by Simon Brett
‘So, has the set gone in over the weekend?’
He shook his head. ‘Too expensive. Producers aren’t going to pay the crew weekend rates. No, they start building it on Tuesday. Then we have a week of techs and previews.’
‘Why are you going in tomorrow, if the set’s not up yet?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Star’s command, Frances. Justin wants us to work in the empty theatre, so that he can “acclimatize himself to the space”.’
‘Justin Who?’ asked Juliet.
‘Justin Grover.’
‘Oh, wow! He’s brilliant in the Vandals and Visigoths series!’
‘Bloody great!’ Miles agreed.
So, thought Charles glumly, the success of Sigismund the Strong has even penetrated the thick, unartistic skull of my son-in-law. That really was global fame.
Frances dozed as he drove back to London. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine at lunchtime, though, as Charles kept virtuously reminding himself, he’d had nothing. When they’d been together in the old days, she would have driven.
She’d recently acquired a newer car, a blue Skoda Fabia. He found it quite easy to drive. The London-bound Sunday evening traffic was heavy, and he looked into the cars alongside. A lot of couples, preparing for the start of the working week in the morning. To them, he and Frances must look just like another ordinary couple, married for years, never straying from their closeness.
The image was not without its appeal. Driving back from Sunday lunch with daughter and son-in-law. What could be more domesticated than that?
He reminded himself fondly that the day had started well. He’d stayed over the night before in Frances’s flat and, in the morning, before setting off for Pangbourne, they’d made love. Again, very domesticated. Almost like being married.
He resisted the strong urge to have a drink when they got back to Highgate. He found, as he had on the other rare occasions he’d tried it, that if he could get through the six-to-eight time of need, not drinking ceased to be a problem.
It was boring rather than anything else.
So, that Sunday night he sat with Frances, watching some period drama on television. Television without a drink was boring too.
The plan had been for him to go back to his place, but she didn’t object to the idea of his staying over another night. His call at the Duke of Kent in the morning wasn’t till ten. Plenty of time to go back to Hereford Road, shower and change his clothes.
When they were both in bed, he snuggled up against her back. But when he moved his hands round to her breasts, Frances gently removed them. ‘I’m tired,’ she said.
Yes, it was just like being married.
FIVE
‘OK, company, let’s just all close our eyes and breathe in the atmosphere.’
It might have been thought that, once they’d reached the Duke of Kent’s Theatre on the Monday morning, the director would be in charge. But no, it was Justin Grover who was giving the instructions. The cast had got used to this pattern during the rehearsal period. In the early days Nita Glaze had tried to impose her will on the production, but after a few set-tos with her star, she had given up the unequal struggle. She had evidently decided to grit her teeth until the show opened, and then reap the benefit of a West End credit on her CV.
It should be said that the ‘set-tos’ between director and star had not involved any shouting or flouncing. Justin Grover was not one of those actors who shouted or flounced. He just argued, very reasonably, that everything should be done the way he wanted it done. And, since the production of The Habit of Faith would not have been happening without his box-office appeal, very few people argued with him.
But he was very tactful with his director. Although his performance had been set in stone since long before rehearsals had started, he did make a few well-judged concessions to Nita. Occasionally, she would say something like, ‘I think we could make that pause longer there’ or, ‘If you say the line after you’ve made the move, it might be more effective’, and he would be fulsomely grateful for the suggestion. ‘Oh, very good note, Nita,’ he would say. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got a director with a sharp eye in this show. If I was left to my own devices, the whole thing’d be a total shambles.’
Of course, what he was saying was complete nonsense and, although Nita basically knew it was nonsense, she glowed at the commendation. Nor did she ever object when Justin ignored the note and went back to doing what he’d always intended to do.
And now he had the entire The Habit of Faith company standing on the stage of the Duke of Kent’s Theatre, closing their eyes and breathing in the atmosphere.
Though he thought Justin had sounded rather precious, Charles was not as impervious to the effect of what they were doing as his customary cynical manner might suggest. Just being in any theatre for the first time did energize him. The older and emptier that theatre was, the stronger the sensation he felt. There was a kind of magic in the backstage smells of size and dust, the mustiness of old upholstered seats. He felt a connection to all the other actors who had trodden those particular boards, and empathized with the triumphs and disasters, the tragedies and love affairs that the ancient walls had witnessed.
‘OK, that’s fine. You can open your eyes now.’
The company did as their star instructed.
‘Excellent,’ said Justin. ‘Well, I’ve now got a feeling of the place, which is always terribly important to me, as an actor. But now, over to you, Nita, for the other things you called us to do.’
The director looked confused. It wasn’t she who’d ordered the ten o’clock call at the Duke of Kent that morning. Justin Grover had issued the instruction to Stage Manager Kell Drummond. And now he was making it look as though the idea had been Nita’s.
But she was a bright girl and recovered quickly. ‘Yes, there are a few scenes I’d like to walk through,’ she improvised, ‘just to check the sightlines.’
