by Simon Brett
The impotence panic seemed miles away. It was another person who had felt that nausea of fear in his stomach. Long ago.
They had made love beautifully. Frances’ body was like a well-read book, familiar and comforting. Her limbs were thinner, the tendons a bit more prominent and the skin of her stomach loose. But she was still soft and warm. They had made love gently and easily, their bodies remembering each other’s rhythms. It’s something you never forget, Charles reflected. Like riding a bicycle.
He switched on the radio by the bedside. It was tuned to Capital Radio-pop music and jingles. So that’s what Frances listened to. Strange. It was so easy to condemn her as bourgeois and predictable. When you actually came down to it, everything about her was unexpected. What appeared to be passivity was just the great calm that emanated from her.
When he was dressed, he needed human companionship and so rang his agent. ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes,’ said a voice.
‘Maurice.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Maurice, I know that’s you. It’s me, Charles.’
‘Oh, hello. How’d the radio go?’
‘Ghastly. It was the worst script I’ve ever seen.’
‘It’s work, Charles.’
‘Yes, just.’
‘Were you rude to anybody?’
‘Not very. Not as rude as I felt like being.’
‘Who to?’
‘The producer.’
‘Charles, you can’t afford it. Already you’ll never get another job on Doctor Who.’
‘I wasn’t very rude. Anything coming up?’
‘Some vacancies on the permanent company at Hornchurch.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Chance of a small part in a Softly, Softly.’
‘Put my name up.’
‘New play at one of these new fringe theatres. About transvestites in a prison. Political overtones. Written by a convict.’
‘It’s not really me, is it, Maurice?’ in his best theatrical knight voice.
‘I don’t know what is you any more, Charles. I sometimes wonder if you want to work at all.’
‘Hmm. So do I.’
‘What are you living on at the moment?’
‘My second childhood.’
‘I don’t get ten per cent of that.’
‘No. What else is new?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on. Give us the dirt.’
‘Isn’t any. Well, except for the Sally Nash business…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, you know who the disc jockey was, for a start…’ And Maurice started. He was one of London’s recognised authorities on theatrical gossip. Malicious rumour had it that he kept a wall-chart with coloured pins on who was sleeping with who. The Sally Nash case gave him good copy. It was the Lambton affair of the theatre, complete with whips, boots, two-way mirrors and unnamed ‘show-business personalities’. For half an hour Maurice named them all. Eventually, he rang off. That’s why he was such a lousy agent. Spent all his time gossiping.
By the Thursday morning Charles’ mellowness felt more fragile. When he woke at nine, Frances had already gone to school. He tottered downstairs and made some coffee to counteract the last night’s Beaujolais. The coffee tasted foul. Laced with Scotch, it tasted better. He drank it down, poured a glass of neat Scotch and went upstairs to dress.
The inside of his shirt collar had dark wrinkles of dirt, and his socks made their presence felt. Soon he’d have to get Frances to wash something or go back to Hereford Road and pick up some more clothes.
He sloped back downstairs. Frances’ Guardian was neatly folded on the hall chest. No time to read it at school. Organised read in the evening. It had to be the Guardian.
Charles slumped on to the Harrods sofa and started reading an article on recycling waste paper. It failed to hold his attention. He checked the television times and switched on Play School. The picture was muzzy. He started fiddling with the UHF contrast knob. The phone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘Charles.’
‘Jacqui. Where on earth did you get this number?’
‘You gave it me ages ago. Said you were contactable there in the last resort.’
‘Yes. I suppose it is my last resort. What’s up?’
‘It’s about Marius.’
‘Yes?’
‘I tried to contact him again. Went to the house in Bayswater. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose. Should’ve left him alone. Should be able to take a bloody hint. I don’t know.’
‘What happened?’
‘He wasn’t there. But this morning I had a letter.’
‘From Marius?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t signed, but it must be. It’s horrid. Charles, I’m shit-scared.’
‘Shall I come round?’
‘Can you?’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Why did you ring me, Jacqui?’
‘Couldn’t think of anyone else.’
After he had put the phone down, Charles switched off Play School. He took an old envelope from the table and wrote on it in red felt pen, ‘THANKS. GOODBYE. SEE YOU.’ Then he left the house and set out for Highgate tube station.
III
Who Was at the Ball
Charles looked at the sheet of paper. It was pale blue with a dark bevelled edge and, on it, scrawled in black biro capitals, was an uncompromising message. Basically, it told Jacqui to get lost when she wasn’t wanted. And basically was the way it was done. The language was disgusting and the note anonymous. ‘Charming. Are you sure it’s from him?’
‘No one else had any reason.’
‘And is the language in character?’
‘Yes, he never was very delicate. Particularly when he was angry. Could be quite frightening.’
‘Paper familiar?’
‘Yes. He had it on his desk at Orme Gardens. Some headed, some plain like this.’
‘Hmm. Well, there’s only one way to treat shit of this sort.’ Charles screwed the note up into a dark glass ashtray and set it on fire with the table lighter. When the flame had gone, he blew the black ash carefully into the waste-paper basket. ‘When did it come?’
