by Simon Brett
Fortunately, the pub was almost exactly as he remembered it. A surly, unsmiling barman and a lot of men drinking on their own, uninterested in anyone else in the bar. An unwatched giant screen showed pop videos at a volume that would have prevented conversation anyway.
Also, there was still a little alcove he recalled from his previous visits. A space where he could drink unseen, slowly medicating himself to dissipate his hangover. He took the first welcome swallow from his pint glass, then retrieved a crumpled copy of The Times from his pocket and turned to the crossword page.
Charles Paris, like many potential depressives, had a variety of methods for monitoring his mood. The Times crossword was one of them. Some days he would get the first clue instantly and fill in the rest of the grid with amazing fluency. Then he knew he felt good. Other days the clues could have been written in a foreign language, and while he scanned their impenetrable logic, he would become increasingly aware of his own inadequacies. The kind of person who couldn’t even get a single clue in The Times crossword …
This day was a good one. He worked out a couple of answers in the top left of the grid straight away, and pretty soon had that whole quadrant filled. Then he slowed down a bit. He struggled with: ‘Organ in action distributed (9)’. In the secret code known to all experienced solvers, ‘distributed’ could well be a signal for an anagram. And ‘in action’ did contain nine letters. So what anagrams were there of ‘in action’? Charles wrote the letters out of sequence in a circle (one of the few habits he had learned from his father many years before) and studied them. Then realized that he’d counted wrong. There were only eight letters in ‘in action’. So there was his anagram theory out of the window.
It was just as he had reached this conclusion that there was a lull between pop videos and he heard a male voice from the adjacent alcove saying, ‘You were paid to keep your trap shut.’
The voice was rough London with an undercurrent of fastidiousness. Charles had never heard it before.
The voice that responded, however, was one he had heard, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember where. Again male, it had an almost Bristolian burr as it said: ‘Yes, but was I paid enough to keep my trap shut?’
The next music video started. Charles strained his ears against the pounding beat and managed to hear the first voice say, ‘You accepted our terms when you agreed to do the job.’
‘Maybe, but it strikes me now that the information I have might be worth rather more.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, now the job’s done, the stakes are higher.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘Then you’re not thinking. Before the job was done, I had no power. I could say you’d asked me to do it. People might believe that, they might not – probably not, actually. But now the job has been done … I could generate some very bad publicity for you.’
‘Not without incriminating yourself, you couldn’t.’
‘There are ways. I could also arrange some other accident to screw up your plans.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘No, I’m not. If I don’t get more money, you just wait and see what happens.’
There was silence. Not silence in the pub, obviously, but silence between the two men in the alcove next to Charles’s. He strained his hearing even harder not to miss the restart of their conversation.
Finally, the London voice spoke. He did not get louder, but there was a fierce intensity to his words. ‘If you try to blackmail us, you will live to regret it. Accidents, as you have reason to know well, can easily be arranged.’
That was a parting shot. So much so that it was immediately followed by the rattle and crash of the pub door closing. So Charles had no chance of discovering who had been making the threat.
He waited to see if the second man would follow immediately, but there was no sign of movement. Finding that his pint glass had unaccountably become empty, Charles Paris sauntered back to the bar to order a refill. Once there, he turned casually to check out the occupant of the alcove that the man with the London voice had just left.
It was the tall stagehand Bazza, who had been responsible for the logistics of getting the Hamlet skull set into the Grand Theatre, Marlborough. Which was interesting.
Bazza hadn’t seen him, and Charles quickly rejected the idea of initiating contact with the man. The conversation he’d overheard had been intriguing, but capable of more than one interpretation. It wasn’t the moment for Charles Paris to slip into amateur sleuth mode – not right there in The Pessimist’s Arms, anyway.
He took his pint back to his own alcove. Where he realized that ‘Organ in action distributed (9)’ was definitely not an anagram. The ‘organ’ in question was a ‘liver’, the ‘action’ into which it was to be put was a ‘deed’, and so the solution had to be ‘delivered’.
