any later than the Tuesday, the notices wouldn’t make it into print until the Thursday week, by which time not on your wife! would have only four more performances to do in Bath, before the whole caravan moved on to Norwich. The company manager apologised to Bernard Walton for this fact of life, but stood firm. The star might have total artistic control, but when it came to purely commercial considerations, he had to give way. Advance booking for the show wasn’t as good as they’d hoped, and Parrott Fashion Productions insisted on a Tuesday press night.
It was clear on the Monday that the show’s director was more than a little out of his depth. Though he’d got by all right in the rehearsal room, actually getting a play into a theatre presented different challenges to someone whose main experience had been in television. Up until that point in the production, David J. Girton had abnegated his directorial responsibilities to Bernard Walton and the rest of his cast. But the decisions he faced now were technical rather than artistic, and he needed someone else to whom he could abnegate these new burdens.
Luckily for David J. Girton, the perfect person on whom to offload all such matters was conveniently to hand. H
e was the company manager, the one who had explained to Bernard Walton the necessity of a Tuesday press night. His name was Tony Delaunay, and he had worked for Parrott Fashion Productions for years. He was small, with short blonded hair, and always dressed in a black suit which somehow gave the impression of being more casual than a suit.
Tony Delaunay had run more touring productions than most people – though obviously not David J. Girton – had had hot dinners. He was a creature of the theatre, who’d worked as a scene shifter while still at school. In his late teens, he’d tried to make it as an actor in a variety of low-budget London productions, before recognising that his skills lay on the technical side. He had graduated through the ranks of assistant stage manager, deputy stage manager and stage manager to take on ever more responsibility. He could do lighting plots, he could build sets, he could pacify local stage crews, he could mollify furious designers and wardrobe mistresses, he could mediate between stingy managements and poverty-stricken actors. He had saved the bacon of Parrott Fashion Productions on more occasions than he cared to remember. He was the all-purpose theatrical Mr Fixit, and nothing surprised him.
So, effectively taking over the technical direction of a new Bill Blunden farce from a Director whose main expertise was in television presented no problems to Tony Delaunay.
But he didn’t crow. He didn’t rub in the fact that the show’s designated director was incompetent. Tony Delaunay had no ego; he was the ultimate pragmatist. Not On Your Wife! was due to open to a paying audience on the Tuesday night. Parrott Fashion Productions paid him to ensure that that happened, and Tony Delaunay would see that it did.
David J. Girton quickly recognised his good fortune in having the company manager there to do all his work for him, and arranged his own movements on the Monday accordingly. Deciding, with some justification, that a director couldn’t be of much use during the get-in, he had appeared in the Vanbrugh Theatre at noon to see how things were proceeding. Comforted by the fact that Tony Delaunay had everything in hand, David J. Girton decided to slip away for ‘a little drink and a bite to eat’. And, since he was in Bath, after a couple of ‘little drinks’, he decided his lunch had better take place at the Hole in the Wall restaurant.
