Tricky Dickey

Sally Atkinson was overworked but felt it was bad luck to complain. She had started her own business at the beginning of the new millennium, and her reputation grew daily as the celebrity culture snowballed. She smiled at her assistant, as a cup of freshly brewed black coffee was placed on her desk, positioned carefully on a her favourite coaster, a facsimile of a 45 rpm Parlophone record of ‘Love Me Do’ by the Beatles.

‘Thank you, Lucy. What time is this chap coming to see us?’

‘His appointment’s for eleven.’

‘And his celebrity is... ?’ Sally raised enquiring eyebrows at her assistant who shook her head.

‘I thought you knew.’

Sally shrugged it off. ‘We’ll soon find out. It’s quiet this morning for a change.’

As soon as she finished her sentence the telephone rang. ‘I spoke too soon.’

Lucy walked across the large office to her own desk and picked up the extension. ‘Star Repro,’ she announced on a rising inflexion with a smile, which Sally had taught her to use, telling her a listener can feel you smiling. Then Sally watched as her assistant’s demeanour changed, a performance of repentance for the benefit of her listener. ‘Oh, dear! That is bad news. It’s never happened before. We’ve always had excellent feedback about this particular Madonna. Excellent. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything we can do... no, no, of course, I quite understand, and I’ll speak to Sally about it... she’s in a meeting at the moment.’ Lucy threw her employer a helpless look of panic as she ate humble pie and cringed into the phone.

But Sally’s expression was bland. She didn’t like her reputation to be dented in any way, and she couldn’t imagine what the problem was. She was in her mid-thirties, and had worked hard throughout the nineties as an assistant to a well-known casting director, which gave her the experience she craved. She knew she couldn’t compete with the major casting directors if she set up her own casting agency, so she used her experience to found Star Repro, a lookalike agency, and rented premises in Wardour Street, not far from Pizza Express, so that potential clients would be impressed by Star Repro’s address, bang in the heart of the film industry.

She listened intently as Lucy wound up the call with another so sorry apology, and unthinkingly gulped her coffee which was scalding hot. The sudden swelling blister on the roof of her mouth didn’t help her sinking mood.

‘Well?’ she demanded from her assistant. ‘What was that all about?’

‘That function in the City.’

‘The major bank?’

‘That’s the one. Madonna got hammered and disgraced herself.’

‘Huh!’ Sally pouted. ‘I can’t believe those city slickers - not known for their sobriety - would be upset by our lookalike getting plastered.’

‘It was when they commented on her singing badly at the karaoke... ’

With a wave of the hand, Sally interrupted impatiently. ‘She’s a lookalike for Christ sakes. She mimes to Madonna records. She can’t sing. I thought I made that clear to them. If they wanted a singing Madonna they should have booked the real one. Let’s face it, just ten per cent of bank staff bonuses of ten per cent of the staff would have paid for Madonna herself to do a gig there.’

Lucy giggled nervously. ‘Ah! That was the problem apparently. Our own sweet Madonna freaked out when they booed her singing, and when the song ended she accused them of fraudulent behaviour and went on about their bonuses with a stream of bad language.’

‘Oh, shit!’ Sally exclaimed. The blister in her mouth had burst and her tongue found the hanging skin, loose and irritating, adding to her growing frustration. She looked around at the office walls, seeking comfort from the photographic gallery of replica celebrities, but it didn’t seem to help. Her voice became childlike as she protested, ‘I can’t see why they’re so upset. The whole country’s up in arms about their bonuses. Even the Chancellor, and he didn’t exactly go to a local comprehensive school. And those city wankers - sorry, I mean bankers - don’t strike anyone as shrinking violets. Surely they can take a little bit of verbal arse-kicking.’

‘I think they’re feeling sensitive from the recent bad press,’ Lucy said. ‘So you going to ring their PR people?’

Sally sighed heavily. ‘Yes, but I’m in a meeting until lunchtime hah-hah. Then, after a glass or two of Chablis, I’ll have the strength to deal with it.’ She grinned at her assistant, and raised two fist-clenched arms. ‘Then bring it on, baby!’

