by Simon Brett
‘I’d like that too. Can’t really do it here, wouldn’t be right on this occasion.’
‘No.’
‘But maybe after we leave here? I came past a little coffee shop on my way to the church. If you’ve got time …?’
‘My next call is “the half” at the Duke of Kent’s. I’ve got time.’
Charles sipped at his black Americano while Eve found the relevant part of Beginners, Please on her tablet. She handed it across to him. ‘I don’t think it was just Damian’s lack of celebrity that made all those publishers turn the book down. I think they were worried about the libel risk.’
He read the passage indicated.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were played by two young actors who were destined to have very different careers. The first was Charles Paris, an adequate jobbing actor who might have gone on to greater things had he not been so wedded to the bottle.
Ouch! That put him in his place.
But the trajectory of my Guildenstern was destined to be very different. His name was Justin Grover, and he certainly had no more talent than Charles Paris.
A kind of back-handed compliment, maybe …?
Justin was one of those annoying actors, who relied completely on technique rather than emotion. Every nuance of his own performance was worked out, though he never considered how it might fit in with what the rest of the company was doing. Someone like that is extremely irritating to direct. There is only one role in the theatre where that kind of approach works, and that is when the person deploying it is a star. Stars can do more or less what they want, and the rest of the company just has to fit in around them.
And – irony of ironies – Justin Grover did actually become a star. How someone of such minimal talent could rise to such heights does not cause me any surprise. I’ve seen the same thing happen in the theatre too often for it to occasion in me even the mildest flicker of an eyelash. Why it was Justin Grover rather than, say, Charles Paris, on whom the Blind Goddess of Good Fortune smiled, I have no idea. But I do get bloody annoyed with people saying, ‘Oh, I gather you gave Justin Grover his first break, you must be proud of that’, as if I’d achieved nothing else in my life!
And I guess there are now many thousands – possibly millions – of people across the world who think he is a good actor. He’s certainly constantly being quoted in the media. And rumours abound that he might soon join the ranks of our theatrical knights. That talent-free bastard is already halfway to being a National Treasure.
What Justin Grover’s success prompts in me is what I always think of as ‘The Mozart Question’. It is the one raised in Peter Shaffer’s delightfully clever play Amadeus. If a man creates some of the most beautiful music the world has ever heard, does it matter if in person he is an emotional retard with a lavatorial sense of humour? In other words, does the personal behaviour of an artist have any relevance in the appreciation of their artistry?
In my view, having spent my life working with people who range from absolute charmers to total shits, I think the answer is yes.
To be more specific, is my appreciation of Justin Grover’s achievements coloured by the fact that I know him to be a sleazy voyeur?
Damian Grantchester then went on to chronicle precisely the discovery the maintenance men had made in the Imperial Theatre dressing room which had been shared during his production of Hamlet by Charles Paris and Justin Grover. He also presented the corroborating evidence that had been given by Eve Blanche when he questioned her about the incident. She related how Justin Grover had made a teasing reference to a particular mole on the front of her thigh, something which could only have been observed by someone who had seen her naked. Eve had commented to Damian:
‘It made me feel unwholesome, defiled somehow. But now you’ve told me about the peephole, I feel even worse.’ And when I saw her some years later, Eve told me, ‘Having been the object of a voyeur’s attentions had a profound effect on my life. I completely lost confidence in myself, both as a woman and an actress. The experience was the main reason for my giving up my career in the theatre. I think it’s also why I never got married or was able to sustain a long-term relationship.’
So that’s another triumph for Sigismund the Strong!
Charles looked up from the tablet. He had felt Eve’s eyes locked on him during his reading. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘That’s proof, isn’t it?’
He grimaced. ‘It was proof for Damian. It’s proof for you. It’s proof for me. But would it stand up in court? Would allegations in an unpublished memoir stand a chance against someone who, in his owns words, is “represented by some of the best lawyers in the world”?’ The company behind Vandals and Visigoths is a very major player in the entertainment world. They wouldn’t let their multimillion-dollar franchise be threatened by twenty-year-old accusations about something that happened to a young actress in the Imperial Theatre, Bridport.’
‘Wouldn’t they, Charles?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Times have changed. The whole climate’s different now. Twenty-year-old accusations about “inappropriate behaviour” towards young actresses are exactly the kind of things that are now being taken seriously.’
‘Yes, I’ve read all that stuff in the papers. And maybe, if you could call on Damian’s testimony to back you up, you might—’
‘I’ve made a start, Charles.’
‘A start on what?’
‘I’ve tracked down the builder who was doing the maintenance work in the Imperial Theatre. He’s retired now, but still very articulate. He’s fully prepared to stand up in court and describe how he found the peephole that was drilled in the dressing-room wall.
