by Simon Brett
There were two chairs in the room. Their wooden parts were gilded and the upholstery was crimson velveteen. Function chairs, the kind that are always stacked up in hotel basements to be brought out for dinners and weddings.
Was it possible they were the same ones that had been in the dressing room when Katrina died? Charles inspected them. On the fabric of one was a tiny pale mark. Not something stuck on, not something that had made a hole. It looked as if a drop of fluid had landed on the chair seat and leached away the colour from that tiny circle of cloth.
Charles Paris was now convinced that household bleach had been poured into the mascara tube.
Entering the Green Room to do the last few clues of The Times crossword – he felt confident he’d finish it today – he found Geraldine Romelle stretched out on a sofa reading her Montaigne. She was wearing those trousers midway between leggings and jeans which most women seemed to be wearing that year and they perfectly outlined her legs and thighs. The tightness of the trousers did so much of the work for him that Charles couldn’t help imagining what she’d look like completely naked. Nor could he help remembering many happy afternoons he’d spent enjoying female company while on tour. And, not for the first time, by ‘female company’ he meant ‘sex’.
They exchanged ‘Hi’s and he told her he’d just been upstairs. ‘All the police tape’s been removed from the star dressing room. It’s open again.’
‘Yes, I saw that.’
It struck Charles that, in his new role as Tony Copeland’s investigator, he should miss no opportunity to pick company members’ brains about Katrina Selsey’s death, so he subtly moved the conversation in that direction. ‘I had a look inside. It’s like Katrina never existed.’
Geraldine shrugged, as if to say that the loss had not been a great one. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘her absence has made for a more relaxed company.’
‘And a better show.’
‘Indeed. And while obviously feeling sympathy for her friends and family, I can’t pretend to be sorry that she’s no longer playing Ophelia.’
‘Oh?’ said Charles, hoping she would be encouraged to expand on this.
She was. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’m particularly full of myself, I haven’t got that many airs and graces, but the way Katrina behaved really got up my nose.’
Another prompting, ‘Oh?’
‘Look, we actors are generally speaking fairly relaxed, laid-back creatures who don’t stand on ceremony. But I do think youngsters starting out in the business should show a bit of respect for the greater experience of older members of the company.’
There was a slightly chippy quality in Geraldine Romelle’s voice which Charles hadn’t heard before. And he saw how she, playing Gertrude, and being a senior member of the company, might resent Katrina Selsey’s lack of interest in her achievements in the theatre. Also, though she still looked pretty good, Geraldine was at the age when she might be worrying about her looks going. So the introduction of a disrespectful but undeniably pretty teenager into the Hamlet company could have antagonized her quite a bit. It might be worth investigating further what Geraldine Romelle really thought of her younger rival.
‘When I looked in the star dressing room just now,’ Charles began casually, ‘I was trying to visualize exactly how Katrina died.’
‘I’m sure everyone in the company has done that.’
‘Mm.’ Charles wasn’t about to reveal his sources, so he went on, ‘I reckon she might have had some kind of shock that made her stand up, back off and fall over her chair, then hit her head on the floor.’
‘Sounds plausible.’ The words were spoken lightly enough, but Charles felt sure he could hear a new tension in Geraldine’s voice.
‘And I wondered if, because she’d made herself so unpopular, someone from the company might have done something to punish her.’
‘How do you mean – punish?’
‘Well, Geraldine, I’m sure you’ve heard lots of those old actors’ stories about nasty practical jokes that have been played on unpopular cast members …?’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, like sticking pins into someone’s wig or, even nastier, embedding razor blades in the old Leichner greasepaint sticks … you know, so that when the actor goes to make up he slashes his or her own face.’
‘I’ve never heard of that happening,’ said Geraldine tautly.
‘They’re probably apocryphal, but they’re the kind of stories that go round after actors have had a few drinks.’
‘Well, clearly I’ve never been involved in the right drinking sessions.’
‘No.’ Charles was silent for a moment before saying, ‘I was wondering whether someone might have sabotaged Katrina’s mascara …?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Put something corrosive into the tube so that when she went to repair her make-up, she—’
‘Charles, I am sorry, but since Katrina’s death I’ve heard so many fatuous conjectures about how she died that I really don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Maybe not, but …’ Charles Paris got the feeling this interrogation wasn’t getting anywhere.
‘God,’ Geraldine Romelle said suddenly, ‘Ned English is such an arsehole!’
As a means of changing the subject, Charles couldn’t deny that it was a very effective one. There was no way he could stop himself from asking, ‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s just taken me out for lunch.’
‘Doesn’t sound very offensive so far.’
‘No, I agree. It was a very nice lunch in an excellent restaurant. And Ned kept trying to ply me with alcohol and I kept telling him that I never drink during the day when I’m performing in the evening.’
What an admirable practice, thought Charles, though an unfamiliar one. The idea didn’t really appeal to him. ‘So what did Ned do wrong?’
‘He just kept going on about how successful he was with women.’
‘Ah. Yes, I’ve had a bit of that from him,’ said Charles, remembering their conversation at the Ivy.
‘Apparently, he’s got this incredibly young girlfriend.’
