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  Cast in Order of Disappearance

  ( Charles Paris - 1 )

  Simon Brett

  Simon Brett

  Cast in Order of Disappearance

  I

  Cinderella Alone

  ‘Charles, Charles love, it’s your cue.

  Charles Paris jerked out of his doze. He looked down for the script on his knees, but The Times crossword with two completed clues stared blankly up at him. He dropped the paper, opened his script, and looked hopefully at the little actress next to him for the page number.

  ‘Page 27, Line 4,’ the producer snapped with all the exasperation of a large mortgage in Pinner and another nineteen years till his BBC pension.

  ‘Sorry…’ said Charles, trying to remember the producer’s name. ‘Sorry, love,’ failing to do so.

  He read his lines with leaden incomprehension. A twinge of guilt for having done no preparation soon passed when he heard the lines he was reading. Wasn’t anyone writing good radio plays any more? As his scene ground to a halt, he looked across at the spindly raffia-haired youth responsible. The Author sat by the producer in a twisted attitude of intense concentration or bad piles. Every now and then he winced as another nuance of his writing was steamrollered.

  The play reached its denouement with all the impact of a wet dishcloth, and there was a ripple of dejected laughter. ‘Well,’ said the producer, ‘now the real work starts. But first let’s send the lovely Sylvia for some tea.’

  Charles took the opportunity to go to the Gents and lose lunchtime’s excesses of wine. To his annoyance the Author joined him at the adjacent urinal. Charles resolutely pretended he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Um, Charles…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying…’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, I’d seen the Inspector rather Grand Guignol…’

  ‘And I thought you read him rather…’

  ‘Yes…?’

  ‘Well, Petit Guignol.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris. ‘I’ll try to do something about it.’

  Even Arctic nights end, and so, somehow, did the day in the studio. Charles’ performance, however Grand its Guignol, was fixed on tape. It all seemed to matter less as he stood in the BBC Club and the first large Bell’s glowed inside him. It was December 3rd and the short walk from Broadcasting House to the Club had been breathtakingly cold after the recycled warmth of the studio.

  Sherlock Forster (known to his intimates as Len) was an undemanding companion. A distinguished radio actor and a great piss-artist, he had been playing the murderer in the play and was now slumped against the bar, caressing a large Riesling, his toupee’d head deep into the Evening Standard. ‘Hoarding outside said “Motorist Shot Dead”. Thought it might have pushed the bloody Arabs out of the headlines,’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘Did it?’ asked Charles.

  ‘No such luck. Main story’s still bloody petrol queues. “Motorist Shot Dead” is way down the column.’

  ‘Where’d it happen?’

  ‘Just off the M4 somewhere. Apparently the bloke’d run out of petrol, got out of the car, and some bugger shot him.’

  ‘Poor sod.’

  ‘Police are treating it as a case of murder.’

  ‘Shrewd of them. Anything else in the paper?’

  ‘Well, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s being driven round in a Morris Minor to save petrol. And a couple of Cabinet ministers turned up at the House in a Mini.’

  ‘Chauffeur-driven, no doubt.’

  The second large Bell’s changed the glow within Charles to a feeling of positive well-being. Forty-seven years old and still attractive to women. The lack of matinee-idol good looks which had kept him from being a star in the Fifties was no longer a disadvantage. He had worn better than a lot of his contemporaries. Hair still grew thick and only lightly silvered at the temples. He looked at Len’s theatrical toupee and felt grateful.

  Life, Charles reflected, was not too bad. Even financially, for once. He was still flush from a ghastly television series in which he’d minced around some unlikely Tudor monarch in doublet and hose for a couple of months. And when he’d drunk through that money, or when the tax man caught up with him, something else would happen. He cast a professional eye round the bar. A few standard-issue BBC spinsters; one or two attractive younger secretaries, sentried by men; nothing worth chatting up.

