by Simon Brett
So, when Justin Grover said that there were no producers at his birthday party, he was using a subtle bonding technique with the rest of the company. It was the snigger of schoolboys behind the bike sheds, exchanging insults about their teachers. Charles was surprised that Justin had made the announcement so baldly. It suggested a slight relaxation of his habitual self-restraint. Charles wondered whether a celebratory bottle of birthday champagne had already been downed in the Number One dressing room before the party proper started.
He found it bizarre, observing the proceedings from the high moral ground of sobriety. Having opted for sparkling water when first offered a drink, he felt he couldn’t go back on the route he had chosen, though watching the rest of the company down Justin Grover’s champagne was a kind of agony. On the other hand, he did find not drinking made his observation of those around him more acute.
Kell, he noticed, was also on the sparkling water. Realizing he’d never mentioned that he’d followed up on TAUT, he moved across and thanked her for the introduction to the set-up.
‘No problem. I hope you’re finding it useful.’
‘Intriguing, anyway.’
She looked down at his glass. ‘Seems to be working.’
He looked at hers. ‘Takes one to know one. We still haven’t had one of those late-night drinking sessions you promised me.’
‘No, I’m actually off the booze completely now.’
‘Congratulations. All done by willpower?’
‘Willpower, and a bit of help.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m giving Alcoholics Anonymous another try,’ said Kell, as she moved across the room to join Tod Singer. Who was also on the sparkling water.
Charles took a sip from his glass. It’d never replace the real thing. He also found – something seeming to add insult to injury – that evenings spent drinking sparkling water meant he had to get up to pee in the night more times than he used to on the booze. It was a very unfair world in which virtue was so shabbily rewarded.
He looked round the room. A group of sycophantic actors were roaring with laughter at Justin Grover’s imitations of Sir Ian McKellen. With them was Seamus Milligan, looking, as ever, slightly aloof from the action. Charles wandered across to join him.
‘Were you in tonight?’ he asked, and Seamus nodded. ‘Pleased with it?’
‘The bits that are usually good were good. The bits that weren’t right still aren’t right.’
‘Oh, I thought the show was settling down rather well.’
‘Typical bloody actor’s reaction, Charles. So long as the bit you’re in is all right, you don’t bother about what’s happening in the rest of the show.’
‘I’m not sure that’s fair.’
‘Really? When did you last see the whole show?’
‘Well, I … Obviously, being backstage, it’s difficult for me to—’
‘Of course it is. Well, I’m out front and I see everything. So, I can judge where the play sags and needs picking up. And the big sag is always when The Girl describes the rape.’
‘I thought Imogen was—’
‘The way Imogen plays that, it’s like she’s complaining that some man put his hand on her knee, not like her entire personality has been violated. She’s not an actress, Imogen, she’s just a Barbie doll. Liddy used to bring some depth to that scene, now it’s shallow as hell.’
Charles felt he ought to show a bit of company solidarity. ‘Liddy was a very good actress, but I think—’
‘Liddy was more than a “very good” actress. She was a bloody great actress!’ Charles got the impression that the writer had also been hitting the booze that evening, but he was less surprised than he had been with Justin Grover. ‘Liddy Max’s death,’ Seamus continued, ‘was not only a tragic personal loss, but it deprived British theatre of someone who could have been its greatest star!’
Charles looked around, slightly embarrassed, but the rest of the company were too involved in their own conversations to take any notice of this outburst.
‘And now,’ said Seamus Milligan, ‘the part of The Girl – that wonderful part – is being performed by someone who’d hardly pass muster in a primary school Nativity play.’
Nita Glaze had just detached herself from one of the groups and the writer grabbed hold of her as she crossed the room. ‘Nita, we’ve got to do some more work on that rape scene.’
‘Seamus, the show has been running for weeks. I’m not in the business of doing any more rehearsal at this stage.’
‘But have you seen how that girl Imogen is playing it?’
‘My assistant director is now keeping an eye on the show,’ Nita Glaze responded with some hauteur. ‘If you have any points to raise, raise them with him or the production manager.’
‘Oh, I see, you’ve moved on to something new, have you?’
‘As it happens, I have.’
‘West End?’
‘Yes,’ Nita replied with some force. ‘I’m currently prepping a new show that’s going into the Haymarket in March. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to refresh my drink.’ And she moved away.
‘So do I,’ mumbled Seamus Milligan, making for a champagne bottle as far away as possible from the one Nita was approaching.
Charles emptied his sparkling water glass, but felt too dispirited to top it up with more of the same. There were those night-time pees to think of, apart from anything else. The temptation to pick up a glass of champagne was as strong as ever, but he resisted it.
So, he thought, things have worked out well for Nita Glaze. As he had predicted, the policy of zipping her lip and doing what she was told by Justin Grover had paid off. Her credit on one West End show had immediately led to her being offered a job on another. And in that one, Nita Glaze might be able to impose something of her own vision on the proceedings.
Charles never had found out the reasons for her conflict with Liddy Max in the early days of rehearsal. Certainly, Nita had seemed a lot happier with Imogen Whittaker in the role of The Girl, but to think that the director might have had any responsibility for Liddy’s death – well, it just didn’t make sense.
