Dead Room Farce (15 page)

‘Oh well, same difference.'

‘However, the show I'm in is not
Romeo and Juliet
. It's the first run of a new farce by Bill Blunden, entitled
not on your wife!
'

‘Yes, I knew that, Charles. Of course I knew that. I was only having a little joke with you.'

‘Oh yes?' That Charles certainly didn't believe. ‘All right then – test question. Where am I calling you from? Where've we got to in the tour?'

‘Well, I . . . Look, honestly, Charles, without the contract in front of me, I'd find it very difficult to say. I mean, I suppose you imagine you're the only client I have to worry about all the time – and in a way I'm flattered that you think that, because it's a tribute to the kind of exclusive, personal service I'm giving you – but the fact remains that you're only one amongst many highly respected, highly valued clients. And if I could give you the chapter and verse of where every one of them is at any given moment . . . well, I tell you, Maurice Skellern's feats of memory would be in
The Guinness Book of Records
.'

The whole speech was so outrageously at odds with the truth that Charles Paris hadn't got the energy to start arguing. ‘I'm in Norwich, Maurice,' he said dully.

‘Yes, of course you are. Vanbrugh Theatre.'

‘That's in Bath. That was last week. It's the Palace Theatre in Norwich.'

“Course it is. You know, Charles, what a lot of my clients do . . .'

‘Hm.'

‘. . . when they're on tour, they send me kind of itineraries . . . you know, week-by-week lists of digs where they're staying, contact numbers, that kind of thing.'

‘Ah.'

‘Or a lot of them have mobile phones. Do you have a mobile phone, Charles?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘Oh, you should. Wonderful invention, the mobile phone, for people in your profession, Charles. Means you need never be out of contact with your agent, never be out of the swim of the showbiz maelstrom.'

‘I see. But since you never ring me, Maurice, I'm not quite sure what would be the point of my sending you itineraries . . . or of having a mobile phone, come to that.'

‘No. No, well, right. For someone like you, Charles, I agree, it's probably not so important.' There was a silence, then the agent continued in an aggrieved voice, ‘Incidentally, I hope you're not hassling me about more work, Charles. I've just set up this tour for you, there's no need to be greedy.'

‘No, in fact, I wasn't ringing about work, Maurice. I was after some gossip.'

‘Ooh.' Maurice Skellern's tone changed instantly. Its grudging note gave way to pure enthusiasm. ‘Who d'you want to know about? Young Kenneth and his latest dalliance with –?'

‘No, Maurice. It's not current gossip. It's very old gossip. Possibly going back more than twenty years. Don't know if it'd be possible for you to track down something that long ago.'

‘Wouldn't rule it out, Charles,' said his agent with quiet pride. ‘I do have quite a network, you know.'

Though sadly not one to procure work for this particular client, Charles Paris thought.

‘Who is it?' asked Maurice Skellern eagerly. ‘Who do you want me to get the dirt on?'

‘There are a couple of names – well, no, three, actually – and the connection is through the BBC – probably BBC radio – and, as I said, we could be talking twenty years ago . . .'

‘What makes you think there's some dirt there?'

‘A few things a friend of mine said. Mark Lear – sadly dead now. He used to be a producer in Continuing Education at the Beeb.'

‘I remember the name.' Maurice's voice grew heavy with reproach. ‘I seem to recall you once worked for Mark Lear, and tried to keep the fact from me. Tried, in fact, to cut out my commission . . .'

The accusation was left hanging in the air and, to his fury, Charles found himself feeling guilty. ‘Yes, OK, well, it's the same guy I'm talking about. And the two I want the dirt on are someone who's now a television producer called David J. Girton . . .'

‘Oh, I know him. Does
Neighbourhood Watch
, doesn't he?'

‘That's right.'

‘Yes, I've put quite a few of my clients up for parts in that.'

But never me, thought Charles resentfully. You never put me up for a part in it, did you? Still, making that kind of point to Maurice had never been worth the effort, so all he said was, ‘I think we could be talking about when David was also working in radio. Some financial fiddle, maybe . . .'

‘Leave it with me. If there's anything to find out, I'll find it out. You said there were three names?'

