by Simon Brett
At the afternoon tea break of that Wednesday’s rehearsal Danny Fitz was clearly still very upset about having to work with Tad Gentry. He slumped wearily into a seat next to Charles. ‘God, what I thought was going to be my dream job is clearly going to be a nightmare from start to finish.’
‘Why was it so much your dream job?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, I always love doing the Sisters. They’re different from other dames, because most of those are basically benign characters. But no, the Ugly Sisters are pure evil. Oh, they may get forgiven at the end of the story and they may have lines during the Walkdown where they say they’re going to reform, but don’t believe a word of it. They’re at least as bad as Regan and Goneril – to whom of course they bear an uncanny resemblance … you know, if you think of King Lear as Baron Hardup, the Fool as Buttons, Edmund as the Demon King – oh, King Lear really works as a panto. But that’s by the by.’
‘So it’s because you like playing an evil character that this is your dream job?’
‘Well, partly that, but also geography.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I actually live here in Eastbourne.’
‘Oh, do you?’
‘Yes, I run a very neat little B&B, you know, to keep the pennies coming in when the National Theatre fails to ring yet again. I really just do the pantos these days. Used to do summer season as well, but that’s dead in the water now. They don’t want variety bills any more. Why bother? Much cheaper to set up a tour for some foul-mouthed comedian off the telly, have him effing and blinding round all the number-one venues. Yes, so it’s great for me that this show’s in Eastbourne. Not so great that I’ve been paired up with Tad Gentry. I’ve seen planks of wood with more acting talent than he’s got.’
‘But presumably you knew this was going to be difficult – the first year you’ve done the Ugly Sisters without Bobby Crowther.’
‘Maybe, but surely they could have cast someone with some instinct for panto. I mean I know any number of old actors who could be brought out of retirement and do better than Tad. He’s just destroying everything I’ve worked for all these years. He and Kenny Polizzi are ruining what I’m trying to do. God, I’d like to kill the bloody pair of them!’ Danny concluded with petulant bitterness.
In spite of the level of textual embroidery going on elsewhere in the show, Charles Paris, as one of the Broker’s Men, tended to stick to the script as written. This was partly because Mick ‘The Cobra’ Mesquito, whose hold on the lines was never going to be strong, might be thrown by any changes in his cues, but also because Charles wasn’t that keen on improvisation. His distaste for it dated back to a long three months he’d spent with one of those directors who say their scripts are ‘created in the mutual white heat of improvisation with their ensemble’, and then claim for themselves all the royalties for the published text and subsequent productions.
The play that emerged was too long (as improvised shows always are) and would have been better with a writer giving some shape to it (as improvised shows always would). It was set on a failing family farm in Devon and Charles had bleached all recollection of it out of his mind. All recollection that is except for the review he got from the Hampstead and Highgate Express. ‘It was hard to tell whether Charles Paris’s curled nostril was a response to the farmyard smells or to the script.’
Because of Bix Rogers’ background as a choreographer, the Eastbourne Cinderella featured more dancers than many pantomimes. And they were professional dancers, not children from the local ballet school (which had proved a cheap way of filling out the cast list of many a pantomime). The casting of adults was partly because of Bix’s choreographic ambitions, but also because new rules about the chaperoning and protection of under-age performers in a theatre made booking them more trouble than it was worth.
Charles had been in shows with dancers before. Indeed the Jacqui with whom he’d such a rewarding time in Worthing had been primarily a dancer. And he was always struck by how different they were from actors. Their priorities obviously included physical fitness and a mechanistic discipline. And though they were outgoing and friendly to the rest of the company, socially they tended to stick together.
They also talked in a choreographic shorthand which was hard for a non-dancer to understand. For example, there was usually one dancer called the ‘swing’. He or she was a kind of universal understudy, knowing everyone’s choreography and able to step into the shoes of any dancer who was sick or injured. Then there was the ‘dance captain’, a member of the chorus line who during the run of a show acted as the choreographer’s representative. The dance captain led the warm-ups before performances and generally ensured that the choreography kept up to the standard with which it had started the run.