Charles found, anyway, that he was thinking much less about the departure of Liddy … and of Gideon. Maybe there were some investigations which would never reveal their secrets. He found these days he was much more interested in what was going on at Gower House, and the possibility that he really might be able to exert control over his drinking.
Not wanting to look conspicuously on his own, Charles moved across to where Imogen Whittaker was talking to Grant Yeoell. Her red hair looked dazzling – she must have had time to shower and wash it after removing The Girl’s blonde wig. In her eyes was the annoying sparkle that being in the presence of Wulf from Vandals and Visigoths seemed to induce in every member of her gender.
‘Not a bad show tonight,’ was the uncontroversial gambit with which Charles shoehorned himself into the conversation.
‘I never know how it’s gone,’ said Grant. ‘Every show seems the same to me.’
Maybe, thought Charles, that’s because you give the same performance every time. Wooden and dull. Unfortunately, the thought reminded him of an old review of his own work. (‘To say Charles Paris was wooden would have been an insult to forests.’ Hexham Courant.)
‘Exactly like when we’re shooting Vandals and Visigoths,’ Grant Yeoell continued. ‘I do however many takes the director asks me to.’ A great many, I’m sure, till they get something usable, was Charles’s vindictive thought, as Grant went on, ‘I never know why he thinks one take is better than another.’
‘They say movies are made in the editing suite,’ said Imogen, with the wistfulness of someone who wished she was part of that world.
‘Yes, that’s where they dub on the performances,’ observed Charles. It was a rather crass line, he realized, but Grant Yeoell showed no signs of recognizing it as an insult.
They were joined by Justin Grover, who cast a bonhomous arm over each of th
e men’s shoulders. ‘So, what’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘Both of you chatting up the lovely Immy?’
‘Having a chat to, rather than chatting up,’ Charles responded blandly, feeling even more convinced that Justin had had a bit too much to drink. Man-hugs and backslapping weren’t behaviours that came naturally to him.
‘Oh, and of course, you never need to chat up, do you, Grant?’ There was an edge of jealousy in the star’s voice. ‘With all your groupies lining up outside the stage door every night?’
The tall Adonis chuckled uneasily. He didn’t seem sure where this line of conversation was going. And the realization came to Charles, very forcibly, how insecure someone in Grant Yeoell’s position might be. Yes, he was a star with an international following, but he wasn’t as big a star as Justin Grover. If Justin ran the Vandals and Visigoths set-up the way he was running The Habit of Faith, then Grant had probably got the part of Wulf on his say-so. And the time might come when the younger man’s stature would be big enough for him to build a successful career without his mentor’s patronage, but that point had not yet been reached. Grant Yeoell’s future depended entirely on keeping on the right side of Justin Grover.
‘Word of advice, though,’ Justin went on. ‘Before you start any action, Grant, do check your groupies’ birth certificates. Underage is never good. In the current climate, there are so many things that could ruin an actor’s career.’
‘Things from the distant past?’ Charles suggested.
The look of pure venom that Justin Grover turned on him lasted only a nanosecond before it was replaced by a joshing grin, but it did remind Charles of the questions about the star’s past. And what might or might not have gone on in Bridport.
‘Even someone as young as Grant here has a past,’ said Justin. ‘And you never know what’s going to crawl out from under a stone, do you? Particularly for someone who’s bedded as many thousands of women as you have, eh, Grant?’
‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids,’ the younger actor replied smoothly. He was still uncomfortable, but his natural cockiness was beginning to reassert itself.
‘The trouble is,’ said Justin, ‘the more sex one has, the more one gets bored with it. Don’t you find that?’ He turned suddenly to the girl. ‘Do you find that, Imogen?’
She looked thrown for a moment, but quickly regained her stability. Her life as an actress had thickened her skin against attacks of male banter, and her normal riposte would probably have been crude and crushing. But she was not in a normal situation. Justin Grover was not only the star of her current show, he was also a potential conduit to other, more prestigious and lucrative shows.
Judiciously, she replied, ‘I’m glad to say, I haven’t got to the point where I’m bored with sex.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Justin Grover. ‘And lucky men with whom you share not being bored.’
Yes, thought Charles, he definitely is pissed. He wouldn’t normally be so crass.
‘But your case, Grant,’ Justin went on, ‘is rather different, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The nervousness was back in the reply.
‘Ooh, you’re not going to deny it now, are you? What you told me on location in Arizona?’
‘What did I tell you?’ Grant Yeoell faltered.
‘You said … let me make sure I get the words right … “I’m so bored with normal sex that these days I can only get it up if I’m dressed in costume.”’
SEVENTEEN
By chance, Charles left the party at the same time as Grant Yeoell. As they walked cautiously down the steep stairs, he dared to ask, ‘Was Liddy Max among your conquests, Grant?’
‘I don’t think of them as “conquests”,’ came the reply. ‘Just a very pleasant perk of the job I do.’ This wasn’t spoken boastfully, simply as a matter of fact.
‘Going back to Liddy …’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you make love to her?’
