Star Trap cp-3

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Just to check details of your contract.’

  ‘Just to check details of my contract.’

  ‘Well, it’s also… sort of… to get in know you, to see if you are the kind of person who’s likely to get on with Christopher Milton, if you see what I — ’

  ‘What you mean by that formula of words is that Christopher Milton has an Approval of Cast clause in his contract and I’ve got to go and see Dickie Peck to be vetted.’

  Gerald tried to find another formula of words, but eventually was forced to admit that that was exactly what he meant.

  ‘I get it. When do I see Peck?’

  ‘You’ve got an appointment at four o’clock.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dickie Peck worked for Creative Artists Ltd, one of the biggest film and theatre agencies in the country, and he was big. His clients were said to be managed by ‘Dickie Peck at Creative Artists’ rather than just by ‘Creative Artists’. In the agency world this designation often preceded a split from the parent company when an individual member of the staff would set up on his own (usually taking his best clients with him). But Dickie Peck had had his individual billing ever since anyone could remember and showed no signs of leaving the Creative Artists umbrella. There was no point in his making the break; he was a director of the company and worked within it in his own way at his own pace.

  It was the pace which was annoying Charles as he sat waiting in the Creative Artists Reception in Bond Street. He had been informed by the over-made-up girl on the switchboard that Mr Peck was not yet back from lunch and as the clock ticked round to half past four, Charles felt all the resentment of someone who has finished lunch at half past three.

  He was not alone in Reception. A young actress with carefully highlighted cheek-bones was reading The Stage and sighing dramatically from time to time; an actor whose old, hollow eyes betrayed his startlingly golden hair gave a performance of nonchalance by staring at his buckled patent leather shoes. The girl on the switchboard kept up a low monologue of ‘A call for you…,’ ‘I’m sorry, he’s tied up at the moment…’ and ‘Would you mind hanging on?’ She deftly snapped plugs in and out like a weaver at her loom.

  It was nearly a quarter to five when Dickie Peck came through Reception. The girl on the switchboard stage-whispered, ‘Mr Peck, there’ve been a couple of calls and there’s a gentleman waiting to see you.’

  He half-turned and Charles got an impression of a cigar with a long column of ash defying gravity at its end. Ignoring his visitor, the agent disappeared into his office. Five minutes later a summons came through on the receptionist’s intercom.

  The office was high over Bond Street and Dickie Peck’s chair backed on to a bow-window. Cupboards and dusty glass-fronted book-cases lined the walls. The paint-work must once have been cream, but had yellowed with age. The dark red carpet smelt of dust. Nothing much on the desk. A current Spotlight, Actors L-Z (to check what Charles Paris looked like) and a circular ash-tray in the centre of which was a decorative half golf-ball. The channel around this was full of lengths of cigar ash, long and obscene, like turds.

  The ash was long on the cigar that still drooped from the agent’s lips. It was an expensive one, but the end was so chewed and worried that it looked like the cheap brown-wrapping-paper sort.

  The face which the cigar dwarfed was grey and lined, crowned by a long tongue of hair brushed inadequately over baldness. The head was disproportionately small and accentuated the stocky bulk of body below it. Dickie Peck was dressed in a dark grey suit with thin lapels. A plain blue tie askew across a grubby white shirt. Tie and jacket dusted with cigar ash. It was not the traditional image of the big show business agent; more like a Town Hall clerk.

  ‘Charles Paris, isn’t it? Take a chair.’ He gestured expansively, but the ash at the end of his cigar miraculously stayed intact.

  Charles sat on a low gilt chair whose red plush upholstery was as hard as wood.

  ‘Now, Mr Paris, I gather you’ve seen a representative of Amulet Productions about this part.’

  ‘Yes.’ So Gerald wasn’t just acting as solicitor for Arthur Balcombe.

  ‘And he explained what it was about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. As you gather, the part became vacant due to an accident to one of the cast.’

