Dead Room Farce

by Simon Brett

  Not for the first time, Charles wished Maurice’s ‘specific skills’ included getting work for his clients. But all he actually said was, ‘Well, thank you for that. Much appreciated.’

  ‘I’m still working on it,’ said Maurice. ‘Still talking to people. I think it’s quite possible I’ll be able to tell you more soon . . . maybe definitely tie in Mark Lear’s name with the porn tape company.’

  ‘Be great if you could.’

  ‘So where do I find you, if I need to get in touch?’

  Charles Paris thought it inappropriate at that moment to pass further comment on an agent who didn’t know where his clients were working. ‘Leeds next week. But I’m going back to Bath on Sunday.’

  ‘Really?’ Maurice Skellern’s antennae had instantly picked up the possibility of unpaid commission. ‘You working and not telling me, Charles?’

  ‘No, no, Maurice, of course not.’ He chuckled, then lied, ‘No, my visit to Bath is purely social.’

  Despite Charles’s complaint that Norwich wasn’t on the way to anywhere, the city’s train service was not bad. The 9.05 on the Sunday morning got into Liverpool Street at 10.58, giving him time to get round the Circle Line to Paddington and catch the 11.30 to Bath, where Lisa Wilson had arranged to meet him with her car at the station.

  The early start had not gone down well with Cookie Stone. She had had in mind dinner after the show, bed and then a lazy waking up to Sunday papers and sex, the kind of indulgence that most established couples enjoyed. She was too much of a professional to argue against Charles’s apology that he needed an early night on his own because he was working the next day, but she clearly didn’t like it.

  That reaction, which he couldn’t keep out of his mind as he sat in the safety of the train from Norwich to London, was symptomatic of his relationship with Cookie. He had known from the start that he shouldn’t have got involved there. Years of experience should have taught him the unwisdom of becoming entangled with anyone on a long tour, and the more time he spent with Cookie Stone, the more he realised how seriously he’d blundered by becoming entangled with her in particular.

  It wasn’t that he disliked Cookie. He was fond of her. She was enthusiastic and good at sex; she had a remarkably well-preserved body. And, even though her taste for funny voices could become wearying, she was entertaining company.

  What was wrong with her, however, was the old performer’s problem – insecurity. Charles, of all people, could sympathise with that. He’d been through every kind of angst about his talent as an actor and his adequacy as a human being. But in Cookie’s case, the insecurity manifested itself in a particularly difficult way.

  He didn’t know her full history of previous relationships, but it seemed clear that at some point in her life she had been badly let down by a man – or, perhaps, at several points in her life she had been badly let down by several men.

  This, coupled with the insecurity of a woman who’d grown up knowing she’d never be conventionally good-looking and always have to make her mark by personality, charm, vivacity or sex, left her as raw and vulnerable as a peeled shrimp. If only Charles Paris had known the rod he was making for his own back, he would never have called Cookie Stone ‘beautiful’.

  That was what had done it. A word he’d used in the heat of extreme physical urgency had fulfilled Cookie’s lifelong dreams. It was the plot of every Barbra Streisand movie. At last, she thought, she’d met a man who found her beautiful, a man who really cared for her for herself.

  In fact, Cookie Stone had fallen in love with Charles Paris.

  He’d only realised this over the previous few days, and it had come as rather an unpleasant shock. For Cookie, though, the emotion was of longer standing, as she told him during one of her endless talkative times in bed when he’d rather have gone to sleep.

  She’d fancied him from the moment she’d seen him at the not on your wife! read-through. ‘And then of course,’ she’d gone on, I knew things were going to be wonderful between us . . . after what happened that night in your flat in London.’

  For Charles Paris, remarks like that weren’t helpful. ‘That night in your flat in London’ remained a closed book to him, and however much he scoured his memory, it refused to give up its secrets.

