Star Trap (3 page)

‘Yes, Christopher Milton. Let me tell you, Mr Paris, I have been in this business a very long time and I have never before seen someone who had so much star quality written all over him.'

‘Ah.' Charles found it difficult to get interested in the idea of stardom. It was not the end of show business in which he was involved.

But Dickie Peck's litany had started and couldn't be stopped. ‘Oh yes, I've seen them all sitting in that chair. They've all come to me for advice. Because they know, if they want to get ahead in this business, then they should come and see old Dickie Peck. Oh yes.' For the first time in the interview he looked at the crumbling end of his cigar, but decided it didn't need attention yet. ‘I remember once back in 1960, I had four young men from Liverpool in this office. Four ordinary lads, got their own group – would I be interested in representing them? And you know who they were? Only the Beatles.

‘They asked my advice and I gave it. I said, Lads, you've got a lot of talent, but the act isn't right. What you've got to do is split up, go your own ways, separate careers, that's what you need if you're really going to make it.' He paused for dramatic emphasis, then delivered his triumph. ‘And look at them now – separate careers.'

He leant back with satisfaction, then, instinctively sensing the imminent collapse of his cigar ash, deposited another neat cylinder into the ash-tray.

‘There have been others too – Frank Sinatra once when he was over here, wanted a hit of advice on which way I thought his career should go. Glenda Jackson, Tom Jones, oh yes, they've all sat in that chair and asked for a bit of help from old Dickie Peck.'

Charles looked at the chair on which he was sitting with what he hoped was due reverence and didn't believe a word of it.

‘But let me tell you, Mr Paris, of all the big stars I've ever seen, Christopher Milton is the biggest. That boy has so much talent, he can do anything. I mean, when you think that he is now only thirty-four, a mere baby, at the beginning of his career, I tell you in the future there's going to be no stopping him. And
Lumpkin!
is the show that's really going to put him in the big time.' Realising that this could be constructed as diminishing his protégé, he covered himself. ‘Not of course that he isn't in the big time already. With the television show, a few films, oh yes, he's right at the top. And it's not that we haven't had offers – oh, there have been plenty of scripts come along, plenty of managements with ideas, chance of a big musical on Broadway, Hollywood positively begging, but we said no. We preferred to bide our time, wait for the right show, the one that was absolutely right. Christopher Milton had got the telly, he was doing okay, he could afford to wait. That's an important thing in this business, choosing the right work. Oh yes, you've got to be selective.'

Which is nice if you can afford to be selective, thought Charles. Most actors have to do what comes along or starve.

Dickie Peck's monologue was evidently self-propelled, so Charles gave up providing nods and yesses and grunts of agreement to stimulate it. ‘Now, of course, when you're talking about an artist of Christopher Milton's calibre, you want to be sure that all the work he does is done in the right atmosphere, that he works with people who he gets on with, people who are sympathetic to what he's doing.' Charles pricked up his ears. They were finally getting round to the vetting part of the interview. ‘Because what happens when you get someone with more talent than most people is that you do tend to get jealousy developing. And that doesn't make for a healthy working atmosphere in a company. Now Christopher Milton is a charming boy, very easy to get along with, but he is a person of considerable genius and he does have strong ideas. Now because of his great sense of theatre his ideas are very often right. And obviously in the context of a show being rehearsed under pressure, too many arguments over the way things are done can only be counterproductive. Do you see what I mean?'

He leant back, nursing another two inches of cigar ash. This time a response was definitely needed.

And it was not an easy one to give. Oh yes, Charles knew what Dickie Peck meant. Through all the verbiage, the message was quite clear – if you want this job, you will have to undertake to do as Christopher Milton says. He's not the director of the show, but his word is law, and if you don't like the sound of that, remember he has an Approval of Casting clause and the world is full of unemployed actors.

