Corporate Bodies (7 page)

‘Yes, I do,' said Charles.

Will Parton groaned. Charles Paris went to refill their glasses.

‘Frances, it's me.'

‘Ah,' said his wife's voice from the other end of the phone.

‘Charles.'

‘Yes, Charles, I do know who you mean. My “Ah” was not an “Ah” of incomprehension, but an “Ah” of “Ah. That is my husband on the phone.”'

‘Is that a good sort of “Ah”?' he asked hopefully.

‘I wouldn't plan your retirement on it.'

‘Ah.' There was a silence. ‘I just rang because –'

“You just rang because I had almost reached a state of equanimity about our marriage.'

‘What?'

‘You have an uncanny sense of timing, Charles.'

‘Oh?' To an actor that had to be a compliment.

‘Every time I reconcile myself to the fact that we really are finished, and that I won't ever hear from you again, and it's just as well, and now thank God I can get on with the rest of my life . . . you ring up.'

‘Ah.'

‘Always at exactly that precise moment.'

He let out a little, tentative laugh. ‘Well, that must say something, mustn't it?'

‘Huh. I don't think you'd like it if I spelled out what it
does
say, Charles.'

‘No, no, fine. Well, leave that as read,' he said hastily.

‘So . . . to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? You've missed my birthday, it's not Christmas yet, so what is it – some mutual form, some documentary relic left over from the days of our marriage, that needs countersigning?'

‘No, Frances. No, it's just, er . . . I wanted to talk to you.'

‘Why suddenly now? What is so different about today, as opposed to any other day in the last four months when you could have wanted to talk to me?'

‘Oh, surely it's not as long as –'

‘Four months,' she said implacably.

‘Well, I . . .' He opted for vulnerability. ‘Well, I've been feeling a bit low and . . .'

It was a bad choice. ‘Everyone feels low from time to time, Charles.'

‘Yes . . .'

‘It's just that some of us don't go on about it all the time.'

‘No, of course. I just –'

‘Charles, why are you ringing?'

‘Well, it was kind of to make contact and –'

‘You've made contact. If you have anything else to say, say it. I've got someone here.'

He was shocked by how much her words hurt. Recovering himself, he said, ‘I was wondering if we could get together . . .'

‘What for?' she demanded brusquely.

‘Well, for a . . . you know, for a drink . . . for a meal . . . just to see each other . . .'

‘Hm.'

‘I mean, that's what other married couples do, isn't it?'

‘I wouldn't use the “other married couples” line with me, Charles, if I were you. It doesn't go down very well.'

‘No. Well . . . I . . . As I say, just be nice to see you.'

All this got was another ‘Hm'.

‘As I say, just for a drink or . . .'

‘I'd rather it wasn't just for a drink, Charles.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've served my time hanging round grotty pubs and wine bars, waiting for you to turn up . . .'

‘I wouldn't be late. I'd –'

‘No, if you want to see me, you invite me somewhere nice.'

‘Nice?'

‘Yes. You think of something nice, that I – not
you
– but
I
would like to do, and when you've thought of it, you ring me up and invite me to it.'

‘Ah.'

‘And then, if I like the sound of it, and if I happen to be free on the relevant date . . . then I'll accept the invitation.'

‘Right. Erm, but, Frances –'

‘Bye, Charles.'

He stayed by the pay phone on the Hereford Road landing after he had put the receiver down, still smarting. It was ridiculous to feel like this. Surely he'd long since abrogated any right to feel jealous of Frances.

Why should he imagine that she would always be on her own when he called? Given the amount he was contributing to it, he could hardly criticise her for the way she chose to conduct her own social life.

And, anyway, ‘someone here' could mean anything. A fellow-schoolmistress. Any one of her many women friends. An elderly neighbour. A Jehovah's Witness.

He was being stupid and he knew it.

But he was still surprised at how much it hurt.

In an attempt to shift his thoughts, he dialled another number.

‘Maurice Skellern Artistes.'

‘Maurice – it's Charles.'

‘Oh yes, how're things? Got any work?'

