A Deadly Habit

by Simon Brett

  ‘See you in the morning,’ said Tod.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Oh, and, Charles …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you ever seriously want to deal with your problem …’

  ‘My problem?’

  ‘… I’d be happy to take you along to a meeting.’

  ‘An AA meeting?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Without any response to his departing friend, Charles attracted the barman’s attention. He didn’t bother with the pint this time, just the large Bell’s. As soon as he’d received the glass, before the ice had had a chance to chill its contents, he downed it in one and ordered another of the same. That he took back to his seat.

  He pulled The Times out of his pocket. It was already folded back to the crossword. On his tube journey from Queensway to White City that morning, he’d been too nervous about the read-through to fill in more than a couple of clues. Now, in the pub, his concentration was also shot to pieces. It wasn’t the booze, he was certain of that. It was anger engendered by his recent conversation with Tod.

  The patronizing tone was what had infuriated him. All right, Tod Singer had had a serious drink problem and he was dealing with it. Well done. But for him to treat Charles Paris as though he were in the same category of need was presumptuous and insulting. To offer to take him along to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting … Charles seethed.

  His angry thoughts were interrupted by the arrival in the pub of a familiar figure. Seamus Milligan had slipped furtively through the door, and looked around, hoping not to encounter anyone he knew. The sight of Charles was a disappointment to him.

  In quieter moods, Charles would have let the writer sit and drink on his own, but the booze had made him uncharacteristically expansive. ‘Seamus, hi!’ he called across the room. ‘Let me get you a drink!’

  Seamus came unwillingly towards him.

  ‘What will you have?’

  ‘Pint of Guinness, please.’

  Charles went to the bar to get the order. Since a double Bell’s went down so much quicker than a pint, he ordered another one.

  He sat down opposite the writer. ‘Great play,’ he lied. ‘Read really well, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Bits of it sounded all right,’ Seamus Milligan conceded grudgingly.

  ‘Is it something you’ve been working on for a long time?’

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘And you’ve never actually had any experience of being a monk?’

  ‘No.’

  Which explained, as Charles had suspected, why the monastic background was so imprecisely sketched in. ‘But you clearly know all about the Catholic stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Brought up a Catholic, were you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a silence. The writer was not about to volunteer anything. Charles persisted. ‘And now …?’

  ‘Lost my faith.’

  ‘But don’t they always say: “Once a Catholic” …?’

  ‘Do they?’

  This was not the most fruitful conversation of Charles’s lifetime. ‘Still, brilliant to get your play on in the West End, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Have you worked with Justin before?’

  ‘Way back. He was in a play I wrote that was done in Bridport.’ Bridport again. ‘I wrote a few for down there. Anyway, the one I did with Justin … Hopes of it going to the West End, but nothing happened …’

  Seamus spoke as if nothing happening to his plays was a common occurrence.

  ‘I worked at Bridport. The Imperial. What was the name of the guy who ran it?’

  ‘Damian Grantchester was artistic director when I was there.’

  ‘Yes, of course, that was his name.’

  ‘He directed The Damascene Moment.’

  ‘That was your play?’ From the title – and from listening to The Habit of Faith that morning – Charles didn’t imagine it had been a barrel of laughs.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did Justin play the lead?’

  ‘No, no. He was playing a very minor role.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was before he got starry.’

  ‘Ah. It was at Bridport that I first worked with him.’

  This prompted no response, so Charles didn’t have to repeat his Rosencrantz and Guildenstern routine. With an air of finality, Seamus Milligan drained his glass of Guinness and put it down on the table. He rose, suddenly very anxious to leave.

  ‘Sorry, got to go. I’ll return the compliment another time.’

  ‘Fine.’ Charles mused, ‘Funny, you know, the Bridport connection with Justin. Me and Tod Singer, you … Makes me wonder if—’

  ‘Nothing happened in Bridport!’

  The ferocity with which the words were said, and the speed with which Seamus Milligan went out of the pub, left Charles in a state of puzzlement. Also with the feeling that he’d like another drink.

  Rehearsals for The Habit of Faith ran pretty smoothly. Nita Glaze, as Charles had suspected she would, did not try to impose herself too much on the production. She was skilled in the mechanics of directing, she blocked the play sensibly and was liked by the cast. She seemed, even more importantly, to be liked by the backstage crew. A director who irritated the stage manager or wardrobe or the lighting designer could find their life made very difficult. But Nita was tactful and engendered a good company spirit.

  The notes she gave to the actors were practical and encouraging, though Charles was always aware of the way she was constantly checking Justin Grover’s reaction to what she said. He suspected that the two of them had private sessions at the end of the day’s rehearsal, where the star would brief his director about his overall plans for the production.

  But Justin almost never argued with her publicly. He was a quiet, respectful presence in the rehearsal room, and meekly accepted the notes that he had instructed his director to give him.

  There was only one occasion when the company in the rehearsal room witnessed dissension involving their star. Nita was blocking the very beginning of The Habit of Faith, a dramatic scenario which Charles found rather unsubtle, though he had no doubt that it would work effectively with an audience.

