Sicken and So Die (6 page)

‘Hmm,' murmured Tottie Roundwood to Charles Paris. ‘That young man may not be going the best way to further his theatrical career.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Russ Lavery thinks of himself as very important, because of the television and everything. Trouble is, he probably is quite important – now Gavin's not there to rein him in a bit.' She shook her head. ‘No, I would say this show is in serious need of a Director.'

Charles nodded. ‘Wonder who it'll be? Not him, will it?' He nodded towards the assistant director, who stood awkwardly chewing his fingers and looking down at his copy of
Twelfth Night
.

‘No way.' Tottie Roundwood grinned confidently. ‘Don't worry. I'm sure Asphodel will get someone
good
.'

The rehearsal dragged on through its uninspiring course. There were no more open confrontations, though an undercurrent of resentment remained. Gavin-Scholes' patterns of movement and tableaux were more or less accurately recreated, and at last the stage area was emptied of all characters except for Feste, the Clown.

Chad Pearson moved forward to centre stage, sat down cross-legged, and began to sing.

As he sang through to the end of the song, the room stilled. He had a beautiful light voice, and the tune either was, or sounded like, a traditional English one. Singing, Chad Pearson ceased to be a short, tubby West Indian and became a natural part of Shakespeare's world; there seemed no incongruity at that moment about the presence of a black Feste at the Illyrian court. It was not just voguish casting against ethnic stereotype. He felt right in the part, and the song was the day's only moment of genuine theatre.

The cast left for lunch in slightly improved spirits.

The ‘go on, you'll feel better if you have a drink' voice in Charles's head beat the ‘I'm never going to touch another drop of alcohol' one. Again. But he and John B. Murgatroyd did only have a couple of pints each, so they felt relatively virtuous.

In fact their sense of virtue was a little specious. They had been contemplating a third pint, but just at that moment Benzo Ritter, in his assistant stage manager role, appeared in the pub, ordering everyone back to the rehearsal room. A representative of Asphodel Productions had just arrived. With an announcement to make.

‘. . . and I'm afraid the hospital can't see any prospect of Gavin returning to work in the short term. I'm sure he will make a complete recovery, but it's going to take time.

‘And time, with just three weeks till this production starts a four-month touring programme, is something we don't have a lot of.'

The man from Asphodel Productions, whose name Charles hadn't caught, wore a dark suit and looked more like an accountant than an impresario. Probably he was an accountant. They seemed to be running most areas of show business nowadays.

Charles felt a twinge of regret for the more colourful characters he had worked for in the past. His memory instantly summoned up a gallery of producers, agents, managers and fixers. A rogue's gallery, it had to be said. Many of them had fabricated completely indefensible contracts. Many had inexplicably disappeared just when the company was due to be paid. Many had screwed everyone they worked with – particularly the leading ladies. But Charles Paris couldn't help feeling nostalgic for the dead, gone days.

Probably, his cynicism told him, nothing had changed that much, anyway. Nowadays the producers wore suits and had their deals checked and authenticated by lawyers, but they were still out for as much as they could get. Show business management, like horse racing and boxing, has always attracted its share of shady characters – not to say crooks.

‘So,' the Asphodel Productions man went on, ‘we need to appoint a director as soon as possible.' He looked across at the assistant director, who hung his head in a rather shamefaced way. ‘And while we very much appreciate the way you've held the fort, Nick, for the last couple of days, as you know, we need to look for someone with a bit more experience for a production of this scale. Don't worry, what you've done for us has not gone unnoticed and your day will definitely come.'

I doubt it, thought Charles, realising that it was the first time he'd been aware that the assistant director's name was Nick. The boy had so little charisma that even his name didn't register. But the quiet way in which he took the news of his demotion showed he had been told of it beforehand.

‘We have been very fortunate, however . . .' the Asphodel executive continued,'. . . very, very fortunate . . . to secure the services of someone we've been keen to work with for a long time . . . One of the most dynamic and exciting new directors currently working in the British theatre.'

Oh dear, thought Charles Paris, I don't like the sound of this.

‘I say working in the British theatre, but in fact a lot of his work has been abroad and he's only recently come to this country. But I'm sure all of you who know how much of a stir his vivid and radical reinterpretation at the Old Vic of
She Stoops To Conquer
caused will not need me to tell you his name.'

There was a murmur of stunned appreciation from the cast, though Charles wanted to say, ‘I need you to. Please, please. I don't know who you're talking about.'

The information came, anyway. ‘I'm referring of course to Alexandru Radulescu. He had been due to return to Romania shortly, but when he heard of our problems, he very graciously deferred his plans. Alexandru will be starting work with you tomorrow morning, and I think it's extremely exciting news.'

From the expressions around the room, a lot of the cast shared this opinion. In particular, Russ Lavery, Vasile Bogdan and Tottie Roundwood were positively ecstatic at the news. The name had impressed Talya Northcott and Benzo Ritter too. Sally Luther, Charles noticed, looked considerably less keen.

‘So, though of course we at Asphodel are very sorry about Gavin Scholes' illness, I feel that this particular ill wind is going to blow us all a great deal of good. Alexandru Radulescu is the sort of director whose productions really put a company on the map. And, when I talked to him about the project this morning, he was already full of ideas. He's as excited about the whole thing as all of us at Asphodel are. He says he's been dying to get his hands on Shakespeare for years.'

Oh no, Charles Paris inwardly groaned. Anything but that.

‘THAT'S NOT the point, Charles.'

‘But I'd have thought –'

‘No,' Frances steamrollered on. ‘I am not criticising you for coming back late. You're a grown man, for God's sake. It's up to you how you spend your time, who you drink with – that's your business. What I am objecting to is you coming back late to my flat.'

‘If you're trying to get rid of me . . .'

