Dead Room Farce (19 page)

‘Are you comparing my play to a sex club?'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘Oh, I see. You're just afraid this could prevent him from becoming
Sir
Bernard Walton, is that it?'

There was total silence in the theatre. Though everyone knew about the star's campaign for a knighthood, it was not a subject to be mentioned out loud. Bernard himself seemed about to make some response, but thought better of it. Needless to say, it was Tony Delaunay who defused the tension. ‘All I'm saying, Bill, is that we have to be extra-cautious at the moment. Adverse publicity of any kind could affect our takings at the box office.'

This appeal to his wallet finally silenced the disgruntled playwright. The company manager continued, ‘And don't forget, everyone, that our director's coming to see the show again this week. David'll be in Wednesday evening, so make sure that's a good one. Which reminds me . . . on the subject of Bernard's biography, the guy who's writing it . . .' He hesitated, trying to remember the name.

‘Curt Greenfield,' Bernard Walton replied.

‘That's right . . . Curt Greenfield. Some of you may have met him when he was in Bath. Anyway, he'll be up here in Leeds on Wednesday, tomorrow. He's going to be around the theatre to get some atmosphere stuff, background, you know. So can I remind you all of what I said when we started rehearsing – no unauthorised talking to the press about anything. If someone wants to interview you about the show, check it out with me first – OK? And the same goes for anyone talking to Curt Greenfield about Bernard.'

‘Yes, so keep quiet about Bernard's secret past as a belly dancer – and his sex-change!' Ransome George shouted out.

As always, he got his laugh. Not wishing to appear as someone who couldn't take a joke, Bernard Walton allowed the sally a thin smile. But he didn't look very amused by it. Instead, he said in a tired, we-are-here-to-work-after-all type of voice, ‘So, Bill, if you could think of a replacement for those couple of lines for Ted and Louise . . . I'd be most grateful.'

The playwright was struck by instant inspiration. ‘How about Ted says: “Louise! Darling! I can't stick it out any longer”, and Louise says, “Oh, I'm sure you can, Ted”?'

‘It's still a knob-joke,' Bernard Walton objected.

When the meeting ended, the company drifted away. It was only twelve o'clock, and they weren't due back at the theatre till six fifty-five, the ‘half' for that evening's performance. As they moved off, Charles heard Bernard Walton saying to Pippa Trewin, ‘Fun at the weekend, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, really enjoyed it.'

‘Heard any more about the film?'

‘I've had a recall,' she replied excitedly. ‘It's down to three girls now, my agent says. Going to see the producers again Thursday morning.'

‘You'll walk it,' said Bernard Walton. ‘Oh, and do give Dickie my best when you see him.'

Charles caught Cookie Stone's eye, and realised that she had heard the exchange as well. She grimaced. For her it was just another manifestation of the unfairness of a business in which it wasn't what you could do, it was who you knew.

For Charles, though, it had other potential meanings. Tony Delaunay's words about Bernard's image brought home to him again how damaging news of an affair with a girl barely out of her teens could be. But was the secret sufficiently important for the star to murder someone who threatened to expose it?

Charles noticed that Cookie Stone was still looking at him, and gave her a weak grin. The situation between them was far from resolved. After his magical night with Lisa, Charles Paris had arrived in Leeds full of the determination to make an immediate and final break with Cookie. He'd tell her she was a wonderful person and a great lover, and somewhere out there was the right person for her, and he was only sorry it wasn't him. He'd really enjoyed their time together, but now they'd have to think of it as no more than an enchanting interlude. It was over.

But seeing her in the flesh had made such directness impossible. He'd fudged around, using all the traditional vague masculine excuses for inadequate emotional commitment, phrases like ‘taking a bit of time to adjust to things', ‘needing a bit of space' and ‘not wanting to rush things, letting the relationship find its own pace'.

And each time Cookie had asked him a direct question, like ‘Do you mean this is the end for us?', he'd retreated from the hurt in her eyes and come up with some time-buying formula, such as ‘No, no, of course not. Let's just see how things pan out.'