Under normal circumstances Charles liked to think he'd tell the agent to stuff his job and walk out. But these weren't normal circumstances. He tried to conciliate his conscience. Gerald had offered him the job, and Gerald was a friend. It wouldn't do to let him down. Anyway, it wasn't really an acting job. He was being infiltrated into the company as an investigator of sabotage. Yes, it was quite legitimate for him to accept the conditions; it would only raise suspicion if he didn't. But as he replied, he knew that his real motive was the tax bill lying on the table in his room in Hereford Road. ‘Yes, I fully understand, Mr Peck. I know that Christopher Milton owns the rights of the show and so obviously he will be deeply concerned in all aspects of the production, and I'm sure I will respect his ideas.'

Dickie Peck looked at him suspiciously, but evidently decided to take the reply at face value. ‘Good, fine. Well, we have Mr Venables' word as to your suitability for the part . . .' Then, just as Gerald had done, he gave a token nod to actor's pride. ‘And of course I know your work. I have a script of the show here. Did Mr Venables tell you about the tour and the length of contract?'

‘Yes.'

‘Fine. Well, good luck.'

‘Thank you. There is just one thing . . .'

‘Oh yes, of course, money.'

‘Yes. Look, I'll give you my agent's number. He deals with all that.'

‘Fine. Will I catch him there now? I'd like to get this sorted out today. And it's after half past five now.'

‘Maurice'll be there. He works from home anyway.'

‘Fine. I'll give him a buzz.'

‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Peck. I hope that show's going to be a great success.'

‘With Christopher Milton in it it's bound to be. That boy is what stardom's all about. Oh yes, it'll be a big success. And if anyone tries to stop it being a success, there'll be hell to pay. Christopher Milton is going right to the top and no one is going to get in his way.'

He said the last words with a fierce, almost religious, intensity.

Charles pressed twopence into the coin-box when he heard the voice say, ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes'.

‘Maurice.'

‘Who's calling him?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Maurice, don't you ever recognise my voice? It's me – Charles.'

‘Ah well, can't be too careful in this business. Don't want to give anything away.'

‘You don't give much away by answering to your name. Anyway, never mind that. Did Dickie Peck get through to you?'

‘Yes, Charles. Sounds very good, this musical. I think it's about time you got into that sort of show. I mean, haven't I been saying for years that you ought to be doing shows that are more . . . more important?'

‘No. You've been saying for years that I ought to be doing shows that are better paid.'

‘Ah, now that's not fair, Charles. Okay, I've always said you should keep out of these fringe capers, this experimental stuff, but I've always been thinking primarily of your career, of your artistic development.'

‘That's very generous of you.'

‘I do my best.'

‘So what am I getting for the current artistic development?'

‘Well, Charles, Dickie Peck was offering, on behalf of the management, twenty-five for rehearsal, forty on tour end sixty for the run and I said you wouldn't consider it for under forty for rehearsal, eighty on tour and a hundred for the run and I wouldn't budge from that and that was my final word on the subject.'

‘So?'

‘You're getting thirty for rehearsal, fifty on tour and eighty for the run.'

‘Oh well, could be worse. Christopher Milton's in this show. Got any form on him?' While Maurice Skellern was pretty useless as an agent, he was an invaluable source of theatrical gossip.

‘Nothing much, no. He doesn't do a lot of work, really.'

‘It's just that everything he does is massively successful.'

‘Yes, if you look back on his career it's all award-winning shows. Not a lot, but it's all been chosen just right.'

‘That's what having a good agent is about.'

Maurice didn't seem to notice the edge in the remark. ‘He's a talented boy, Charles.'

‘Where did he start?'

‘I'm fairly sure he came out of one of the stage schools, but I don't know which one. Think he may have been a child star in films. Not sure, though.'

‘Know anything of his working reputation?'

‘A bit temperamental, I've heard. But that's third hand. I mean stories like that go around about every big name in the business.'

‘Yes. Is he gay or anything?'

‘No, I don't think so. Sure not, actually. He married that girl who was in that film . . . you know.'

‘I'm afraid I don't.'