‘It was on the mat when I got up. About eleven. A bit after.’
‘Come by post?’
‘No. Plain envelope. On the table.’
Charles leant over and picked it up. Blue, matching the paper. Told him nothing. ‘And I suppose you didn’t…’
‘See anyone? No.’
‘It’s a fairly nasty way of breaking something off, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She looked near to tears. ‘And I thought it was going so well.’
‘Perhaps he’s just a nasty man.’
‘He could be, I know. But with me he was always kind. When we were in France, he-’
‘When was this?’
‘We went in August, came back in October. Marius’s got a villa down the South. Sainte-Maxime. It’s a lovely place. Private beach.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Anyway, he took me there to recuperate.’
‘What from?’
‘I’d had an abortion.’
‘His baby?’
‘Yes. He fixed it up, but it didn’t quite go right. I was ill. So he took me out to Sainte-Maxime.
‘And he was there all the time?’
‘Yes. He’d been ill too-had a minor heart-attack. He was meant to be resting, though, of course, being Marius, he was in touch with the office every day.’
‘It was just the two of you out there?’
‘Mostly. Some friends of his dropped in, theatre people. And Nigel for a bit.’
‘Nigel?’
‘His son.’
‘Oh yes.’ Charles remembered someone once mentioning that Steen had a son. ‘I didn’t think they got on.’
‘That was ages ago. They made it up, more or less. Nigel works in the business.’
‘And while you were out in France, it was all OK? Between you and Marius?’
‘And now he sends you notes like that. You can’t think of any reason for the change in his attitude?’
Jacqui hesitated. ‘No. Would you like some lunch?’
While she cooked, Charles went down to the off-licence and bought a bottle of wine. It was obvious from Jacqui’s manner that she did have an idea why Steen had changed. And that she was going to tell him. It was only a matter of waiting.
The lunch was unremarkable. Jacqui was a frozen food cook. He remembered it from Worthing. Endless beef-burgers and cod steaks with bright peas and diced vegetables. But the wine made it passable. They talked back to Worthing, hedging round the subject of Steen. Eventually, as Charles drained the bottle evenly into their two glasses, he asked, ‘What do you want me to do, Jacqui?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve brought me round here for a reason.’
‘I was frightened.’
‘Yes, but there’s something else.’
‘Yes.’ She looked very vulnerable. Again he felt the sense of debt that had started when he failed her in bed. The contract was unfulfilled. If he could not serve her in one way, he would serve her in another. It’s strange, he thought, is this what chivalry’s come to?
‘I do want you to do something for me, Charles. It’s sort of awkward. You see, I think I know… I think I might know why Marius is behaving like this. He might think… you see…’ Charles bided his time. Jacqui looked at him directly and said, ‘You’ve heard of all this Sally Nash business?’
‘Yes. Is Marius involved in that?’
‘Not really. Not with the prostitutes. It’s just… well, she, Sally Nash, used to be at some parties that we went to.’
‘Just ordinary parties?’
‘Well…’ Jacqui smiled sheepishly. ‘No, not ordinary parties really. Things happened.’
‘I didn’t know that was your scene. I thought you only slept with one man at a time and…’ Charles tailed off, embarrassed.
‘No, it’s not my sort of thing. But Marius was into all that. Only a bit. Nothing very serious.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Don’t sound so bloody superior. It’s easy for a man. If you’re a girl you have to get interested in what your bloke’s interested in. If he’s mad on football, you watch Match of the Day. If it’s two-way mirrors, well…’
‘Was it like that in the South of France?’
‘No. It was only a couple of times we ever did it. Last June. There was a party in Holland Park, and one near Marble Arch.’
‘But they were Sally Nash’s parties?’
‘She was there.’
‘And what’s the danger? Are you going to be called as a witness?’
‘Bloody hell.’ She looked very affronted. ‘Look, I may be a tart, but I’m not a whore.’ Charles tried vaguely to work out the distinction, but fortunately Jacqui clarified. ‘All these girls they’re calling in the trial do it for money.’
‘I’m sorry. Then what’s the…?’
‘There are some photographs.’
‘Of you and Steen at the party?’
‘Yes. With some other people.’
‘Naughty photos?’
‘A bit naughty. But I think that’s why Marius doesn’t want to be seen with me.
‘Why? Are the photographs going to come up in court?’
‘No, they aren’t. But Marius must think they will. It’s the only explanation.’
‘But if you’re both in the photos, he could be identified anyway. It doesn’t make any difference whether he’s seen with you or not.
‘No, Charles. The point is, they can’t tell it’s him. His face is covered.’
‘Don’t tell me-with a black leather mask.’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? I was joking.’
‘Well it is.’
‘But you, on the other hand, are not covered?’
‘No. Far from it.’
‘Hmm. How do you know they won’t come up in court?’
‘Because I’ve got them. I paid a lot of money for them.’
‘Did someone blackmail you?’
‘No. The Sally Nash trial started on Friday, and I bought them off the bloke who took them on Saturday.’
‘How much?’
‘Thousand quid.’
Charles looked at her quizzically and she explained. ‘Marius had given me some money to buy a car, but it hardly seems worth buying one now, with all this petrol scene.’
