Dead Room Farce

by Simon Brett

  After lunch, he felt so exhausted, he slipped back to his hotel to put his feet up for a few minutes. He didn’t know much about lighting, anyway. He’d only get under the lighting director’s and Tony Delaunay’s feet if he was in the theatre. The art of directing, after all, was the art of delegation. Respect the individual skills of all the members of your team, and you become a well-respected director. That had been David J. Girton’s approach in television, and it had worked well enough for him there. It had also perfectly suited his natural indolence.

  When he returned to the Vanbrugh Theatre, around four-thirty, he found that Tony Delaunay and the lighting director had finished their plotting, and that the entire company was ready for the tech. run to begin. David J. Girton gave them a few rousing words of the ‘Have a good show’ variety, and allowed Tony Delaunay to start the run. Then, rather than slowing the process down by interfering – he had always prided himself on being a minimalist director – David J. Girton sat quietly at the back of the auditorium and watched the show unfold.

  The run – in comparison to the majority of tech runs – went very smoothly. That was of course down to Tony Delaunay. He managed the cast efficiently, speeding through easy sections of the text and bringing his meticulous concentration to bear on the play’s more difficult moments. Observing all the required Equity breaks, he reached the final curtain just before nine o clock in the evening. The cast members, who’d been fully prepared to work through into the small hours if necessary, were massively relieved.

  As the final curtain fell, David J. Girton was seized by a late burst of energy. He strode down the auditorium from his perch at the back with an authoritative cry of, ‘Could we have the house lights, please? And tabs up? All company remain on stage, please.’

  The cast stayed obediently on stage. They’d all – with the possible exception of Pippa Trewin – been through the process many times before. Tech. runs were a stage of a production which required infinite patience. There was no room for temperament or thespian ego. However many times you were asked to repeat something, however many notes you were given, you just put your head down and got on with it. So the Not On Your Wife! company remained on stage, ready for a long screed of directorial notes.

  ‘Well . . .’ said David J. Girton, with a bonhomous, avuncular smile, ‘pats on the back all round, I’d say. Bloody well done, the lot of you. I’ve kept a pretty low profile today . . .’ (that was something of an understatement) ‘because I don’t believe in interfering on the technical side. There are plenty of people around the studio – erm, around the theatre – who have their own very considerable skills, and I’m not the person to put my oar in and tell them what they should be doing. Pats on the back to all you technical chaps too, by the way.

  ‘So all I want to say, really, is: Keep up the good work. Tough day tomorrow. We’ve got a dress rehearsal in the afternoon, and the call for that is . . .?’ ‘He turned round helplessly to the company manager.

  Tony Delaunay was, as ever, ready with the relevant information. ‘There’s a company call scheduled for twelve for notes, and the dress rehearsal’s two-thirty, so the “half” for that’ll be one fifty-five.’

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t think we need the twelve o’clock call, do we? Seems a bit much to break into everyone’s lunch hour.’ There were a good few restaurants in Bath that David J. Girton hadn’t tried yet.

  But actors’ stomachs are not their main priority when a show’s about to open. ‘I think we should stick with the twelve o’clock call,’ said Bernard Walton. ‘There are a couple of bits we need to run. That tablecloth biz in Act Two for a start . . .’

  David J. Girton saw a potential lunch disappearing over the horizon. There was a serious risk he might have to make do with a sandwich. ‘Do you really think we need to . . .?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tony Delaunay with unshakeable authority. ‘Twelve o’clock call, as per schedule, for notes and the bits that need running.’ He turned deferentially to the director. ‘Anything else you want to say, David?’

  ‘No, thanks. Just . . . all have a good night’s sleep and see you at twelve tomorrow . . . that is, of course, unless anyone fancies going out now for a bite to eat?’

  None of the cast did. They were tired, for one thing. Also, most of them were husbanding their touring allowance and didn’t want to blue any of it so early into the schedule. Maybe after the first night, a company meal might be in order.