  ‘Petrol, bloody petrol,’ said Len. ‘There’s nothing else in the paper. Look at this-“Attractive 9-year-old model Patti Winchester isn’t worried. She’s been showing a leg and riding her bicycle for months now”.’

  Charles glanced over. ‘Tatty.’

  ‘Hmm. Footballer Bobby Lithgoe has bought a bicycle too.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And Marius Steen has put the Rolls in the garage.’

  ‘Steen? What does it say about him?’

  ‘“Impresario Marius Steen, the man behind such stage successes as One Thing After Another, Who’s Afraid of the Big Bed Wolf? and, of course, his current smash-hit at the King’s Theatre, Sex of One and Half a Dozen of the Other, phoned today at his Berkshire home, said, ‘We’ll leave the Rolls in the garage and use the Datsun.’”’

  ‘He’s got a good publicity machine. It’s just a straight plug for that bloody Sex of One…’

  ‘Clocked up a thousand performances last week.’

  ‘God. How revolting.’

  ‘Big party on-stage at the King’s on Saturday.’

  ‘It’ll probably run forever. There’s no justice.’ Charles picked up Len’s empty glass. ‘Another one of those?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Predictably the BBC Club had led to the George, the George to a small pub off Drury Lane, and at about midnight Charles, having lost Len somewhere along the line, found himself leaning against a banister in the Montrose with a pint in his hand.

  The Montrose (a small theatrical drinking club off the Haymarket) was full as usual. A lot of rooms on different levels, shoddy like converted bedsitters, overflowing with actors talking and gesturing loudly.

  ‘… got a Z-Cars coming up. Small part, but nice…’ and he said to William, “You’ve got as much humour as a crutch!” She was furious…’

  ‘… working towards a modern commedia format…’

  ‘… ultimately it’s a matter of identity…’

  ‘Hello, Charles.’ A voice detached itself from the rest and Charles focused on a small blonde girl in front of him. ‘Jacqui.’

  Jacqui had a top-floor flat in Archer Street, opposite a casino, whose lights usually flashed yellow all night. But now with the power restrictions, they were dark. Only the blue glow of a solitary street lamp touched their anaemic neon tubes. But there were still the noises of the casino-the hum and slam of taxis, the shouts of drunkards and the chatter of Chinese gamblers in the street below.

  Charles looked at Jacqui with pleasure. She was an actress-cum-dancer-cum-most-things he’d met in pantomime at Worthing. He’d been Baron Hardup, Cinderella’s father; and she had been a Villager, White Mouse and Court Lady (for the Finale). They’d had quite a pleasant time in Worthing. It was good to see her again.

  But she looked upset. Charles filled his glass from the bottle of Southern Comfort and slumped back on to the white fur of the bed, shaking a small oil-lamp on the bedside table. ‘And you can’t get in touch with him?’

  ‘No. I’ve tried both the houses. And the office.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Jacqui. He’ll call you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She still looked tense and hurt. Strange, how a girl like that, who’d had everyone and done everything, could be so affect
ed by one dirty old man not getting in touch with her. And Marius Steen of all people.

  Jacqui stretched out her strong dancer’s legs and stared at her toes. ‘No. He often doesn’t call for weeks on end. He’s moody. Sometimes he doesn’t want me around. I’m his secret vice. Just a tottie. I mean, if he’s going to a do with the Queen Mum, he can’t take a tart along.’ Charles grunted uncomfortably. ‘No, that’s what I am. I don’t really want to be more than that. He’s an old man, he’s nice to me, we have a few giggles, that’s all. It couldn’t possibly last. I know that.’ She sounded as if she was bravely repeating a formula she didn’t believe.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what is it now? Only Monday. Give him a chance.’

  ‘I know, but this time I think it’s over.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When I rang, there was a message. Said I wasn’t to contact him again.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Jacqui poured herself a large glass of Southern Comfort and took a savage swallow at it. ‘Bugger him. I’m not going to get miserable about an old sod like that.’ She rose and flopped down on the bed beside Charles. ‘There are other men.’

