by Brett, Simon
While introductions were taking place, the telephone rang and was answered by the researcher. ‘All wanted down in studio,’ he announced, ‘to meet the contestants.’
‘Oh Jesus! I didn’t think we’d have to see that lot till the actual recording,’ complained Bob Garston, the man of the people.
‘Sorry. We’ve got to just run through a bit of rehearsal on the bits you do with them.’
‘Shit,’ said Bob Garston, with bad grace.
John Mantle decided that they’d all go down to Studio A together. He knew that he could no longer put off the crisis, but he hoped his American guests’ reactions might be a little inhibited by the presence of the celebrities.
It was a vain hope. The minute the party walked on to the set, Aaron Greenberg looked up at the red wheel with its silver lettering and screamed, ‘Christ Almighty! What the shit is that supposed to be?’
‘John,’ Dirk van Henke hissed in the Executive Producer’s ear, ‘you have just lost the rights in Hats Off!’
Chapter Three
JOHN MANTLE WAS no fool. He had been prepared for this reaction, and he had planned how to deal with it. For the time being, he led the two furious Americans up to his office and let the wave of anger wash over him.
‘I mean, for Christ’s sakes!’ Aaron Greenberg was spluttering. ‘What kind of a show do you think this is? We can’t have that kind of talk on a show like this. Diaphragms? No way. I mean, this is meant to be wholesome family entertainment. This show will be going out to Middle America.’
‘Actually, it won’t be. You forget that –’
‘Okay, Middle Europe. Who’s counting?’
‘Not actually Europe. This is England and –’
‘England – Europe – what’s the difference? The point is that, wherever it is, there are gonna be little old ladies out there who know what they want and who aren’t gonna to want to turn on a show about diaphragms.’
‘That isn’t the first meaning most people will think of when they hear the title.’
‘No? Well, listen, smartass, I’ve only mentioned it to one person and that’s what she thought.’
‘I’m not sure that actresses are typical of –’
‘Don’t you try telling me what’s typical or not typical! All I know is that you’re calling this show by the wrong name! And that’s going to lose you your audience and lose you the chance of making a pot. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, we’re talking about the Golden Goose here and you’re trying to wring its neck before it’s laid a single goddamned egg!’
‘What is more,’ Dirk van Henke insinuated, ‘you are in breach of contract.’
John Mantle let them go on. In a little while, he would summon his adviser from the Legal Department. Then maybe the Americans would produce a London-based lawyer to fight their side. All that would take time and, even if eventually they could take out some sort of injunction to stop W.E.T. from proceeding with the show (which, on balance, John Mantle thought was unlikely), there was a strong chance that by then the pilot would be recorded.
So he rode out the storm, confident all the while that downstairs in Studio A rehearsals for If The Cap Fits were still going on.
Barrett Doran was no keener to meet the contestants than Bob Garston had been, but Jim Trace-Smith insisted that they must rehearse the basic sequence of the show or the whole thing would be a shambles when they came to record it. Barrett Doran grudgingly agreed to this, though he was not going to put himself out by being polite to anybody.
His first action, on coming into the studio, was to look at the red, blue and silver set in horror. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘what the hell’s this? I didn’t know the show was meant to be set in a bloody fast food restaurant. Is it no longer possible to get professional designers? What’s the problem – money? Is that why we have to put up with this crap?’
Sylvian de Beaune, who had been slumped in the front row of the audience seating, rose as if to protest, but thought better of it, turned on his heel and flounced out of the studio. Jim Trace-Smith’s eyes followed him out, then realised that the rehearsal must be moved along to cover this awkwardness.
‘Now, for the First Round,’ he said, with his customary limp élan, ‘each of the contestants has to be paired up with one of the celebrities. This is where they have to change round the hats on the four “professions”, and they’re allowed to consult on this.’
‘Seems to make it unnecessarily complicated.’