Lucy went and sat behind her own desk and exchanged a knowing smile with her employer. She knew how her boss would operate, starting with humble apologies before twisting it, so that the clients ended up feeling they were blame. In spite of knowing this, Lucy asked Sally what she intended saying to them.

‘I shall of course apologise profusely.’

As Lucy guessed she would.

‘Then I will point out in no uncertain terms how I told them right from the start that this particular Madonna does not sing. Not no way, not no how. Once this has been established and agreed, I will get them to admit that their smarmy slickers spiked our Madonna’s drinks, and then when they humiliated her she quite naturally hit back at them. One poor female performer up against a whole roomful of baying hyenas? Enough to give her an inferiority complex, all those aggressive testosterone-fuelled males clubbing our poor baby seal.’ She mimed violin playing. ‘You wait: their PR department will end up apologising to me.’

‘You think they’ll use us again in the future?’

‘Why wouldn’t they? It’ll be just another distant memory. A pissed Madonna replica’s nothing compared to the bad press the banks are getting. Anyway, apart from this one little glitch on a Monday morning, it’s not looking too bad the rest of the week. How’s our Brad Pitt from Willesden Junction doing?’

‘He tells me he’s down to fourteen stone.’

‘I suppose he’s tall enough to get away with it. Only just though. But we can’t take his word for it that he’s lost two stone. Make an appointment for him to come in and see us and we’ll check him out.’

The street door buzzer sounded. Sally frowned and looked at her watch. ‘That can’t be our new lookalike, can it? If it is, he’s twenty-five minutes early.’

Lucy went into the small outer office, leaving the main office door open. The outer office was a small square room, doubling as a kitchen to brew tea and coffee, and a waiting room. Sally watched as Lucy pressed the talk button on the wall beside the entrance door.

‘Star Repro. Who is it?’

A crackling voice announced he was Richard Deason. He apologised for being early and said he wouldn’t mind waiting. Sally called to Lucy that they may as well see him now, and Lucy pressed the button to unlatch the street door, directing their appointment to the second floor. Lucy waited by the door while Sally pretended to busy herself looking through their latest client catalogue, and wondered who the visitor might look like. She had recently lost her Simon Cowell, who gave up his celebrity status reluctantly because he got more work and made more money as a central heating engineer. And she could do with another Mick Jagger, as their faux Rolling Stone had gone to that great celestial celebrity gig in the sky. So she hoped for one of those. But whoever this wannabe celebrity lookalike turned out to be, as long as it was instant recognition, they were in. Sometimes it required a little imagination and grooming to get them to a standard of instant recognition. But whoever she took on, even actor lookalikes like Bill Nighy or Timothy Spall, she had nothing to lose - in fact everything to gain - by expanding her list, because she could keep any amount of lookalikes on her books on the off-chance someone might want to hire anyone from a Nick Clegg lookalike to a Robbie Williams doppelganger or a Beyoncé Knowles imitator, and anyone she agreed to represent had to supply their own photographs, usually at a photographer of her recommendation, which meant she and Lucy received a bottle of expensive single malt at Christmas.

As the door of the outer office opened, she glanced up from her brochure and squinted. Lucy invited him in to the main office, and Sally caught a brief glimpse of her assistant walking behind the man as he entered, a puzzled expression on her face.

Sally’s eyes swept over him, hoping that her first impression would bring an answer of some sort. The man was vaguely familiar, but she hadn’t got a clue who he was supposed to represent. Usually their wannabe lookalikes made an effort and dressed the part, but this man...

She stood up, held out her hand, which he took in a rather limp, moist grip. He wore a dark grey suit, with small lighter grey checks, which was rather rumpled. He had a dark appearance, with a pugnacious face, and heavy chin with a five o’clock shadow.

She gestured for him to take a seat. Lucy sat behind her own desk, and Sally caught sight of her mouthing, ‘Who is he?’