Charles found himself blushing as he replied, ‘No. Surely that's a question an actor should ask his agent rather than the other way round?'

‘Oh, I don't know, Charles. Hear so many cases these days of clients getting work behind their agents' backs and not even telling them.'

‘Ah. Do you?' Charles laughed uneasily. ‘So, anyway, you heard of anything coming up?'

The reply was so familiar he could have joined in. ‘Not a dicky bird, Charles. Things are very quiet at the moment, very quiet.'

‘Not a good time right now . . . you know, with the summer coming up.'

‘Sure, and then it'll be the autumn coming up, won't it, Maurice? And that won't help.'

‘You're right there, Charles. And then we'll be on to the winter, and nobody makes any decisions when there's Christmas just round the corner, do they?'

‘No. So we'll just have to wait till the spring, won't we?'

‘Yes . . .' There was a pause. ‘Mind you, that's never a lot better either, is it?'

As he put the phone down, Charles wondered why on earth he had imagined that a call to his agent might possibly cheer him up. As always, it just left him more depressed than ever.

And on this occasion – infuriatingly – because of the work he'd been doing for Delmoleen, it also left him feeling slightly guilty.

WITHIN A couple of weeks Charles Paris once again found himself doing work his agent didn't know about. Will had managed to swing it that one of the ‘bijou scenettes' in the canteen did involve a forklift operator capable of speech, so once again Charles was to don the pristine Delmoleen overalls and give his impression of Trevor.

It was a bit like being a stuntman, he reflected, though whereas stuntmen did physical tricks for people who could act, he was doing acting tricks for someone who could manage the physical stuff with no assistance.

This time he wasn't the only actor involved. When he met Will Parton at St Pancras, the writer introduced a tall figure by his side. ‘Charles Paris – this is Seb Ormond.'

It transpired on the train journey that Seb Ormond was one of those actors who specialised in corporate work. Indeed, it was a long time since he had set foot on a stage or performed in a film or television production that was seen by the general public. But his conversation left no doubt that he made a very good living from his ‘in-house' career.

To Charles it was a constant source of amazement how many specialities there were within his profession, and the broad range of work that being an actor could encompass. He often suspected that the ones who specialised were the shrewd ones. As in any other area of entrepreneurial life, what such actors had to do was to carve out little niches for themselves, maintain the standards of their work, build up goodwill and, hopefully, make themselves indispensable. Charles knew actors who did that in commercial voice-overs, Victorian music hall, cruise ships entertainment and many other unlikely areas.

Sometimes he regretted that he had never carved out such a niche for himself, but always came back to the view that doing the same thing all the time must get very boring. Doing nothing all the time – which was the pattern that his life seemed to be following these days – was also boring, but at least he could dream of potential employment in every branch of show business (even though so few jobs in any branch actually materialised).

Seb Ormond was one of the names on the
Parton Parcel
letterhead. He wasn't actually a partner, but had an agreement with the company whereby, when Will needed an impressively-suited figure for a business meeting, Seb would turn up. For a substantial fee.
Gravitas
didn't come cheap.

He was also, of course, available for ordinary work as a corporate actor. Which was how he had been booked for that day at Stenley Curton. Again for a substantial fee. Considerably more than Charles Paris was being paid.

Seb Ormond was dressed in a dark suit with a discreet stripe, a shirt with an even more discreet stripe, and a tie the discretion of whose stripe would have qualified it for the Diplomatic Service. On the station platform he melted into the crowd – just another executive commuter. Only the fact that he was catching a morning train
out
of St Pancras rather than arriving on one coming
in
might have raised any suspicion about his identity.

‘Seb's Management today,' Will Parton explained unnecessarily. ‘Ken Colebourne's decided that he wants to demonstrate Delmoleen's egalitarianism, so we're going to have an executive mucking in with the riff-raff in the canteen.'

‘And none of the real executives'd do it?' asked Charles.

‘Good heavens, no. None of them'd be seen dead in the canteen. Anyway, this executive has to
talk
.'

‘Aren't the Delmoleen employees who see this video going to think it odd that they don't recognise any of the people in it?'

