AFTER LOUISE has gone through into the bedroom, Aubrey triumphantly closes the door, and locks it. He pulls up his trousers and does them up, then crosses to the French windows. As he does so, the lights dim in Louise and Ted’s flat, and come up in Gilly and Bob’s flat, where Gilly is just seeing Willie out.
GILLY: And when my husband Bob comes back, you can try out your designs on him.
WILLIE (very camply): Don’t tempt me.
He goes out into the hall. Gilly turns back into the room to see Aubrey appearing on the balcony from behind the central partition. She rushes across to open the French windows.
GILLY: Aubrey! I was worried you might have dropped off!
AUBREY: And I was worried something might have dropped off. I was in serious danger of joining the Brass Monkey Brigade out there.
GILLY (putting her arms around him): Don’t worry about that, my darling. I’ll soon have you up to scratch again.
AUBREY (lasciviously): It wasn’t actually ‘scratch’ I was thinking of being up to, Gilly.
GILLY (leading him towards the bedroom): Ooh. Shall we get up to something else instead then? Now, where were we? Shall I just pick it up where I left off?
AUBREY (enthusiastically): Sounds good to me!
They disappear into bedroom. The door slams shut behind them. A moment’s silence, then doorbell is heard. It rings a second time. Gilly comes bustling out of bedroom, followed by Aubrey. Again his trousers are round his ankles.
AUBREY: Oh no! The fates seem to be against us today! What am I getting myself into?
GILLY (hustling him across to push him into a cupboard which stands against the central partition wall): You’re getting yourself into this cupboard, that’s what you’re doing!
She closes the cupboard door on him, and hurries across to the door to hall. The cupboard door opens: Aubrey emerges, trying to pull trousers up. As he gets out, he hears banging from behind him. He turns and looks dubiously at cupboard. There is a further banging noise. He realises where it comes from.
AUBREY: Oh, no! It’s Louise banging on the bedroom door in the other flat!
GILLY (heard from the hall): No, do come in, Ted, by all means.
Hearing the voices, Aubrey, still with his trousers round his ankles, hurries back into the cupboard. The banging sound from the other flat ceases. The cupboard doors close behind Aubrey, just as Gilly ushers Ted into the sitting room.
GILLY: No, Ted, of course it’s not inconvenient.
TED: I hope I didn’t arrive when you’d got your hands full.
GILLY (after a momentary take): No, no, good Lord, no.
TED: It’s a bit embarrassing.
GILLY: Well, yes, it is, I agree, but . . . (realising he’s not talking about her situation) Oh, is it, really?
TED: Yes, you see, I was worried you might have heard something.
The sound of Louise knocking on the bedroom door of the adjacent flat is heard again.
GILLY: No, no, I haven’t heard anything. More loud knocking from Louise.
TED: You’re sure you haven’t heard anything?
GILLY: Not a thing.
TED (looking curiously at the cupboard which conceals Aubrey): It’s peculiar. I’d have sworn there was a banging noise coming from that cupboard.
GILLY: From that cupboard? Nonsense!
More loud knocking is heard from the adjacent flat. Gilly rises to her feet and hustles Ted through towards the bedroom.
GILLY: No, the acoustics in these old flats are most peculiar. The sound seems to come from over there, but in fact it comes from over here. (She pushes Ted through into the bedroom.) You have a listen to that wall over there. Then you’ll hear where the banging really comes from.
Gilly closes the door behind Ted, and rushes across to let Aubrey out of the cupboard. He still has his trousers round his ankles.
GILLY: You idiot, Aubrey! Why on earth were you making that knocking noise?
AUBREY: I wasn’t!
GILLY: Yes, you were.
There is once again a knocking sound from Louise’s bedroom door.
AUBREY: See!
GILLY (looking curiously at the empty cupboard): There’s something most peculiar going on here.
AUBREY (reaching down to pull up his trousers): At least I’ll be glad to get my trousers on.
There is a sound from the hall of the front door being opened with a key.
BOB (from the hall, angrily): Gilly! Gilly! Where the hell are you, Gilly?
GILLY (panicking): Oh, my God, Aubrey! It’s Bob! Quick, hide under here! She lifts up floor-length cloth that covers dining table. Aubrey, still with his trousers round ankles, scuttles underneath table. Gilly drops the cloth to hide him and smoothes it down nonchalantly as Bob comes storming in from hall.