Sally ignored it, and concentrated on the wannabe client in front of her. Whoever he was supposed to resemble might be detectable but she had to admit she was at a loss. Was he a tennis player? Could be. Or maybe he was some obscure opera singer. She had a couple of those and they rarely worked. But she still took them on. You never know.

She switched on a disarming smile, false but striking, and said, ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Richard. Good to meet you. But - and I’m going to hate myself for asking this, because I usually get the likenesses straightaway - but do you mind me asking whose public image you represent?’

Richard Deason grinned confidently, spread his arms and spoke in American accent marginally better than Dick Van Dyke’s cockney. ‘I think you might be too young to remember me, sweetheart, but how would it be if I gave you a big clue?’

American. That narrows the field, thought Sally. She shook her head. ‘Yes, Richard, why don’t you give me a clue?’

He thrust himself forward, elbows on knees, and gave her what he obviously thought was a sincere stare but verging on a leer. ‘There can be no whitewash in the Whitehouse.’ He sat back, pleased with himself, and waited for her response.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Rings a bell. Just can’t quite... ’

He chuckled. ‘We share the same first name. But his nickname was Tricky Dickey.’

At last! Sally clicked her fingers. ‘Of course! Richard Nixon.’

‘The very same,’ he grinned.

‘Ah! We got there in the end.’ Sally said with a breathy exhalation. ‘We don’t have any Richard Nixons.’

‘So I would be unique in the field of lookalikes.’

‘You would indeed, Richard. Just one thing though: we have loads of work for celebrity lookalike film stars, sports people, singers and models. But work for politician lookalikes tends to be thin on the ground.’

Performing his thrusting politician role, Deason aimed a finger at Sally. ‘My time has come, Sally. Look at how many Nixons we’ve had in recent years. We had Anthony Hopkins in the title role, and more recently there was Frost/Nixon.’ He pointed the finger at his own face. ‘And these features look a lot more like Nixon than either Hopkins or Frank Langella.’

‘Admittedly,’ Sally agreed. ‘But they were actors giving a terrific performance in major films.’

‘Not all of them are famous actors,’ he protested. ‘What about that chap who got himself a job dancing with Meryl Streep in The Iron Lady? Just because he happened to look like Ronald Reagan.’

‘Yes, but films like that tend to be few and far between. Our work tends to be weddings, functions, exhibitions and events. However, that said, you never know in this business. So I’m happy for Star Repro to represent you.’

Deason’s mouth fell open, and there was a pause while he digested the good news, and then he looked as if he had won the lottery. ‘Wow! That’s fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.’ He punched the air with his fist.

She raised a hand. ‘But I don’t want to raise your hopes. We may not find you anything. But you never know.’

She went on to spell out the terms and conditions of the agency, how he would have to agree to the signing of an exclusive contract which could be terminated by either party giving thirty days notice. Then she explained about the photographic session which was required as part of the conditions. Then Sally rose, shook hands with him, apologised for having to get on with her work, and sent him to sit with Lucy, who took down his contact details and told him there would be an agreement in the post that same day, with details of the photographer, who, following the session, would automatically forward the digital photos by email to Star Repro. A more than satisfied customer, Richard Deason departed and, apart from uploading his details on to their website, they thought that would be one of the last times they heard from him, unless someone was looking for a Richard Nixon, which was doubtful. But as Sally said: ‘You never know. What have we got to lose?’

