‘Yes,’ said Bernard Walton sharply, with uncharacteristic lack of restraint.
‘As you know, it’s a series that’s been really successful for the audience, one that we’re very grateful to you for. .’ Nigel Frisch seemed deliberately to be prolonging the agony, playing Bernard Walton along. He still spoke very casually. ‘Obviously it’s had its detractors. There are people that feel we’ve got all the mileage we can out of the situation.’ He paused, sadistically. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t really made my final decision yet. But, anyway, what I wanted to say was, we’ll certainly be taking up your options for the dates proposed. So even if we don’t make the series — and I dare say we will — you’ll still get paid.’
Bernard Walton swayed with relief. He still looked pretty tense, but was patently glad of the news. If the company was going to commit itself to the vast outlay involved in contracting him for the next series, then they’d be bound to go ahead with it, he reasoned. ‘Oh well, that’s nice to hear, Nigel,’ he said, recapturing some of his casualness and bonhomie. ‘Let me get you a drink to celebrate.’
‘I’ll have a Perrier water,’ said the Director of Programmes.
At that moment George Birkitt and Rod Tisdale arrived in the bar and joined the circle. Having assured Peter Lipscombe (whose finger was still bleeding slightly) that everything was okay, the former, on whom the strains of the day were beginning to tell, ordered a quadruple brandy and the latter a half of lager.
‘You pleased, Rod?’ asked Nigel Frisch.
‘All right,’ the writer replied without excitement. ‘Sixty-six.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘There were seventy-four jokes in the script. Sixty-six of them got laughs.’
‘Ah.’
Charles slipped away from the gushing crowd. His system could only tolerate small doses of show-biz glamour. And Jane Lewis, the Trainee PA, had just come into the bar and was standing on her own.
‘Can I get you a drink, Jane?’
‘It’s Janey.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Janey. With an E-Y. I decided that’d look better on the roller.’
‘Roller?’
‘Roller-caption. My credit at the end of the programme. Jane’s so ordinary.’
‘Oh. Yes. Janey then, would you like a drink?’
‘Bacardi coke, please.’
Charles engaged the attention of the barman who wasn’t coping with Peter Lipscombe’s latest massive order, got the drinks and was encouraged to see that Jane — or rather Janey — was still alone when he returned.
She raised her glass. ‘To the success of the show.’
‘Hear, hear.’ He took a long swallow. He was beginning to feel the effect of the day’s drinking. ‘How’d you think it went?’
‘Part One was about 43 seconds over and Part Two was 1-17 over, but Sadie reckons they’ll edit all right. And we’re not certain that VTR was stable on one of the Rollback and Mixes.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘But what about the show itself?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve said. It was exactly two minutes over in all.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘What do you go on to after this?’
‘Next I’m trailing the outside filming on the age-ist series.’
‘Age-ist series?’
‘Yes. W. E.T.’s just started a new unit for programmes for the elderly. Going to be presented by Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty. Phil Middleton — that’s the director — said a lot of people would go for someone like Robert Carton as presenter, but he’s too boring.’
‘Ah.’ Janey Lewis was clearly one of those girls who quoted irrelevant conversations verbatim. ‘And after that?’ Charles asked.
‘Don’t know. I’d like to get on to another Light Entertainment show, but I don’t know. I’d like to get on to the
‘Ah,’ said Charles ambiguously, as if he just might know what she was talking about.
‘You’ve heard, haven’t you, that W.E.T.’s just bought
‘Of course,’ Charles lied.
‘Going to be a huge show, that one. I mean, Wragg and Bowen are definitely the best double act in the country. They’re going to be paid ten thousand a week, each.’
‘Oh. What’s the show going to be like?’
‘I don’t think that’s been worked out yet.’
‘Ah.’ Their conversation stagnated. Charles was feeling randy with the alcohol and didn’t want to leave her. She was a remarkably attractive girl with that black hair and pale skin. Nice shape, too. If only she could talk about something other than television.
But he didn’t keep his exclusive hold on her for long. Robin Laughton, the hearty Floor Manager, who appeared now to be in a lager-drinking situation, joined them. Charles found two people talking about television more than he could take, and slipped away to rejoin Gerald.
On his way across, he was accosted by another familiar figure. It was Walter Proud, who had produced Charles’s previous, and ill-fated, excursion into West End Television comedy.
Charles shrugged. ‘Those who know about such things seem to think it was okay.’
‘Great, great. If you’re going over to talk to Nigel Frisch, I’ll join you.’
Something rang warning bells for Charles. ‘Well, no, I wasn’t particularly. . What are you working on here?’
‘Nothing right now, actually. Got one or two projects sort of around, but, er, nothing right now.’ The confession was transparent. Walter Proud was out of work. He’d left his BBC staff job a few years before, and since then had a discontinuous sequence of short contracts with the various commercial companies. ‘No. actually. I came down here to see a few chums, see if there was anything going.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Don’t think so. I had a word with a girl who was my PA on something I did here, girl called Sadie Wainwright, but she. . No, there doesn’t seem to be much around.’
Walter’s dismal tone suggested that Sadie had choked him off rather in the same way she had everyone else.
‘Oh well, something’ll turn up,’ said Charles blandly.
‘Hope so. Actually, if you are going across to see Nigel Frisch — ’
But Charles was saved embarrassment by the arrival of Scott Newton. The young man looked awful. He had no colour, and his face gleamed with a fine sweat. ‘Hello, Charles,’ he cried, with a sad attempt at conviviality. ‘Lovely performance. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I think I’d better get you one. You look terrible.’
‘No, I’m okay now. Had some sort of bilious bug, don’t know, must have been something I ate.’
Charles caught the sour whiff of the young man s breath. He had obviously just been very sick. Something he’d eaten. . or, more likely, just the nervous pressures of the day.
‘By the way, do you know Walter Proud? You’re both BBC renegades, so perhaps you’ve. .’
But no, they hadn’t. Charles introduced them.
‘You came after the big money too, did you?’ asked Walter ironically.
Scott replied in the same tone. ‘Bigger, maybe, but not big enough. I seem to have even less since I made the move.’
‘If that’s the case, then let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, no, things aren’t that bad.’
They argued a bit, but Walter didn’t need much convincing and Scott walked unsteadily to the bar.
‘And he’s directing you, Charles?’ The question was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