But he knew it was only a holding operation. At some point he'd have to grasp the nettle, and confront the inevitable unpleasantness. Still, he had so far managed to defer any actual sexual encounter between them in Leeds. Fortunately, Cookie was staying in a B & B with a rather old-fashioned landlady and Charles, as he confessed wryly, was staying with ‘an old friend, someone who knows my wife . . . so you know, might be a bit awkward'. And then, feeble fool that he was, he'd lost any ground he might have gained there by saying, ‘Still, always next week in Birmingham, isn't there?'

In fact, when he said he was staying with an ‘old friend', he had been telling only half of the truth. Ruth was an old friend, but she'd never met Frances. And Ruth brought her own problems.

He'd been shocked, when he saw her, by how old she looked. It had been a good few years since they'd met, but surely not enough to justify the lines on her face, the thinness of her grey hair. Ruth's body had always been thin, but now the word was ‘gaunt'. Her clothes hung uneasily about the jutting edges of her thighs and knees, shoulders and elbows.

He made no comment on her appearance, but she gave him one of her familiar sharp, cynical looks and said, ‘A bit greyer, but I see it's the same old Charles Paris.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means you look the same – just ever so slightly on the turn.'

‘Thank you.'

‘And it probably means you are the same. Still drinking too much?'

‘I have been cutting down on that recently.'

She barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘Won't last. And I assume you're not back with the wife?'

‘Well . . .'

‘I see. Still juggling with a series of women, are you?'

At most times during recent years he could have denied the allegation hotly. But, given what had been happening the last couple of weeks . . . silence seemed the best option.

‘I see,' she said again, in a tone of despair at the unerring predictability of humankind – or of mankind – or of Charles Paris, anyway. ‘You're in this show with Bernard Walton?'

‘That's right.
not on your wife!
'

‘He's good, Bernard Walton. Makes me laugh on the telly.'

‘Mm. Well, of course, I can organise tickets for any night you fancy.'

‘Thanks. I'd enjoy that. Free most evenings these days, but I'll let you know.'

‘Fine. Are you still working?'

‘No, no, I stopped that.'

‘Ah. And you aren't in any kind of, er, permanent . . .?'

‘Relationship?' That got the derisory laugh it deserved. Though there had been quite a few men in Ruth's life since her divorce from a central heating systems salesman, none had raised her opinion of the subspecies.

The look she fixed on him was as it had ever been, expecting nothing, because she knew that expectations with someone like Charles Paris could only lead to disappointments.

After the first performance in Leeds, Charles didn't have a drink with the company, and when he got back to Ruth's semi in Headingley, he saw that her bedroom light was on and the door ajar. On previous occasions those signs had been tantamount to an invitation, and he did hover on the landing for a nanosecond of indecision.

But no. God, no. His life was complicated enough at the moment. The last thing Charles needed was to start hurting someone else. He'd spent the previous night with Lisa. Then he'd had a rather sticky confrontation during the day with Cookie. And somewhere, lurking in the mists of guilt that filled his mind, was an indistinct image of Frances. Charles Paris went straight to his own bedroom.

‘The Beeb was never very generous,' said David J. Girton. ‘Almost mythic reputation for meanness, actually. All the comedians used to come on and say to the audiences, “I'm wearing my BBC suit today – small checks!” Boom-boom!'

He and Charles were in the theatre bar after the Wednesday night's performance. The director had managed to fit in a large dinner at the Queen's Hotel before the show, so all he was now in need of was a few ‘little drinks'. He was on the red wine again, a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon he'd got the barman to open specially. Very acceptable, David J. Girton had opined after the first sip. Charles Paris, who was sharing it with him, did not disagree.

‘No,' the director went on, everyone was strapped for cash in those days, so, although it was deeply against BBC rules and potentially a sacking offence, a lot of moonlighting went on. Pop music was really booming, for one thing, and some of the Radio One stage managers made a very healthy living from producing commercial sessions for various bands.'

‘And was Mark Lear into that?' Charles prompted.