In the Empire Theatre’s Cinderella this role was taken by a dancer called Jasmine del Rio, who was as likely to have been born with that name as she was with her ash-blonde hair. Like most dancers Jasmine had a fabulously slender body and looked wonderfully glamorous on stage. Seen closer to, the effect was less stunning. In spite of heavy make-up, her face had that papier mâché skin quality which marks out a heavy smoker. (Charles was constantly amazed by how much dancers smoked. For them fitness was clearly a relative term.)
Because of Bix Rogers’ background, the chorus line for Cinderella was bigger than it would be for most pantomimes, where savage cost-cutting and cast reduction were primary concerns. (Charles remembered being told by a fellow actor of one particular cheapskate production of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves which contained the line: ‘You come with me. You thirty-nine wait out there.’)
And Bix Rogers’ chorus line, following the de rigueur trend of all West End musicals, had a multi-ethnic composition. Although, except for Jasmine del Rio’s mid-Atlantic twang, most of the accents derived from Essex or Liverpool, many of the dancers’ forbears had African or Asian origins. There was one particularly gorgeous Chinese – or perhaps half-Chinese – girl called Kitty Woo who Charles had difficulty in tearing his eyes away from during rehearsal. Supple of body and golden of skin, her image of oriental exotica was only let down by the cockney rasp which emerged every time she opened her mouth.
Kitty seemed to be a particular friend of Jasmine del Rio. The two of them bustled off together out of the St Asaph’s Church Halls whenever there was a break, instantly picking up an uninterrupted flow of gossip and fags.
A recurrent factor in rehearsals for all the pantomimes Charles Paris had been involved in was that there simply weren’t enough of them. The Eastbourne Cinderella was not unusual in having less than two weeks to get the show together. The result of this would be that the first week’s performances (two a day, afternoon and evening) would really be a work in progress, a continuation of rehearsal witnessed by paying audiences. By the second week of the run the cast would have settled into their proper routine, though the amount of ad-libbing the comics indulged in meant that no two performances were ever the same.
Kenny Polizzi seemed to have attached himself to Charles Paris, a situation to which Charles had no objection at all. At the end of his first day’s rehearsal, Kenny said, ‘Time for a quick one?’, and they ended up in the Sea Dog, where they had first met. It was the nearest pub to the St Asaph’s Church Halls and aspired to Victorian cosiness. There was a lot of coloured glass in the decor, stuffed birds in glass cases and monochrome photos of old Eastbourne on the walls. In the hearth a log fire blazed, and you had to look at it for a long time till you realized that the logs weren’t being consumed by the hissing gas.
When it came to liquor, Charles was amazed at Kenny’s restraint. In the unlikely event of Charles himself ever giving up the booze, the last place he’d want to socialize in would be a pub. Too much temptation all around. The very smell of the place would be a challenge to his resolve.
But Kenny Polizzi liked the atmosphere of what he called ‘a genuine English pub’. Meekly ordering mineral water, he showed no signs of discomfort in the environment. Maybe he regar
ded these visits as some kind of challenge, proving to himself how complete was his victory over the demon drink.
They were in the pub after Wednesday’s rehearsal, Charles restoring the tissues with a large Bell’s, Kenny with his eternal mineral water, when they were joined by someone Charles hadn’t met.
The newcomer was a rubber ball of a man who moved across the bar with great urgency. It soon became apparent that he did everything with great urgency. He wore a grey suit, tight and crumpled as though he had slept in it. His bald dome was inadequately covered by an untidy comb-over which he kept unconsciously trying to flatten with his right hand.
‘Lefty!’ cried Kenny Polizzi, rising to envelop him in a man-hug. ‘Lefty, I’d like you to meet Charles Paris. He’s acting in Cinderella too. Charles – Lefty Rubenstein. Lefty’s my agent.’
