Dead Room Farce

by Simon Brett

  And he felt very glad that the company manager was still on the phone to London. So far as the cast was concerned, the lack of a final script was what was preventing the recording from getting under way. They seemed not to have noticed that the studio wasn’t yet properly rigged for them to start work.

  Continuing his attempt to ease the atmosphere and doing his bit to help, Charles took orders for coffee and went off to fill the kettle.

  Mark Lear tried to go through into the larger studio, but found it was still locked. He had some problem finding the key to the dead-bolts, but eventually managed to open the heavy double doors and go inside.

  From over by the kettle Charles heard Bernard Walton’s petulant drawl. ‘Isn’t it bloody typical? You work your guts out for weeks on a play, the whole complicated machinery runs like bloody clockwork, and then when you get to a minor detail – like this wretched radio commercial – it all screws up. I mean, why on earth did we have to come out to the bloody suburbs of Bath to record this thing, anyway? You’d have thought they could have found a studio nearer the centre. I wonder who was responsible for choosing this godforsaken hole?’

  Charles kept quiet. In the corner of the room, Tony Delaunay continued to wrangle with the Parrott Fashion Productions office.

  David J. Girton, still sour with lunch-withdrawal symptoms, looked across towards the studio, from which Mark was just emerging, and seemed to see him for the first time. ‘Hey, you’re Mark Lear, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘David J. Girton.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘We met way back at the Beeb. I started in radio, before I went across to telly. Used to see you hanging round the Ariel Bar, didn’t I?’

  Mark Lear took the proffered hand and grinned slyly. ‘I used to see you hanging round the Ariel Bar.’

  ‘Gone, you know, that bar. Gone with all its memories of post-production celebrations, failed seductions and drowned sorrows. That whole Langham block’s back to being a hotel now.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve only been out of the Beeb eighteen months or so.’

  ‘Oh, right. You couldn’t stand the atmosphere under Chairman Birt either?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘No, it’s all changed.’ David J. Girton shook his head mournfully. ‘Old days, they used to say BBC top management was like a game of musical chairs, except when the music stopped, they added a chair rather than taking one away. Now, when the music stops, they take away two chairs, or three. Haven’t seen blood-lettings on that scale since Stalin’s purges.’

  ‘You’re still involved, though, I hear?’ Mark Lear swayed slightly as he spoke, picking out his words with great concentration.

  ‘Yes, I go back on contract from time to time. When they want a new series of Neighbourhood Watch. I know all the cast and the writer so well.’

  ‘All right for some.’

  ‘You haven’t been asked back then?’ asked David J. Girton smugly.

  ‘Oh no. No, they’re well and truly finished with me. Definite one-way ticket to the scrap-heap in my case.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the director. There didn’t seem a lot else to say.

  ‘Mind you . . .’ A nostalgic glaze stole over Mark Lear’s bloodshot eyes. ‘I remember those times back at the BBC. Particularly the early days . . . You were left to your own devices then, just allowed to get on with things in your own way. Now there’s a whole raft of middle management and accountants standing between the producer and any kind of real creativity.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more.’ David J. Girton grinned. ‘Sounds like you’re well out of it, Mark, old man.’

  ‘Maybe.’ For a moment Mark Lear was immobile, eyes still filmed with recollection. Then he lurched forward suddenly, as he continued, ‘Sometimes think I should write a book about the Beeb as it was in those days. Yes, I think I should do it, tell a few home truths. Show the BBC . . . not like everyone presents it on all those bloody nostalgia programmes . . . like it really was . . . all the scams, all the fiddles, all the under-the-counter deals that went on. Shee, I remember some of the things I used to get involved in, moonlighting on other jobs . . . Of course, it all had to be terribly secret then, the BBC owned one’s soul, it wasn’t nice to work for commercial companies outside. Whereas now . . . your bonus is probably calculated according to how many other organisations you work for. Yes, I think I’ve got some interesting stories in me . . . You’d be surprised the unlikely things unlikely people got involved in. Some they certainly wouldn’t want to be reminded of, I’m sure. Actually, the whole thing’d make a bloody good book . . . I can see the cover now . . . “Mark Lear takes the lid off the BBC in a way that –”’

  He may have had further literary ambitions but he didn’t get the chance to expatiate on them because at that moment, finally, Tony Delaunay put the phone down, and waved the precious Parrott Fashion-approved text for the radio commercial.

