Merely Players

by J M Gregson

  It was one of his favourite phrases over the last year, and one of his most meaningless. Peach could see now where this was going. He said heavily, ‘You’re good at public relations work, sir. It’s one of your strengths. It was never one of mine.’

  ‘Then you must make it so, Percy. You must address your weaknesses.’

  Still his forename. There was a shitty job coming up, for sure. ‘I pride myself on collaring criminals, sir. Whereas – well, you’re good at public relations.’

  ‘We have been asked to speak to our Asian community – to build on our already good relationship with them. I want you at my side on the platform. I shall deal with the general questions, you will provide practical examples of how good policing is helping these people, even though I find some of them are suspicious and uncooperative. This will be valuable experience for you.’

  In other words, you’ll deliver the general, meaningless platitudes, but if we collect any tricky questions about discrimination, they’ll be passed to me. ‘This isn’t one of my strengths, sir.’

  ‘Then it damn well ought to be! I’m acting on the chief constable’s instructions here, Peach. If necessary, this will become an order.’

  At least ‘Percy’ had disappeared, now that the cards were on the table. He said heavily, ‘In that case, I shall put my limited talents at your disposal, sir.’

  It was a view of the great northern city that would not have been possible thirty years ago, when the rows of tightly terraced houses which had given Coronation Street its setting were still being demolished.

  From the fourteenth floor of this new block, Adam Cassidy now looked out over the new Manchester. The spectacular stainless steel and glass of the Lowry Art Gallery glinted in the soft autumn sunlight, with the water of the ship canal setting it off on two sides. On the other side of the slim arc of the lifting footbridge, the newly completed Imperial War Museum North rose impressively, moving the eye on to that arena of more peaceful contests, the football ground at Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams, the publicity boys had labelled it. Well, Adam Cassidy was here today to further his dreams.

  The man who stood behind his shoulder as he looked out at all this did not hurry him. Accommodation in this spectacular high-rise building had been expensive to acquire and he now paid plenty in council tax for an office suite with this impressive view. So let it do its work and impress his visitor. He hadn’t met Adam Cassidy before; two brief phone conversations had been the extent of their previous communication. The actor was a little older and a little shorter than he had expected, but that was usual when you met men who had acquired a degree of glamour. He waited until Cassidy turned away from the big window, then gestured towards the armchair and took the one opposite it for himself.

  Mark Gilbey wore an expensive lightweight suit and a silk tie. His features were tanned so deeply that he might have been from the Middle East. He had small, neat features, of which the most remarkable were his deep-set, dark-brown eyes, which gave the impression of continually seeing more than the actual scene in front of him. He wore a small gold earring, which was easily removable for those of his clients who preferred a more conservative appearance. His visitor had refused tea but accepted a dry sherry, in which Mark had joined him. He sipped from his glass and waited for his visitor to take the initiative; most show business people liked to feel that they were controlling things. He would keep his eye on Cassidy’s sherry during this exchange, replenishing it if necessary. It was always good to know from the outset if a client was a drinker.

  Adam sat back and appeared at ease. An actor could always simulate relaxation, even if he did not feel it. He said, ‘I must make it clear from the beginning that anything we say to each other this afternoon must be completely confidential.’

  Gilbey offered his most knowing smile, the one that said that already they had an understanding, that they appreciated each other and their respective needs. ‘That goes without saying. It is my normal practice. Anything disclosed to the media will normally be on my client’s initiative, not mine.’

  ‘You should understand that I am under contract to another agent at the moment.’

  ‘Most people who come to us currently have other agents. That is because we do not need to take on people who are not already successful.’ An easy, confident smile. Let the prospective customer know that you do not need to grovel for trade. Tell Cassidy that whilst you might welcome his custom, it will not be the end of the world for you if he doesn’t sign up.

  ‘I would need to be convinced that you can offer me wider prospects, that you can secure the kind of work I envisage for myself in the next few years.’

  ‘I look forward to convincing you, Mr Cassidy.’

  ‘I want film work.’

  The usual story. Get yourself a television success and move on to Hollywood and world glory. It was understandable enough, considering the obscene sums still volunteered to stars by film moguls. And this man had possibilities. Others before him had moved on from television leads in adventure hokum to James Bond; if Roger Moore could do it, there was certainly hope for Adam Cassidy. The kind of popular success he was enjoying in television was surprisingly easy to sell to Hollywood, now that such series were sold around the world. Mark Gilbey noted down a few details of Cassidy’s career to date. He already had most of this on the profile his PA had prepared for him, but it was always interesting to hear how actors saw themselves.

  Gilbey pursed his lips, then delivered his prepared speech. ‘You’re seeking to move into a very competitive world, as you no doubt appreciate. But in your case I consider it is a realistic aspiration; you’ve done the spadework with your Alec Dawson series. We have good contacts both here and in America. I suggest I conduct some exploratory work on your behalf and then come back to you. You will need to sever your ties with your present agent to facilitate this process.’

  ‘That seems a sensible approach.’

  ‘There will be no fee at this stage. If we eventually secure you an acceptable offer, I would expect you to sign up with the agency at that point.’