‘No, music was never really Mark's thing. All the stuff he produced was speech-based. Mind you, he got involved in his own unofficial, don't-say-a-word, readies-in-the-back-pocket work as well.'

An interrogative movement of the head was all Charles needed to make David J. Girton continue. ‘The porn industry was also expanding exponentially at the time. Mark got involved in producing dirty audio cassettes.'

Good to have it confirmed. Maurice had been getting very close to the truth. Might be bugger-all use as an agent, but the quality of his gossip was impeccable.

‘And presumably, for that kind of work, Mark would have been paid a fee per session?'

‘I assume so. As I said, readies in the back pocket. Nothing official, nothing that ever appeared on the old taxman's books, that's for sure.'

‘No, of course not.' Charles took a long sip of red wine before remembering that he'd told Lisa he'd stay off the stuff. Oh well, too late to make changes that evening. And it was only wine, after all, not spirits. He went on, ‘Tell me, David, I heard a rumour that Mark actually got involved in the management side of the porn tape business, put money into the company . . . Ring any bells?'

David J. Girton shook his head. ‘No reason I would have heard if he had done, though.'

‘No. You've no idea what other actors and actresses he might have been working with on these tapes, have you?'

‘No idea. Anyone who was around at the time, I would imagine. Not many young actors would object to picking up the odd unofficial tenner for a quick session at the microphone, would they? And with that kind of stuff, there wasn't much danger of them ever being identified from their performances.'

‘Why not?'

‘Not many actual words involved, I would imagine. Lots of panting, groaning, and the odd grunt of “I'm coming!” Hardly Shakespeare.'

‘No. Not to mention the wet newspapers.'

‘Ah, you heard about that?' The director chuckled. ‘Yes, Karen Cohen was telling me about that.'

‘Karen Cohen?'

‘Actress who's in
Neighbourhood Watch
. Don't you know her?'

‘Know the name.'

‘Well, she's a . . . what shall we say? She's a larger-than-life character. Larger than life in every way. Foul-mouthed, utterly disgusting, very funny. She's always telling us at rehearsal about her wicked past. I'm sure she makes half of it up, just to shock people, but it can be very entertaining. Anyway, she mentioned that wet newspaper thing. She says she did a lot of porn tapes back in the early 1970s – and I think she's probably telling the truth about that.'

‘Well, could you ask her if she's got any names for other actors who were involved?'

‘Sure.' David J. Girton looked at him with curiosity. And with something else as well. A caution, a guardedness, had come into his manner. ‘Why do you want to know all this?' he asked. ‘Are you writing the definitive history of moonlighting in the BBC?'

‘No, no,' Charles came up with a quick lie. It was distressing how glibly he could sometimes lie. ‘No, I was just talking to Mark's girlfriend about it. You remember – Lisa Wilson from the studio in Bath?'

‘Didn't meet her.'

‘No, no, of course you didn't. She wasn't there that Thursday afternoon. Anyway, she just wants to find out all she can about Mark's past. I suppose it's her way of coping with the bereavement.'

He felt marginally guilty about attributing these spurious motives to Lisa. On the other hand, in the cause of finding out how Mark died, she probably wouldn't mind.

David J. Girton's anxiety had passed. He'd decided that his own moonlighting wasn't the subject of Charles Paris's investigations. Relaxed, he chuckled at another recollection. ‘Karen's very funny when she gets going on her days as a porn star. Because she did a lot of video work as well as the audio stuff. Featured in lots of little epics catering for those whose tastes run to the “bigger woman”.'

‘Ah.'

‘Well, if you'd ever seen Karen, you'd know it was perfect casting.' He giggled. ‘She said some of the “bigger men” she worked with were so fat she had difficulty actually finding their dicks, let alone doing anything with them!'

‘And she's not ashamed of talking about that stuff?'

‘You try and stop her. No, “shame” and “inhibition” are two words Karen Cohen just does not understand. She takes great delight in talking on chat-shows about the most intimate details of her life.'

‘Whereas other actors might try to cast a veil over some of the things they did just for the money?'