A week later, Richard Nixon was uploaded on to the Star Repro website. A day later the errant politician’s lookalike phoned up to see if there had been any interest in booking him. At first, Sally was patient, and she and Lucy saw the funny side of it. But when he telephoned the next day, and the next, she gritted her teeth and asked him not to keep ringing, spelling out yet again the fact that not many wedding receptions or bar mitzvahs required dead American presidents and, it had to be said, there were not many fervent Nixon fans. Most of the calls were fielded by Lucy, and Sally was not so affected, although her irritation grew daily. And then, one late morning after Lucy had gone out to fetch them sandwiches for a working lunch, Sally took three phone calls and made three lucrative deals in only ten minutes, which was something of a record at their agency. The first was for a Ricky Gervais lookalike who wanted him to do the dance from The Office which, she assured the caller, would not be a problem. Neither would the request from her second caller who wanted a Gordon Ramsey capable of using bad language. Again, not a problem. Neither was the third call for a Johnny Depp in pirate costume. Sally was in a jubilant mood when the phone rang a fourth time. So when Richard Nixon, having ignored her request to stop pestering, rang to see if there had been anyone wanting to book Tricky Dickey yet, she was reasonably polite and talked to him patiently about leaving gaps of at least three months before contacting the agency. But their thick-skinned Nixon imitator, after being given the bum’s rush, however civil it was on that occasion, went a stage further in his harassment. He took to bounding into their office, after he clearly waited in the street for the main door to the building to be opened by someone either entering or exiting. He thought he would amuse them by demonstrating his talent in his appalling American accent, and regaled them with Nixon speeches he had learnt, clearly hoping this gave him an advantage when it came to bookings. But no one wanted a Richard Nixon, as Sally screamingly pointed out the third time he gate-crashed their offices.

He was given thirty days termination of their contract. After that the building itself seemed to sigh with relief, things returned to normal, and he stopped calling. Pretty soon they forgot all about Richard Nixon, except when he became an amusing anecdote.

Six months later, just as they were about to leave the office for the evening, Sally was scouring the film trade papers, as she often did in case any lookalikes were needed as doubles or stand-ins in films, and what she saw made her eyes pop out on cartoon-stalks. They were making a film, a love story set at a USAF base in Mildenhall in1969, during Richard Nixon’s informal visit to meet Harold Wilson. And the two politician’s would be non-speaking roles but forming quite a background to the main story.

Sally could hardly believe it. A major film and a non-speaking Harold Wilson and a Richard Nixon were required. She didn’t have a Harold Wilson on her books, but she knew where she could get her hands on a Richard Nixon. She quickly went through her computer database and called Richard Deason’s number. It was answered after three rings.

‘Hello. Is that you, Richard?’ she said.

There was a slight chuckle at the other end. ‘I thought I might hear from you, Sally.’

‘Oh. Why’s that?’

‘The film with Richard Nixon in it.’

‘Oh, you’ve heard about it.’

Another laugh. ‘Not only have I heard about it, but I’m going to be in it.’

Sally imagined manic, taunting laughter in her head, and then heard herself swearing at the laughter as she wondered how Deason had managed to get cast. He probably knew nothing about doing deals, however, so she thought she would try to coax him into signing up to their agency again.

‘Well, Richard,’ she began, ‘it’s a pity we fell out, but even you have to admit you gave us a hard time, ringing up as you did every day, and then calling at the office unannounced. So let’s forget the past, shall we, and I can offer you my services. If I say so myself, I’m very good at negotiating. So if you would like me to deal with the film company on your behalf, I’d be only too happy to help.’

‘I’m sure you would. But you’re too late, sweetheart. It’s a done deal. And they’re giving me two grand a day, with a guarantee of a week’s work.’

Sally tried to swallow but her mouth felt dry. How on earth had he managed to pull off that amount for a non-speaking role?

‘Well?’ he said when she didn’t reply. ‘Not bad money for a walk-on, is it?’

‘I must admit,’ she said in a small, tremulous voice of defeat, ‘it’s a brilliant fee. How on earth did you manage it?’

He startled her by laughing loudly and she moved the receiver away from her ear.

‘They don’t call me Tricky Dickey for nothing,’ he shouted.

He was still laughing loudly as she put down the receiver, telling herself that she would be working every day and earning good money, while Richard Nixon might have to wait another five or ten years until his services were required again. But she realised that was just sour grapes.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly time to go home. She waited for Lucy to return from the toilet and then suggested they go out to a wine bar for something to eat and drink. She couldn’t wait to tell her assistant about Richard Nixon, and she had already made up her mind to deal with it positively. She could at least dine out on the story of Tricky Dickey’s triumph.