by Simon Brett
NINE
The hands into which Kell had entrusted the second bottle were less capable by the time Charles had finished it, but he felt quite cheery as he returned to Hereford Road. Although, of course, the immediate target in his emotional life was rapprochement with Frances, spending a couple of hours in a pub with an attractive woman did wonders for any man’s self-esteem.
Just as he was entering his studio flat (or ‘bedsitter’ as he still thought of it), his phone announced the arrival of a text. From Kell. Nothing of a personal nature. A group message, announcing a company call at ten o’clock the following morning. Charles fell on to his bed in a benign stupor, and pulled the duvet over himself.
When he was woken by his phone a couple of hours later, nothing felt benign. Somehow incapable of learning from experience, he’d forgotten how heavy drinking to dissipate a bad hangover provided only temporary respite. The effects were cumulative, and he woke to a new level of shaky ghastliness.
His mood wasn’t improved by the fact that the call came from Frances. A very solicitous Frances, concerned about his well-being.
‘Yeah, not too bad,’ he lied.
‘You haven’t had anything to drink today, have you?’
‘Not much,’ he lied again.
‘Oh, Charles …’ The way she said his name expressed decades of exasperation and disappointment.
‘Anyway, we rehearse again tomorrow. The police are allowing us back into the theatre.’
‘Does that mean they know what happened to the girl who died?’
‘If they do, it’s not information they’re sharing with the general public.’
‘No surprise there. So, Charles, have you made an appointment?’
‘What?’
‘You said you were going to make an appointment with one of those addiction services. The fact that you left all the flyers on the kitchen table made me assume you’d done it.’
‘Ah. Well …’
‘Oh, Charles …’ Even more exasperation and disappointment.
‘I just wanted to get more information,’ he faffed around hopelessly. ‘Talk to people who’ve been through the experience, get some recommendations of what’s worked for them.’
‘And have you got those recommendations?’ Frances asked cynically. ‘Have you talked to “people who’ve been through the experience”?’
‘Yes, I have, actually,’ Charles was able to reply with virtuous honesty. After all, both Gideon and Kell had drink problems, and the stage manager had talked of meetings she went to. ‘There’s one I’m going to follow up on,’ he added, though it was the first time he’d had the idea. ‘It’s called “TAUT”. I’m getting in touch with them tomorrow.’
‘Well, make sure you do,’ said Frances. ‘And don’t think about contacting me until you’ve got an appointment set up.’
He texted Kell. ‘Could you give me a number for that TAUT organization you mentioned at lunchtime?’ He hesitated for a moment before concluding the message with an ‘X C’.
To his surprise, considering how busy she must be at the Duke of Kent’s, she texted him straight back with the number and an address in Finchley, adding, ‘I think I’m going to have to get back in touch with them. I feel absolutely shitty. Had I known this was going to be a working day, I wouldn’t have dreamed of drinking at lunchtime.’
No ‘X’ from Kell.
Charles spent a miserable night. He knew the only thing that would make him feel better was another drink, and he knew the one thing he mustn’t have was another drink. Fortunately, there wasn’t a bottle of anything alcoholic in the flat, otherwise he would have necked it. And soon it was late enough for all the convenience stores on Westbourne Grove to have closed, so – even if he’d been tempted to succumb – he had no source of supplies.
As a result, he sweated through the small hours, snatching moments of sleep and waking either too hot or too cold. Round three o’clock, he took his last two paracetamol, and wished he possessed something in the way of sleeping pills. Round six, he gave up the unequal struggle and risked moving his head into vertical. He drank a lot of strong coffee and tap water, but they made a poor job of rehydrating his arid brain.
‘It is a hell of a tight schedule, but I think the show’s in pretty good shape and we can make it in time for the Press Night.’
Nita Glaze was speaking, but everyone in the auditorium that Thursday morning knew that she was channelling the thoughts of the show’s producers and star. Nita had the title of director, but those kinds of decisions were way above her pay grade. She had been given the illusion of power, though. Justin Grover and the producers sat meekly in the stalls, while she was alone on stage, delivering their pronouncements.
‘Obviously,’ she went on, ‘we’re all shattered by what happened to Liddy, and it’s not going to be easy to bring our focus back on to The Habit of Faith. But we’re all professionals, and there’s nothing she would have wanted more than for us to do the show as well as we possibly can, as a kind of tribute to her memory.
‘As you can see …’ she gestured round to the incomplete set ‘there’s a lot of work still to be done here and, though from now on, we are nominally rehearsing in the theatre, there may be times when major structural work means we have to go elsewhere. Because of the time pressure, we won’t be going back to White City, but, Kell, I think you’re on the case for finding some rehearsal space in the West End …?’
From the auditorium, the stage manager nodded assent. ‘Getting there,’ she said.
Apart from a generic greeting to the company, Kell hadn’t spoken directly to Charles that morning. She looked pale and drawn. It was quite possible that, monitoring the stage crew’s set-building overnight, she hadn’t had any sleep. And starting on that kind of workload with a skinful of booze can’t have helped. Maybe she was avoiding Charles’s eye, because she blamed him for leading her astray.
