Dead Room Farce (11 page)

‘The text of the ad has been cleared with Rob Parrott. Not sure that we ought to make any changes.'

Bernard Walton was adamant. ‘Look, I don't want my name associated with anything “smutty”.'

‘It's only a word, Bernard. It goes with “saucy” and “sexy”.'

‘No. “Saucy” and “sexy” are all right. “Smutty” is something else again. “Smutty” is unwholesome.'

‘I don't think it's going to worry anyone.'

‘Listen, Tony, I've lent my name to this new campaign for standards in television. To the Great British Public, Bernard Walton represents Family Values, the kind of entertainment you wouldn't be ashamed for your kids to see. Bernard Walton is not associated with anything “smutty”.'

At this point Tony Delaunay's unfailing pragmatism once again took over. Rob Parrott might want the word “smuttiest” in the commercial, but Bernard Walton saw it as a potential threat to his knighthood. Persuading the recalcitrant star to include the word could take up valuable time. ‘OK, lose “smuttiest”,' said the talkback. ‘Do we need another word in there?'

‘No, it'll flow all right with just “sauciest, sexiest show in town”.'

‘Right you are. OK, let's go for a read.'

Mark Lear lay slumped in the chair beside Tony Delaunay. He appeared to be asleep. Certainly he took no interest in what was being recorded in his studio.

The commercial was done in two takes. Tony Delaunay had got the small reel off the tape machine and left the building almost before the cast streamed back into the sitting area. ‘Where's a phone?' demanded Bernard Walton. ‘I need a cab.' He turned to Mark. ‘Have you got a number for a taxi firm?'

Mark looked up blearily, and Charles was glad he'd noticed a printed card stuck on one of the notice boards. ‘Here's one,' he said, handing it and the cordless phone across to Bernard.

‘Hm . . .' David J. Girton stroked his hands down over his ample belly. ‘Don't suppose anyone fancies a little drink? I noticed there was a pub that's open all day by the –'

‘No,' Cookie replied shortly. ‘We've got a show to do tonight. I'm off to my digs for half an hour's kip.' And, without a look or word to anyone, she left the building.

‘Oh, for God's sake!' Bernard Walton slammed the aerial back into the phone with annoyance. ‘Half a bloody hour for a cab! “In the middle of the school run rush,”' he mimicked. ‘What do I care about bloody school runs? I'll see if I can find a cab on the street.'

And the star stumped out.

‘Er, Ran,' Charles murmured. ‘About that twenty quid . . .'

‘Just off to the cash point now, dear boy.' And Ransome George too was suddenly gone.

‘I should be off,' said Pippa Trewin. ‘Meeting my agent for tea.'

David J. Girton chuckled. ‘Oh, right. Mustn't keep the agent waiting, must we? Particularly when that agent's . . .' And he mentioned the name of one of the biggest in the business.

What is it with this girl Pippa Trewin, wondered Charles, as he watched her neatly and demurely leave the studio. She's had the best start in the business of any young actress I've ever heard of.

Now there were only the three of them left – Charles Paris, Mark Lear and David J. Girton. ‘Well,' said the director diffidently, ‘what
about
a little drink . . .?'

He was preaching to the converted. Charles made a token remonstrance about having to do a show that night.

‘Nonsense. Some of the best performances I've seen have come from people with a couple of drinks inside them. Freddie in
Neighbourhood Watch
gets through a whole bottle of white wine during every recording of the show.'

Oh well, thought Charles Paris, if the
Director
says it's all right . . .

They had only a couple. Scotch this time for Charles, he didn't want to keep peeing during the performance. David J. Girton drank wine, forcing the Queen's Head to open a rather better bottle than their house red. Mark drank whisky, and drank it with a dull, silent determination.

Suddenly, after two drinks, he rose to his feet in a panic. ‘Only left the bloody studio unlocked, haven't I? God, after all those provisos the insurance company made about security. See you,' he called back at them as he hurried out of the pub.

‘It seems to me your friend has a bit of a drinking problem,' said David J. Girton sleekly, as he downed the remains of his second glass of Australian Shiraz. ‘Another one?'