  ‘That is eminently acceptable.’ Adam found himself trying to use phrases Gilbey might have used to him. It was always a temptation for an actor; sometimes the last person you wanted to present was yourself.

  ‘This preliminary procedure will probably take a week to ten days. May I ring you then at the number you gave me?’

  ‘Yes. And only at that number, please. It is my home number. But I would prefer that you spoke only to me about this.’

  ‘Good. That is understood.’ Gilbey made a final note and stood up. ‘I look forward to doing business with you, Mr Cassidy. And I hope ours will be a long association.’

  Adam tried to control his elation as the lift bore him back to earth. He had at that moment no knowledge of how long this new association would last.

  FIVE

  Adam Cassidy had secured his first small role after leaving drama school in 1990 in a revival of An Inspector Calls. The lead part had been played by Dean Morley.

  Dean was only five years older than Adam and he had taken the raw young actor under his wing. He had helped him with the delivery of his lines. At Adam’s request, he had taken him through his one major speech in private, showing him how he could make a greater impact if he could make himself take it more slowly. You could give greater impact to ordinary phrases if you delivered them after a pause, could make dialogue seem better than it was if you made it important to yourself. They must have talked about such things at drama school, though Adam couldn’t remember it. In any case, this was the first practical application of it for him. He had learned the lesson eagerly at the time, and found it still useful with the occasionally stilted dialogue of the Call Alec Dawson series.

  Dean had continued to help Adam in his first few years in the business, putting in a mention for him with casting directors, recommending him to the agent who secured him a tiny part in a low-budget British film, and, most important of all, using a contact t
o get the eager young man his first small speaking roles in television. It was not entirely altruistic, of course: few things are in a cut-throat and overcrowded profession. Morley realized that a young man with Cassidy’s looks and common sense might make progress, and eventually be able to reciprocate these favours.

  More immediately, the twenty-two-year-old Adam Cassidy was a young Adonis and Dean Morley was homosexual. He was not one of the prancing queers more common in fiction than in fact. He was never aggressive and always discreet. Nor was he stupid; he saw Adam giving attention to the young women who were always at hand in green rooms and could not ignore it. But there was always a chance that he might be bisexual; there were many precedents for that, in a business which seemed to redistribute hormones copiously and ambiguously. Dean Morley was an optimist.

  He was also well used to refusals. When Adam decisively rejected his advances, he shrugged his shoulders and got on with the acting life. There were always other possibilities and Dean exploited them cheerfully. Life wasn’t to be taken too seriously, he told everyone. He maintained a boisterous exterior and trusted that no one would see the quiet desperation which besets the lives of all men.

  In any case, his early kindnesses to Adam Cassidy were certainly not wasted. As the younger man’s television successes rapidly surpassed those of Morley, he remembered those early days. Dean found that a succession of supporting roles came his way as a result of the rising star’s recommendations. He was forty-seven now, and he found he was increasingly playing villains and character parts, but that did not matter. Dean had seen too much of the business to worry about the roles which came his way; the important thing was to keep working, which he generally did. A well-known television face could always secure theatre work.

  Now the fourth series of the Alec Dawson adventures was almost complete and the casting was already proceeding for a fifth. There was a plan to give Alec Dawson a regular opponent, who would be repeatedly frustrated by the latest Dawson swash and buckle. A modern version of Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, who had set his mighty talents and intellectual acumen against the even mightier ones of Sherlock Holmes. Dean Morley saw himself as a natural for this part. He had a wide experience of playing villains by now; he knew how to be smooth and sinister at the same time, which he saw as the vital combination for this super-villain. And he knew how to play off the personality and acting idiosyncrasies of his friend Adam Cassidy, didn’t he? He could make Alec Dawson into an even bigger star by forming an intriguing duo with him.

  Acting is the worst profession of all for fostering illusions.

  Dean Morley had settled down now. After his years of cheerful promiscuity, he had acquired a regular partner and bought a flat. They had even talked of a civil ceremony next year, when he had secured the regular villain’s role in the Call Alec Dawson saga and with it financial security for life. The repeats around the world already brought in a steady income, and he would be able to pick and choose his theatrical roles once he became the regular foil for Alec Dawson. Even Iago might not be out of the question, once the public had him classed as a villain; after all, he was the right age for it now.

  The illusion was getting a firmer hold.

  Three days after Adam Cassidy had visited Mark Gilbey, he was relaxing with a mug of coffee with Dean Morley and other members of the Alec Dawson cast. The short scene they had been shooting had gone well, but they were awaiting the director’s verdict after his viewing of the shoot. Adam liked these interludes, where he could be just one of the cast like the others, yet find his opinions treated with a little more respect than anyone else’s. It was the sort of respect accorded to the head of the gang’s pronouncements in his school days, subtle and unspoken, but quite definite. It was power, of course. The leading actor in a series always acquired power, whether he wanted it or not. Most people did want it, and Mark was no exception to the rule.

  Even though technically it was the casting director who did the hiring and firing, the opinions of the star were always heeded. The bigger the star, the greater the heed. At the back of every decision was the unspoken thought that if the star withdrew his presence, the whole project would collapse; it was very unusual for a leading role in an established series to be recast. The public were comfortable with the lead who had established himself; many of them did not clearly distinguish the actor from his role, so that they did not take kindly to a new face usurping that persona.