Or maybe he was just being paranoid, another uncomfortable feeling to add to the collision of uncomfortable feelings occupying his mind and body. He sat in the front row, sweating and jerky, wishing he’d equipped himself with a cup of coffee like most of the company, but uncertain whether he’d be able to get it to his lips without spillage.
Charles was not involved in the first scenes being rehearsed that morning, so he ambled disconsolately up to his dressing room. His was up two flights of the steep stairs. Liddy’s, now the domain of Imogen Whittaker, was on the first floor, so he passed the landing from which she had fallen, been propelled, or propelled herself on the Monday evening.
Being back there made him wonder again what conclusions the police had arrived at from their investigations. Despite any amount of backstage speculation, it was unlikely that any definitive information would emerge until the poor girl’s inquest. And questions like why on earth she had been dressed in one of the monk’s habits might not even be answered then.
Charles’s dressing room depressed him. The prospect of having his own private niche for three months in the West End had already palled. He knew it was his own fault. His Monday night tryst with a bottle of Bell’s had sullied the place for him.
He also felt guilty about Liddy. If he hadn’t been insensible with drink, he might have heard something which could have given a clue as to what had happened to her. He might even, possibly, have been able to save her life.
The only thing that had stopped him from doing that was the drink. Nothing else. And the reason he was feeling so shitty that morning had the same cause. It was also the reason why he was about to screw up the most promising rapprochement with his wife that he’d been offered for years. My name’s Charles and I am an alcoholic.
Kell’s text was still on his phone. TAUT. He wondered what the acronym stood for. But that wasn’t important. He rang the number.
A female voice answered, calm, slight London twang, just with the word, ‘TAUT.’
‘Good morning. A friend recommended that I should ring you.’
‘Good. And may I a
sk what your problem is?’
He felt flustered. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Here at TAUT we deal with a variety of addictions. Drugs, alcohol, gambl—’
‘I’ve never taken drugs,’ said Charles piously, almost perversely affronted that the suggestion should be made. (His lack of experience of illegal substances was not due to some high moral decision to abstain. It was just that, when in his late teens a friend had offered him a spliff and he had taken a couple of long drags, all he got from the experience was a headache so agonizing that he had forsworn drugs ever since. From that time on, he’d never smoked cigarettes either. As an embryonic actor, he already knew how useful it was to have something to do with one’s hands, but while his schoolfriends looked cool going through the elaborate routines of the smoker, Charles kept picking bits of tobacco off his tongue, and generally was more adolescently inept with a cigarette than without one. Thus, concern with external appearances had protected him from two health-threatening habits. If only the same could have been said of the booze.)
‘So, what is the problem?’ came the question from the other end of the line.
‘Alcohol,’ he managed to say.
‘Fine.’ The voice was completely unjudgemental. ‘What I would suggest is that we should make an appointment for you to come here for an assessment, and then we’ll see where we go from there.’
‘That sounds a good idea.’
‘I’ve got nothing till the week after next. Is Monday a possibility?’
‘Should be all right. I’m in a show which will have opened by then.’
‘Ah. You’re “in the business”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let’s say four o’clock Monday week.’
‘Thank you. Of course, if I’m called for extra rehearsals, I’ll—’
‘Just give us a call and we’ll reschedule.’
‘Fine.’
‘Reckon the assessment will take an hour.’
‘OK.’
‘Right. Your meeting will be with Erica. Do you have our address?’
‘Yes. “Gower House” was it?’
‘That’s right.’ She gave him some directions. ‘If I could just have your name and mobile number …’
The warm feeling from having done the deed didn’t last long. He still felt shitty, and with that came the sour reflection that the shittiness was completely self-imposed.
He contemplated ringing Frances to tell her he’d taken the first step, that he had actually made the appointment. But he decided against it. Wait until he had some progress to report.
He folded his Times to the crossword page, but the clues appeared to be written in a foreign language. Though it was their business to make connections between ideas, all the synapses in his brain had gone on strike.
The only thought that his mind seemed able to accommodate was a disquieting one. Kell had told him the police were checking CCTV footage for the Monday night. It was only a matter of time before they would be wanting to ask him more questions. He regretted his total stupidity in lying to them in the first place.
Charles wandered disconsolately down to the Green Room and made himself a mug of coffee (which he only filled up halfway to avoid tremor spilling). Then he went into the auditorium to see what was happening in rehearsal.
They were working on The Girl’s big scene, in which she described to Abbot Ambrose the violence that had brought her to seek sanctuary in the monastery. The company referred to it as ‘The Rape Scene’, and it was the one over which Nita Glaze and Liddy Max had clashed. But the atmosphere was patently more relaxed with the new casting.
It was also immediately clear that Imogen Whittaker was a very good actress. With her long red hair and her stunning looks, she had quite a future ahead of her. She had also done her homework. Only three days after she had been told she was playing the part, she knew every one of The Girl’s lines perfectly. (This is of course what she should have been able to do as the cover for Liddy Max, but very few understudies are as familiar with the text at that stage of rehearsals.)