  ‘I know.’ Charles didn’t volunteer any comment. Gerald had been uncertain whether Dickie Peck shared his suspicions of sabotage or not and had asked Charles to play it carefully. The fewer people knew that there was an investigator in the company, the better.

  Dickie Peck gave no sign of suspicion. He took a long draw at his cigar, extending the column of ash to an even more precarious length. He leant back and blew a slow jet of smoke to the ceiling. ‘This show, Mr Paris, is a very big one.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Charles was getting tired of being told about the size of the operation.

  ‘It’s likely to be a very big success.’

  ‘Good,’ said Charles, feeling that some sort of comment was required.

  ‘And so it’s important that everything about it should be right.’

  Again Charles helped out the pause with a ‘Yes’.

  ‘Because what we have here is a show with a very big star. Christopher Milton, no less.’

  Here a longer pause was left for some comment of amazed approbation. Charles produced a grunt which he hoped was appropriate.

  ‘Yes, Christopher Milton. Let me tell you, Mr Paris, I have been in this business a very long time and I have never before seen someone who had so much star quality written all over him.’

  ‘Ah.’ Charles found it difficult to get interested in the idea of stardom. It was not the end of show business in which he was involved.

  But Dickie Peck’s litany had started and couldn’t be stopped. ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen them all sitting in that chair. They’ve all come to me for advice. Because they know, if they want to get ahead in this business, then they should come and see old Dickie Peck. Oh yes.’ For the first time in the interview he looked at the crumbling end of his cigar, but decided it didn’t need attention yet. ‘I remember once back in 1960, I had four young men from Liverpool in this office. Four ordinary lads, got their own group — would I be interested in representing them? And you know who they were? Only the Beatles.

  ‘They asked my advice and I gave it. I said, Lads, you’ve got a lot of talent, but the act isn’t right. What you’ve got to do is split up, go your own ways, separate careers, that’s what you need if you’re really going to make it.’ He paused for dramatic emphasis, then delivered his triumph. ‘And look at them now — separate careers.’

  He leant back with satisfaction, then, instinctively sensing the imminent collapse of his cigar ash, deposited another neat cylinder into the ash-tray.

  ‘There have been others too — Frank Sinatra once when he was over here, wanted a hit of advice on which way I thought his career should go. Glenda Jackson, Tom Jones, oh yes, they’ve all sat in that chair and asked for a bit of help from old Dickie Peck.’

  Charles looked at the chair on which he was sitting with what he hoped was due reverence and didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘But let me tell you, Mr Paris, of all the big stars I’ve ever seen, Christopher Milton is the biggest. That boy has so much talent, he can do anything. I mean, when you think that he is now only thirty-four, a mere baby, at the beginning of his career, I tell you in the future there’s going to be no stopping him. And Lumpkin! is the show that’s really going to put him in the big time.’ Realising that this could be constructed as diminishing his protege, he covered himself. ‘Not of course that he isn’t in the big time already. With the television show, a few films, oh yes, he’s right at the top. And it’s not that we haven’t had offers — oh, there have been plenty of scripts come along, plenty of managements with ideas, chance of a big musical on Broadway, Hollywood positively begging, but we said no. We preferred to bide our time, wait for the right
show, the one that was absolutely right. Christopher Milton had got the telly, he was doing okay, he could afford to wait. That’s an important thing in this business, choosing the right work. Oh yes, you’ve got to be selective.’

  Which is nice if you can afford to be selective, thought Charles. Most actors have to do what comes along or starve.