  He was left in one of those awkward situations, like having forgotten someone’s name, not admitting to the fact straight away, and then getting so far into conversation with them that the admission that you didn’t know who they were became insulting. Except with Cookie, it was worse than a name. To have forgotten someone’s body, to have forgotten making love to someone, not even to be sure whether or not you had made love to them, now that was really insulting. And the longer Charles put off owning up to his uncertainty, the more potentially insulting it became.

  Unfamiliarity with the circumstances of its commencement was not the only problem he had in his relationship with Cookie Stone. Perhaps it was a hangover from the days when he’d still been cohabiting with Frances, but so far as affairs were concerned, Charles Paris’s inclination was always to tick the box for ‘No Publicity’. ‘Why,’ he had been heard to say speciously, ‘do we want the whole world to know about something that’s only important to us?’

  Cookie, on the other hand, did want the whole world to know. Charles couldn’t possibly have anticipated the weight of expectation she brought with her. All her previous disappointments had been cancelled, all her aspirations met, the moment he had called her ‘beautiful’. Having quickly established that he was no longer in any meaningful sense married to Frances, Cookie could see no reason why they shouldn’t shout their love from the rooftops.

  At the very least she saw no reason why they shouldn’t shout it to the assembled company of Not On Your Wife! Charles had managed so far to manufacture reasons why they should be discreet, but his fabrications couldn’t last for ever. And the idea that any liaison could remain a secret for long in the gossip-machine of a touring theatre company was laughable. Besides, Cookie deeply wanted to tell everyone.

  This threw Charles into an agony of awkwardness. It was not the first time in his life that he’d regretted a penis-driven impulse, but in the current case Cookie’s galloping insecurity made the situation worse than ever. Any hint he gave to her that he was less than wholehearted in his commitment would throw her back into an anguish of rejection.

  Cookie Stone’s life was locked in a cycle of self-fulfilling prophecies. Charles Paris had started feeling he’d like to back out of the affair within forty-eight hours of its starting (and, so far as he was concerned, the starting point had occurred in Norwich), but even a man who had wanted the relationship to go the distance would have had his resolution tested by Cookie’s constantly voiced anxieties.

  ‘You don’t really care about me,’ she’d keep saying. ‘You don’t really think I’m beautiful. You’re really just like all the other men, aren’t you, only interested in the physical side, and when you lose interest in that then you’ll lose interest in me. You don’t really want this relationship to go anywhere.’

  She repeated the litany so often that even someone madly in love with her might pretty soon start believing what she was saying.

  And to someone like Charles Paris, who was far from madly in love with her, what Cookie said was all too painfully accurate.

  Oh, shit! Why on earth did he allow himself to get caught in these situations?

  And he had another hangover, too.

  It frequently happens that men in unsatisfactory physical relationships start to idealise women with whom they have platonic relationships, and that is exactly what Charles Paris ended up doing on the train from Norwich to London. He was really looking forward to seeing Lisa Wilson. It would be comforting to be with a woman he could just chat to naturally, without any of that confusing lust nonsense.

  ‘Unfaithful,’ Charles read without intonation, and left the statutory two-second pause. ‘Perfidious’ – two-second pause – ‘faithless’ – two-second pause –
‘disloyal’ – two-second pause – ‘inconstant’ – two-second pause – ‘unprincipled’ – two-second pause – ‘double-dealing . . .’

  This particular section of the Thesaurus was not doing anything to improve his mood, and he was relieved to hear Lisa Wilson’s voice through the talkback saying, ‘OK, got to the end of the reel. I should think you’re pretty knackered. Shall we call it a day?’

  ‘Please,’ he said gratefully. The air conditioning in the studio was working now, but its atmosphere remained claustrophobic.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘And how!’

  ‘Got anywhere?’ asked Lisa, as they sat either side of the table over coffee and chocolate digestives.

  ‘Got anywhere?’ Charles echoed guiltily.

  ‘I meant about Mark’s murder.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Because I kind of got the impression you were thinking about investigating it, Charles.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve got to find out what really happened. You still haven’t said anything to the police?’