‘“Agent” don’t cover it,’ said Lefty, sitting down at the table. His accent was Californian, but not the laid-back kind. He sounded busy, urgent. ‘For “agent” read “minder”, “fixer”, “gopher” and “nursemaid”.’
‘Don’t forget also, Lefty, that you source all the stuff I need.’
There was clearly more significance in that line than might appear. Lefty Rubenstein nodded vigorously and said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I got what you asked me to get you.’
Kenny spread his hands wide. ‘Hey, isn’t this great? One of the few advantages to being a star. You get a Lefty Rubenstein to organize everything for you. All good news for everyone.’
‘Not for everyone,’ the agent grumbled. ‘Certainly not if you happen to be Lefty Rubenstein.’
His boss grinned. Clearly this kind of badinage was part of some long-established double act between them. ‘It’s true, though, Charles,’ he said, ‘Lefty runs my life – but don’t start feeling sorry for him because he gets very well paid for doing so.’
‘You think any amount of money could begin to compensate for the aggravation you put me through?’
‘Can it, Lefty. You love the job.’
‘Oh yeah? Only one hundred per cent wrong there, Kenny. I hate the job. You never understand this. Not love. Hate!’
‘Lefty, you are just so full of shit.’
‘You’re fuller of shit than I am any day.’
The two Americans were clearly enjoying insulting each other, so Charles Paris asked if he could get Lefty a drink.
‘Diet Coke, please.’ He looked across at Kenny Polizzi’s mineral water. ‘You got a gin or vodka in that?’
‘Nothing. I’m officially off the booze – period.’
‘Huh,’ Lefty snorted. ‘I heard that one before.’
‘This time it’s for good.’
Another ‘Huh.’ Then he called out to Charles, who had just got up on his way to the bar, ‘Just don’t be around when he falls off the wagon.’
‘I’m not going to fall off the wagon,’ Charles heard Kenny protest. ‘I’ve found out where and when the AA meets right here in Eastbourne’
When he rejoined them with the Diet Coke, Charles was treated to a lot more about Lefty Rubenstein. He was one of those people who felt he had to give a complete résumé to everyone he met. Having told Charles he had just arrived from Los Angeles that day, he then went a long way back into his personal history. The ‘Lefty’ nickname came from when he had been a devious pitcher at college baseball … though the idea of his roly-poly figure ever having played any sport was now totally incongruous.
He’d trained as a lawyer and it was in that capacity that he first met Kenny Polizzi. But he had found he was spending so much of his time arguing the details of his client’s professional contracts that he might as well ace out the existing agent and take on the role himself. From that time he had handled all of Kenny’s business and personal affairs. ‘And let me tell you, dealing with all those sharks in the television industry is a breeze along the boardwalk compared to the personal stuff. Jesus, all those ex-wives.’
‘They were perfectly nice women when I married them,’ Kenny contributed, in a pose of bewildered innocence.
‘Yeah, well, something happened when you wanted to unmarry them. They all turned into monsters.’
‘That’s true, Lefty. Strange – who’da thought living with me would have that effect?’
‘Anyone who’d spent five minutes in your company, Kenny.’
‘Oh hey, that’s a bit harsh.’
‘Harsh, but true.’ The agent appealed to Charles. ‘Before I met this bastard I had hair to comb over my comb-over. Look at it now.’ So at least he had a sense of humour about his coiffure.
‘Dare I ask,’ said Kenny, ‘whether you’ve heard any more communication with the Plague from Palm Springs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And she’s still mad as hell at you.’
‘I know that, Lefty. But are she and her posse of lawyers any closer to signing the agreements?’
The lawyer shook his hands from side to side in an equivocating manner. ‘They’re still playing edgy with that. One day they’re about to sign the whole thing off, next day something’s come up.’ He turned to Charles to elucidate. ‘The lady we’re discussing—’
‘Who certainly doesn’t qualify for the title of “lady”,’ said Kenny.
