IV
George, the stage doorman at the Dryden Theatre, looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Charles Paris. Mr Walton is expecting me.’
George’s face registered total disbelief and he turned to the telephone. Charles wondered vaguely if the old man had recognised him. After all, he’d come in every night for eighteen months during the run of The Water Nymph only ten years before. But no, the name Charles Paris meant nothing. So much for the showbiz myth of the cheery old ‘never forget a face-I seen ’em all’ doorman. George was a bloody-minded old sod and always had been.
‘Mr Walton’s not back in his dressing-room yet.’
‘I’ll wait.’ Charles leant against the wall. The doorman watched his visitor as if he expected him to steal the light fittings.
There was a big poster of the show stuck up just inside the stage door. It had on it an enormous photo of Bernard in hot pursuit of a cartoon of two bikini-clad girls. That’s stardom-a real photo; supports only get cartoons.
Charles thought back to when he’d first met Bernard in Cardiff-a gauche, rather insecure young man with a slight stammer. Even then he’d been pushy, determined to make it. Charles had been directing at the time and cast him as Young Marlowe in She Stoops to Conquer. Not a good actor, but Charles made him play himself and it worked. The stammer fitted Marlowe’s embarrassment and Bernard got a very good press. A couple of years round the reps playing nervous idiots, then a television series, and now, entering his second year in Virgin on the Ridiculous, nauseating the critics and wowing the coach parties.
‘Could you try him again?’ George acquiesced grudgingly. This time he got through. ‘Mr Walton, there’s a Mr-what did you say your name was?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘A Mr Charles Paris to see you. Oh. Very well.’ He put the phone down. ‘Mr Walton’s expecting you.’ In tones of undisguised surprise. ‘Dressing-room One. Down the-’
But Charles knew the geography of the theatre and strode along the corridor. He knocked on the door and it was thrown open by Bernard, oozing bonhomie from a silk dressing-gown. ‘Charles dear boy. Lovely to see you.’
Dear boy? Charles baulked slightly at that and then he realised that Bernard actually thought himself Nod Coward. The whole star bit. ‘Good to see you, Bernard. How’s it going?’
‘Oh, comme ci, comme ca. Audience love it. Doing fantastic business, in spite of all the crisis, or whatever it’s called. So I can’t complain. I’m just opening a bottle of champagne if you…’
‘Do you have any Scotch?’
‘Sure. Help yourself. Cupboard over there.’
‘Bernard. I’ve come to ask you a favour.’ May as well leap straight in.
‘Certainly. What can I do for you?’
‘You know Marius Steen, don’t you?’
‘Yes, the old sod. He owns half this show. You know, if Marius Steen didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him.’
Aphorisms too, thought Charles. Noel Coward has a lot to answer for. Generations of actors who, without a modicum of the talent, have pounced on the mannerisms.
‘The thing is, I want an introduction to him.’ At that moment, the door burst open and Margaret Leslie sparkled into the room, her tiny frame cotton-woolled in a great sheepskin coat. ‘Maggie darling!’ Bernard enveloped her in his arms. ‘Darling, do you know Charles Paris? Charles, have you met Maggie?’
‘No, I haven’t actually, but I’ve admired your work for a long time.’ Charles could have kicked himself for the cliche. It was true, though. She was a brilliant actress and deserved her phenomenal success.
‘Charles Paris?’ she mused huskily. ‘Didn’t you write that awfully clever play The Rate-payer?’ Charles acknowledged it rather sheepishly. ‘Oh, I’m enchanted to meet you, Charles. I did it in rep. once. Played Wanda.’
‘Glenda.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Charles was an incredible help to me at the beginning of my career,’ said Bernard with professional earnestness. ‘I would have got nowhere without him. But nowhere.’
Charles felt diminished by the compliment. He’d have preferred Bernard to say nothing rather than patronise him. It was the gratitude of the star on This is Your Life thanking the village schoolmaster who had first taken him to the theatre.
‘Charles was just asking me about Marius.’
‘Oh God,’ said Maggie dramatically and laughed.
This put Charles on the spot. He didn’t mind asking Bernard a favour on his own, but it was awkward with Maggie there.
‘You said you wanted an introduction?’ Bernard prompted.
Nothing for it. He’d have to go on. ‘Yes. I… er…’ he’d got the story prepared but it was difficult with an audience. ‘I’ve written a new play. Light comedy. Thought it might be Steen’s sort of thing.’
‘Oh, I see. And you want me to introduce you, so that you can try and sell it to him.’
‘Yes.’ Charles felt humiliated. He’d never have sunk to this if he was actually trying to sell one of his plays. But it was the only possible approach to Steen he could think of. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking…’
‘No. Of course not. Old pals act. Happy to oblige.’ And Bernard was. He was the great star and here was an old friend, less successful, wanting to be helped out. Charles winced at the thought of what he was doing. ‘Is it urgent, dear boy?’
‘It is a bit. There’s an American agent nibbling.’
‘Ah.’ Bernard’s tone didn’t believe it. ‘Well, you leave it with me, old chum. Have I got your number?’
Charles wrote it down. Margaret Leslie, who was wandering restlessly round the room, picked up a script from a table. ‘Is this the new telly, Bernard?’
‘Yes, it’s awful. Not a laugh in it. I do get a bit sick of the way they keep sending me scripts to make funny. Here’s a new show-may not be much good-never mind, book Bernard Walton, he’ll get a few laughs out of it. I probably could, but I should get a bit of support from the script-writers. You ought to write something for me, Charles,’ he added charmingly.
‘Not really my style, Bernard.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Bernard,’ Maggie hinted, ‘I think we ought to…’
‘Lord, yes. Is that the time? Charles, we’re going out to eat. Why not join us? Going to the Ivy. Miles’ll be there, John and Prunella, and Richard, I expect. I’m sure they could make room for another.’
Charles refused politely. He couldn’t stomach an evening of bright show-biz back-chat. Outside the theatre he gulped great lungfuls of cold night air, but it didn’t cleanse him inside. He still felt sullied by what he’d had to do-to crawl to someone like Bernard Walton.
There was only one solution. He hailed a cab and went to the Montrose. If he couldn’t lose the feeling, perhaps he could deaden it.
A tremendous hammering at the door. Charles rolled out of bed and groped his way over to open it. One of the Swedish girls was standing there in a flowered nylon dressing-gown. Charles had time to register that she looked like a dinky toilet-roll cover before his head caught up with him. It felt as if it had been split in two by a cold chisel and someone was grinding the two halves together.
‘Telephone.’ The Swedish girl flounced off. Charles tried to make it down the stairs with his eyes closed to allay the pain. He felt for the receiver and held it gingerly to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Charles, I’ve done it!’ Bernard’s voice sounded insufferably cheerful. Charles grunted uncomprehending. ‘I’ve spoken to Marius.’
‘Ah.’