It was a good thought, and a logical use of the whole company’s presence in the theatre. Though they couldn’t really be sure what could be visible and not visible until the set was in place, checking out some of the big scenes might be a useful exercise. And it would give Nita Glaze some credibility as the person who set up the call.
The actors who weren’t required onstage took the opportunity to explore the space that would be their home for the next three months. Charles Paris wandered with interest around the backstage area, still in thrall to the magic of the building. Though he had never acted in the Duke of Kent’s, he had on occasion visited friends who were in shows there, and he remembered the vertiginous steepness of the stairs up to the dressing rooms.
He also recalled the recurrent awkwardness engendered by such post-performance visits. Even if he hadn’t told an actor that he was going to see the show, he knew it was still de rigueur to ‘go round’ afterwards. There was always a danger that a mutual friend might have reported his presence in the audience to the actor in question, prompting the desolate wail, ‘You mean Charles Paris was there and he didn’t come round!’
Whether he’d liked the show or not, he had always found backstage encounters excruciating. Though normally adequately articulate, on such occasions he became tongue-tied. There was something about seeing fellow actors on a high from having just done a show, of which he had not been part, that robbed him of words. What was the right thing to say? He had never resorted to Alan Bennett’s recommendation of just saying ‘marvellous’ as many times as possible, but he had occasionally been guilty of using the actor’s last resort, tapping his friend on the chest and murmuring, ‘What about you then?’
Charles had been given the number of his dressing room, and located it on the second floor, up two flights of the steep stairs. When he got there, he found the door locked. No problem. He hadn’t the energy to go down to get his key from the stage doorman. He would have plenty of time to get to know the place – possibly to get sick of the place – over the next three months. He drifted back downstairs.
<
br /> On the first landing, he stood aside to let Liddy Max pass. She had been more thoughtful than he, and her dressing room key was in her hand.
‘All right?’ asked Charles, in the meaningless way one does ask, ‘All right?’
‘Good,’ said Liddy.
‘Been let off the hook, haven’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No rehearsal this afternoon. And then one last night of freedom. Before we get locked in here for the next three months.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So, what are you going to do with this precious bonus of time?’
‘Enjoy it.’
‘Who’s the lucky man?’ As soon as he’d said it, Charles knew it was a stupid question. And probably sexist. One had to be so careful these days.
But Liddy didn’t appear to be offended, just chuckled and said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ She was silent for a moment, then her face darkened as she volunteered, ‘I’ve been through a bad patch the last year. But I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Things are turning round for me. Getting the part of The Girl, and then … Yes, the next year is going to be a whole lot better.’
‘And this evening will be part of that getting better?’
‘Sure will,’ she replied very positively. ‘See you.’
Liddy turned towards her dressing room, key at the ready. Charles set off down the stairs.
And, as he did so, he realized that Liddy had not been wearing a wedding ring. Whether that was important or not, he did not know, but he remembered distinctly that she had been wearing one at the read-through.
Charles sometimes worried that he was obsessed by wedding rings on women’s hands. He often found himself craning round to see if passengers on the tube were wearing them. Watching interviews on the television news, he got frustrated by the fact that people tended to be framed from the chest up, so that their hands were out of sight, and only when they made gestures could the give-away ring be seen.
He felt pretty sure that his interest was not pervy. Nor was it a knee-jerk masculine availability check. He thought it was part of the mindset of an actor. Like writers, they had to be observant, they had to work out what made people tick. And an essential part of that process was providing backstories for them. Looking at complete strangers on public transport and trying to guess the life experiences that had brought them to that particular moment in time … Everyone did it to some extent, in an idly speculative way, but when an actor or writer did it, then that was work. Or so Charles tried to persuade himself.
Mind you, it was getting more difficult. He looked back to a time when wedding rings gave out a single, simple message: the female wearer of this ring is married to a man, or is possibly a widow. But now, with as many grooms wearing rings as brides, and same-sex couples exchanging them with their husbands or wives … Charles Paris frequently found modern life confusing.
From the foot of the stairs, he drifted towards the Green Room, where he found quite a few cast members had congregated. They were waiting to hear from the director that they’d been released. (One advantage of Justin Grover’s having them called to the theatre meant that there was no more rehearsal scheduled for the day. It would be their last free evening, Sundays excepted, for the next three months.)
Kell Drummond was there, answering general queries from the company, most about the allocation of dressing rooms. There was of course no question which one Justin Grover would get, and the relatively small cast of The Habit of Faith meant that no one would have to share. But there were still a few niggles from actors who wanted more generous accommodation. Kell rose above this, not allowing any changes and announcing that, if anyone wanted to leave stuff in their dressing rooms that day, they could do so by getting the key from the stage doorman, who went by the unlikely name of Gideon.
As he had been at the read-through – and a few times since – Charles was struck by what an attractive woman Kell was. Again, he was drawn to her earthy pragmatism, so unlike the winsomeness evident in many actresses (or did he now have to say ‘female actors’?).
Kell was stopped in mid-sentence by the ping of an arriving text. She checked her phone. ‘OK, we’re all done here. Nita’s finished onstage. Next call will be two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, assuming the set’s in by then. Two o’clock tomorrow, unless you hear to the contrary.’