BOB: Gilly! I have reason to believe that you are entertaining a lover here this afternoon!
GILLY: A lover, Bob? Me? Don’t talk nonsense!
BOB: I know there’s a man in here, and I’m going to find him!
He looks furiously round the room for a hiding place. As he does so, the door from the bedroom opens, and Ted, looking slightly bewildered, comes in.
TED: About this banging, Gilly . . . I don’t seem to be getting any.
BOB (turning on his heel to face Ted): Oh, my goodness, no! You, Ted! My best friend!
‘“Well, you know what I think, Willie. When my husband Bob comes back, you can try out your designs on him.”’ Bill Blunden read the line out at dictation speed, with all the animation of the Directory Enquiries electronic voice. ‘Have you got that, Cookie?’
Cookie Stone nodded, her pencil completing the latest amendment to the already-much-amended script. The entire company had had an eleven o’clock call the morning after their first night at the Palace Theatre, Norwich. They all knew they’d been summoned for more rewrites, more tinkering, more fine-tuning from Bill Blunden.
Tony Delaunay sat at the back of the auditorium, silently watching what was going on. Now they were in Norwich, he was in charge of the show, officially as well as de facto. David J. Girton had returned to the BBC to start pre-production planning for the next series of his long-running sitcom, Neighbourhood Watch. He would reappear for the odd night on the tour, but his work as nominal director of Not On Your Wife! was – unless the show did ever make it into the West End – virtually finished.
‘I just think the new line’s got more rhythm,’ said the playwright.
‘OK.’ Cookie was a professional; she’d been through this process many times before. She didn’t pass judgement on the changes she was given, just learnt them and delivered them.
‘Try it tonight. See what reaction you get.’
‘Wilco, Bill. Roger and out,’ she said in the voice of a Second World War ace.
‘So it doesn’t change your cue, Ran. Line’s a bit longer, that’s all.’
‘Young Ms. Stone building up her part again,’ said Ransome George, getting his laugh from the rest of the company. As usual, the line itself wasn’t funny; but there was some alchemy in his timing and intonation.
‘Then, Charles . . .’
Charles Paris looked up and tried to concentrate. He could no longer blame the booze for the fact that his mind kept wandering, but it did. It kept wandering back to Mark Lear and the circumstances of his death. It kept wandering back to the possibility – or even likelihood – that someone in the not on your wife! company had caused that death.
‘Yes, Bill?’
‘“Brass Monkey Brigade” still not getting the laugh, is it?’
‘No. I just wonder whether the audience is catching on to the reference. “Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey”. . . I mean, do people still use that expression?’
‘I think they do,’ said the playwright cautiously, ‘but I’ve got another suggestion, anyway.’
‘Oh, right. Good.’
‘Try . . . “And I was worried something might have dropped off. And let me tell you – it’s a long time since I’ve sung soprano!” and make sure you hit the “I”. . . since I’ve sung soprano” – OK?’
‘Do you really think that’ll work any better?’ asked Charles.
There was a rustle of reaction around the auditorium. This was bad form. Bill Blunden was the playwright, after all, he was the expert on farce. For a member of the company – except of course for Bernard Walton, who had star’s privilege – to offer an opinion on a rewrite was simply not done.
But Bill Blunden didn’t seem worried by the lapse of etiquette. ‘Try it tonight,’ he said evenly.
‘OK,’ said Charles, and caught a grin from Cookie Stone. That caused him a pang of guilt. She kept catching his eyes these days, as though they shared something other than the coincidence of appearing in the same theatre programme. In Bath she’d kept her distance, respecting his state of shock following Mark Lear’s death. But now they were in Norwich, she seemed to be drawing closer to him again, spurred on perhaps by the memory of some intimacy of which he had no recollection.
‘Then I think we can sharpen up the exit sequence to the bedroom,’ Bill Blunden droned on. ‘You and Cookie, Charles . . . If Aubrey makes his line: “It wasn’t actually ‘scratch’ I was thinking of being up to, Gilly”. . . and then goes on: “Do you think we can still manage a little something?”. . . and, Cookie, as you lead him to the bedroom, you make your line simply:
“Don’t worry, it’ll all soon be in hand!”’
‘OK, love,’ said Cookie. ‘What, and cut the other lines?’
‘Mm. And then, Charles, you just come back with: “Sounds good to me!”’