‘He mentioned that to me too.’
‘And when he told me this, I don’t know what he wanted me to do. Slap him on the back? Tell him what a dog he was? What a rogue? What a sex-god? Though I must say, of all the men to whom I might apply that particular description, Ned English wouldn’t even make it to the back of the queue.’
‘So, apart from crowing about his conquest of the younger woman …?’
‘Well, I guess he was asking my advice. The thing is, this girl he’s with was one of the unsuccessful contestants on StarHunt.’
‘Really? That I didn’t know.’
‘Yes, when it came to the final voting, Katrina Selsey got the gig and Ned’s girl – called, unbelievably, Billie-Louise – came, I don’t know, third or fourth.’
It made sense to Charles, the idea of Ned English using his importance on StarHunt as a seduction technique.
‘But the impression I got,’ Geraldine continued, ‘was that, so far as Ned was concerned, the girl was beginning to get rather demanding.’
‘Rather in the way that Katrina Selsey did?’
‘Yes. From his description of Billie-Louise, she could have been a Katrina Selsey clone.’
‘Well, surely he can just dump her?’
‘Ah, but this is the problem. Ned reckons he’s in love.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘It’s the real thing. All his former relationships have only been groundwork, tedious preparation for the grand amour that is Billie-Louise.’
‘Huh. God, aren’t men stupid?’
‘Oh yes,’ Geraldine Romelle agreed with something like fervour.
‘So what kind of thing is Billie-Louise pressurizing Ned to do?’
‘It’s entirely predictable. Katrina Selsey won the part of Ophelia in StarHunt, Billie-Louise was one of the runners-up. Katrina’s no longer on the scene. Ned’s the dire
ctor of the show. Billie-Louise reckons he’s in a position to give the part of Ophelia to her.’
‘Ah. I see. So Milly Henryson would be out the window?’
‘Right. And Billie-Louise apparently argues that the viewing public know her from having gone through so many rounds of StarHunt and it’d be great publicity if she took over the role.’
‘Which, knowing how besotted people in this country are with anything “from off the telly”, might be true.’
‘It might, Charles. Anyway, this is Ned English’s dilemma. Obviously, for the recasting of Billie-Louise to happen, Tony Copeland would have to agree. And Ned said he took me out to lunch because he wanted my advice on whether to put the suggestion to Tony Copeland or not.’
‘Are you particularly close to Tony?’
‘Absolutely not! I’ve been in other productions for his company, yes, but I don’t know him more than to say hello to.’
Charles Paris’s mind was racing. Suddenly, there was a new candidate for the attack on Katrina Selsey. Ned English was under intense pressure from his teenage lover to get her the part of Ophelia. But that part would only become available when Katrina Selsey was out of the equation. Blinded by household bleach, perhaps. It was certainly an intriguing avenue for investigation.
But he didn’t share his new suspicions with Geraldine. Instead, he continued their conversation. ‘It is odd then, isn’t it, that Ned should have thought you knew Tony Copeland better than he did, that it was worth taking you out to lunch because you might be able to second-guess his reaction to the idea of casting Billie-Louise.’
‘Odd, I agree.’
There was a wryness in her tone which made Charles ask, ‘Are you implying that there was another reason why Ned took you out for lunch?’
‘Oh yes. Being on StarHunt has really gone to his head – I cannot believe the size of that man’s ego. Having spent the entire lunch maundering on about Billie-Louise and how she’s the love of his life, when we’re leaving the restaurant he actually has the nerve to come on to me! Wouldn’t I like to go back to his hotel for a quick drink, he’s always fancied me and … What is it with men?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Charles Paris. But, sadly, he did.
‘That’s what I like about you, Charles,’ said Geraldine Romelle, turning her wonderful gold-flecked eyes on him.
‘What?’
‘The fact that we just get on, we can talk about things, just chat, confident that there’s no sexual interest on either side.’
Charles wondered. Had she said that in genuine innocence? Or was it a calculated ploy to deflect any amorous advances he might be contemplating? Either way, it was very effective, leaving him in absolutely no doubt that he was never going to get anywhere with Geraldine Romelle.
‘Rod’s coming down to see the show on Saturday,’ she said, in what, depending on what she had meant by her previous remark, might or might not have been a non sequitur.
‘Rod?’
‘My husband.’
‘Ah.’ No point in saying, I didn’t know you were married. ‘Is he in the business?’
‘Good heavens no. I’m not daft.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Civil Engineer.’ Charles could really think of no comment to make on that. ‘We’re going to Bristol on Sunday. Our daughter’s at the university. Rod and I will ensure that at least one impoverished student gets a large Sunday lunch.’
It was odd; it had never occurred to Charles that Geraldine Romelle might be married. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that could mean anything in the theatre. And he realized that whenever he met an actress (actor – dammit!), he assumed she was potentially available.
Possibly reading his thoughts, Geraldine went on, ‘No, I’m lucky to possess that rarity in the theatre – a happy marriage. How about you, Charles? Do you have one?’
‘A happy marriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well …’ said Charles Paris.