  Dickie Peck’s monologue was evidently self-propelled, so Charles gave up providing nods and yesses and grunts of agreement to stimulate it. ‘Now, of course, when you’re talking about an artist of Christopher Milton’s calibre, you want to be sure that all the work he does is done in the right atmosphere, that he works with people who he gets on with, people who are sympathetic to what he’s doing.’ Charles pricked up his ears. They were finally getting round to the vetting part of the interview. ‘Because what happens when you get someone with more talent than most people is that you do tend to get jealousy developing. And that doesn’t make for a healthy working atmosphere in a company. Now Christopher Milton is a charming boy, very easy to get along with, but he is a person of considerable genius and he does have strong ideas. Now because of his great sense of theatre his ideas are very often right. And obviously in the context of a show being rehearsed under pressure, too many arguments over the way things are done can only be counterproductive. Do you see what I mean?’

  He leant back, nursing another two inches of cigar ash. This time a response was definitely needed.

  And it was not an easy one to give. Oh yes, Charles knew what Dickie Peck meant. Through all the verbiage, the message was quite clear — if you want this job, you will have to undertake to do as Christopher Milton says. He’s not the director of the show, but his word is law, and if you don’t like the sound of that, remember he has an Approval of Casting clause and the world is full of unemployed actors.

  Under normal circumstances Charles liked to think he’d tell the agent to stuff his job and walk out. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He tried to conciliate his conscience. Gerald had offered him the job, and Gerald was a friend. It wouldn’t do to let him down. Anyway, it wasn’t really an acting job. He was being infiltrated into the company as an investigator of sabotage. Yes, it was quite legitimate for him to accept the conditions; it would only raise suspicion if he didn’t. But as he replied, he knew that his real motive was the tax bill lying on the table in his room in Hereford Road. ‘Yes, I fully understand, Mr Peck. I know that Christopher Milton owns the rights of the show and so obviously he will be deeply concerned in all aspects of the production, and I’m sure I will respect his ideas.’

  Dickie Peck looked at him suspiciously, but evidently decided to take the reply at face value. ‘Good, fine. Well, we have Mr Venables’ word as to your suitability for the part…’ Then, just as Gerald had done, he gave a token nod to actor’s pride. ‘And of course I know your work. I have a script of the show here. Did Mr Venables tell you about the tour and the length of contract?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thank you. There is just one thing…’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, money.’

  ‘Yes. Look, I’ll give you my agent’s number. He deals with all that.’

  ‘Fine. Will I catch him there now? I’d like to get this sorted out today. And it’s after half past five now.’

  ‘Maurice’ll be there. He works from home anyway.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll give him a buzz.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Peck. I hope that show’s going to be a great success.’

  ‘With Christopher Milton in it it’s bound to be. That boy is what stardom’s all about. Oh yes, it’ll be a big success. And if anyone tries to stop it being a success, there’ll be hell to pay. Christopher Milton is going right to the top and no one is going to get in his way.’

  He said the last words with a fierce, almost religious, intensity.

  Charles pressed twopence into the coin-box when he heard the voice say, ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes’.

  ‘Maurice.’

  ‘Who’s calling him?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maurice, don’t you ever recognise my voice? It’s me — Charles.’

  ‘Ah well, can’t be too careful in this business. Don’t want to give anything away.’

  ‘You don’t give much away by answering to your name. Anyway, never mind that. Did Dickie Peck get through to you?’

  ‘Yes, Charles. Sounds very good, this musical. I think it’s about time you got into that sort of show. I mean, haven’t I been saying for years that you ought to be doing shows that are more… more important?’

  ‘No. You’ve been saying for years that I ought to be doing shows that are better paid.’

  ‘Ah, now that’s not fair, Charles. Okay, I’ve always said you should keep out of these fringe capers, this experimental stuff, but I’ve always been thinking primarily of your career, of your artistic development.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘So what am I getting for the current artistic development?’

  ‘Well, Charles, Dickie Peck was offering, on behalf of the management, twenty-five for rehearsal, forty on tour end sixty for the run and I said you wouldn’t consider it for under forty for rehearsal, eighty on tour and a hundred for the run and I wouldn’t budge from that and that was my final word on the subject.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re getting thirty for rehearsal, fifty on tour and eighty for the run.’