‘Not that odd. It's quite a big company. Stenley Curton's not the only site. Anyway, I sometimes wonder whether anyone ever will see the video.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, Ken Colebourne seems pretty ambivalent about it – don't know that he ever thought it was that great an idea. Reading between the lines, I reckon it's something Brian Tressider foisted on to him and now Brian's abroad, not breathing down his neck all the time, Ken's losing interest. He's of the old school . . . “never had videos in our time and it didn't do us any harm . . .” you know the sort.'

Charles nodded. ‘But they're not going to cancel the production?'

‘Oh no, contract with
Parton Parcel
's all sewn up. The thing'll get
made
– they're committed to that. Just may never get
shown
.'

‘Ah.'

‘Still, that hardly matters to any of us, does it?'

They all agreed that, so long as they got paid, it couldn't have mattered less.

Seb Ormond was happy to share his experience of corporate work with Charles – indeed, it would have been hard to prevent him from doing so.

‘Thing you've got to do is get the clothes right, Charles. Go up for an interview in the wrong kit and you may as well forget it.'

‘Yes, I'd heard that.'

‘So you got to be sure you've been properly briefed. I went up for one where they were looking for an Estate Manager, and my bloody agent told me it was an Estate Agent. As you can imagine – total disaster!'

‘Do you do most of this stuff through your agent?' asked Charles, once again feeling rather guilty.

‘No, I fix the bulk of it myself, but because I do so much, the agent does get enquiries.'

Charles felt marginally less guilty.

‘So you've got to sort out the basic wardrobe.' Seb Ormond looked across at Charles who, although fairly confident he would once again be given the overalls, had dressed in his ‘Trevor' costume. ‘Of course, I don't do many blue collar roles . . .'

‘No. Well, obviously . . .' And it was obvious. Seb Ormond's patrician features and greying hair had ‘Management' stamped all over them.

‘So the basic wardrobe I have is what I think of as the Managing Director's suit, the Sales Manager's suit, the Bank Manager's suit, and the Ad Agency suit.'

‘And these are all different?'

‘You better believe it, Charles.'

‘Can I ask which suit you're wearing today . . .?'

‘Today's Sales Manager.'

‘Oh. Right.'

‘Back in the old days I got most of my basic wardrobe off tellies I did.'

‘What, buying them at the end of the series?'

Seb Ormond nodded. The practice they referred to was common among actors. At the beginning of a television series, running characters would be taken shopping by the Wardrobe Department to kit out the part they were playing, and at the end there was an arrangement whereby these clothes, frequently much more costly than the actor could have run to in normal circumstances, were sold to him at a very reduced rate.

Charles could identify the productions which had dressed a lot of his actor friends, particularly in really expensive items like leather jackets. And of course actresses playing characters with designer tastes had a field day.

Charles himself had done less well out of this system than others in his profession. This was partly because he rarely got running parts and, when he did, they tended not to be people who dressed in his style. Recent forays into television would have netted him the blazer and trousers of a golf club barman or the uniform of a 1930s police sergeant, neither of which he felt was quite ‘Charles Paris'.

‘
Now
, of course,' Seb went on, ‘I buy my own clothes.' He responded to Charles's quizzical look. ‘Well, it is quite a while since I did ordinary telly. And fashions do change, you know. Can't turn up as an MD in a suit whose cut's five years out of date, can you?'

‘Ah, no,' agreed Charles Paris, whose one suit had recently celebrated its Silver Jubilee. He avoided the sardonic eye of Will Parton who had seen the garment in question.

What Seb Ormond was saying gave Charles a strange sense of
déja vu.
It reminded him of old actor-laddies he had heard reminiscing about repertory theatre in the twenties and thirties. ‘In those days, of course,' they would ramble on, ‘you had to have your own basic costumes. Dinner suit was essential, and a grey pinstripe, and tweeds as well. Otherwise you didn't get the job. No Wardrobe Department to provide that sort of stuff in those days. And, my God, the hours you'd work! Be playing one show at night, rehearsing the next following morning, learning lines for a third . . .