‘One of the others is Ransome George.'

‘Ah, dear old Ran.' Maurice Skellem let out the same affectionate chuckle that the actor's name prompted throughout the business. ‘How is the old reprobate?'

‘Much as ever, I gather.'

‘Yes . . . The dirt you want on him isn't just the fact that he borrows money from everyone and never pays it back, is it? Because he's always had a reputation for that.'

‘No, no, I'm sure what I'm after is something more serious.'

Maurice Skellern chuckled again. ‘Ran's always been incorrigible on the old dosh-borrowing front. You'd think his reputation in the business would have preceded him and everyone would be forewarned, but, oh no, apparently he still manages to find the odd sucker who'll stump up a tenner.'

‘Does he?' said Charles Paris shortly.

‘OK. Leave it with me, Charles. I'll see what I can root out, and get back to you. Oh, you'd better give me a number where I can contact you in Bath.'

‘Norwich.'

‘In Norwich, right. You see, Charles, it would have helped if you'd given me a detailed itinerary . . . or had a mobile phone. Then I'd be able to get back to you whenever I wanted to.'

Yes, be nicer if you needed to do that because of work rather than gossip, thought Charles Paris. Then he remembered, ‘Oh, I haven't told you the third name, have I, Maurice?'

‘No, that's true.'

‘Still talking round the same time. About twenty years ago, and with a radio connection, possibly through Mark Lear. It'd be in the very early days of this guy's career . . .'

‘Who're we talking about?'

‘Bernard Walton,' said Charles Paris.

‘Why aren't you drinking?' asked Cookie.

They were sitting in an Italian restaurant near the stage door of the Palace Theatre. It was the Wednesday. They were well into the Norwich run of
not on your wife!
They'd done a matinée that day as well as an evening performance. They deserved a treat.

‘Oh, you know . . .' Charles replied casually, ‘just seeing if I can do without.'

‘And can you?'

‘So far.' He grinned. Now he actually was alone again with Cookie Stone, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. He'd built up all these images of her rounding on him, accusing him of having behaved appallingly to her in London, but there had been none of that. She just seemed pleased to be with him; and he found her company strangely relaxing.

‘Well, I hope you don't mind if I do.' She gave him a toothy grin and raised a glass of red. The candlelight from adjacent tables sparkled and refracted seductively through the wine.

‘No, no. I'm not a proselytising teetotaller or anything like that. I'm just having a rest from drinking myself.'

‘But the attraction of having a drink's still there?'

‘Oh yes,' Charles Paris replied, in one of the greatest understatements of his life. ‘The attraction's still there.'

‘This doesn't seem to be a very heavy-drinking company, does it?'

‘No, maybe not. Mind you, old Ran was pretty far gone last night.'

‘Really? Didn't know he was into the booze.'

‘Well, last night he was. Came back to the cottage, you know, one I'm staying in with a couple of the stage management bods, and Ran was so far gone he had to stay the night.'

‘Ah.' Cookie Stone's face took on a cynical twist, as her voice dropped into cartoon canary, ‘Doing dat old twick, is he?'

‘What old twick?'

She was instantly back into her normal voice. ‘It's one he's used a good few times before, I gather. I bet he pulled it at somebody else's place on Monday night.'

‘You've lost me.'

‘What Ran does, Charles, when he's on tour, is to keep ending up in other people's digs. Sometimes he'll just leave it too late to get a taxi back; sometimes he'll do the too-much booze routine – as he did with you; and on occasions he's been known to joke his way into young actresses beds . . . all for the same reason.'

‘Which is?'

‘So that he doesn't have to pay for digs. He's managed to get through whole weeks without touching his touring allowance.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh yes, Charles. I'm afraid Ransome George is the original sponger. He knows all the wrinkles. And of course you know about the way he keeps borrowing money from people?'

‘Heard something about it, yes.'

‘Never pays it back, never has done.' Cookie chuckled. ‘It's incredible, really, that someone with a reputation like that can still get away with it. You'd have thought there couldn't be a single person left in the business who didn't know about his little habit. And yet every production he's involved in, he still manages to find some dickhead who's stupid enough to lend him a fiver.'