Charles looked up at the clock. It was twenty-five to four. Plenty of time to sober up before the show. ‘Why not?' he said with a grin.

It was after four-thirty when they left the Queen's Head. Charles didn't reckon it was worth going back to his digs, so he shared a cab with David J. Girton into the Georgian splendours of the centre of Bath.

That night's performance was better. There were more laughs, and the whole show was more relaxed. Charles certainly felt his Aubrey had improved. Oh dear, was he reaching the point where he could only give of his best when he'd got a few drinks inside him?

One thing about the performance was interesting, though. In the Vanbrugh Theatre's audience that night was one of British theatre's most distinguished couples. The famous actress Patti Urquhart and her equally famous husband Julian Strange had come all the way from London to see
not on your wife!
And what's more, afterwards they went out to dinner with Bernard Walton and Pippa Trewin.

‘IT'S FOR YOU, Mr Paris.'

His landlady hadn't become any less anonymous as the week went by. Nor had she quite eradicated the sniff of disapproval with which she always approached him. There had been a slight thawing in her manner when he'd organised her two seats for the Thursday night (without mentioning that the advance at the box office had been disappointing and the performance was being heavily ‘papered'); but any brownie points he might have gained there had been cancelled out by the hour at which he'd arrived back after the show.

Still, the call to the phone was a welcome distraction. Charles had decided that morning to go for the kill-or-cure option on his hangover and have the Full Breakfast his landlady offered. But, though Charles had started on the fry-up with commendable vigour, the further he got into it, the more his enthusiasm waned. There is something baleful in the expression of a congealing fried egg, and he didn't think he could face its reproaches much longer. He was glad to leave the egg's recriminations for the phone in the hall.

‘Hello?'

‘Charles, it's Lisa Wilson.'

‘Oh, hi.' On the spur of the moment, he couldn't think of any reason for her call, but he was nonetheless pleased to hear from her. Could it be that his success with
Dark Promises
was to lead so soon to another booking? It didn't sound that way, though. There was something odd in her voice, a tension he had not heard before. Up till then in their dealings, Lisa Wilson had always been in complete control; now she sounded as if she was on the verge of some kind of emotional outburst.

She still hadn't responded to his ‘Oh, hi.' ‘What's the matter, Lisa?' he asked.

‘It's Mark . . .' She gulped, and the sound could have been a sob.

‘What about him?'

‘He's dead.'

‘What?'

‘I got back from London this morning. I stayed over, you see.' She gulped again. ‘He was in the studio.'

‘Which one?'

‘The one you used. The little dead room.'

‘What'd happened to him?'

Now her sobbing was unrestrained. ‘He'd . . . suffocated. I . . . I don't know exactly what happened . . . There was an empty whisky bottle in there with him. The doctor thinks he must've passed out from the booze. That's really why I was ringing, Charles . . . You were there to record the radio commercial, weren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Had Mark been drinking? He swore to me that he'd lay off the stuff, at least till the commercial was recorded, but . . . Had he been drinking when you saw him, Charles?'

It was impossible to deny that Mark Lear had been drinking, and drinking heavily.

‘Oh, God.' Lisa's voice cracked in anguish. ‘He must've passed out while he was in there, and been too insensible to wake up when there wasn't enough air. It's my fault. Just like it was with my father . . .' Another huge sob welled up.

‘What?'

‘I let my father go out and drive when he'd had far too much to drink. He had a crash, hit a tree . . . He died three days later in hospital. God, I feel this is my fault too. If I hadn't stayed over in London, I'd have found Mark in time. I could have prevented it.'

‘You mustn't think like that, Lisa. You mustn't blame yourself. It just happened, that's all.'

There was unrestrained sobbing from the end of the phone. Then, with a great effort of will, Lisa Wilson regained control of herself. ‘Charles, I want to see you, talk to you about it.'

‘Sure. Where are you?'

‘I'm at the studio now. There are police here, and ambulances, and all kinds of . . . I'll ring you, OK?'

‘Yes.'

‘I mean, it's quite possible the police will want to speak to you, anyway – you and the other people from the
not on your wife!
company who were here yesterday afternoon.'