‘Right you are,’ said Charles. ‘Sounds good to me!’
But it didn’t really. Charles Paris didn’t enjoy this constant juggling with innuendoes; he liked comedy that came out of character, rather than the mechanical deployment of double entendres. Still, Bill Blunden’s international royalties showed that he was doing something right. British farce was a distinct subgenre of the theatre; and, whether Charles Paris liked the medium or not, it was one over which Bill Blunden had complete mastery.
‘Now, Bernard . . .’ the playwright continued, turning his focus towards the star, ‘still not quite getting the boffo on “. . . got your hands full”, are we?’
‘No. Got a woofer at the last Saturday matinée in Bath, but then I did the face.’
‘Hm, I think we can get it just with the line, actually . . .’ said Bill Blunden.
‘Not with the current line, we can’t,’ was Bernard Walton’s tart response.
‘No, I agree. So I’ve got a suggestion which may sort it out. After Gilly’s cue: “No, Ted, of course it’s not inconvenient . . . try saying: “You weren’t working, were you? I’d hate to have arrived when you were on the job.” Try that.’
Bernard Walton grimaced. ‘Bit contrived, isn’t it? I mean, obviously I can get the laugh with an expression or a take, but I’d like to feel I was getting a bit more help from the line.’
‘Try it tonight,’ Bill Blunden wheedled. ‘See if it gets the boffo tonight, eh?’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Bernard Walton. ‘For want of anything better.’
‘Now,’ the playwright continued metronomically, ‘still not getting as big a laugh on the word “banging” as we should be getting, are we?’
Charles Paris had reviewed the circumstances of Mark Lear’s death on the train up to Norwich the Sunday afternoon after the Bath run finished. He’d talked a bit about it with Lisa Wilson during the preceding week, but they hadn’t had much opportunity for detailed discussion. At the studio their days had been full; they’d been deeply involved in recording yet more Thesaurus words and phrases; and then he’d had to rush off to do the show in the evenings. The one night he had organised a ticket for Lisa to see Not On Your Wife!, though she’d come for a drink afterwards, they’d been joined by Cookie Stone and some other company members, so they couldn’t talk about Mark’s death, except in general terms.
The after-show drink had, incidentally, been a mineral water for Charles. Though he had deeply regretted the bold pledge he had given to Lisa, he had stuck to it.
His reasons had been mixed. For a start, the abstinence was the result of a long-held conviction that his drinking was getting out of hand; considerations of health alone suggested a cutback was in order.
Then there was the fact of Mark Lear’s death. Whether he had died by accident or by murder, in either case alcohol had been a contributory factor. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he would have been in a better condition to protect himself. His example loomed like a dark shadow over Charles. Mark Lear’s death had been a warning, a final warning. Get your act together, Charles Paris, or you could be next.
Not drinking because of Mark’s death also presented a horizon, something to work towards. When I’ve found out the truth of how Mark died, Charles comforted himself, then I’ll allow myself to drink again. Somehow making the term of trial finite made it seem marginally more tolerable.
There was also Lisa, the fact that it was to Lisa that he had made his promise. The more Charles saw of her, the more he liked her. He didn’t exactly have sexual ambitions in her direction – or if he did, he managed to convince himself they were inappropriate. She was his friend’s girl, after all, currently traumatised by that friend’s death. Charles Paris was far too old for her, anyway. Given the shattered state of his relationship with Frances – not to mention the totally undefined nature of his relationship with Cookie Stone – he was in no position to be entertaining any kind of sexual ambitions.
But it was the little spark of desire that kept him off the booze. If he hadn’t fancied Lisa Wilson, he could never have done it. Because it was hard. God, it was hard,. That first Sunday had been awful, his hangover had screamed out for the relief of a little top-up. He’d survived the lunch-time – when Lisa was actually there, the danger of backsliding was very much less – but after they’d finished their recording session and he’d gone back alone to his digs, the pain had been almost intolerable. That Sunday evening had been one of the longest he had ever experienced.
The knowledge that there was a third of a bottle of Bell’s sitting in the bottom of his wardrobe made the pain all the more excruciating. Just a little sip was all he wanted. Just one little sip, and then he’d screw the cap on again and put the bottle away.
