Dead Giveaway

with Nick, you with Joanie and you with Fiona. Got that?’

‘Erm,’ Tim Dyer objected. ‘Can we change it round? I’d rather be paired with Joanie.’

‘Would you?’ snapped Barrett Doran. ‘Well, I don’t give a wet fart what you’d rather do. The pairings will be as I said.’

Tim Dyer wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d just been round the back of the set and seen the gleaming, brand-new Metro waiting for the moment when it would be driven on to awe-struck “Aaah”s from the studio audience. ‘But I don’t want to be with Fiona,’ he insisted.

‘Why, isn’t she pretty enough for you? You think yourself damned lucky. It’s the nearest a little shit like you’s ever going to get to a bit of crumpet like that.’ The host turned to his producer. ‘What do you want them to do — stand behind the panellist they’re paired with?’

‘Yes, behind, slightly to the right. Then we can get them in a nice close two-shot.’

‘Okay. Get to those positions.’ Barrett Doran looked petulantly back at Jim Trace-Smith. ‘Do you really want us to go right through the whole bloody thing?’

‘We have to make sure everyone knows what they’ve got to do, where they’ve got to stand, that kind of number. .’

‘Okay, okay.’ Barrett Doran went across to his lectern and stood there, drumming his fingers on its top.

Various researchers and stage managers were recruited to stand in the positions later to be occupied by the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. Some unrepresentative hats had been procured for them (though not from Wardrobe, who said they were still not convinced that they should be providing hats for the actual recording, but were damned sure they weren’t going to provide any for rehearsal). The researchers and stage managers then invented professions for themselves and the contestants, with celebrity help, tried to say who should be wearing which hat. Since the hats were wrong anyway, all this took a long time. Barrett Doran conducted the proceedings without even a pretence of geniality.

At the end of the round, Jim Trace-Smith reminded the contestants that they would be awarded money prizes at this point, but that the one with least points would be eliminated. Tim Dyer objected volubly that he would be working under an unfair handicap because Fiona Wakeford was so stupid. The actress proved not quite stupid enough not to realise that this was an insult, and burst out crying. Nick Jeffries threatened to punch Tim Dyer’s teeth out through his arse. Jim Trace-Smith managed to reimpose a kind of calm.

In the next round each of the celebrities was supplied with a hat-box by ‘the lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi’, two terminally bored-looking models who were part of the set-decoration. The remaining three contestants were then given the names of four types of hat and had in turn to guess whose hat-box contained which hat, helped or misled by clues from the celebrities.

Trish Osborne was the first to play in this round. She had found that, once on the set, her nerves had given way to a mood of almost manic confidence. It was going to be all right. She would manage. Better than that, she would do very well. She would really make an impression.

As she stood beside Barrett Doran at the lectern, he flashed her a big smile. Looking at her for the first time, he had realised that she was rather attractive and thought it might be worth beaming a little of his charm in her direction. Nice short dark hair, full lips, nice trim little figure. Maybe he might invite her to his dressing room for a drink before the recording. . He gave her the practice list of four hats — fedora, fire-helmet, beret and baseball cap. Trish started chatting with the celebrities, moving round to her decision. She felt in control. She was doing well.

‘Oh God!’ Barrett Doran suddenly exclaimed.

Trish Osborne turned curiously towards him.

‘Look at her. We can’t have this. I mean, God, this is peak viewing, a family show. We can’t have her looking like that.’

Trish unwillingly followed the line of his accusing finger, which pointed straight at her bust. In the excitement of the occasion, she saw that both of her nipples had hardened, a fact which the thin blouse and brassiere did nothing to disguise.

Jim Trace-Smith came forward, nonplussed. It was not a situation he had had to deal with before, and he wasn’t quite sure of the correct procedure.

‘Well, come on,’ shouted Barrett Doran. ‘Do something. Get her off to Wardrobe. We can’t have her looking as if she’s panting for it like that. This isn’t a bloody tit show, is it?’

At this point, Trish Osborne, utterly deserted by her new confidence, started to cry. She was led off with meaningless words of comfort by the researcher, Chita. In Wardrobe, after an unsuccessful experiment with Sellotape, her nipples were contained by two sticking plasters.

The rehearsal had to stop at six, so that everyone involved in Studio A could get their statutory hour’s meal- break and the cameras could be lined up, before the audience was admitted at seven, ready for the seven-thirty recording. When the rehearsal ended, the celebrities and contestants had a variety of options as to where they could go. They could eat in the canteen, they could go and titivate, prepare or relax in their dressing rooms, or they could return to their separate Conference Rooms, now converted by the introduction of alcohol into Hospitality Rooms.

For the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor, who had been stuck in the Production Office all afternoon, there were fewer options. Sydnee, still desperate to keep them apart from the other participants in If The Cap Fits, had ruled out their visiting the canteen, and arranged for sandwiches to be brought up to the office. There was, of course, no question of their sharing the largesse of Hospitality in the two Conference Rooms, but, after considerable thought and a few exploratory phone-calls, she decided that it might be safe for them to go downstairs to the W.E.T. bar, ‘if any of them wanted to’.

Charles Paris was the first to state that he did want to. It had been a boring afternoon, it promised to be a boring evening, and he had long since discovered the beneficial properties of alcohol in the treatment of boredom. Since his only responsibilities in the show were standing up and putting on different hats, he did not have any anxiety about drink blunting his performing edge. He just knew that he would feel considerably more human with two or three large Bell’s inside him.

Sydnee led the four of them conspiratorially down the back-stairs to the bar, which was very crowded. As well as the flood of after-work drinkers from the offices above, there were also many of the Studio A technicians and a lot of the team from Studio B, whose recording schedule for Method In Their Murders incorporated the same meal-break.

‘I’ll dive in and get you some drinks,’ said Sydnee bravely. ‘Then I must sort out your Make-up calls. That’s going to be the most difficult bit of all. There’s only one Make-up room and we’ve got to ensure that you don’t meet any of the others in there. Anyway, what will you all drink?’

She took their orders, and thrust her way into the make round the bar. The four ‘professions’ stood around awkwardly. There was nowhere to sit and the afternoon upstairs had long since exhausted their limited stock of mutual conversation.

Charles saw a little knot of people gathered round Melvyn Gasc, the presenter of Method In Their Murders. Gasc had risen to prominence in the previous few years as a pop scientist and, like most who do well on television in that role, was more valued for his eccentricity than his academic qualifications. His plumpness, his broken French accent and his windmilling gestures all made him a readily identifiable persona, which coincided easily with the general public’s view of scientists as mad professors. They also made him popular fodder for television impressionists, and Charles thought he could detect an element of self-parody in the vigorous way Gasc was addressing his circle of sycophants.

One of this circle was the girl, Chippy, whom the ‘professions’ had met on their hurried excursion into Studio B. In better lighting she proved to be strikingly pretty, with wispy blond hair and deep-set dark-blue eyes which gave her an air of melancholy, or even tragedy. As Charles watched, she detached herself from the group and moved towards the door, through which Barrett Doran had just entered.

But she had no opportunity to speak to the host of If The Cap Fits. He was immediately swept up by an earnest-looking man in a suit, accompanied by a short, dark, bearded man and a tall, thin, blond one. They were close enough for Charles to hear their conversation.

‘Barrett,’ said the man in the suit, who was John Mantle. ‘Aaron and Dirk were watching a bit of the rehearsal, and they’ve got a few points.’

‘Have they?’ growled Barrett Doran. ‘Get me a large gin.’