  The tabs rose on the stage in total darkness. Bells rang, not a cheerful carillon of celebration, but ominously repeated single notes of different frequencies. As they did so, lights above slowly grew in intensity to reveal the full cast, in a line facing front. By some accident of casting – Charles couldn’t believe it had been deliberate – all the male cast members were more or less the same height. They were dressed in their habits, faces hidden under their cowls. One by one, in time to the intoning of the bells, the monks pulled off their hoods to reveal their faces. All revealed male, tonsured heads, until the last in the row. That was Liddy Max, and when she uncovered herself, abundant (courtesy of the wig department) blond hair would ripple down over her shoulders in a mini-coup de théâtre.

  But as Nita was blocking this scene, and lining the cast up onstage in the order specified on their scripts, Justin Grover said, ‘Oh, I thought we’d agreed a change here.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the puzzled director.

  The star looked out towards the stage manager’s desk, next to which sat Seamus Milligan, sullen and crumpled with his script on his knee, as he would throughout the rehearsal process. ‘I thought we’d agreed this, Seamus,’ said Justin. His tone was even, but it carried authority.

  ‘No,’ the writer responded truculently. ‘We can’t spoil the play’s first authentic moment of drama.’

  He sounded as if he was preparing himself for a stand-up row, but all he got from the star was a subdued ‘Hm.’ Nita Glaze continued her blocking of the opening line-up with Liddy Max as the final unmasking.

  But, significantly, at the next day’s rehearsal, very early on in proceedings, the director said, ‘I’ve had a bit of a rethink on the opening of the show. It seems to me that making The Girl t
he final reveal is a bit obvious, not to say sexist. To me it’d make more sense if we change the order, so we have The Girl in the penultimate position, get our audience reaction to that, and reveal that the last unknown character is Abbot Ambrose. He, after all, is the puppet master, a bit like Prospero, really … you know, the one who controls the action. I think the dramatic integrity of the play would be strengthened by having him as the final reveal. So, can we try that, please?’

  Charles could see the suppressed anger in Seamus Milligan’s body language as the new order was rehearsed, but the playwright made no vocal objection. Nor did any other member of the cast. Clearly, some overnight discussions had taken place. Nita and Seamus had been persuaded that The Habit of Faith’s ‘dramatic integrity’ would be incomparably improved by letting Justin Grover steal the end of the first scene.

  And, Charles thought cynically, the star had probably already calculated that the first sight of him each performance would prompt a round of applause from fans of Sigismund the Strong.

  But Nita Glaze had made the idea for the change sound completely as if it was her own. Maybe the girl had a future as an actor as well as a director.

  Meanwhile, after that small ruffling of the surface, the harmonious process of rehearsal flowed smoothly on.

  There was only one company member with whom Nita Glaze did not seem to bond, and that was Liddy Max. Whether this was a gender issue, Charles did not know. He had long since given up trying to understand what caused some women not to get along. There seemed to be so many complex layers of slight and counter-slight in their relationships, it was confusing for a mere male. Maybe there was just an instinctive antagonism between the two young women, both in their twenties. Or maybe Nita felt more confident being dictatorial to someone of her own sex and age than she did to the male cast members, most of whom were considerably older and more experienced than her.

  Their disagreements never erupted into open conflict, there was just an identifiable tension between them in the early days of rehearsal. Nita seemed to give more notes to Liddy than to the other cast members, particularly about her first big scene, in which The Girl has a long speech describing the assault and rape which has led her to seek sanctuary in the monastery. Maybe, as a woman, Nita felt that she could identify with that experience and was therefore more sensitive to false notes in Liddy’s interpretation.

  Though the tension between the two of them did not dissipate completely, as rehearsals continued there was less open verbal disagreement. Charles Paris thought it highly possible that Justin Grover had had a word with his director.

  FOUR

  ‘Are you going to have a glass of wine now, Daddy?’ asked Juliet.

  They were sitting down to Sunday lunch in his daughter and son-in-law’s five-bedroomed architect-designed house in Pangbourne, into which they’d moved from their previous three-bedroomed architect-designed house in Pangbourne. They had, needless to say, made the move at the most economically advantageous time and, as Juliet’s husband kept telling anyone who’d listen, they’d paid off the mortgage on the new property early.

  There had never been a natural affinity between Miles Taylerson and his father-in-law. Charles still wished his daughter had opted for someone with a bit more charisma. But he could not fault Miles as a husband or father. Since he’d married Juliet when she was nineteen, he had supplied her every need, providing the economic security which allowed her not to work after the birth of their twin sons.

  This again rankled with Charles. He liked the idea of having a daughter with a career, not necessarily as louche a one as acting, but something vaguely creative. Miles, however, was very old-fashioned about such matters. He wanted a wife who looked after the house, and who was ready to welcome him every evening when he returned from his arduous day’s work. The fact that Juliet didn’t need to work also demonstrated, to Miles, his own career success. And, as Charles had had cause to observe on many occasions, his daughter seemed very happy with the arrangement. Though how she filled the days, particularly now that the twins were off at private boarding school, he had no idea.