  Before they all dispersed, Tony Delaunay, unthanked by the director for his superhuman efforts during the day, but apparently unworried by the omission, shouted for attention. ‘Sorry, just one more thing. Another call to add to your schedule. I’ve just been talking to Rob Parrott at Parrott Fashion, and he’s not happy about the advance. Show like this ought to be getting more bums on seats in a town like Bath. So we’ll be recording a commercial for local radio.’

  He nipped an incipient murmur of grumbling in the bud. ‘Of course, anyone who’s involved will get paid. I’ll talk to your agents.’

  ‘When are we going to have to do this?’ asked Bernard Walton truculently.

  ‘Well, since we’ve got the matinée Wednesday, it’ll have to be on Thursday some time. Won’t involve all of you . . . obviously you, Bernard, and one other, I would imagine.’

  ‘Oh, we do want a lot of voices involved.’ It was typical of David J. Girton that he should suddenly become assertive over a detail that didn’t matter.

  ‘Well, I don’t think Parrott Fashion –’

  But the director had got the bit between his teeth. ‘Yes, Tony,’ he went on self-importantly. ‘We need a lot of voices for this commercial. I’ll let people know who’s going to be involved.’

  Tony Delaunay betrayed only the slightest reaction of annoyance, clearly deciding that this was not something to take issue about in front of the entire company. ‘OK. Anyway, just wanted to warn you about the commercial. I’ll let you know more details as soon as we’ve sorted out a recording studio and that kind of stuff. Thanks. And I think we can break everyone there . . .’ Tony Delaunay turned, with proper deference, to the director. ‘If that’s all right with you, David?’

  David J. Girton, his brief moment of assertiveness past, looked up from his study of The Good Food Guide. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘OK if we break them?’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘Right, that’s it for today!’ said Tony Delaunay. ‘See you all at twelve tomorrow.’

  The not on your wife! company started to drift off into the wings. Charles Paris heard Bernard Walton saying to Pippa Trewin, ‘So are they coming?’

  ‘Hope to. I talked on the phone today.’

  ‘Oh well, we must go out for a really good dinner, just the four of us.’

  ‘That’d be lovely, Bernard.’

  Once again, Charles was puzzled. Though there was certainly some relationship between the star and the ingenue, he still couldn’t quite define it. But he had more pressing concerns on his mind; Ransome George was beside him as they crossed into the wings. ‘Er, Ran, about that twenty quid . . .’

  ‘Haven’t forgotten about it, dear boy. Go to the cash point first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Well, I’d be grateful if you could, because the thing is –’

  ‘Don’t you worry. First thing in the morning,’ said Ransome George grandly and speeded up on the way to his dressing room.

  Charles was about to follow, but suddenly found himself face to face with Cookie Stone. She grinned at him, and gave another wink. ‘Wondered if you fancied going out for a “little drink” and “a bite to eat” . . .’ ‘She was a good mimic; she had caught David J. Girton’s tone exactly. ‘. . . and whatever else is on offer?’

  There was no ambiguity in the final phrase. Charles Paris felt himself colouring, as he desperately tried to muster some excuse. ‘Erm, maybe . . .’ he said feebly. Then, with a brainwave, ‘Just got to check something with Tony first.’

  He found the company manager in the au
ditorium, talking on a mobile phone. Tony Delaunay raised a hand to acknowledge that he’d seen Charles, and continued his conversation. Its subject was guarantees and percentages; no doubt he was again talking to his boss at Parrott Fashion Productions.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, as he switched off his phone at the end of the call.

  ‘Just a thought, Tony . . . Don’t know whether you’ve got a studio sorted out for recording the radio commercial?’

  ‘No, I was going to ask around. Why, have you got any ideas?’

  ‘It’s just I’ve been recording an audio book in a studio down here. It’s run by some people I know. They’ve got the full set-up, state-of-the-art technical stuff. I thought, if you hadn’t got anywhere sorted . . .’