Charles Paris felt a warm glow.
The Tuesday night Dress Rehearsal didn’t go on as long as the Tech, but it was still a late night. Charles Paris thought all the hard work had been worth it, though. The performance had inevitably been a stop-start affair, but replacing Jared Root with Sam Newton-Reid had totally transformed their production of Hamlet. The promise the boy had shown in that upstairs pub room was not illusory. Sam had genuine talent which could take him a long way in British theatre. He was also clearly intelligent. Charles found it a pleasure to hear Shakespeare’s lines spoken by someone who understood their syntax, power and ambiguity.
And Sam’s Nordic looks were perfect for the part. His pale wood-shaving eyelashes had been darkened with make-up. He looked wonderfully handsome and tortured, exactly as Hamlet should.
Charles Paris didn’t have a dressing room to himself, but he was the last person left in his communal one and just contemplating whether to have a tot from his theatre bottle of Bell’s or to wait till he got back to his digs bottle of Bell’s, when he saw Sam Newton-Reid pass the doorway, arm-in-arm with Milly Henryson. They made an almost impossibly good-looking couple. Charles felt an atavistic twinge of jealousy at the sight of their youth and beauty. The girl’s dark hair contrasted wonderfully with her boyfriend’s blond.
‘Well done tonight,’ Charles called out.
‘Thanks. It was a bit of a baptism of fire,’ the young actor responded.
‘Fancy a quick drink?’ Charles didn’t make the offer with much conviction. No doubt Sam Newton-Reid was another of the mineral water and gym generation.
But to his surprise the boy eagerly assented and then looked slightly awkwardly at his girlfriend. ‘It’s all right,’ said Charles. ‘Milly is included in the invitation. Come in. I’m afraid it’s only whisky on offer. And no ice, unless someone’s got the energy to go down to the Green Room fridge.’
‘Warm whisky’ll be fine.’ Sam sat down, and Charles could see how much the strain of the day had taken out of him. Milly looked at her boyfriend with a kind of anxious solicitude which made the older actor feel quite jealous. When had a woman last looked at him like that? Charles was reminded of his need for female company. Or yes, sex. Maybe when the play opened, he’d be able to rearrange that drink with Geraldine Romelle …?
‘This is really good of you,’ Sam Newton-Reid went on. ‘I’ve been keeping myself together on the promise of a drink at the end of the day and Milly’s just broken the news to me that she hasn’t got any booze back at her digs.’
‘Everything today has happened rather quickly,’ the girl apologized. ‘I haven’t had a moment to get to the shops.’
‘Not your fault.’ Sam took her hand. ‘Just saying I was desperate for a drink and didn’t look like I was going to get one, and now Charles has turned up like the Fairy Godmother.’
‘Not a part I’ve actually played,’ Charles confessed. ‘Though I have given my Baron Hardup.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Milly.
‘Cinderella’s father.’ He remembered the pantomime in Worthing way back in his career. And he remembered Jacqui, who’d been playing
a Villager, White Mouse and Court Lady (for the Finale). They’d had a nice time during the run.
Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t forget the review his performance had received in the Worthing Herald: ‘Charles Paris’s Baron Hardup was particularly hard up for laughs.’
Feeling a little uneasy at being so much older than the young couple, Charles grinned and said, ‘Great that you two get the chance to work together. Have you ever done so before?’
Milly Henryson looked a little piqued. ‘Yes, we did quite a lot of stuff together at uni.’ Charles didn’t think he’d ever get used to people using the word ‘uni’ without irony. ‘And then,’ the girl went on, ‘of course, more recently …’
She didn’t finish the sentence, and Charles realized the proportions of the gaffe he just had made. The pub room production he had seen with Frances had not just featured Sam Newton-Reid in the title role. ‘That is, Milly,’ he mumbled, not making up nearly enough ground, ‘apart from when you played Ophelia in that Hamlet I saw.’