  ‘Still older men, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re not old.’

  ‘I’m forty-seven.’

  ‘That’s cradle-snatching by my standards,’ she said with a wry laugh. Then she stopped short. ‘Old sod. It’s all because of the knighthood.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘His last ambition. Reckoned he might get one this New Year.’

  ‘Services to the Theatre?’

  ‘I suppose so. And I suppose I let down the image. Well, I don’t care about him.’ She snuggled up to Charles.

  ‘Jacqui, am I being used merely for revenge? As a sex object?’

  ‘Yes. Any objections?’

  ‘No.’

  Charles kissed her gently. He felt protective towards her, as if she might suddenly break down.

  Her tongue flickered round the inside of his mouth and they drew apart. ‘You smell like a distillery,’ she said.

  ‘I am a distillery,’ he replied fatuously and hugged her close to him. She had a comforting little body, and the smoky taste of her mouth was familiar. ‘Hmm. We had a good time in Worthing. We were better than the dirty postcards.’

  Jacqui smiled closely into his eyes and her hand fumbled for his zip. She couldn’t find the little metal pull-tag. An exasperated breath. ‘You know, Charles, I always think it’s simpler to take your own things off. If you’re both in agreement.’

  ‘I’m in agreement,’ said Charles. He rolled over to the side of the bed and fumblingly undressed. When he turned round, Jacqui was lying naked on the bed, familiar in the pale street light. ‘Charles.’

  ‘Must take my socks off. Otherwise I feel like an obscene photo.’

  He lay down beside her and hugged her, warm on the fur. They held each other close, hands gliding over soft flesh.

  After a few moments Charles rolled away. ‘Not very impressive, am I?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No.’ A pause. ‘Sorry. I’m not usually like this.’

  ‘I know,’ Jacqui said meaningfully. ‘And I know what to do about it.’

  He felt her moving, a soft kiss on his stomach, then the warmth of her breath as it strayed downwards. ‘Jacqui, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood. It’s the booze or…’

  ‘OK. Poor old Baron Hardup.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jacqui.’

  ‘Don’t worry. All I really need is a good cuddle.’

  ‘Tonight I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you.’ And he hugged her very closely like a teddy bear in his arms. In a moment he had sunk into a heavy, but troubled sleep.

  II

  The Fairy Godmother

  As Charles walked past the manicured front gardens of Muswell Hill, he tried to piece together his feelings. It was a long time since he had been so churned up inside. For years life had jogged on from hangover to hangover, with the odd affair between drinks, and nothing had affected him much. But now he felt jumpy and panicky.

  Impotence is perhaps not unusual in a man of forty-seven. And anyway it probably wasn’t impotence, just the dreaded Distiller’s Droop. Nothing to worry about.

  But that wasn’t the important part of his feelings. There was a change in his attitude to Jacqui. He felt an enormous need to protect the girl, as if, by failing in bed, he had suddenly become responsible for her. She seemed desperately vulnerable, like a child in a pram or an old man in a launderette. Perhaps these were paternal feelings, the sort he had somehow never developed for his daughter.

  Together with this new warmth came the knowledge that he had to go and see Frances. ‘Marriage,’ Charles reflected wryly as he clicked open her wrought-iron gate, ‘is the last refuge of the impotent.’

  She wasn’t there. Still at school. Not even six o clock yet. Charles had a key and let himself in. His hand instinctively found the light-switch.

  The house hadn’t changed. As ever, a pile of books to be marked on the dining table, concert programmes, an old Edinburgh Festival brochure. Earnest paperbacks about psychology and sociology on the book-shelves. Auntie May’s old upright piano with the lid up. And on top, that terrible posed photograph of Juliet with pigtails and a grim smile over the brace on her teeth. Next to it, the puzzle jug. Then that windswept snapshot of him, Charles Paris, taken on holiday on Arran. It was a real LP sleeve photograph. Better than any of that expensive rubbish he’d had done for Spotlight.