  ‘Oh well, could be worse. Christopher Milton’s in this show. Got any form on him?’ While Maurice Skellern was pretty useless as an agent, he was an invaluable source of theatrical gossip.

  ‘Nothing much, no. He doesn’t do a lot of work, really.’

  ‘It’s just that everything he does is massively successful.’

  ‘Yes, if you look back on his career it’s all award-winning shows. Not a lot, but it’s all been chosen just right.’

  ‘That’s what having a good agent is about.’

  Maurice didn’t seem to notice the edge in the remark. ‘He’s a talented boy, Charles.’

  ‘Where did he start?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure he came out of one of the stage schools, but I don’t know which one. Think he may have been a child star in films. Not sure, though.’

  ‘Know anything of his working reputation?’

  ‘A bit temperamental, I’ve heard. But that’s third hand. I mean stories like that go around about every big name in the business.’

  ‘Yes. Is he gay or anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Sure not, actually. He married that girl who was in that film… you know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Oh, the one who played opposite Nigel Thingummy in that… Oh, you know. Name like Elsa or Virginia or — Charlotte Fable, that’s it!’

  ‘I’ve heard of her. Still together?’

  ‘No, I think they split up eighteen months or so ago.’

  ‘Divorce?’

  ‘Haven’t seen anything about it. No, I shouldn’t think he’d like the publicity. Rather lets down the image of lovability, and that’s what the public expects of him.’

  ‘Hmm. Oh well, thanks.’

  ‘If you really want form, ask Johnny Wilson. He worked with him on the telly show.’

  ‘Oh yes. What’s that called?’

  ‘Straight Up, Guv. Surely you must have seen it.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a very funny show, Charles. I never miss it. It’s on tonight at seven-thirty. These are repeats, actually, second time round, or is it third? Think of the money on a show like that. Probably sells round the world. That’s what you need, Charles, a big, long-running television series.’

  ‘As part of my artistic development?’

  ‘Of course.’

  That evening Charles watched television. He went round to see Jim Waldeman, a fellow actor who lived in Queen’s Gardens with his
wife Susie and a fairly new baby. He took a bottle of Bell’s to ensure his welcome, but it was unnecessary. As he entered the door, both Jim and Susie’s eyes lit up and, with a cry of ‘Baby-sitter!’, they installed him in an arm-chair in front of the television and went off to the pictures. ‘Imagine,’ said Susie, ‘actually going to see a film. The excitement. We used to go about twice a week, but since that came along, we just haven’t. At all. Bless you, Charles.’

  ‘What happens if it — ’

  ‘Oh, he won’t. He’s terribly good. But if he does, there’s some Phenergan on the dresser. Cheerio.’ And the door slammed.

  ‘What’s Phenergan?’ asked Charles weakly, but he realised they couldn’t hear. He also realised that the slam of the door had woken the baby.

  He switched on the television, determined that the child would soon be asleep again. It was a colour set (Jim’s career was obviously flourishing), but Charles caught the end of an old black and white movie. It was British, some story about a small boy bringing together his estranged parents. The father was an airman and there was a lot of stiff upper lip stuff about one last mission. The boy was a beautiful child, with a perfectly proportioned baby face and blond curls. Charles wondered idly if it was Christopher Milton in his child star days.

  It was becoming clear that the baby was not going back to sleep. The keening cry sawed through the noise of the television. Charles looked at his watch. Twenty-five past seven. The crying showed no signs of abating and he didn’t want to miss the beginning of the show. He went into the night-lit nursery and mumbled soothingly over the cot. The screams redoubled in volume. In the sitting-room music built to an heroic conclusion. He picked up the baby in its blanket and returned to the television.

  The film credits flashed past. The child star was not Christopher Milton. Gareth Somebody, another who had no doubt vanished without trace to become an accountant or an estate agent or a double glazing salesman. After the film came a trailer for a programme on Northern Ireland to be shown the following night.