The standard of Imogen’s performance also suggested that in the intervening couple of days, she had either been working very hard on the part on her own, or with Nita’s guidance. Charles supposed there was no reason why the two of them shouldn’t have got together in a rehearsal room while access to the Duke of Kent’s was barred.
He thought idly of the eternal cliché of showbiz mysteries – the star being got out of the way so that the understudy can blossom into an even bigger star – and wondered whether it had any relevance to the current situation. He couldn’t really see it.
There weren’t many of the company in the auditorium that meeting. Nita, her assistant director, a couple of ASMs. No sign of Kell; maybe she was on the phone, sorting out alternative rehearsal space.
The other person present, though, was Seamus Milligan. He was watching his lines being delivered with rapt attention. And the looks he focused on Imogen Whittaker were so intense as almost to be hungry.
TEN
By a remarkable combination of team effort, hard work and a great deal more expensive overtime than the producers would have wished for, The Habit of Faith did open for its Press Night on schedule. And, though there had been fewer previews than originally planned, the show wasn’t in bad shape. Obviously, Justin Grover gave the performance that he had fixed in place before rehearsals even started, but the rest of the cast matched up to his proficiency. And, technically, there were no hitches. Though Nita Glaze had not had as much artistic input as she might have wished, she demonstrated impressive skill in the logistical challenge of getting a West End show to open on time.
And The Habit of Faith got ecstatic reaction from its Press Night audience. The usual mix of investors, critics, friends of the cast and B-list celebrities was on this occasion enriched – or impoverished, according to your point of view – by a substantial contingent of people dressed as characters from Vandals and Visigoths. They ensured that, when Abbot Ambrose unveiled himself at the end of the opening line-up, yes, he did get his anticipated round of applause.
There were at least a dozen Sigismund the Strongs in the audience, and a couple of versions of his son Wulf, but Skelegators easily won the numbers game. And, of course, there were a lot of teenage girls, who squealed at every appearance of Grant Yeoell. The fans were surprisingly well behaved, hiding any disappointment that they might have felt about The Habit of Faith diverging considerably from the movie plotlines they were anticipating. But they did look funny queuing at the bar in the interval.
The evening was all about Justin Grover, of course, but he was very skilled at the art of apparent self-depreciation. After his first solo curtain call, he urgently summoned the rest of the cast back on stage, as if to say, ‘I couldn’t have done it without them.’ Whereas, the cynical thought occurred to Charles as he joined in the practised bows, Justin would have preferred to have done it without anyone.
At one point, the star raised a hand to still the audience’s noisy appreciation and, turning appropriately sober-faced, announced, ‘Of course, there is one person who is sadly not with us tonight …’
He proceeded to give a graciously worded encomium to Liddy Max, concluding that all the company had endorsed his suggestion of dedicating the evening’s performance to her memory. This statement was greeted by renewed, and even more vigorous, applause.
In his few words, Justin Grover also praised the speed and skill with which Imogen Whittaker had stepped into the breach at such short notice. He even went as far as to say that those watching her performance as The Girl that evening ‘are witnessing the birth of a major theatrical talent’.
Looking along the line of cast drawn up behind their star, Charles could see Imogen glowing in the spotlight of attention. It was true, though, what Justin Grover had said. The young actress had risen magnificently to the challenge of the Press Night and her performance was way better than anything she had produced in rehearsal.
As Justin Grover stepped back into the line of actors, ‘among whom’, as he constantly repeated, ‘he was just another member of the ensemble’, the clapping recommenced. And where the light from the stage spilled on to the front row, he saw the theatre-goers rising to give The Habit of Faith a standing ovation.
Frances wasn’t present. A West End Press Night was a rare enough occurrence for Charles Paris, and he had invited her to come. He’d even suggested extending the invitation to Juliet and Miles – give the son-in-law something about Pops to be proud of – but Frances had said she didn’t want to see him ‘until you’ve sorted yourself out’.
A lot of the old London theatres have unexpected spaces hidden away in their upper reaches, and it was in one of these, a private meeting room, in which the post-Press Night drinks were organized. There was genuine champagne – The Habit of Faith producers were not the kind to fob their employees off with prosecco – and large plates of sandwiches, on which the actors fell like vultures. As actors always do. Maybe it’s the long tradition of precariousness in their profession which makes them always hoover up any food that’s on offer.
None of the actors had elaborate costumes to remove – one of the advantages of monks’ habits – but Charles still managed to be first upstairs for the drinks. He took a glass of champagne from the rows on a table. The only other person in the room was tall, gloomy and drinking Perrier. ‘Hello. I’m Charles Paris.’
‘Yes, I saw you in the show.’
Charles waited, in the actor’s eternal hope of commendation, but none came, so he said, ‘Ah. And what’s your involvement?’
‘I’m an investor.’
‘Right.’ Charles chuckled. ‘On the side of the angels.’ The glazed expression he received suggested that the investor didn’t know that people of his kind were nicknamed ‘angels’. ‘You didn’t give me your name,’ Charles went on.