‘I am not trying to get rid of you. All I'm saying is that if you're going to be staying here with me . . .' Charles noticed that she hadn't said ‘living here with me,' ‘. . . then we have to have certain ground rules. It's just a matter of information. All I'm asking is that you let me know when you're likely to be in, if you're likely to be in. All you have to do is pick up a phone.'

Frances caught the expression in Charles's eye and pursed her lips ruefully. ‘Yes, yes, yes. I know I'm sounding just like a nagging wife, but I'm afraid once we put ourselves into a cohabiting situation I'm going to come back with all the things wives usually nag about. It's not what I want, Charles. I don't want to be forced into a stereotype.'

‘No, no, I can see that.'

‘Look, my life is actually very well sorted at the moment. I've got used to living on my own. I've actually got quite efficient at it. And I don't want to be taken back to square one.'

‘I don't want to take you back to square one. Honestly, Frances.' He took her hand, comforted by the familiar ridge of the old kitchen-knife scar. ‘I'm thinking in terms of square five at least. Maybe even square six.'

She shook her head wryly.

‘And then, who knows, we might find that there's a ladder on square six leading straight up to square seventy-four.'

‘More likely a snake to send us thumping down to square one again.' But at least she smiled as she said it.

Charles tightened the pressure on her hand. ‘Look, Frances, I really mean what I'm saying now. This last couple of weeks has been the best thing that's happened for years. For me, nothing has ever replaced what there is between us.'

‘Though you've tested out a good few options on the way to that conclusion, haven't you, Charles?' said Frances with a beady look.

He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Yes, all right. But that's over now. That part of my life's behind me.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Yes. Other women . . . All that other women have ever shown me is that you're the only woman who's right for me. You're what I want, Frances.'

‘Are you talking permanence here, Charles?'

‘Yes. Well, possibly . . . Maybe . . . I mean, obviously not in the short term.'

‘Oh, no. Obviously not.'

‘Nothing's going to happen quickly. I just feel that there's such a bond between us we should test it out, see how strong it really is. Try and get back together.'

Frances was silent, but her expression didn't show wholehearted conviction about what he was saying.

‘Look, I know there've been times in the past when I've been inconsiderate, when I've hurt you . . .'

He let the pause lengthen. Then Frances said suddenly, ‘I'm sorry. You're not expecting me to disagree, are you?'

‘No, of course I'm not.' Mind you, some token contradiction wouldn't have hurt. ‘But this time I am really determined to make it work. We've got so much to give each other, and I think we should try to make the best of the time we have left, and make the best of that time . . . together.'

‘The trouble with actors,' said Frances, removing her hand, ‘is that they're all full of shit, and full of half-remembered lines from shows they've been in. Go on, tell me, where did that last line you said come from?'

Charles looked shamefaced. ‘Comedy called
The Twang of a Heartstring
. Hornchurch in the early seventies. Can still remember quite a lot of the lines from it, actually.'

He could also still remember the review that the
Hornchurch Herald
had given his performance. ‘If Charles Paris was meant to be Love's Young Dream, it suggested Love had been eating rather too much toasted cheese before going to bed.'

He took her hand again. ‘All right, what I said was garbage, but the intention wasn't garbage. I'm really determined to make this work, Frances.'

Her face was still a conviction-free zone. ‘Even if it means making concessions?'

‘Of course.'

‘Living by the rules I dictate?'

‘Sure.'

‘Allowing me to continue having a life of my own? To have parts of my life that are not your business?'

‘Yes, all that.'

‘Mm.' Frances was pensive for a moment, then came to a decision. ‘OK, let's give it a whirl.'

‘Great.' Charles squeezed her hand.

‘Right,' she went on briskly. ‘Tonight I don't want you here.'

‘Oh?'

‘Till after midnight. You can come back then.'

‘Thank you.' A silence. ‘May I ask . . .?'

‘I thought you'd just agreed to allow me to have parts of my life that're not your business.'

‘Well, yes, but –'

‘All right then. I've got a friend coming round.'

‘Oh. Anyone I know?'

‘No, Charles. Nobody you know.'

After Frances had gone to school, Charles was left with a little niggle of disquiet. Not jealousy, surely? No, she'd just been playing a game with him. It was a small revenge for her. You come back late and pissed, I'll be mysterious about some unnamed friend I've got. Tit for tat.

What worried him more was that the niggle might presage a shift in his mood. He'd been so positive the last few weeks. Everything had been going so well. Now, suddenly, there was the professional threat of the unknown in the form of Alexandru Radulescu, and, privately, a new edginess in his relationship with Frances.

Oh well, if I'm going to go down, I may as well go down properly. To compound his mood, he rang his agent, Maurice Skellern.

‘Yes, I had heard. I do keep my ear to the ground on my clients' behalf, you know, Charles.' Maurice's voice was full of reproach at the idea that he wasn't aware of
Twelfth Night
's change of Director.

‘And do you know anything about him?'

‘Not a lot. Hasn't been in this country long. Comes from Bulgaria, doesn't he?'

‘Romania.'

‘Same difference. And he's done a couple of productions over here that've got the chattering classes very excited. Gets all those reviews which use words like “radical” and “mould-breaking”.'

‘Yes,' said Charles gloomily. ‘And “Radulescu's production made one feel one was seeing an entirely different play.”'

‘That's right. Now what paper was that in?'

‘I just made it up.'

‘Really? I could have sworn I've read it somewhere quite recently.'

‘You probably have.' Charles groaned. Might as well lower his mood even further. ‘Anything on the horizon . . . you know, workwise . . .?'

The reproach in Maurice Skellern's voice was now ladled on with a towel. ‘Greedy, Charles, greedy. Let me get my breath back. After all, I've got you a five-month contract with Asphodel.'