‘Why? Is there any suspicion of foul play?'

There was an infinitesimal pause before she replied, ‘No, I don't think so. But I guess they always check everything out. Have to, don't they? See if it's just an accident . . . or I suppose . . .' she gulped again ‘. . . it could be suicide . . . or . . .'

She didn't complete the thought, but left it dangling, tantalisingly, in the air.

‘I'm frightfully sorry,' said Charles. ‘It's an awful thing to have happened. You must be in shock.'

‘Yes, I think I probably am a bit. Shock and guilt.'

‘You have no reason to feel guilty.'

‘Don't I? You don't know the half of it, Charles.' She let out a harsh laugh, which broke down into a sob.

‘Just hang on in there, Lisa. Don't blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done. And, when things're a bit more sorted out, call me to fix a time to meet. Obviously we've got a show tonight . . . there'll be a matinée too on Saturday, but just leave a message with my landlady – OK?'

‘OK. Thanks, Charles.'

He cleared his throat and then said, ‘It may seem indelicate to ask, under the circumstances, but was your day in London good?'

‘What?' she asked sharply.

‘Your meeting with the publishers. Did you get the job?'

‘Oh yes. Yes, we got the job.' Sobs once again threatened. ‘Not that it actually seems very important now . . .'

‘No, of course it doesn't. Look, I'm awfully sorry . . . You take care of yourself.'

‘Sure.'

Back in the dining room, Charles's fried egg looked even colder and more accusatory. He pushed the plate back. His landlady didn't say anything, but her look demanded an explanation.

‘I'm sorry,' said Charles Paris. ‘I've just had some bad news. A friend of mine's died.'

AS IT TURNED out, Lisa and Charles didn't meet till the Sunday. By then,
not on your wife!
had done another three performances, and the show was definitely getting better. The cast were more prepared for where the laughs were going to come, and their timing had improved considerably. The overall pace of the production had picked up, the audiences seemed to be enjoying themselves, and David J. Girton was very pleased with the way everything was going.

Bill Blunden, the playwright, was not so positive in his approval, but then it was not in his nature to be positive. He worked on his play scripts like a mechanic tuning a Formula One car engine. He tweaked here, he tightened there, he constantly dismantled, adjusted and rebuilt his creation. He'd watched every performance so far, making extensive notes about the audience's reaction to each line and each moment of comic business. And he'd been sitting up late in his hotel room, rewriting and reshaping the script. As yet, the cast had not been given any of the changes he was proposing to make, but there was a full company call scheduled for the Monday morning at eleven, and everyone had to be on standby for possible extra rehearsals during the second week of the Bath run.

Charles Paris's performances as Aubrey on the Friday and Saturday were workmanlike, but not inspired. He garnered the ration of laughs his part was allocated, but did not grow in comic stature as some of the other actors were beginning to. Charles was on automatic pilot for
not on your wife!
; his mind was preoccupied with Mark Lear's death. The news of the tragedy had filtered through to the Vanbrugh Theatre, but prompted little reaction in the company.

For Charles Paris, though, the death had been a body-blow. Mark had never been a particularly close friend, but he was someone Charles had known for many years, and his sudden absence prompted gloomy reflections on human mortality. There was also a sense of shock. It was so recent. On the Thursday, Charles had been drinking with Mark at lunch-time; less than twenty-four hours later, the man was dead.

There were also uncomfortable parallels to be drawn. Charles Paris didn't yet know the detailed circumstances of Mark's death, but there seemed little doubt that excessive drinking had played its part. There had been too many occasions in Charles's life, particularly recently, when, for the same reason, he hadn't been entirely in control of his actions. Mark Lear's death gave him a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God
frisson.
Charles Paris knew his own drinking was getting out of hand. He could all too easily have been the victim of a comparable accident.

His reaction to this realisation, however, was not admirable. Instead of immediately cutting down on – or, ideally, completely cutting out – the booze, on the Friday and Saturday Charles actually drank more. It seemed that whisky was the only resource he had, the only palliative that could, however briefly, deaden the pain of the thoughts whirling around his head.