  It was a simple enough forty-second spot, in which Bernard Walton expressed his view that Not On Your Wife! was the funniest play he’d ever been in, and the other cast members asked him questions about who else was in it, where it was on, and what the Vanbrugh Theatre’s box office phone number was. Even though they were being paid, everyone except Bernard was rather miffed that they’d been dragged out for the recording. They’d each got such a tiny ‘cough and a spit’ in the commercial that they’d never be identified personally. One voice, any voice – even an anonymous voice like Charles Paris’s – could have been used to read all Bernard Walton’s feed-lines.

  ‘Let’s get this knocked on the head as quickly as possible,’ said Tony Delaunay. ‘I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m sure you all want a break before “the half”.’ The assembled company mumbled agreement. The company manager turned to David J. Girton. ‘Will you be producing the recording, David?’

  But the director’s moment of assertiveness had passed, and given way once again to his customary languor. ‘No, no,’ he said rather grandly. ‘I have complete faith in you, Tony.’

  The company manager nodded, without comment, and turned to Mark. ‘OK, through into the studio with them?’

  ‘Sure.’ Mark Lear moved clumsily across to hold back the double doors. His disoriented sullenness had suddenly given way to a kind of giggly euphoria. ‘Through you come, my luvvies!’ A few of the cast bridled – they didn’t like being called ‘luvvies’ – but nobody said anything. ‘Come on, into the studio! Let’s commit this deathless piece of drama to tape!’

  He looked piercingly at Cookie Stone as she passed through. ‘I know you, don’t I? We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied.

  ‘At the Beeb? Didn’t you ever work for Continuing Education?’

  ‘No.’ Cookie dropped into a Brooklyn ‘Broadway Babe’ voice. ‘I never got the breaks. From birth I was just a no-hoper. I never made it into Continuing Education.’

  But by then Mark Lear had lost interest in Cookie, in favour of Pippa Trewin. Something of the old charm he’d focused on so many young women came back into his manner, as he murmured, ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Pippa Trewin.’

  ‘Oh, you’re Pippa Trewin,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well. I know all about you.’ And he fixed her with a beady, challenging eye. The girl looked away, annoyance twitching at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Can we get on, please?’ demanded Tony Delaunay from the control cubicle.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mark Lear stumbled through to join him. Tony put the talkback key down, and spoke through into the studio. ‘All gather round the one mike, I imagine. OK, one run and we should be able to take it.’

  They were cramped around the microphone. A green light flicked on and Bernard Walton started speaking. Through the double glass, Charles could see Tony Delaunay and David J. Girton in the control cubicle, both looking confused. Tony turned to Mark Lear beside him. Their dumb show made it clear that no sound was coming through from the studio. Charles sa
w Mark turn helplessly to a bank of sockets and reach, without conviction, towards a jack plug.

  In one seamlessly efficient movement, Tony Delaunay’s hand swept up to a row of switches and adjusted them. ‘OK, just give me a couple of words for level, Bernard,’ his voice crackled through the talkback.

  ‘From the minute the script of not on your wife! arrived, I knew I was reading the funniest play that –’

  ‘OK, fine.’ Tony Delaunay’s fingers flickered across the control desk, doing a little more fine tuning. Beside him, Mark Lear had sunk back into his chair, eyes almost closed, happy to surrender responsibility to the company manager. ‘Give us a read and then we’ll go for a take,’ said Tony.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Bernard Walton objected.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This line: “the sauciest, sexiest, smuttiest show in town”. . .’

  ‘What about it?’ the talkback demanded.

  ‘Can we lose “smuttiest”?’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Six

  ‘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.’