‘I’ve got funding from a women’s action group, and I’ve instructed solicitors.
‘I’m going to fight this, Charles. I’m going to fight this all the way.’
The sequence of events, set in motion by Eve Blanche’s determination, unfolded over many years. But she was right, the climate of opinion had changed, and it had changed in her favour.
Even twenty years before, she would have been lucky to have found a solicitor willing to take up her cause. And many people then might not have considered sexual voyeurism even as a crime. Not admirable behaviour perhaps, but ‘the kind of thing men do’.
Above all, the company behind Vandals and Visigoths would have used the considerable muscle of their legal and PR departments to silence Eve Blanche before she even got started on her campaign.
But social media had changed all that. Within hours of Eve’s allegations becoming public, they had been forwarded and retweeted many times. More importantly, the publicity led to a lot more women coming forward, saying that they too had suffered from Justin Grover’s voyeurism. Some were the usual cranks who leap on to any bandwagon of complaint, but enough of them could produce solid evidence that would make their accusations stick.
One effect of social media, bemoaned by the crustier supporters of the British legal system, had been an erosion of the old principle that everyone is innocent until they have been proved guilty. Long before he had been charged with any crime, Justin Grover’s reputation had been smeared. Voyeurism was such a sneaky, unpleasant practice. Despised by those tabloid readers who provide such a groundswell of British public opinion. It had only been a matter of time before the headlines on the lines of ‘SIGISMUND THE SLEAZY’ and ‘SIGISMUND THE SICK’ appeared.
The reaction from the producers of Vandals and Visigoths was again very different from what it might have been a few decades earlier. Back then, they would have gone straight into Damage Limitation mode, resorting to any means – even criminal – to keep the whitewash on their precious stars unsullied. Now, they regarded their stars as the source of the damage they wished to limit. Again, long before any formal charges had been laid against him, Justin Grover was suspended from further involvement in Vandals and Visigoths.
And, only a few months later, an announcement was made to allay the anxieties of the franch
ise’s many international fans. Yes, Vandals and Visigoths would be continuing. But future storylines would be built around Wulf, who, following the death in battle of his father, was now the sole bastion of civilization against the ferocious wrath of Spurg and the Skelegators.
So, Grant Yeoell, an actor with a gym-sculpted body, but even less talent than his predecessor (and to Charles Paris’s mind, less talent than a plank of wood or a bowl of porridge), was elevated to the status of global star.
Before the decision was made, the producer’s legal department made deep investigations into Grant’s private life. Their discovery, that he had no permanent partner, but slept with a large number of consenting, adult females, they regarded as rather good news. The publicity department thought they could make a lot of that.
So, Grant Yeoell continued serenely on his route to the top, enjoying the favours of as many women as he wanted to. There was nothing illegal about that yet. So long, of course, as he checked their passports first.
Legal processes being slow – as are all processes for which the practitioners are paid by the hour – the outing and vilification of Justin Grover did not begin until long after the run of The Habit of Faith had ended.
And Charles Paris never heard whether the subsequent investigations also led to Justin’s involvement in the deaths at the Duke of Kent’s Theatre being proved.
TWENTY-TWO
Charles never saw Baz again. Whether the poor man had been found one morning dead in a gutter, or somehow survived, there was no way of knowing. Though Charles thought the former scenario was the more likely.
Another event, of which Charles would be completely unaware, was the marriage, less than a year after his wife’s death, of Derek Litwood. His bride was a trainee solicitor in the same legal firm, a girl whose ambitions did not extend beyond raising a family in Muswell Hill and supporting her husband at professional functions. No inappropriate ambitions there.
The only other thing that happened before The Habit of Faith run ended was that Tod Singer and Kell Drummond, both now staunch devotees of Alcoholics Anonymous, announced their engagement.
That resonated with Charles, because the only area of his life that brought him any satisfaction at that time was the progress he was making at Gower House. Three days a week without alcohol moved on to four, then five. And three weeks before the end of The Habit of Faith run, he achieved a full week without any booze passing his lips. He couldn’t define how it was working, but something inside his brain was changing. The only thing he knew for certain was that he did get a weekly charge from telling his fellow participants about his days of abstinence.
Passing a day without alcohol, though, did not now seem so incongruous, so alien. He even on occasion managed to go to a pub with alcohol-drinking friends and survive on sparkling water.
He didn’t want to make any generalizations or predictions about his progress. The urge to have a drink, prompted by an advertisement on the tube, or someone on television picking up a large Scotch, could still be agonizing. He could never imagine it going away completely. He also knew that one reckless drinking session could destroy everything he had worked so hard to achieve.
And he was worried about how he’d manage when the run of The Habit of Faith ended. Because his minimal experience of not drinking when he was out of work was that the evenings did seem inordinately long. And when he didn’t drink, he watched more television. Drinking meant going out with people, not drinking meant sitting at home alone.
