Dead Giveaway cp-11

by Simon Brett

  ‘I thought,’ the stockbroker objected, ‘the producer said it definitely would go to a series.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, of course,’ said Sydnee.

  The office door opened and a tall man with steel-grey hair and thickly-lashed blue eyes entered. Ignoring the other four, he walked straight up to Sydnee. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? Have you got that list of “hat” lines?’ he demanded brusquely.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She reached into a drawer and produced a few typewritten sheets. ‘I went through all the dictionaries and books of quotations. I should think you ought to be able to work out some links from that lot.’

  ‘I’ll see. Other thing, check my glass on the set after rehearsal.’

  ‘Your glass?’

  ‘Its contents.’

  ‘Oh. Oh yes,’ said Sydnee, understanding.

  The four ‘professions’ remained mystified by this exchange, but the stockbroker, bolder than the others, addressed the grey-haired man. ‘It’s Barrett Doran, isn’t it?’

  He turned on her the kind of look rose-growers reserve for greenfly. ‘What?’

  Sydnee stepped into the breach. ‘Barrett, these four are the “professions” for the First Round.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Barrett Doran without interest, and turned to leave the room. But, as he reached it, the door opened and he was confronted by a pale youth with ginger hair and an apologetic expression.

  ‘Ah, Barrett. I was looking for you. I have worked out a few one-liners on the “hat” theme. If you want to cast your eye over them, I’ll be happy to — ’

  ‘I do my own links,’ said Barrett Doran. ‘I don’t need any of your bloody crap.’ And he walked out of the office.

  The pale youth let the door close behind him and looked at the five who stood there. His face was vulnerable, almost tearful. ‘Hello, Sydnee. If there’s anything I can. . you know, for this lot. .’

  She introduced him to the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. ‘Jeremy Fowler’s our Script Associate on the show. He’s got an endless supply of funny lines for all the contestants and everyone. You know, so if you want to have a few witty ripostes, and you can’t think of any yourself, ask Jeremy.’

  The youth smiled weakly. ‘I have got a few lines. I mean, I only got the list of your professions late yesterday, but I have worked out a few things you might say.’

  ‘When?’ asked the hamburger chef.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When might we want to say them?’

  ‘Oh. Well, for example, when you’ve got the wrong hat on. I mean, say someone puts the surgeon’s hat on you and you’re asked if you are a surgeon, you could say, ‘I don’t think I’d be cut out for the job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean — why?’

  ‘Well, why should I say that?’

  ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, a sort of joke. Not a marvellous one, I agree,’ Jeremy Fowler conceded, ‘but it’s the sort of thing that might get a laugh if you pong it enough.’

  ‘Pong it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Well, it’s a sort of pun. “Cut out for the job”. . surgeon. . cut out. .’

  ‘Oh,’ said the hamburger chef seriously. ‘Oh, I see. I don’t think I probably will say that, actually.’

  ‘Ah, well. Never mind. I’ve got a few lines for the rest of you. . you know, if you think you might need them. . They will get an opportunity to say something, won’t they, Sydnee?’

  ‘A bit, I should think. It really depends how Barrett plays it.’

  ‘Yes. Well, as I say, I have got a few lines about, you know, being a hamburger chef. . or a stockbroker. . or an actor. . or not being them. You know, these games always sound better if you get a bit of repartee going with the host. I mean. . Anyone fancy any lines? I could write them down on cards for you or — Well, if you do want any, you only have to ask. . as I say. . It’s up to you, really.’

  He ran aground on silence.

  ‘Right,’ asked Sydnee brightly. ‘How many teas, how many coffees?’

  There was a marked contrast in moods in the two Conference Rooms that had been properly booked. One contained the four contestants who were actually going to play If The Cap Fits, the other the celebrities whose role was to add a little glamour to the show. In the first there was an atmosphere of obsessive nervousness; in the second, of equally obsessive insouciance.