  He resisted the temptation to raid the drinks cupboard, switched on the television and slumped into the sofa they’d bought at Harrods when flush from selling the film rights of his one successful play.

  He heard the guarded voice of a newscaster, then the picture buzzed and swelled into life. The news was still dominated by petrol and the prospect of rationing. Charles couldn’t get very excited about it.

  Police had identified the motorist shot off the M4 at Theale. A blurred snapshot was blown up to fill the screen. It had the expression of a man already dead. There had been no petrol in the victim’s car; the back right-hand wing was dented; he had been shot through the head and left by the roadside. Police were still trying to find a motive for the killing.

  ‘In the second day of the Sally Nash trial at the Old Bailey, a 17-year-old girl, Miss C., told of sex-parties at London hotels. A lot of show-business people-’ Charles switched over to the serious face of Eamonn Andrews talking to someone about petrol rationing. He switched again and got a sizzling snowstorm through which a voice imparted mathematical information.

  ‘Sodding UHF.’ He got down on his hands and knees in front of the box and started moving the portable aerial about. The snowstorm varied in intensity. Then he remembered the UHF contrast knob and went round the set to turn it.

  ‘Television repair man.’ He’d been too close to the sound to hear Frances come in.

  ‘Hello.’ He stood up. ‘Look. The picture’s perfect.’

  ‘Are you doing an Open University degree?’

  ‘No. I was just getting it right. It’s the UHF contrast.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘I thought so. Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That means yes. Did you have lunch?’

  ‘Pie in a pub.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Frances went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. She continued talking through the serving hatch. It was restfully familiar.

  ‘I went down to see Juliet and Miles at the weekend.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Nice to get out of town.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They said they’d love to see you. You should go down, it’s a lovely place.’

  ‘Yes. I will. At some stage. How’s Miles?’

  ‘Oh, he’s doing very we
ll.’

  ‘Ah.’ Charles visualised his son-in-law, Miles Taylerson, the rising executive, neat in his executive house on his executive estate in Pangbourne with his executive car and his executive suits and his executive haircut. ‘Do you like Miles, Frances?’

  ‘Juliet’s very happy with him.’ ‘Which I suppose,’ Charles reflected, ‘is some sort of answer.’ Thinking of his daughter made him think of Jacqui again and he felt a flutter of panic in his stomach.

  Frances produced the food very quickly. It was a dish with frankfurters and sour cream. Something new. Charles felt jealous at the thought that she was developing, learning new things without him. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘shall I whip down to the off-licence and get a bottle of wine? Make an evening of it.’

  ‘Charles, I can’t “make an evening of it”. I’ve got to be at a PTA meeting at 7.30.’

  ‘Parents-Teachers? Oh, but can’t you-’ He stopped. No, you can’t come back to someone you walked out on twelve years ago and expect them to be instantly free. Even if you have kept in touch and had occasional reconciliations. ‘Have a drink together later, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe. If you’re still here.’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘What is the matter, Charles?’

  ‘I don’t know. Male menopause?’ It was a phrase he’d read in a colour supplement somewhere. Didn’t really know if it meant anything.

  ‘You think you’ve got problems,’ said Frances.

  She was always busy. Two things about Frances-she was always busy and she was never surprised. These, in moments of compatibility, were her great qualities; in moments of annoyance, her most irritating traits.

  The next morning she cooked a large breakfast, brought it up to him in bed, and hurried off to school. Charles lay back on the pillows and felt mellow. He saw the familiar gable of the Jenkinses opposite (they’d had the paint work done blue) and felt sentimentality well up inside him.

  Each time he came back to Frances, he seemed to feel more sentimental. At first. Then after a few days they’d quarrel or he’d feel claustrophobic and leave again. And go on a blinder.