  When the latest theatre gossip was exhausted, the bit players went off to check whether their services would be needed again that day, leaving Dean Morley together with his old friend and one-time protégé. Adam watched the blue smoke curling slowly upwards from Dean’s cigarette and said with the righteousness of the ex-smoker, ‘Be the death of you, those tubes, if you keep on using them.’

  Dean nodded, stubbing out a fag which still had a few draws left in it. ‘I’m not sure it’s allowed here any more. No one’s objected, so far.’ Green room practice tended to avoid the rules, in a situation where stress and anxiety were constant facts of life. ‘I still use them to relax at work. I’ve given them up altogether at home.’

  ‘How is Keith?’ Adam was pleased with himself for remembering the name of Morley’s partner.

  ‘He’s doing fine. He sold a painting last week. That always cheers him up. But this week he’s painting the lounge, so I expect him to be in a foul mood when I get back. I think I’d better pick up a bottle of gin on the way home.’

  Adam was grateful for the clues. He remembered now; Keith had a part-time job as an art gallery curator, but aspirations to be a full-time professional artist. He said conventionally, ‘It can’t be easy, trying to sell serious art when you’re not a big name.’

  ‘It isn’t. But we get by. And we’re happy with each other.’ Dean wanted to tell people about that, but no one ever asked you, the way they asked heterosexuals about their liaisons. He wanted to tell everyone that at forty-seven he had discovered the most important love of his life, but no one gave you the chance to do that. There was a pause before he said, ‘You’re doing well. New series lined up, and more to come after that if you want it. You’ve come a long way from that lad playing a motorcycle courier with two lines.’

  He hadn’t intended to mention that, but the temptation to harp back to the help he had offered in Cassidy’s early days had been irresistible. Adam gave a little frown before he smiled his recognition of those far-off times. Dean glanced towards the door, wondering how long this privacy would last. It wasn’t easy to get Adam on his own, these days. He didn’t want to ring him up. He needed to drop his question into a more casual situation: a situation like this, in fact. ‘I’m looking forward to being your regular foil in the next series. Be like old times, eh?’

  ‘Regular foil?’ Adam knew what Dean meant, but he wanted time to think. It was part of that power which leading actors had, making people spell out the things they didn’t want to.

  Dean took a deep breath and strove to keep it light. ‘The criminal mastermind who’s worthy of Alec Dawson’s mettle. The villain whose machinations seem to have every chance of success, until they meet the energy and intellect of Alec.’ He was trying to treat the role upon which his whole future rested as if it were a curious trifle.

  Adam frowned again, for a little longer this time. ‘It seems to have been accepted that that’s the way we’ll go. But as I understand it, the role hasn’t been cast yet.’

  ‘But it’s as a result of my performance in this series that a permanent opponent for you is envisaged. There is surely an understanding that the part should be mine. I think both the producer and the director envisage that.’

  ‘Really? Well, in that case, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ He gave his old comrade a bland smile, then glanced at his Rolex.

  It was that gesture which filled Dean Morley with a sudden horror. He knew that he should leave it now. Pleading with stars was like pleading with departing lovers; it emerged only as a sign of weakness. But he cou
ldn’t help himself. ‘It’s important to us, this, Adam. Keith doesn’t earn a lot. This part could mean security for us.’

  A moderately successful actor, begging him to secure the future of a couple of puffs. Adam Cassidy enjoyed the feeling of power in that dismissive phrase, though he knew that in an hour or two he would despise himself for it. ‘Then I hope it all works out for you, of course.’

  ‘You can put in a word for me, Adam. You know the way it works. If the star’s happy with a support player, his opinion counts. And you’re a big star now. Perhaps even bigger than you realize.’ Dean despised himself for the shameless flattery of the phrases, even as he delivered them. But he must make the man see how crucial this part was for him, for Keith, for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Oh, I’m just a jobbing actor who’s been lucky, Dean. You should know that better than most.’ Adam smiled his modest television smile; this was almost a rehearsal for his next interview. ‘I’ll do my best, of course, but I don’t think you should count any chickens until they’re very fully hatched.’

  ‘Who’d you say it was?’

  ‘Granada Television, sir.’

  ‘Put them through.’

  ‘Superintendent Tucker?’

  ‘It’s Chief Superintendent Tucker, actually.’

  ‘Sorry. Granada TV here. I’m Pat Dolan. Your name was passed to me by Janet Jackson from our newsroom staff. I think she’s met you when you’ve held media conferences about serious crimes.’

  Tucker was immediately wary: his last TV encounter hadn’t gone well. ‘I remember Janet, yes. But I’m happy to say we have no high-profile murders for you at the moment.’

  A sudden cackle of laughter made him move the receiver two inches away from his ear. ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that, Chief Superintendent. This is a very different request. I’m wondering if you’d like to appear on Gerry Clancy’s afternoon programme. We usually have either two or three interviews, with people from very different backgrounds. The emphasis is on entertainment. You’d counterbalance show-business personalities for us.’