  For the four contestants, the day was the culmination of a long process. They had all originally written in to West End Television, saying how suitable they thought they would be as contestants in the company’s major, long-running giveaway show, Funny Money. In reply to their letters they had been sent a yellow questionnaire, asking information about age, marital status, work, hobbies and ‘any amusing incidents that may have happened in your life’. They had been requested to return the completed form, together with a recent photograph. It was these snapshots which ruled out most of the candidates. Television game shows are constructed on the premise that everyone is attractive, and those whose looks did not meet the researchers’ approval had their participation in the world of television restricted to an appearance on Sydnee’s ‘Ugly Wall’.

  Those who survived the scrutiny were requested to appear for interview at a large hotel in their locality on a given date. This date was not negotiable; those who couldn’t make it lost their chances of participating in the show. At the interview (which for most of the candidates involved taking a day off work) they were chatted to for up to an hour by Sydnee or another of the researchers, who then decided which contenders attained that level of cheery triviality which game shows demanded.

  The four in the Conference Room, having overcome all these hurdles, had been not a little disappointed when their magic phone-calls finally came through. Yes, they had been very impressive in their interviews. They were just the sort of people who would be ideal game show contestants. Unfortunately, W.E.T. had got all the participants required for the current series of Funny Money. But the company was about to launch a new game show, bound to be quite as successful as the other — would they like to be in on the start of a milestone in television history?

  This was not what most of them had had in mind, but they all (in one case only after checking the value of the prizes that were to be given away) agreed to participate. The initial call had been followed by a letter, outlining the format of If The Cap Fits, and then further phone-calls making detailed arrangements about transport and, where necessary, overnight accommodation.

  And there they were, actually in a Conference Room in W.E.T. House, guarded by one of Sydnee’s fellow-researchers (with the equally silly name of Chita), and about to go down to Studio A to run through the game with the host, the notoriously good-looking and popular Barrett Doran. It was enough to make anyone a bit nervous.

  But their nervousness took different forms, because for each of them the prospect of appearing on television had a different significance. For Trish Osborne, who, though she bitterly resented the description, would be introduced on the show as ‘a housewife from Billericay’, it was a symbolic act, a new start to her fifth decade, a decade in which she intended to assert her own individuality, to be herself rather than somebody’s wife or somebody’s mother. She had a momentary doubt, wondering whether the silk blouse and skimpy brassiere eventually selected for her appearance in front of the cameras was quite suitable, but she bit it back. This was her, Trish Osborne. She was going to prove that she had as much to offer as all those professional television people. She was going to make an impression. This was going to be the start of something.

  For Tim Dyer, participating in If The Cap Fits signified something else entirely. For him it was a chance to win, and he was determined that that was what he was going to do. He had studied many game shows from his armchair, making notes on the techniques used by successful contestants. He had spent a long time checkin
g through the format of the new game, and had boned up on General Knowledge and recent international news. He, needless to say, had been the one who had asked about the value of the prizes, and he felt confident that he could finish the evening at least?800 richer, with a video-recorder and camera, the prospect of a champagne weekend for two in Amsterdam and, if all went well, as the owner of a brand-new Austin Metro.

  He had prepared himself as far as he could; now all he needed was a little luck. And that luck hinged mainly on which celebrity he was paired with. Joanie Bruton he reckoned was the most intelligent, though Bob Garston was also pretty bright. Either of them would do. Just so long as he didn’t get lined up with that thick boxer, Nick Jeffries. Or even worse that dumb actress, Fiona Wakeford. Tim Dyer sat in the Conference Room, praying to that very specialised deity, the God of Game Shows.

  In the other Conference Room the objects of his speculation lounged around, studiously laid-back.