  She shook her head firmly. The blonde hair flurried and resettled. Natural blonde, Charles couldn’t help thinking. Not like Cookie Stone’s dyed red. And Lisa’s face was innocent of make-up . . . unlike Cookie’s, which never faced the day without a good half-hour of cosmetic concentration. Oh dear, thought Charles guiltily, once you admit the first hint of criticism, how quickly the floodgates open.

  He didn’t look forward to re-meeting Cookie in Leeds. He’d have to put an end to the affair as soon as possible. He’d have to fulfil all her gloomy prognostications, crush her like a snail without a shell, and show her that he, Charles Paris, was, like all men, just another shit.

  And then, worse than that, for another two months he’d have to be with her on stage through all the ribald whackeries of not on your wife!

  Oh dear. One thing was certain, though. He’d never, ever get into a comparable situation again.

  Charles had to drag himself out of his gloom to concentrate on what Lisa was saying. ‘No, it’s bad. I know I should say something to the police, but . . . well, I told you where I was the night Mark died.’

  ‘The married man?’

  ‘Yes, and . . . I don’t know whether the marriage would survive if his wife found out.’ She sighed. ‘There are kids and everything.’

  ‘Say no more.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘You’re right, though, Lisa, Mark’s death has been nagging away at me. Still, I may be getting somewhere on it, I’m not sure. Tell me, did Mark ever talk to you about pornographic cassettes?’

  ‘What, are you suggesting we needed naughty videos to spice up our sex-life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Actually, towards the end it could have done with a bit of spicing up,’ she mused.

  Charles didn’t pick up on that, but went on, ‘I’m talking about audio cassettes. Long time back, possibly as much as twenty years, Mark may have got himself involved in producing them.’

  A spark came into Lisa Wilson’s eye. ‘Do you know, he did mention something about that. I’ve just remembered. Apparently, they used to use wet newspaper.’

  ‘Wet newspaper?’

  ‘Yes, for sexy sound effects. All the liquid sloshings about of sexual organs.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  She chuckled. ‘Wonderful the things you learn how to do in the BBC, isn’t it?’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Charles agreed. ‘But did Mark mention any of the other people he was working with, you know, when he was producing these cassettes?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Can’t recall any names. No, he just said he was moonlighting from the Beeb when he did it. In those days a BBC contract was totally exclusive. You weren’t allowed to work for anyone outside.’

  ‘Least of all if you were making porn cassettes.’

  ‘Right.’ Lisa fixed her grey eyes on his. ‘Does that lead you somewhere – the fact that Mark was mixed up in the porn business?’

  ‘Could do, yes. Ties in with something he said about moonlighting the afternoon he died. Yes, it could be very important.’

  ‘Good. But you can’t give me a name, say in which direction your suspicions are heading?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be fair. Not till I’ve got a bit more information.’

  ‘OK. I will wait on appropriate tenterhooks.’ She reached across to the packet. ‘Another chocolate digestive?’

  ‘Why not? Who knows when I will eat again?’

  ‘Are you going up to Leeds tonight?’

  ‘No. I’ll probably go back to London. The trains are fine in the morning. We’ve got a four o’clock call tomorrow, just to familiarise ourselves with the stage. No complete run-through.’

  ‘Ah. So you’re not pushed for time?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a companionable silence, broken only by the munching of chocolate digestives. As Charles had anticipated on the train, it was comforting to be with a woman he could just chat to naturally. And, as for all that confusing lust nonsense . . . well, he couldn’t deny there was a bit there, but thank God at that moment it wasn’t relevant.

  ‘So how’re you managing without Mark?’ he asked solicitously.

  Lisa Wilson grimaced. ‘Distressingly well. I’m afraid the feeling of relief has continued, and now I’m even ceasing to feel guilty about it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Certainly a darned sight easier to run this place without Mark drifting aimlessly around all the time.’