  ‘Have you got their number? I’ll call them. If they offer me a reasonable rate, then that’ll be one less thing I have to sort out.’ Charles handed across one of the newly printed cards that Lisa Wilson had given him at the end of the Dark Promises recording on the Saturday. ‘Thanks.’

  Charles reached the dressing room he shared with a couple of the other minor actors. There was no one else there, but his haven didn’t remain secure for long. He heard a discreet tap on the door, and a ‘Come in’ admitted Cookie Stone.

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles. ‘Hi.’

  She leant her face forward, lips puckered over her prominent teeth, waiting to be kissed. He chickened out and planted a gentle peck on each cheek. If she felt any disappointment, she didn’t show it. ‘So, how about this evening then, Charles?’

  ‘Love to,’ he said, ‘love to. Thing is . . . you know I was doing that audio book over the weekend?’

  ‘You mentioned it, yes.’

  ‘Well, there were a couple of retakes we didn’t get round to – only tiny bits – but since we’ve finished earlier than expected this evening . . . well, I just rang through to the studio, and they’re still there . . . so I’m going straight over now to get it sorted.’

  ‘This time of night?’

  He coloured. It did seem pretty unlikely. ‘As I say, it’s only a couple of tiny bits,’ he floundered. ‘And they’re up against a tight deadline.’

  He didn’t sound very convincing, but Cookie Stone took his words at face value. ‘OK. Very starry, though,’ she observed with mock-deference. ‘You fitting in bits of other work round the play schedule. Be off playing in charity Pro-Am golf tournaments next.’

  ‘I don’t see it. Even this audio book’s not my usual style, I can assure you.’ It was against Charles’s nature to claim charisma he didn’t possess, so he confided, ‘I only got involved in this because Mark Lear –’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mark Lear. He’s the producer. Why, do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ Cookie replied firmly. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’ve known him from way back. Old friends and confidants, know what I mean?’

  ‘I suddenly understand why you’re recording for him then. Jobs for the boys, as ever in the theatre?’

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Or jobs for the relatives,’ said Cookie Stone, with sudden venom. ‘That’s the way to get on in this bloody business, get born into one of the great theatrical dynasties.’

  Charles chuckled. ‘Trouble is, that’s one of those things we don’t have a lot of control over, do we? Rest of us must just scratch a living the best we can, eh?’ Cookie’s expression was beginning to take on an amorous cast, so he cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘Anyway, I thought it’d be easier to get these retakes done now, because we don’t know how the schedule for the rest of the week’s going to pan out, do we?’

  ‘No, no, we don’t,’ Cookie agreed. She nodded, accepting the situation. ‘Oh, well, make it another night, eh?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Charles, once again weak. Then, falling back on the traditional actor’s defence of a funny voice, he assumed the one he’d used for Every Man in His Humour in Belfast (‘Charles Paris seemed to have drifted in from another play’ – Plays and Players). ‘Make it another night,’ he echoed.

  Cookie Stone proffered her face to him again. This time he planted a kiss on the tip of her upturned nose. It was a kiss without attitude; it could have been an expression of deep affection, it could have been merely avuncular. ‘See you in the morning,’ said Cookie, and left the dressing room.

  He didn’t feel good about the glibness with which the lies had slipped out. It reminded him of times he’d lied to Frances. Lying never felt good, but the more readily the lie is accepted, the more of a heel its perpetrator feels. Cookie didn’t matter to him – or at least he didn’t think she mattered to him – so lying to her shouldn’t cause him too much anguish, but he still didn’t feel good about it.

  The thought of Frances hurt like a jaw-deep toothache. In his brain remained a residue of the recollection that he’d rung her the night he’d got drunk with Cookie. Surely it couldn’t be true. Cookie had been in the flat with him; he wouldn’t have rung Frances with Cookie there, for God’s sake, would he? But the thought remained, and it deterred him from ringing his wife again.

  As if to give some kind of substance to the lies he’d palmed off on Cookie, Charles stopped at the stage door and dialled the number of Lisa and Mark’s studio. Probably be no one there at that time of night, but if there was, better warn them that he’d given their names to Tony Delaunay.