‘I’m afraid that’s how the format works, Barrett. Anyway, the viewing audience likes it. We’ve done some research on this and we’ve found out that people at home enjoy seeing the contestants and celebrities being all pals together.’
‘Do they really?’ growled the lovable Barrett Doran. ‘All right, you lot!’ He gestured imperiously to the four contestants. ‘Come over here. Each of you’s got to pair up with one of the panel for the First Round.’ He turned to where the four celebrities sat at their long blue desk, sipping from their red-and-blue-striped glasses and discussing their tax problems. ‘Now we’ll do it so’s we get a man and a woman in each line-up, so you, lady, go with Bob, you with Nick, you with Joanie and you with Fiona. Got that?’
‘Erm,’ Tim Dyer objected. ‘Can we change it round? I’d rather be paired with Joanie.’
‘Would you?’ snapped Barrett Doran. ‘Well, I don’t give a wet fart what you’d rather do. The pairings will be as I said.’
Tim Dyer wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d just been round the back of the set and seen the gleaming, brand-new Metro waiting for the moment when it would be driven on to awe-struck “Aaah”s from the studio audience. ‘But I don’t want to be with Fiona,’ he insisted.
‘Why, isn’t she pretty enough for you? You think yourself damned lucky. It’s the nearest a little shit like you’s ever going to get to a bit of crumpet like that.’ The host turned to his producer. ‘What do you want them to do – stand behind the panellist they’re paired with?’
‘Yes, behind, slightly to the right. Then we can get them in a nice close two-shot.’
‘Okay. Get to those positions.’ Barrett Doran looked petulantly back at Jim Trace-Smith. ‘Do you really want us to go right through the whole bloody thing?’
‘We have to make sure everyone knows what they’ve got to do, where they’ve got to stand, that kind of number . . .’
‘Okay, okay.’ Barrett Doran went across to his lectern and stood there, drumming his fingers on its top.
Various researchers and stage managers were recruited to stand in the positions later to be occupied by the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. Some unrepresentative hats had been procured for them (though not from Wardrobe, who said they were still not convinced that they should be providing hats for the actual recording, but were damned sure they weren’t going to provide any for rehearsal). The researchers and stage managers then invented professions for themselves and the contestants, with celebrity help, tried to say who should be wearing which hat. Since the hats were wrong anyway, all this took a long time. Barrett Doran conducted the proceedings without even a pretence of geniality.
At the end of the round, Jim Trace-Smith reminded the contestants that they would be awarded money prizes at this point, but that the one with least points would be eliminated. Tim Dyer objected volubly that he would be working under an unfair handicap because Fiona Wakeford was so stupid. The actress proved not quite stupid enough not to realise that this was an insult, and burst out crying. Nick Jeffries threatened to punch Tim Dyer’s teeth out through his arse. Jim Trace-Smith managed to reimpose a kind of calm.
In the next round each of the celebrities was supplied with a hat-box by ‘the lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi’, two terminally bored-looking models who were part of the set-decoration. The remaining three contestants were then given the names of four types of hat and had in turn to guess whose hat-box contained which hat, helped or misled by clues from the celebrities.
Trish Osborn
e was the first to play in this round. She had found that, once on the set, her nerves had given way to a mood of almost manic confidence. It was going to be all right. She would manage. Better than that, she would do very well. She would really make an impression.
As she stood beside Barrett Doran at the lectern, he flashed her a big smile. Looking at her for the first time, he had realised that she was rather attractive and thought it might be worth beaming a little of his charm in her direction. Nice short dark hair, full lips, nice trim little figure. Maybe he might invite her to his dressing room for a drink before the recording . . . He gave her the practice list of four hats – fedora, fire-helmet, beret and baseball cap. Trish started chatting with the celebrities, moving round to her decision. She felt in control. She was doing well.
‘Oh God!’ Barrett Doran suddenly exclaimed.
Trish Osborne turned curiously towards him.
‘Look at her. We can’t have this. I mean, God, this is peak viewing, a family show. We can’t have her looking like that.’