It was amazing the speed with which everyone collected up their belongings and vacated the Green Room. Charles found himself alone with Kell, who was checking through some notes on her script. He looked at his watch. Just after two o’clock.
‘I was thinking of grabbing a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘You’ve got time to leave the theatre, have you?’
‘Since it’s probably the last time I’ll escape the place till the small hours of Wednesday morning – if then – yes, be a good idea to get some food inside me.’
She gave him a smile broad enough to set him wondering whether she smiled at everyone equally broadly, or was he receiving the privilege of extra broadness? He smiled back. Of course, he was devoted to Frances – he’d just spent the night with her, for heaven’s sake – but there was no denying Kell’s attractiveness.
‘There’s quite a nice pub round the corner that I used to go to when I was working at the Globe … that is, of course, when it was the Globe … before it was renamed the Gielgud. Before your time.’
The last words were said with a chuckle, but then he realized they were probably true. He couldn’t remember exactly when the Globe had been renamed, but the stage manager must have been a good fifteen years younger than him. If not twenty.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’d better warn you, with the schedule I’ve got over the next couple of weeks, I can’t drink.’
‘Could you cope with watching me drink?’
Another broad grin and a nod. ‘Once the show’s up and running, I’m available for heavy drinking sessions every night after curtain down.’
That sounded like a promise. Charles grinned back. ‘Come on then.’
Before they had made it out of the Green Room, Tod Singer and Liddy Max entered. A little way behind them came Imogen Whittaker. ‘Hi, anyone going out to eat something?’ asked Tod.
‘We were just on our way,’ said Kell.
‘May we join you?’
‘Sure,’ she replied, giving Tod a broad smile. Charles wasn’t quite sure whether it was as broad as the one he’d been granted, and didn’t enjoy making the comparison.
‘That’s great. I’m starving. I’ll soon be eating my hair,’ said Liddy. ‘You coming, Immy?’ Her understudy nodded.
‘Well, there’s a very nice pub round the—’
But Charles’s words were drowned out by Tod saying, ‘Great sandwich bar dead opposite the stage door.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Kell.
‘Brilliant,’ said Liddy.
Outside, Charles was surprised to see a gaggle of some half-dozen teenage girls, giggling and waiting for something. He gave Kell an interrogative look.
‘Grant Yeoell’s fans. Or do I mean groupies?’
‘Blimey. How did they know he was going to be in the theatre today?’
‘No secrets these days with social media around.’ Then drily, she added, ‘Really, don’t you know, Charles? It’s official. Grant Yeoell is “Sex on Legs”.’
‘Oh, he’s a lot more than that,’ said Liddy Max.
Charles was constantly amazed by the mechanics of what made men attractive to women. He could recognize that Grant was reasonably good-looking, but couldn’t really see why his images were so omnipresent on teenage girls’ bedroom walls and mobile phone screens. The fact that the real Grant Yeoell was bone-headed and dull didn’t seem to enter the equation.
Being a purely physical babe-magnet was not a problem that Charles had ever had to deal with. Any success he had had with women had been achieved by a nimble tongue and a genuine interest in the personality of the woman involved. Fortunate to be articul
ate and occasionally amusing, he was never going to get anywhere on raw sex appeal. Which was apparently what Grant Yeoell had.
Charles still found it strange, and he knew that, in such gender-sensitive times, he was probably being sexist to find it strange. In his time, he had not been unaffected by the charms of pin-ups and had never thought to enquire about their intellectual abilities. Why shouldn’t women feel the same about masculine images?
Maybe there was also an element of jealousy at work there, too. It had become clear during some weeks of rehearsing with Grant Yeoell that the young man took full advantage of his magnetism. He had no ongoing relationship, but enjoyed as many guilt-free one-night stands as he could fit into his busy schedule.
Yes, Charles Paris was jealous.
Charles took a sip of his San Pellegrino sparkling water. It wasn’t really what he’d had in mind. Nor were the tall stools pressed against the ledge in the sandwich bar window. He wasn’t convinced by his crayfish and avocado panino either.
He thought wistfully of stretching his limbs out in the greater space of the pub, empty after the lunchtime rush, tackling a pint and some nourishing delicacy like sausage and mash.
But a tiny part of him felt virtuous. He wasn’t having a drink. Frances would be proud.
Kell wiped her full lips as she finished her ham and cheese toastie, and asked the same question Charles had put to Liddy. ‘So how’re you lot planning to spend your last night of freedom?’
‘Nothing special,’ replied Tod. ‘An AA meeting and an early night, I think. To prepare me for the rigours ahead.’ He had no embarrassment about his dedication to Alcoholics Anonymous. Indeed, he seemed to make a point of bringing it into the conversation as often as he could. ‘And you, Kell?’
‘It’s not my night of freedom. It’s my night of listening to a lot of foul language when the stage crew start blaming the designer for the fact that the set doesn’t fit.’
‘Of course.’
‘But, as you said,’ Charles interposed, ‘you’ll be compensating with many heavy drinking sessions afterwards.’