But something in him knew the sipping wouldn’t stop there. And something else in him managed to resist the urge. The reward for his abstinence was one of the best nights’ sleep Charles Paris had had for years. So, but for the dark shadow cast by Mark Lear’s death, Charles had faced the Monday ahead with more optimism than he could usually muster. He actually enjoyed – rather than just managing to get through – his landlady’s breakfast.
But the two major alcoholic pressure points of that day had occurred before and after the show. Before was not so difficult. The biorhythmic urge to have a drink between six and seven was diminished by the fact that he had a show to do. Though recently he had been slipping into the habit, the professional in Charles Paris knew that drinking before a performance was a bad thing. So getting through that night’s not on your wife! without alcohol had not been too arduous.
Not having any alcohol after the show, however, had been agonising. There was no righteous reason not to drink then. He’d just done a performance, for God’s sake! He’d given of himself in the role of Aubrey. He deserved a bloody drink! And everyone else in the company was going off to have a drink after the show. It would have been positively antisocial not to join them.
So he did join them and, somehow, with physical pain, he managed not to drink anything other than mineral water. Not wanting to admit the real reason for his abstinence, he invented a stomach upset to explain it away. The session in the pub was purgatory, but he managed to survive.
That wasn’t the cure, though. If he’d imagined that, having cracked one night, he’d broken the back of the problem, Charles Paris would have been wrong. It was still agony for him not to have a drink. The urge for a quick restorative injection of alcohol did not leave him. And, after that first blissful night, his old disrupted sleeping pattern reasserted itself. So it wasn’t just the booze that kept him awake.
Still, Charles Paris thought to himself on the train to Norwich, I am managing. My health and my wallet must be feeling the benefit of not drinking. Perhaps my mind’s clearer . . .? Possibly I’m even giving a better performance as Aubrey . . .
But he wasn’t entirely convinced. All he really knew about not drinking was the fact that he hated it.
It was to take his mind off the gnawing ache for a drink that Charles Paris had started reviewing the circumstances of Mark Lear’s death.
On his mental video he reran the tape of the Thursday in the recording studio. If the death had been murder, then there were two significant moments during that afternoon. The first had been his own doing. It had been he, Charles Paris, who had drawn attention to the stuffiness of the small dead room and perhaps inadvertently suggested part of a murder method to the perpetrator. Mark’s unlocking of the dead-bolts on the studio doors had supplied the other necessary element.
The other significant moment had arisen when Mark started on about the book he was going to write that would ‘take the lid off the BBC’. At the time Charles had put this down as drunken rambling, but with hindsight he realised that Mark’s words could have been seen as a challenge, and a challenge to one individual person in the studio. What was it he’d said exactly? ‘You’d be surprised the unlikely things unlikely people got involved in. Some they certainly wouldn’t want to be reminded of now, I’m sure.’ If someone present that afternoon, someone with a dark secret connected with the BBC, had recognised the challenge that was being thrown out, then it was entirely possible they might have contemplated silencing Mark Lear for good.
Charles again went through the list of people who’d been present when Mark issued his ultimatum (if that was indeed what it had been). The list ran: Bernard Walton, David J. Girton, Tony Delaunay, Ransome George, Cookie Stone and Pippa Trewin. Which one of them had Mark Lear been threatening?
The person with the most obvious BBC connections had been David J. Girton – and Mark had mentioned some financial malpractice that concerned the director. On the other hand, David J. Girton was the one person who couldn’t have gone back to the studio to lock Mark Lear in the dead room. Any of the others might have done, but he had the perfect alibi: Charles Paris. He’d spent the afternoon drinking with Charles, and they’d shared a cab back to the Vanbrugh Theatre.
So it had to be one of the others. Once again, Charles concentrated on the list. Ransome George. Yes. As well as fingering David J. Girton, Mark had also implied that there was a skeleton in Ransome George’s cupboard.
And then of course there was the strange fragment of conversation Charles had overheard between Ran and Bernard Walton in the Green Room after the Bath technical rehearsal. ‘Your secret is absolutely safe with me.’ That’s what Ran had said. And then he’d gone on to imply that he’d be angry if anyone else knew about the secret.
There was something odd going on between Bernard Walton and Ransome George. And given the dearth of other candidates, perhaps they’d have to be promoted to prime suspect status.
But what was the ‘secret’ they had mentioned? How was Charles going to find out more about their murky pasts? Gossip was what he needed, good old-fashioned dirty theatrical gossip.
By the time his train had reached Norwich, Charles had made a decision. He needed to ring his agent.