‘Really?' Charles was beginning to get sick of that particular litany. ‘But, Cookie, you've never heard of anything really bad about Ran, have you?'

‘How do you mean – really bad”? I would imagine the dumbos who haven't got their money back reckon that's bad enough.'

‘No, I meant anything . . . criminal?'

Cookie Stone shook her head. Her red hair brushed gently against her face. In the candlelight, her eyes didn't seem so close together, and her face softened into a kind of beauty.

Charles Paris lightened the tone of the conversation. Though Mark Lear's death remained on his mind, he didn't want to sound too inquisitorial. ‘Quite a boring company all round, isn't it, actually? Boring company in a boring place.'

‘Norwich?'

‘Hm. Doesn't seem the hub of the universe to me. I have this theory that the most boring places in England are places that aren't on the way to anywhere. It's as if it's the pressure of knowing that the only people who go there are people who actually have to go
there
, rather than being on their way to somewhere else, that makes those places so dull. It's the same with bits of eastern Kent . . . and bits of Cornwall, I suppose . . . and, of course, all of Wales.'

Cookie grinned a crooked grin, and dropped into a husky Mae West voice. ‘So, if you and I are in a boring place, I guess we're reduced to making our own entertainment, eh?'

Charles Paris wasn't quite sure whether or not this was a come-on, but to his surprise her words prompted a trickle of physical interest. He moved hastily on to less dangerous ground. ‘No, I suppose what I meant about this company being boring is that none of them seem to have any dark secrets, do they?'

‘Well, no dark secrets which aren't extremely badly kept dark secrets,' said Cookie.

He cocked his head interrogatively. ‘Who're you talking about?'

‘Let's say a young lady called Pippa Trewin . . .'

‘What about her?'

‘Oh, come on, Charles, you
know
.'

‘I don't think I do.'

‘Young actress fresh out of drama school, gets a lead part in the new Bill Blunden farce, gets one of the best agents around, keeps having to rush off to see television casting directors about new series, movie casting directors about new movies . . . do you think that's just the result of her exceptional talent?'

‘No. Well, if it were, it'd be a first in this business.'

‘Exactly. All down to having the right contacts, isn't it?'

So his suspicions had been right. There
was
something going on between Bernard Walton and Pippa Trewin. There couldn't be any other reason why she was in the show. Charles would listen with new cynicism to the next interview in which Bernard waxed lyrical about the perfection and sanctity of his long-running marriage.

‘Knowing the right people, that's what gets you ahead in this business.' Cookie Stone hadn't finished. A hobby-horse was being mounted. Her mouth contracted into a tight purse of resentment, as she went on, ‘God, I've got more talent in my little finger than that kid, but do I get put up for the kind of parts she does? And, if I make it to an interview, am I the one who ends up being cast? Am I hell?'

‘Oh, come on, who's ever pretended that this business is fair?' Somehow it seemed only natural for Charles to reach out and stroke Cookie's hand as he gave this reassurance. His reward was a warm sparkle from her eyes. ‘The people who make it, Cookie, are the ones who use every contact they've got. Like old Bernard himself. Do you know, I directed him in his first major stage role.'

‘Did you?'

Charles nodded. ‘Young Marlowe in
She Stoops
. . . Cardiff, way, way back.'

‘Oh?' Cookie looked at him shrewdly. ‘So is that why
you're
in the show?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We were talking about contacts. Are you in
not on your wife!
because of the old pals' act with Bernard?'

‘Oh, I don't think so.' But, even as he denied the allegation, Charles Paris had a recurrence of the nasty feeling that it might be true. It was Bernard Walton who'd suggested that Parrott Fashion Productions should see him for the part of Aubrey, so perhaps it was to Bernard that he owed his casting. Not the first time he'd had cause to be thankful in that direction. Charles wouldn't have minded if he thought Bernard Walton offered such gestures out of pure altruism, but they seemed to be made solely to provide an opportunity for the star to patronise his former mentor. At least, thank God, Charles thought, Bernard's already been done on
This Is Your Life
; there's no longer any danger of me being wheeled out as the unknown actor ‘who was awfully influential in the early days of my career'.