‘Well, as I say, we did do some stuff at uni.’
‘Milly was brilliant in Hedda Gabler,’ said Sam loyally. ‘I played Tesman, but she totally stole the show.’
The girl’s beautiful face wrinkled ruefully. ‘Feels like a long time ago.’
Long time ago? echoed Charles’s mind. You wait till you get to my age, love. Then you’ll know what ‘a long time ago’ means.
Sam took his girlfriend’s hand and shook it reassuringly. ‘You’ll get there, love. Remember, almost every great actor in this country has had to serve their time grafting away as an ASM at some point. Isn’t that right, Charles?’
But before there was time for him to respond, Milly cut in with, ‘You seem to have managed to avoid that stage, Sam.’
The exchange didn’t qualify for the description of ‘a spat’, but it still showed an underlying tension in the young actors’ relationship. Charles had never really had an affair with an actress where there had been professional rivalry, perhaps because his natural fatalism had prevented him from being too overt about his ambitions. But he did know many couples in the theatre for whom it had been a problem. Work patterns in their business were so erratic that the chances of both partners having exactly the same level of success at exactly the same time were distant. One career would be blooming while the other stagnated. One partner would be bathing in the glory and stimulus of nightly performances, while the other was stuck at home, enviously watching other actors who’d managed to get lucrative television work.
Charles had frequently seen the situation become a recipe for relationship breakdown. Because, of course, the more successful partner would be moving in more glamorous circles, possibly finding opportunities for new sexual adventures … He didn’t for a moment believe that Sam Newton-Reid and Milly Henryson were currently at that level of risk, but he could recognize that the seeds of jealousy had been sown between them.
‘Anyway,’ said Sam, continuing his campaign of reassurance, ‘there’s a chance that we might work together again quite soon …’ Milly grinned at him ‘… given the scale of Katrina’s media commitments.’
Charles got it. He’d been aware during rehearsals of Katrina Selsey continually wanting to have a ‘quick word’ with Ned English at the breaks. He’d also seen the girl’s Personal Manager Peri Maitland around the Grand Theatre and gathered that there had been many requests for time off so that Katrina could appear on chat shows and panel games. The other part of the equation, which he’d forgotten but had known at some point, was that Milly Henryson was understudying the role of Ophelia. So if there were a performance which Katrina Selsey’s ‘media commitments’ prevented her from doing … then Milly would get to act with her boyfriend again.
‘I should think it’s quite likely you’d get on at some point during the tour, Milly,’ said Charles.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s just that I wonder, even without her “media commitments”, whether Katrina will have the stamina to do all the performances.’
‘Oh?’
‘She hasn’t got a theatre background. Still really an amateur. She isn’t used to the relentless grind of eight shows a week. I wouldn’t be surprised if our Katrina doesn’t call in sick at least once over the next week.’
Milly Henryson looked initially very excited by this idea, then realizing it might make her appear to be willing the production’s Ophelia to fall ill, she changed her expression to something more neutral.
Sam Newton-Reid turned to Charles, his brow wrinkled with ingenuous puzzlement. ‘Milly’s been telling me these amazing stories about Katrina Selsey’s behaviour at rehearsals, some of which I just couldn’t believe. I mean, is it true that she’s been demanding chauffeured limousines to take her everywhere?’
‘Well,’ said Charles Paris judiciously, ‘it’s not a million miles from the truth.’
And if Sam Newton-Reid had been looking for a demonstration of the kind of behaviour Charles and Milly had been talking about, the next day, Wednesday, provided a perfect example. All three of them were in the auditorium of the Grand Theatre to witness it.
The rehearsal call was ten o’clock. Though they had made great strides the day before, integrating the new Hamlet into the production, a lot of hard work would still be required for the company to be ready for the first public performance the following evening.