‘Oh, the one who played opposite Nigel Thingummy in that . . . Oh, you know. Name like Elsa or Virginia or – Charlotte Fable, that's it!'

‘I've heard of her. Still together?'

‘No, I think they split up eighteen months or so ago.'

‘Divorce?'

‘Haven't seen anything about it. No, I shouldn't think he'd like the publicity. Rather lets down the image of lovability, and that's what the public expects of him.'

‘Hmm. Oh well, thanks.'

‘If you really want form, ask Johnny Wilson. He worked with him on the telly show.'

‘Oh yes. What's that called?'

‘
Straight Up, Guv
. Surely you must have seen it.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Oh, it's a very funny show, Charles. I never miss it. It's on tonight at seven-thirty. These are repeats, actually, second time round, or is it third? Think of the money on a show like that. Probably sells round the world. That's what you need, Charles, a big, long-running television series.'

‘As part of my artistic development?'

‘Of course.'

That evening Charles watched television. He went round to see Jim Waldeman, a fellow actor who lived in Queen's Gardens with his wife Susie and a fairly new baby. He took a bottle of Bell's to ensure his welcome, but it was unnecessary. As he entered the door, both Jim and Susie's eyes lit up and, with a cry of ‘Baby-sitter!', they installed him in an arm-chair in front of the television and went off to the pictures. ‘Imagine,' said Susie, ‘actually going to see a film. The excitement. We used to go about twice a week, but since
that
came along, we just haven't. At all. Bless you, Charles.'

‘What happens if it –'

‘Oh, he won't. He's terribly good. But if he does, there's some Phenergan on the dresser. Cheerio.' And the door slammed.

‘What's Phenergan?' asked Charles weakly, but he realised they couldn't hear. He also realised that the slam of the door had woken the baby.

He switched on the television, determined that the child would soon be asleep again. It was a colour set (Jim's career was obviously flourishing), but Charles caught the end of an old black and white movie. It was British, some story about a small boy bringing together his estranged parents. The father was an airman and there was a lot of stiff upper lip stuff about one last mission. The boy was a beautiful child, with a perfectly proportioned baby face and blond curls. Charles wondered idly if it was Christopher Milton in his child star days.

It was becoming clear that the baby was not going back to sleep. The keening cry sawed through the noise of the television. Charles looked at his watch. Twenty-five past seven. The crying showed no signs of abating and he didn't want to miss the beginning of the show. He went into the night-lit nursery and mumbled soothingly over the cot. The screams redoubled in volume. In the sitting-room music built to an heroic conclusion. He picked up the baby in its blanket and returned to the television.

The film credits flashed past. The child star was not Christopher Milton. Gareth Somebody, another who had no doubt vanished without trace to become an accountant or an estate agent or a double glazing salesman. After the film came a trailer for a programme on Northern Ireland to be shown the following night.

The baby was not taking kindly to its move. The little mouth strained open like a goldfish and the pebble eyes almost vanished in folds of skin as it screamed. It was a long time since Charles had held a baby and he had forgotten the little tricks he had used when his own daughter Juliet was small. He tried rocking the little bundle and murmuring the Skye Boat Song. It didn't work.

On the television screen the credits rolled. Inevitably, ‘CHRISTOPHER MILTON' came first. Then ‘in
STRAIGHT UP, GUV
– by WALLY WILSON'. Then ‘with' the names of a couple of those comedy supports who are never out of work and the inevitable wild studio applause faded into the show proper. (Why do studio audiences always applaud signature tunes and credits? The fact that they clap when nothing has happened casts serious doubts on the credibility of their subsequent reactions.) The episode started; Charles couldn't hear a word above the baby's howls.

In desperation he dipped a finger in his Scotch and proffered it to the bellowing mouth. The tiny lips closed round it as if determined to remove the skin. But there was silence.

It didn't last. After a few moments the suction was released and the bellowing recommenced. Charles hastily dipped his finger back in the glass and the mouth clamped on again. By repeating the process every two minutes he found he could watch
Straight Up, Guv
in comparative comfort.