Charles reflected momentarily on the difference between a tart and a whore and decided he was being a bit harsh. Particularly as Jacqui continued, ‘I wanted to give them to Marius as a present. Set his mind at rest. And now I can’t get to see him. I daren’t send them through the post or letter-box, because his secretary’ll see them…’
Suddenly Charles’ role in the proceedings became very clear to him. ‘And so you want me to deliver them?’
Armed with an innocuous-looking brown envelope, Charles Paris returned to his room in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing furnished bedsitter, which he’d moved into when he left Frances. Nothing except his clothes and scripts gave it any identity. The furniture had been painted grey by some earlier occupant, but was mostly obscured by drip-dry shirts on wire hangers. A low upholstered chair with wooden arms sat in front of the gas-fire. There was a small table covered with paper and carbons, a rickety kitchen chair, a single bed shrouded in yellow candlewick, and in one corner, inadequately hidden by plastic curtain, a sink and gas-ring.
Whenever Charles entered the room, fumes of depression threatened to choke him. Every now and then, in a surge of confidence, he would consider moving, but he never got round to it. The room was somewhere to sleep and he did his best to ensure that that was all he did there.
He got back about five and, before the atmosphere of the room had time to immobilise him, opened the cupboard, got out a half-full bottle of Bell’s and poured himself a healthy measure. After a substantial swallow, he felt he could look at his surroundings. It was more of a mess than usual. Candlewick in disarray on the unmade bed, coffee cup with a white crust on the table. Cold December air was gushing through the open window. He remembered leaving it to air the place on… when was it? Monday? Yes, Monday, 3rd December. The day he’d done that bloody awful radio play.
He slammed the window and put on the gas-fire. It hissed resentfully but came alight (which was more than it sometimes did). He felt strongly in need of a bath, stripped off his grubby clothes and put on a shapeless towelling dressing-gown. Taking a fivepence from his change, he went down to the bathroom on the first landing, checked that the water wasn’t running hot, and fed the meter.
Then he remembered soap and towel. Upstairs again to get them. Inevitably, the bathroom door was locked when he returned. The sound of running water came from inside.
Charles hammered on the door and shouted abuse, but the strange singsong voice that replied over the sound of water told him it was useless. One of the Swedish girls. There seemed to be hundreds of them in the house. And, he thought as he savagely stumped upstairs, all of them old boots. They really shattered the myth of Scandinavian beauty, that lot. Spotty girls with glasses and ruggerplayers’ legs. He slammed the door, picked up the whisky bottle and fell into the chair.
The gas-fire spluttered at him as he sat and thought. There was something odd about the whole business with Jacqui. Her explanation about the photographs seemed unconvincing. In fact, her account of Steen’s sudden change of behaviour didn’t ring true either. A man in his position who wanted to get rid of a girl-friend needn’t go to the length of obscene notes.
For a moment the thought crossed Charles’ mind that he was being used in some sort of plot. To carry something. What? Drugs? Or just what Jacqui said it was-dirty pictures? But it seemed ridiculous. A much simpler explanation was that she was telling the truth.
The way to find out, of course,
was to look in the envelope. He’d known since he had had the photographs that sooner or later he would. And, he reasoned, Jacqui must have assumed he would. She hadn’t asked him not to; the envelope was unsealed. But he still felt slightly guilty as he shuffled them into his hand.
There were six, and they were exactly what Jacqui had said they would be-obscene pictures of her and Marius Steen. Perhaps obscene was the wrong word; they didn’t have any erotic effect on Charles; but they intrigued and rather revolted him.
The photographs had the posed quality of amateur dramatics. Steen’s body was old, a thin belly and limbs like a chicken’s. The tatty little leather mask made him look ridiculous. But, Charles was forced to admit, the old man was rather well endowed.
But it was the sight of Jacqui that affected him. There she was in a series of contrived positions-astride Steen, bending down in front of him, under him on a bed. The sight was a severe shock to Charles; it made him feel almost sick. Not the acts that were going on; he’d seen and done worse, and somehow they seemed very mild and meaningless on these shoddy little snapshots. But it was the fact that it was Jacqui which upset him. He didn’t feel jealousy or lust, but pity and again the urgent desire to protect her. It was as if he was seeing the photographs as her father.
A click and silence told him that the gas meter had run out. Blast, he hadn’t got a ten p. Brusquely, he shoved the photographs back into the envelope, sealed it and dressed. Then he started his campaign to get to see Marius Steen. It was half past seven. He went to the call box on the landing and rang up Bernard Walton, currently starring in Virgin on the Ridiculous at the Dryden Theatre.
IV
Prince Charming
George, the stage doorman at the Dryden Theatre, looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Charles Paris. Mr Walton is expecting me.’
George’s face registered total disbelief and he turned to the telephone. Charles wondered vaguely if the old man had recognised him. After all, he’d come in every night for eighteen months during the run of The Water Nymph only ten years before. But no, the name Charles Paris meant nothing. So much for the showbiz myth of the cheery old ‘never forget a face-I seen ’em all’ doorman. George was a bloody-minded old sod and always had been.