  Also, there was something in him that wanted to talk to Lisa Wilson. He couldn’t have got off to a worse start, but he liked to think that, by the end of the Dark Promises recording, he had to some extent rescued himself in her estimation. In spite of the Friday night’s drinking, his Saturday hangover had not been so bad (maybe supporting his theory that anxiety aggravated the condition), and on the second day he’d felt more at home in the world of audio book recording. He liked to think he’d completed his reading of Madeleine Eglantine’s deathless work in a style that had been, at the very least, professional.

  Certainly, at the end of the recording, Lisa Wilson had said, ‘Well done. We must get you in to do another of these.’ It could merely have been routine courtesy, but Charles liked to think there had been a bit more to the compliment.

  There was another thing, too. He couldn’t deny that, over the two days of close proximity, he had come to find Lisa Wilson increasingly attractive. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about women. The chaos of his relationship with Frances, the ill-defined nature of the one he had with Cookie Stone, the fact that Lisa was Mark’s girl anyway, and the disaster-littered history of Charles Paris’s emotional life should have stopped him from ever feeling another stirring of lust in any direction. But it hadn’t.

  ‘Hello?’ Lisa answered. Given her character, it was no surprise that she should be working late.

  ‘It’s Charles Paris. I rang because I was talking to the company manager of our show and –’

  ‘Tony Delaunay.’

  ‘Yes. You mean he’s been on to you already?’

  ‘Mm.’ Tony certainly didn’t hang about; no doubt that was one of the reasons for his success as a company manager. ‘Yes, we’ve fixed it.’

  ‘To do the Not On Your Wife! radio commercial? Great.’

  ‘He beat me down a bit on price . . .’

  ‘No surprises there. He’s a shrewd operator. Parrott Fashion Productions run a tight ship . . . which is the polite way of saying they’re so mean that when they open their wallets moths fly out.’

  ‘Still, it’s new work,’ said Lisa. ‘Might lead to something else, you never know. Getting the studio used, anyway. So, many thanks for the introduction.’

  ‘No problem. The cue came up and it seemed daft not to act on it.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  ‘Is Mark there?’ asked Charles. He didn’t particularly want to speak to Mark, but etiquette dictated that it was really Mark who was his friend, not Lisa.

  ‘No, I’m just finishing up here. He’s in the pub.’

  ‘Ah.’

>   Charles thought he’d bleached the monosyllable of all intonation, but Lisa still picked up on it. ‘Yes, I must go and drag him out soon. Otherwise he won’t be fit for anything tomorrow.’

  ‘Mark always enjoyed a drink,’ Charles observed uncontentiously.

  ‘It’s got beyond “enjoying”.’ There was bitter experience in Lisa Wilson’s voice. ‘I’m not sure that he does enjoy it now. He just goes on drinking, in a kind of blur of self-hatred. It seems to be part of some death-wish.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating,’ said Charles lightly.

  ‘I wish I was. My father was an alcoholic,’ Lisa confided. ‘I’ve seen it all happen before. And I’m not enjoying going through it again.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles. There didn’t seem a lot else to say. Lisa Wilson sighed. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and do my nagging-little-woman routine and extract Mark from the pub. Hm, I just hope he manages to keep off the stuff on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘That’s when you’re doing your radio commercial. I’m going to be in London, at this publishing meeting . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, you mentioned it.’

  ‘. . . so Mark will be in charge.’

  ‘Come on, Lisa. He’ll be fine. You’re talking about a man who spent over twenty years producing radio programmes for the BBC.’

  ‘I know,’ she said gloomily, ‘but I don’t think you’ve any idea how much he’s degenerated since they kicked him out.’

  ‘I thought it was “voluntary redundancy” –’

  ‘Kicked him out,’ Lisa repeated. ‘Mark’s never really recovered from that. Totally knocked the stuffing out of him.’

  Charles could only manage another ‘Ah.’