  None admitted to having read the format of If The Cap Fits, which had been sent to them, because this had overtones of swotting, taking the show more seriously than was fitting for someone of celebrity status. Nor had they shown much apparent interest when, first the researcher who was in charge of them, and then Jim Trace-Smith himself, had taken them through the mechanics of the game. It didn’t do to look as if it mattered. There were two acceptable attitudes for the celebrities. The first was bonhomous condescension, as if one were helping West End Television out of a spot by taking part, just because one was that sort of person. The second was mercenary bewilderment. . ‘The agent rang about it, I said how much, he said three hundred quid. . well, I thought, I was only going to watch the box tonight otherwise, so what the hell, why not do it?’

  They were a contrasted quartet, who might have prompted a philosophical observer to speculate on the nature of celebrity. However, the only observer present was a researcher called Quentin, so armoured with cynicism and so unsurprised by anything that television or fame could bombard him with, that such philosophical speculations did not arise.

  Nick Jeffries’ boxing career had ended three years previously. Its start, his winning of an Olympic bronze medal in the Middleweight division, had prompted the customary excesses of the British sporting press, who promised him a professional career of pure gold and saluted a future World Champion. He had held domestic and European titles for a while, but, when projected on to the world stage, had been so comprehensively defeated by the Number Eight contender that his boxing career virtually ended with that fight. However, his face was familiar to the British public through his many endorsements of sportswear, and since, unlike many in his chosen profession, he was capable of speech, he was taken up by a shrewd personal management and marketed as a celebrity. His long-term aim (which he would not achieve) was to attain that level of lovability which the British public had accorded to Henry Cooper. His short-term aim that afternoon (which would be achieved much more easily) was to chat up Fiona Wakeford.

  She was an actress who had risen to public notice in a popular W.E.T. sit com, Who’s Your Friend?, in which she played a pretty but totally brainless actress. Since this did not involve the slightest effort of acting on her part, her career looked set fair to be very successful. She didn’t mind Nick Jeffries chatting her up. In fact, she was so used to everyone chatting her up that she was hardly aware of it. She wasn’t aware of much, actually.

  The other woman panellist was a very different proposition. Joanie Bruton had started life as a journalist on local newspapers and then moved towards women’s magazines. The illness of the regular contributor on one of these had forced her one week to write the agony column, and she discovered such an aptitude for this line of work that within three years she had become a nationally-recognised guru, whose advice was solicited and respected on every embarrassing topic. Her petite good looks, forthright manner and boundless energy had quickly established her as a popular television personality. She made no secret of her appetite for hard work, and, when interviewed (which she was quite frequently) constantly paid tribute to the support of her husband, Roger, who had given up his own Civil Service job in the Department of Health and Social Security to manage the business side of her burgeoning career. He was there in the Conference Room that afternoon, a pale, rather breathlessly fat figure, checking through a pile of correspondence with his untiring spouse.

  The fourth celebrity also appeared to be working, though the restlessness in his eyes suggested that he was motivated more by keeping up with the Joneses (or, in this case, the Brutons) than from a genuine desire to read the television script in front of him (which of course had nothing to do with If The Cap Fits; it was for a B.B.C. series called Joe Soap).

  Bob Garston was a television journalist of the ‘New Hearty’ school. He had risen through those programmes of the late Seventies which had taken up serious causes like consumerism and treated them with such unremitting facetiousness that they produced a television equivalent of the tabloid press. He was the sort of presenter for whom no word was allowed out unsupported by a picture and no opinion unsupported by a pun. He worked assiduously on his image as a man of the people, and prided himself on the fact that the audience identified with him. In his heart of hearts he felt superior to everyone, but that afternoon, as he neglectfully scanned the script in front of him, he looked disgruntled.

  The door to the Conference Room opened. Quentin, the guardian researcher, glanced up protectively, but then relaxed as Jeremy Fowler sidled in with his customary air of apology.

  ‘Er, good afternoon. I’m the Script Associate on this show. . I’ve worked out a few lines, you know, that some of you might want to use.’

  ‘What sort of lines?’ asked Joanie Bruton.