‘… is the most recent Mrs Polizzi. Indeed, until she signs on the dotted line, she is the current Mrs Polizzi.’
‘She was mentioned on The Johnny Martin Show,’ said Charles.
‘Sure she was. Lilith Greenstone.’
‘Easy to recognize,’ said Kenny. ‘Ten per cent sugar candy, ninety per cent vitriol. Hey, you’ve never said, Charlie boy … are you married?’
‘Erm … I’m not unmarried.’ It was the nearest he could come to defining his on/off relationship with Frances.
But fortunately Kenny wasn’t really interested in further details. He was still absorbed in his ongoing sparring match with his agent. ‘So what did the fragrant Lilith say when she last communicated with you, Lefty?’
‘Well, needless to say, she didn’t communicate with me direct. Everything comes through her lawyers. You know …’ Lefty’s tone became sentimental ‘… a lot of nasty things are said about lawyers. All those unkind jokes comparing the profession to various predators. You know, like “Why won’t sharks eat lawyers? Professional courtesy.” I don’t like to hear lawyers being described like that … but for Lilith Greenstone’s lawyers I’ll make an exception!’ he concluded viciously.
‘Come on, though – what did she say?’
‘She said you were the worst kind of skunk, to run away to England.’
‘Hey, I haven’t “run away to England”,’ protested Kenny, mock-aggrieved. ‘I’ve come over here to work. I’m extending my range by taking on the onerous role of Baron Hardup in a very fine production of Cinderella.’
‘Well, you can tell Lilith that when she arrives.’
‘“When she arrives”? Hell, is she planning to come over here?’
‘I think she’s bluffing, but that’s what she said. She said she thought you two might have to meet face to face.’
‘She wants to sort out the final details of the divorce?’
‘No, I think she just wants to sort you out.’
‘Oh.’ Kenny’s expression suggested that encounter was not one he would enjoy.
And so the double act went on. Charles was content just to sit and listen. Though he was quite capable of being the life and soul of any party, it was just an act (like most things in his life, he thought in his less cheerful moments). But he was also happy to be entertained by the conversation of others.
They had another round of drinks – large Bell’s for Charles, mineral water for Kenny, Diet Coke for Lefty. (Charles was to discover that the agent was almost never seen without a bottle of Diet Coke in his hand – he seemed to need an intravenous drip of the stuff.) Then Kenny said he should take Lefty to his hotel – the agent’s bags had been delivered there, but he hadn’t checked in yet.
‘A
re you in the Grand, like me?’
‘Hell, no. The Cinderella production company’s picking up your tab. My company, using my money, has opted for somewhere slightly less grand.’
‘I’ll walk you round there.’
The two Americans went out of the pub together, but Charles needed a pee. Having not been since lunchtime, he’d needed one when he first arrived in the pub, but not for the first time alcohol had diverted his intentions. By now, with two double Bell’s inside him, the need was quite urgent.
He crossed the bar from the Gents, giving a half-hearted wave to the barmaid, who didn’t notice the gesture. He was about to leave when something he saw through the bubbled glass of the window made him stop.
It had come on to rain and the seafront of Eastbourne looked particularly drab and Novemberish. Protected from the rain by the awning over the pub’s door stood Kenny Polizzi and his agent.
Lefty was giving something to his boss.
It was a semi-automatic pistol.
Within seconds it was hidden in Kenny’s coat pocket and the two men were walking away.
THREE
FIRST BROKER’S MAN: I’ve just read a book about three holes in the ground.
SECOND BROKER’S MAN: Well, well, well.
FIRST BROKER’S MAN: Yes, that was the title.
Charles picked up a tuna sandwich from a convenience store on his way back to his digs. The accommodation, recommended by the Empire Theatre, had been described as ‘self-catering’, but Charles wasn’t much of a one for cooking. He rarely aspired beyond a tin of baked beans on toast. That evening a tuna sandwich would do him fine … so long as he’d got a bottle of Bell’s by way of accompaniment. And he was confident there was one back at the digs.