Trish unwillingly followed the line of his accusing finger, which pointed straight at her bust. In the excitement of the occasion, she saw that both of her nipples had hardened, a fact which the thin blouse and brassiere did nothing to disguise.
Jim Trace-Smith came forward, nonplussed. It was not a situation he had had to deal with before, and he wasn’t quite sure of the correct procedure.
‘Well, come on,’ shouted Barrett Doran. ‘Do something. Get her off to Wardrobe. We can’t have her looking as if she’s panting for it like that. This isn’t a bloody tit show, is it?’
At this point, Trish Osborne, utterly deserted by her new confidence, started to cry. She was led off with meaningless words of comfort by the researcher, Chita. In Wardrobe, after an unsuccessful experiment with Sellotape, her nipples were contained by two sticking plasters.
The rehearsal had to stop at six, so that everyone involved in Studio A could get their statutory hour’s meal-break and the cameras could be lined up, before the audience was admitted at seven, ready for the seven-thirty recording. When the rehearsal ended, the celebrities and contestants had a variety of options as to where they could go. They could eat in the canteen, they could go and titivate, prepare or relax in their dressing rooms, or they could return to their separate Conference Rooms, now converted by the introduction of alcohol into Hospitality Rooms.
For the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor, who had been stuck in the Production Office all afternoon, there were fewer options. Sydnee, still desperate to keep them apart from the other participants in If The Cap Fits, had ruled out their visiting the canteen, and arranged for sandwiches to be brought up to the office. There was, of course, no question of their sharing the largesse of Hospitality in the two Conference Rooms, but, after considerable thought and a few exploratory phone-calls, she decided that it might be safe for them to go downstairs to the W.E.T. bar, ‘if any of them wanted to’.
Charles Paris was the first to state that he did want to. It had been a boring afternoon, it promised to be a boring evening, and he had long since discovered the beneficial properties of alcohol in the treatment of boredom. Since his only responsibilities in the show were standing up and putting on different hats, he did not have any anxiety about drink blunting his performing edge. He just knew that he would feel considerably more human with two or three large Bell’s inside him.
Sydnee led the four of them conspiratorially down the back-stairs to the bar, which was very crowded. As well as the flood of after-work drinkers from the offices above, there were also many of the Studio A technicians and a lot of the team from Studio B, whose recording schedule for Method In Their Murders incorporated the same meal-break.
‘I’ll dive in and get you some drinks,’ said Sydnee bravely. ‘Then I must sort out your Make-up calls. That’s going to be the most difficult bit of all. There’s only one Make-up room and we’ve got to ensure that you don’t meet any of the others in there. Anyway, what will you all drink?’
She took their orders, and thrust her way into the make round the bar. The four ‘professions’ stood around awkwardly. There was nowhere to sit and the afternoon upstairs had long since exhausted their limited stock of mutual conversation.
Charles saw a little knot of people gathered round Melvyn Gasc, the presenter of Method In Their Murders. Gasc had risen to prominence in the previous few years as a pop scientist and, like most who do well on television in that role, was more valued for his eccentricity than his academic qualifications. His plumpness, his broken French accent and his windmilling gestures all made him a readily identifiable persona, which coincided easily with the general public’s view of scientists as mad professors. They also made him popular fodder for television impressionists, and Charles thought he could detect an element of self-parody in the vigorous way Gasc was addressing his circle of sycophants.
One of this circle was the girl, Chippy, whom the ‘professions’ had met on their hurried excursion into Studio B. In better lighting she proved to be strikingly pretty, with wispy blond hair and deep-set dark-blue eyes which gave her an air of melancholy, or even tragedy. As Charles watched, she detached herself from the group and moved towards the door, through which Barrett Doran had just entered.
But she had no opportunity to speak to the host of If The Cap Fits. He was immediately swept up by an earnest-looking man in a suit, accompanied by a short, dark, bearded man and a tall, thin, blond one. They were close enough for Charles to hear their conversation.