  Charles felt a residual guilt about the situation. Had he been a more hands-on father, had he been more present during her childhood, had he not walked out on Frances while Juliet was still a toddler, perhaps their daughter might have had more bravery with which to face the world. Perhaps she wouldn’t have embraced at such a young age the stolid security that her husband offered. Was it a reaction against the unpredictability of her own upbringing? Still, it was far too late for such speculations to be useful.

  Miles Taylerson was in insurance. No other career could have placed him further from the interests of his father-in-law. He was apparently very good at insurance, though Charles had no idea what kind of skillset would be useful to make one good at insurance. Miles had been along dutifully with Juliet to one or two of Charles’s performances, but he had no interest in the theatre. Or any of the arts, really.

  He did read books, though, but they weren’t what Charles thought of as books. No fiction. They were all ‘How To’ books. Whenever Miles was introduced to something new, he read a book – or several books – about it. When he took up photography, he immersed himself in floods of data about focal lengths and shutter speeds. Taking up fishing, a hobby which he still pursued, had been preceded by much reading about tickler lures and swimfeeders.

  The passage of time had thickened Miles around the waist and receded his hairline. He looked what he was, a complacent middle-aged, middle-class success in the world of insurance.

  Through intermittent encounters over the years, the chalk and cheese that were Charles and Miles had managed to achieve a kind of relationship. Subjects for conversation were restricted to fishing, the doings of the twins, and generalities about the awful mess that was contemporary politics.

  There were two things about his son-in-law, though, that no amount of time could prevent from aggravating Charles.

  First, Miles persisted in trying to sell his father-in-law insurance policies and pensions all the time.

  Second – and much worse – he insisted on calling Charles ‘Pop’.

  ‘So, are you going to have a glass of wine now?’ Juliet repeated, drawing her father out of his reverie.

  ‘What? Oh, well, I suppose I …’ Charles caught Frances’s eye. ‘No thanks, I’m driving.’

  Juliet looked gobsmacked. She had been surprised at the sight of her father refusing a drink before lunch. For him not to have one with the meal was completely unprecedented. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no, fine. Just cutting down a bit.’

  He was rewarded by an approving look from Frances. What he’d said was true. Following the terrible bender he’d been on after The Habit of Faith read-through, he had been cutting down a bit. Not as much as his wife would have liked, but there was a kind of progress. In the third week of rehearsal, he’d gone three days without an alcoholic drink. A small achievement by some people’s standards, perhaps, but for Charles Paris it had been mould-breaking.

  ‘Well done, Pop.’ He winced. ‘Seeing the error of your ways, eh?’

  The last thing he wanted was to be patronized by his bloody son-in-law, but Charles restrained himself from making any comment.

  ‘Still, good news you’ve got this job in the West End,’ Miles went on. ‘Three months’ secure income, I gather?’

  ‘Four, with rehearsal.’

  ‘Even better.’ There was a silence as Miles started to carve the joint of beef that Juliet had just produced from the kitchen. The meat on its tray and the accompanying dishes of vegetables looked like photographs from a television chef’s recipe book.

  The carver continued, ‘This would, of course, be an excellent opportunity, Pop, while you’re earning good money, to put a little away each month, to make some kind of provision for your future.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I—’

  ‘Our company does have a range of products which suit peop
le whose income sources are erratic … you know, freelance people. Because I assume that you still haven’t made any pension provisions for—’

  ‘You assume correctly,’ cut in the dry response.

  ‘Well, it’s never too late to make a start. Obviously, it would have been better if you had been more provident earlier in your career, Pop, but—’

  ‘Miles …’

  Charles caught Frances’s eye and saw that she was suppressing a giggle. That discouraged him from launching into the diatribe he’d been about to unleash. Also, there was something rather appealing about sharing private jokes with his wife. It had a nostalgic charm. Though fiercely loyal to Juliet, Frances did recognize that the person their daughter had married was a complete prat.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Juliet, sensitive enough to know that the situation needed easing, ‘when does the show actually open, Daddy?’

  ‘Week after next.’

  ‘Oh, great. We must get to see it, mustn’t we, Miles?’

  ‘Sure, poppet.’ Charles was reminded of another of his son-in-law’s infuriating verbal tics.

  He noticed that neither of them paused to confirm the date of the opening night. They had no interest in seeing The Habit of Faith. Though, given the current thawing of their relationship, he thought Frances was likely to put in an appearance.

  Demonstrating her loyalty, she asked, ‘And you actually get into the theatre for the first time tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. The good old Duke of Kent’s.’

  ‘I can’t remember, have you worked there before?’

  ‘Don’t blame you for not remembering. Show I was in closed within a week.’ It wasn’t one of his happier experiences. (‘Charles Paris kept looking out over the audience, rather like General Custer, hoping to see the cavalry appearing over the hill. Sadly, no one arrived to save the evening.’ The Guardian.)

  ‘It’s Shaftesbury Avenue, though, isn’t it?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Oh yes, one of the old theatres in urgent need of a makeover. Musty old seats, miles and miles of steep stairs backstage.’