by Simon Brett
At that moment a tall young man in a denim jacket came across to them with two glasses of white wine. ‘This is Robin Davey. Robin–Charles Paris.’
‘Oh, hi.’ Robin didn’t really take in the middle-aged actor. ‘We’d better gulp these, Steve. I booked the table for eight-fifteen.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll . . . see you,’ said Charles, and started for the bar.
Steve caught his arm. He looked back and got the full benefit of the huge brown eyes. ‘He rang after all,’ she whispered helplessly.
His route to the bar led him past Mark Lear. The producer was saying, ‘Sometimes I get the feeling there’s no one out there, that we just make programmes for our own amusement and nobody hears them. It’s a kind of masturbation, really.’
The girl nodded intently.
‘I feel we’re on the dead side of the mike and real life is going on somewhere out there without our knowledge.’
‘Hello,’ said Charles.
‘Oh, hi. This is Charles Paris, an actor friend of mine. Charles–Lyn Frewer. She’s just joined as a trainee SM.’
‘Just going to the bar. Can I get you . . .’
‘No thanks, we’re fine.’
‘Okay. See you soon.’
Charles moved on towards the bar. As he did, he heard Mark saying, ‘Of course I’m not going to stay with the BBC. I’m just marking time really at the moment. But I won’t stay . . .’
Charles eventually managed to get a barman’s attention and ordered two large Bell’s. He drained one, and with the other in his hand, started towards the knot of Drama Rep. He waved to the actress he knew vaguely. She waved fulsomely back. There’s always someone to drink with in the BBC Club.