There were warning signs in the fact that Katrina Selsey arrived glammed up to the nines. Not the usual sweatshirts, hoodies and jogging bottoms of rehearsal wear, but an impossibly short skirt, impossibly high heels, thick make-up and eyelashes like exotic moths. It was also ominous that she appeared accompanied by an equally well-dressed Peri Maitland.
Ned English’s technical discussion with the designer in the stalls was interrupted by a peremptory call from Katrina onstage. ‘Can we get started, please, and get my bits done? I’ve got to be away by eleven.’
‘What?’ asked a bewildered Ned.
Katrina Selsey looked to her Personal Manager to deal with the next bit. ‘That’s right,’ said Peri Maitland. ‘Katrina has to be away by eleven.’
‘But we’re rehearsing today,’ said the confused director. ‘And the bloody show’s opening tomorrow night.’
‘I’m sorry,’ responded Peri Maitland, all sweet reasonableness. ‘Katrina’s got a telly recording.’ She mentioned the name of a popular Friday night chat extravaganza, The Johnnie Martin Show. ‘They pre-record on Thursday evening, which obviously she can’t do because of the performance here, so they’ve agreed to do her segment separately. And today’s the only day they’d got free.’
‘They may be free,’ said Ned English, finally rustling up some counter-arguments, ‘but Katrina is not. She’s committed to rehearsals here. Our schedule’s already been knocked sideways by Jared’s accident. We can’t afford any more delays.’
‘Listen,’ said Peri, rather more forcefully, ‘Johnnie Martin is a very big deal. You can’t argue with telly people.’
‘You certainly can. Katrina is required to rehearse here this morning.’
‘Why?’ The actress herself rejoined the argument. ‘I know all the lines and the moves …’
‘That’s not the point. There are other members of the cast who—’
‘… and that girl, you know, the one who’s understudying me, she can stand in for today’s rehearsal.’
Katrina Selsey may not have been in show business very long, but she’d been quick to pick on certain aspects of star behaviour. Throughout the rehearsal period she’d made a point of pretending not to know Milly Henryson’s name, referring to her always with the disparaging ‘that girl’.
‘I cannot rehearse without my full cast,’ the director insisted.
‘Listen, Ned,’ said Katrina Selsey, a new Essex hardness in her voice, ‘my appearance on national television on The Johnnie Martin Show on Friday night is going to do far more for this production of Hamlet than any amount of rehearsal.’
‘And,’ Katrina went on, ‘now Jared’s out of the show we need something to get bums on seats. I’m the only star name left in this show.’ A new thought struck her. ‘And in fact, Ned, I should have Jared’s dressing room.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said the exasperated director. ‘This show opens tomorrow night. We haven’t got time to talk about dressing rooms.’
‘Well, we should,’ insisted Katrina. ‘And I should definitely have the star one. You don’t think any of the other nonentities in the cast are going to bring the punters in, do you?’
Seated in the stalls, Charles Paris winced. And for once it wasn’t from his hangover. For himself he didn’t object that much to being categorized as a ‘nonentity’ (indeed, it chimed in with his self-image during his lowest moods). He didn’t, however, think all the other members of the cast would be quite so forgiving.
But none of them said anything. They all just listened as the argument between stage and auditorium continued.
‘Katrina’s right,’ Peri Maitland asserted once again. ‘On Friday night this show will be known about by people who’ve never even heard of Hamlet.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Ned English, ‘but the fact remains that Katrina has signed a contract which means Tony Copeland Productions have first call on her services.’
‘And suppose Tony himself feels it’s more important that Katrina gets the telly exposure …?’
‘I would think that is extremely unlikely.’ Ned English’s words sounded a little too defiant, as though he were afraid that Peri might be telling the truth.
The Personal Manager pressed home her advantage. ‘Katrina’s going to be giving a sneak preview of her debut single on Johnnie Martin. And Tony Copeland is a director of the company for whom she’s recorded it.’