‘Barrett,’ said the man in the suit, who was John Mantle. ‘Aaron and Dirk were watching a bit of the rehearsal, and they’ve got a few points.’
‘Have they?’ growled Barrett Doran. ‘Get me a large gin.’
The Executive Producer, apparently cowed by the directness of this order (though in fact shrewdly deciding to leave his game-show host and copyright-holders alone to discuss their differences), made for the bar.
‘Now what the hell is this?’
Aaron Greenberg looked Doran full in the eye. ‘Just that with you the show is dying.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. You aren’t getting anything out of these contestants. Okay, they’re a bunch of loxes – God knows why your researchers couldn’t come up with some with a bit more “pazazz” – but it’s still up to you to get a bit of life out of them. The show’s coming across like a pile of old dog-shit, and that’s because you’re such a bummer. If you stay on as host, it’s not going to work and the company’s going to lose the chance of making a pot. I mean, Eddie, who fronts the show in the States, would never allow anyone to –’
‘I don’t give a shit what Eddie would or wouldn’t allow. I am doing this show – got that? I know my public, I know what they want, and, come the recording, that is what I will give them. So just keep your big nose out of this – Okay? I’ve been in this business too long to take advice from some jumped-up little Yid!’
For a second it looked as if Greenberg would hit him, but Dirk van Henke laid a restraining hand on his associate’s arm and it didn’t happen. Barrett Doran turned away from them and met John Mantle returning from the bar with a large straight gin. He snatched it and hissed at the Executive Producer, ‘I’ll be in my dressing room. Keep this shit off my back – all right? Or you find yourself another presenter.’
He moved towards the exit, then caught sight of Sydnee, moving, laden with drinks, from the bar. ‘You sorted out that glass for me?’ he demanded.
She nodded. ‘It’s done.’
As he made for the door, Chippy moved forward as if to speak to him. Barrett Doran looked right through her.
She recoiled, her face even more tragic, and came disconsolately over towards the group to whom Sydnee was dispensing drinks.
‘Now, there we are . . . a pint, lager and lime, dry white wine, and . . . yours was the gin and tonic, Charles? Right?’
‘Oh. I asked for a whisky, actually.’
‘Ah.�
�� Sydnee looked back hopelessly at the increasing crowd around the bar.
‘Never mind. That’s fine,’ said Charles, taking the drink, prepared to change the habits of a lifetime. He didn’t like the taste of gin much, but alcohol was alcohol.
Chippy looked as if she wanted to speak to her friend, but she was interrupted by the arrival of a young man, whose earphones and transmitter identified him as a Floor Manager. ‘Chippy, Clayton wants to go and have something to eat. Can you go and cover in the studio while he’s off?’
‘I suppose so.’ Chippy didn’t sound keen on the idea.
‘He’s waiting till you come.’
‘Okay.’ She turned to Sydnee. ‘Listen, we’ll talk later. Okay?’
‘Sure. What have you got to do?’
‘Keep an eye on the props in Studio B. We’ve got some rather valuable – not to say dangerous – stuff down there.’
‘Sure. See you.’
Chippy wandered sadly off, and Sydnee went to phone Make-up and try and sort out a schedule for getting the ‘professions’ made up without meeting anyone they shouldn’t. Make-up was proving to be a headache. Already the girls were having to work through their meal-break, which was going to put them on time-and-a-half. At least. Which was going to bump up the budget. Which would not please John Mantle.
The hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor stood, sipping their drinks, avoiding each other’s eyes, unable to dredge up even the most fatuous scrap of conversation.
Charles Paris downed his gin and tonic, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. He needed another drink. He hadn’t bothered to bring a bottle with him, relying on television’s usual plethora of Hospitality Rooms. But it looked as if on this occasion he might have come unstuck. He was going to have to stock up for the evening.
He didn’t offer to buy drinks for the others. For one thing, none of them had finished their first round; for another, spending the whole afternoon with them had induced in Charles a kind of selfish misanthropy.