Charles was expecting some kind of evasive answer, but he got a direct, ‘Yes.’
‘On the day she died?’
Again, ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘But I didn’t know she was going to die, did I?’
‘I’m surprised you’re telling me this so openly.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, her death was suspicious, and if you were making love to her only hours before …’
‘You mean the police might be interested?’
‘Yes.’
‘They were. So, I told them what happened.’
‘And weren’t they suspicious that you might have killed her?’
‘They might have been, except that Liddy had made a phone call on her mobile after I left. And then someone witnessed me leaving the theatre.’
‘Who?’
‘A girl.’
‘One of your groupies?’
‘I do wish you and Justin would stop using that word. It’s very dated. I prefer to think of the girls as “fans”. Also, Justin keeps implying that I go to bed with all of them. Which I don’t. Most are underage, anyway. Just kids full of excess adolescent emotion that they have to focus somewhere. Last time I did a show in the West End, there was one girl who turned up every night of the entire run. Called Shelley. Full marks for effort, I suppose.’ He shrugged. ‘Presumably she got some kind of strange kick out of doing it.’
‘Going back to that Monday night – how did the girl at the stage door know you were in the theatre?’
‘She’d seen me go in.’
‘When did you speak to the police?’
‘The day after Liddy died.’
The same day they had interviewed Charles; the day when he had been almost immobilized by his hangover. ‘Have you heard from them again?’
‘No.’
‘So, you wouldn’t know how they thought Liddy died?’
‘I assume they thought what everyone else thought.’
‘Which was?’
‘Oh, come on, Charles. What has everyone been saying backstage?’
Charles genuinely didn’t know. He had been so preoccupied with his own assumption of murder that he hadn’t really listened to the company consensus. ‘What have they been saying?’
‘That it was an accident. Liddy tripped. The habit she was wearing was much too big for her.’
‘And you don’t feel any guilt about her death?’
‘Why should I? I’m very sorry the poor girl died, obviously. I quite liked her.’ The way he said this didn’t suggest there had been much love involved in their coupling. ‘But her death wasn’t my fault.’
‘Weren’t you the one who suggested you should dress up in the monks’ habits?’
There was an infinitesimal pause before Grant replied, ‘No, that was her idea. Liddy Max had surprisingly kinky tastes, you know.’
‘And who else has kinky tastes?’ asked Charles.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you aware of someone in the company who’s a voyeur?’
Grant Yeoell turned his infinitely handsome, infinitely blank, face towards Charles, and said, ‘No’, in a puzzled manner that meant he had to be telling the truth. It seemed he had not known that he and Liddy had been performing for the cameras.
The two had reached the stage door. They handed in their keys to Wallace, who wished them a cheery good night from the cubby-hole which he now seemed to have inhabited forever. Gideon had just melted away into blankness.
As Grant Yeoell went out into the after-midnight darkness, a pair of squealing teenage girls rushed towards him.
‘It is working. To some extent.’
‘Really, Charles?’ Long experience justified the scepticism in Frances’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘So how many days this week have you done without booze?’
‘Three.’
‘That’s good.’ She sounded impressed. ‘And are you finding it easy?’
‘No. Bloody hard.’
‘Keep at it.’
‘I w
ill. And … how about us meeting up?’
‘I’m going down to Juliet and Miles’s for Sunday lunch. I don’t know if you fancy—?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The prospect of his son-in-law pontificating on his abstinence was not one he relished. ‘I’d rather see you on your own.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘When?’ he asked eagerly.
‘When you’re off the booze, Charles.’
Playing the part of Brother Benedict, The Monk Who Just Listened To All Of The Other Monks Who Maundered On In Long Speeches About Their Own Internal Conflicts, inevitably had its longueurs. While Abbot Ambrose was hardly off the stage for the duration of The Habit of Faith (surprise, surprise), the rest of the cast had to spend long periods in their dressing rooms.
Some were very organized about this. There was a foursome who gathered in Tod Singer’s dressing room during the second act to play Bridge, and could almost always fit in a rubber (while onstage Abbot Ambrose and The Girl endlessly discussed sex and guilt), before they had to reappear for the last scene.
Charles had two habitual ways of whiling away time in his dressing room. One, which he no longer practised – though not practising it constantly tested his resources of willpower – involved a bottle of Bell’s. The other was The Times crossword. But on the Friday, the day after Justin Grover’s birthday party, there had been a particularly easy puzzle, which he’d finished over a sandwich at lunchtime. So, having forgotten to bring a book with him, Charles had no alternative, in his dressing room that evening, but to sit and think.
He thought first about that day’s ‘Weekend Group’ session at Gower House. Erica had been there to direct the discussion when required, but as usual in those Friday meetings, the participants had done most of the work themselves. Once again, Charles had been impressed by the honesty and humour on display. Though the make-up of the attendance shifted from week to week, there were now enough people he knew for him to join in the general banter. And he had felt the genuine warmth which greeted his announcement of the small triumph of not drinking at Justin’s birthday party. He couldn’t say what in the regime was working, but he was beginning to feel that getting off the booze was not a total impossibility. Just hang on in there.