NINETEEN
It was on the train from Swindon on the Friday morning that he thought of ringing Frances. The fact of going up to London planted the idea in his mind. Well, that, and the question Geraldine Romelle had asked him about his marital status.
Frances’s mobile was in answer mode, and Charles reminded himself that of course she’d be working. Headmistresses can’t take casual personal calls on Friday mornings.
So he was quite surprised when his wife rang back within ten minutes. Her voice sounded taut. ‘Charles, are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing’s happened to you?’
‘What might have happened to me?’
‘Where shall I start? You might have fallen out of a pub and been run over. You might have got sick drinking wood alcohol. You might finally have been diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver.’
Charles found all this rather offensive. It was one of those mornings when he’d woken up determined to curb his drinking. He firmly intended just to have a couple of glasses with Tibor and Portie at lunchtime, then nothing till a single virtuous pint at the end of the evening’s show.
‘Thank you. What a charming image you paint of your husband.’
‘You’re the one who provided me with the brushes and paint.’
‘Touché.’
‘And then, of course, you might have had a backstage accident. Your production of Hamlet seems to be getting more and more like Macbeth. It’s got a curse on it, consistent bad luck.’
‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear that nothing else untoward has happened since Katrina Selsey.’
‘Good. So, to what do I owe the honour of this phone call? And, Charles, if you have the nerve to say you just wanted to hear my voice, I will ring off immediately. You’re keeping me from my break-time coffee as it is.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I just, um, well … I’m on a train up to London and that made me think of you.’
‘Really?’ Her voice was dry with cynicism. ‘And why are you going up to London? Work?’
‘Sort of kind of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m meeting up with Tibor Pincus.’
‘Oh.’ Frances was impressed. She knew the Hungarian’s achievements in television. ‘Well, I suppose that might lead to something.’
‘Don’t hold your breath. We’re meeting up with an actor nicknamed Portie, who was in that telly play I did with Tibor way back. Do you remember him?’
‘Portie? Don’t think so. What’s his real name?’
‘Do you know, I can’t for the life of me remember. But he’s one of the biggest piss artists in the business.’
‘Is he?’ said Frances coldly. ‘Takes one to know one.’
‘Now that’s not fair.’
‘No?’
Charles was silent.
‘Where are you meeting them?’
‘Joe Allen.’
‘Ah. Well, don’t drink too much, Charles. Remember you’ve got to get back to Marlborough and give a performance tonight.’
‘It’s all right, Mummy,’ he said in a little boy voice. ‘I’ll be good.’
‘Huh.’ Then his wife changed the subject. ‘Is Milly doing all right?’
Of course. Frances in Mother Hen mode, worrying about her former pupil. Charles wished he’d been at a school with a head teacher as caring as his wife. And he remembered wistfully the times when he’d been in a marriage with someone that caring. Before he screwed everything up.
‘Milly’s fine. Good little actress.’ With Frances he didn’t need to make the political correction.
‘Yes …’
There was something in her voice that made Charles ask, ‘Why? Have you heard she’s got problems?’
‘Kind of.’
‘What, is this on this Facebook thing? Or Twitter?’
‘No, Charles, that’s public. Everyone could read that. No, Milly texts me occasionally, and I had one from her a couple of days ago which sounded pretty miserable.’
‘Oh yes, that’d probably be Wednesday. I had a chat with her then. She was very low.’
‘Why?’
‘The boyfriend Sam was having a major telly interview in London. I think it kind of brought home to her that her career was unlikely ever to keep pace with his.’
‘Yes …’
Again, knowing Frances so well, Charles picked up the nuance in the monosyllable. ‘Do you think there’s something else worrying her?’
‘I did rather get that message, mm.’
‘What was it?’
‘Well, she wasn’t specific, but I got the impression Milly was feeling guilty about something.’
Charles Paris didn’t frequent Joe Allen as often as some actors. He rarely worked in the West End which meant he didn’t have the geographical convenience – or the money – to use the place as a canteen. But he always felt reassuringly at home when he did go there. There was something engagingly New York about the brick-walled basement, the framed posters of stage shows long ago celebrated and mostly forgotten, and the defiant chirpiness of the waiters and waitresses with white aprons tight around their waists.
Inevitably, Portie was dominating the conversation, particularly after the second bottle of wine. He was one of those actors who was always full on, who appeared to have no introspective setting. Having been frequently described as ‘larger than life’ he seemed determined to live up to his billing. Charles wondered whether Portie too had those moments of misery and self-doubt when he was alone at three a.m. But from the way he bigged up his sex life, it seemed unlikely that he ever was alone at three a.m.
A few years older than Charles, blessed with extraordinarily good looks and boundless raw talent, Portie had had a charmed start to his career. Cast in a major television series before he’d even finished at RADA, he’d gone on to deliver an acclaimed Prince Hal and even more acclaimed Hamlet at the RSC. When he moved from the subsidized to the commercial sector, the success had continued. He had been one of those actors who make other actors sick. Whatever parts had come up on stage or television, every director wanted Portie to play them. As was customary in the theatre, no one considered that it might be fairer to spread the work a bit more evenly around the acting community. For many months Portie had been flavour of the month and nobody could get enough of that flavour.