There wasn’t much television he enjoyed, particularly not the drama. Actors always say how fervently they admire other actors working on television, but it’s almost never true. They are so much more professional viewers than the general public, who watch and boost ratings without ever sparing a second to question how the various effects are achieved. Actors are always aware of their fellow actors’ little tricks, the artifice with which they perfect tiny, subtle techniques in front of the camera. They also know too much of what goes on in rehearsal rooms, about the horse-trading with directors to achieve another close-up, about how certain star actors see to it that the camera does not linger too long on members of the supporting cast. It’s always a bad sign when the star of a long-running series gets a credit as director. That means more close-ups.
Above all, actors watching television are always thinking: Why does that talent-free bastard land this extraordinarily well-paid job when I’d do it much better?
Charles’s progress on giving up the booze had not gone unremarked by Frances. Indeed, he had not allowed it to go unremarked. He reported to her assiduously after each ‘Growing Out’ session. And, a week before The Habit of Faith closed, he was able to announce that, come the final Saturday performance, he would have achieved four full weeks without alcohol.
Frances, having known Charles for so long, was aware of the scale of this achievement, and was duly appreciative. ‘You haven’t got any commitments on the Sunday, have you? The day after the show finishes?’
‘I haven’t got any commitments for the rest of my life.’ It was true. He’d known for long enough when he would next be out of work. He’d vaguely heard other members of the company talking about jobs they’d be going on to, or the inefficiency of their agents in not finding them other jobs to go on to. Charles should really have been on to Maurice Skellern, to encourage him to look out for something else for his client. But Charles had done nothing, secure in the cocoon of three-months’ guaranteed West End money. And, of course, he had had other preoccupations.
‘Well, let’s have lunch then. On the Sunday,’ said Frances. ‘I’ll pick you up in the car.’
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘I thought you might want to bring some stuff – clothes, shaving kit – over to my place.’
‘What, you mean I can stay?’
She backtracked quickly. ‘I’m not talking about staying forever. Couple of nights, perhaps? See how we go.’
‘Yes. No rush.’ But Charles was rather ecstatic at what he was hearing.
‘I’ll cook a nice lunch.’
‘Great.’ Then he saw a potential pitfall. ‘You haven’t invited Juliet and Miles too, have you?
‘No, Charles.’ Frances chuckled. ‘It’ll be lunch for just the two of us.’
He smiled. Those encoded words, surviving from early in their marriage, both recognized to mean that they would spend the afternoon in bed.
‘And, Charles …’ said Frances.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m very proud of you for what you’ve done. You know, over the booze.’
‘Oh. Thank you, Frances.’
So maybe that’s how it’ll work, thought Charles, as he put the phone down. Although the plans had been unspoken, both envisaged that over the next few weeks Charles would gradually start to spend more time at Frances’s place – and in her new place if the purchase worked out – until the moment came when he finally gave up the lease on his studio flat. And husband and wife would once again cohabit.
For Charles, it would be his first positive achievement for many years.
When the curtain came down on The Habit of Faith for the last time, Charles felt a mixture of emotions. Relief that he’d never again have to nod understandingly as Brother Benedict, The Monk Who Just Listened To All Of The Other Monks Who Maundered On In Long Speeches About Their Own Internal Conflicts.
And frustration, born of the knowledge that the crimes of Justin Grover and Seamus Milligan would forever go unpunished.
He’d been impressed by Eve Blanche, but he didn’t really think there was a hope in hell that anything would come out of her campaign. He could not see what lay ahead.
Oh well, thought Charles Paris, as he hung up his monk’s habit for the last time, you win some, you lose some.
There was no official celebration of the last night. The producers had hosted a lavish Company Dinner after the Thursday performance. Nita Glaze had been there, bubbling with confidence about her new West End product
ion.
Charles had got through the dinner without drinking, a considerable achievement in such convivial circumstances.
But after the final show, there was a move, for those of the company who fancied it, to go to the pub ‘for a quick one’. Charles thought it would be churlish not to join them. Whatever antagonisms had been felt during the run, now was the time to relax and say what fun it had all been. That was not difficult for anyone, secure in the knowledge that the next day they wouldn’t have to see any of the others … possibly ever again.
Charles felt secure. He had conquered the booze. Tomorrow would be the start of the final rapprochement between him and Frances.
And then a little tingle of alarm started to sound in his brain. Commitment. He was about to commit himself. Irrevocably.
‘What are you drinking, Charles?’
The voice belonged to Imogen Whittaker. Her red hair glistened in the Christmas lights. She looked stunning. In that moment, she represented every beautiful woman the world still had to offer.
In answer to her offer, Charles Paris replied, ‘A large Bell’s, please.’