  ‘Hm. And . . . tell me if it’s no business of mine . . . but is the affair with the married man still going on?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ Her hair spread outwards and reformed again as she dismissed the idea. ‘No, that was really over a long time ago. Which was why it would have been so awful if it had come out at this point. I mean, there were times when it was very intense, when his wife would really have had something to worry about. But now . . . no. The heavy emotional bit had run its course. Our last encounter was just down to sex.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’

  ‘I’m afraid, you see . . .’ she grimaced again as she chose her words ‘. . . sex between Mark and me had been more or less non-existent for some time . . . since we moved down here, I suppose. It was partly his confidence was shot to pieces and . . . well, the booze. He was drinking so much he just couldn’t do it. And I’m afraid that wasn’t good enough for me. I needed some physical attention. So I went back to a former lover for . . . what shall we call it? A quick fix? A quick service? I’m not proud of the fact, but that’s what I needed at the time.’

  Charles cleared his throat in a way that he hoped didn’t sound embarrassed, and once again found himself transfixed by Lisa’s grey stare. ‘Apropos of nothing . . . how’re you doing on the booze, Charles?’

  ‘Ah . . . Well . . .’

  ‘You promised me you’d give it up completely.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I . . .’

  ‘I see.’ She sat back, letting out a long sigh of disappointment.

  ‘Yup. ‘Fraid I have backslid.’ He fell back again on a funny voice – the one he’d used in an ill-fated play based on the career of John Wayne (‘Thank God the Duke is dead and thus spared the knowledge that this sad travesty of his life has been perpetrated’ – South Wales Echo.)

  Lisa just looked at him. Charles found her silent reproach more painful than if she had said something. ‘I will try to get off it again, but . . . well, sometimes it’s difficult.’

  ‘Difficult, but worth doing. How long did you stay off?’

  ‘Till last Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, terrific! Big deal!’ Her voice was weighed down with sarcasm.

  ‘It’s a kind of occupational hazard in the theatre for –’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap! If you really wanted to stop, you could stop.’

  ‘I know. I’ve proved it.’

  ‘Proved it? Ten days? Come on. You’ve got to do better than that to convince me.’

>   ‘I think I could do better than that. I’m sure I could do better than that. But I don’t think I could do it for ever.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just “for ever” sounds so . . . final.’

  ‘It is final.’

  He shook his head ruefully. ‘No, never going back on the booze . . . I’m afraid that’s unthinkable.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lisa.

  ‘Well, I mean it’s just . . . there are certain things, there are certain occasions, which one cannot imagine without a bit of alcoholic lubrication.’

  ‘One cannot, or you cannot?’

  ‘All right, I cannot.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Well, OK – sex. I mean, I cannot imagine going to bed with a woman without having had a few drinks first.’

  ‘Why, are women that terrible?’

  ‘No, no!’ he said hastily, before noticing the twinkle in Lisa Wilson’s eye. ‘No, I suppose I mean it’s just . . . I don’t know, a matter of relaxation. A couple of drinks, a bit of . . . I guess for me drink has always been a part of foreplay.’

  ‘The trouble is, that kind of foreplay can so easily mean there’s no afterplay. As I found with Mark.’

  ‘Yes, OK. I don’t mean too much. I just mean a couple of drinks, to calm the atmosphere . . .’

  ‘There are other forms of foreplay.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And all those sex manuals and how-to-keep-your-man’s-interest articles in women’s magazines are always recommending that couples should try new forms of foreplay . . .’

  ‘I know that too. There’s a whole sequence in Bill Blunden’s not on your wife! on that very subject.’

  Charles Paris found himself transfixed by the steady gaze of Lisa Wilson’s grey eyes, as she asked, ‘Are you actually telling me, Charles, that you have never been to bed with a woman when you weren’t drunk?’

  ‘No, by no means. What I’m saying is that I can’t recall having gone to bed with a woman without having had a couple of drinks beforehand.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should try it one day. It’d be a new experience for you.’

  He chuckled, shrugging the idea off. ‘Yes, maybe I should.’