  ‘Well, you know, er, funny lines. . I mean, there may be a moment when you want to make a joke and, er, well, I’ve worked out a few jokes that might be suitable.’

  ‘Oh, I’m hopeless when I try to do that,’ confessed Fiona Wakeford. ‘Honestly, I can never remember the line, and I get the joke all wrong and it’s worse than if I hadn’t said anything. I’m terribly stupid.’

  No one contradicted her. Joanie Bruton and Bob Garston returned to their work, but Nick Jeffries looked interested. He recognised his limitations in the field of repartee. ‘What sort of lines you got?’

  ‘Well, erm, a lot of hat jokes. I mean, the show being about hats. . you know.’

  ‘Like. .’

  ‘Well, erm, there’s this one about the man whose neighbour’s dog eats his hat.’

  ‘Who — the neighbour’s hat?’

  ‘No, no, the man’s hat. And the man goes to complain, and the neighbour gets belligerent.’

  ‘Gets what?’

  ‘Gets angry. . And the man says, “I don’t like your attitude”, and the neighbour says, “It wasn’t my attitude, it was your attitude!”’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s a pun. Attitude. ‘At. . ’e. . chewed. Hat. You see, the dog had chewed the hat. Get it?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, this bloke didn’t like the other bloke’s attitude, I get that. But what I don’t see is. .’

  The explanation of the joke might have gone on for some time, had the door not opened at that moment to admit John Mantle, still with his two Americans in tow. He was still playing his delaying game and keeping them out of Studio A. The detour up to the Fifth Floor Conference Room, ostensibly just to introduce the copyright-holders to the panellists, was, he reckoned, worth at least ten minutes. But he knew he couldn’t keep them in ignorance much longer.

  While introductions were taking place, the telephone rang and was answered by the researcher. ‘All wanted down in studio,’ he announced, ‘to meet the contestants.’

  ‘Oh Jesus! I didn’t think we’d have to see that lot till the actual recording,’ complained Bob Garston, the man of the people.

  ‘Sorry. We’ve got to just run through a bit of rehearsal on the bits you do with them.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Bob Garston, w
ith bad grace.

  John Mantle decided that they’d all go down to Studio A together. He knew that he could no longer put off the crisis, but he hoped his American guests’ reactions might be a little inhibited by the presence of the celebrities.

  It was a vain hope. The minute the party walked on to the set, Aaron Greenberg looked up at the red wheel with its silver lettering and screamed, ‘Christ Almighty! What the shit is that supposed to be?’

  ‘John,’ Dirk van Henke hissed in the Executive Producer’s ear, ‘you have just lost the rights in Hats Off!’

  Chapter Three

  John Mantle was no fool. He had been prepared for this reaction, and he had planned how to deal with it. For the time being, he led the two furious Americans up to his office and let the wave of anger wash over him.

  ‘I mean, for Christ’s sakes!’ Aaron Greenberg was spluttering. ‘What kind of a show do you think this is? We can’t have that kind of talk on a show like this. Diaphragms? No way. I mean, this is meant to be wholesome family entertainment. This show will be going out to Middle America.’

  ‘Actually, it won’t be. You forget that — ’

  ‘Okay, Middle Europe. Who’s counting?’

  ‘Not actually Europe. This is England and — ’

  ‘England — Europe — what’s the difference? The point is that, wherever it is, there are gonna be little old ladies out there who know what they want and who aren’t gonna to want to turn on a show about diaphragms.’

  ‘That isn’t the first meaning most people will think of when they hear the title.’

  ‘No? Well, listen, smartass, I’ve only mentioned it to one person and that’s what she thought.’

  ‘I’m not sure that actresses are typical of — ’

  ‘Don’t you try telling me what’s typical or not typical! All I know is that you’re calling this show by the wrong name! And that’s going to lose you your audience and lose you the chance of making a pot. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, we’re talking about the Golden Goose here and you’re trying to wring its neck before it’s laid a single goddamned egg!’