The Executive Producer, apparently cowed by the directness of this order (though in fact shrewdly deciding to leave his game-show host and copyright-holders alone to discuss their differences), made for the bar.
‘Now what the hell is this?’
Aaron Greenberg looked Doran full in the eye. ‘Just that with you the show is dying.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. You aren’t getting anything out of these contestants. Okay, they’re a bunch of loxes — God knows why your researchers couldn’t come up with some with a bit more “pazazz” — but it’s still up to you to get a bit of life out of them. The show’s coming across like a pile of old dog-shit, and that’s because you’re such a bummer. If you stay on as host, it’s not going to work and the company’s going to lose the chance of making a pot. I mean, Eddie, who fronts the show in the States, would never allow anyone to — ’
‘I don’t give a shit what Eddie would or wouldn’t allow. I am doing this show — got that? I know my public, I know what they want, and, come the recording, that is what I will give them. So just keep your big nose out of this — Okay? I’ve been in this business too long to take advice from some jumped-up little Yid!’
For a second it looked as if Greenberg would hit him, but Dirk van Henke laid a restraining hand on his associate’s arm and it didn’t happen. Barrett Doran turned away from them and met John Mantle returning from the bar with a large straight gin. He snatched it and hissed at the Executive Producer, ‘I’ll be in my dressing room. Keep this shit off my back — all right? Or you find yourself another presenter.’
He moved towards the exit, then caught sight of Sydnee, moving, laden with drinks, from the bar. ‘You sorted out that glass for me?’ he demanded.
She nodded. ‘It’s done.’
As he made for the door, Chippy moved forward as if to speak to him. Barrett Doran looked right through her.
She recoiled, her face even more tragic, and came disconsolately over towards the group to whom Sydnee was dispensing drinks.
‘Now, there we are. . a pint, lager and lime, dry white wine, and. . yours was the gin and tonic, Charles? Right?’
‘Oh. I asked for a whisky, actually.’
‘Ah.’ Sydnee looked back hopelessly at the increasing crowd around the bar.
‘Never mind. That’s fine,’ said Charles, taking the drink, prepared to change the habits of a lifetime. He didn’t like the taste of gin much, but alcohol was alcohol.
Chippy looked as if she wanted to speak to her friend, but she was interrupted by the arrival of a young man, whose earphones and transmitter identified him as a Floor Manager. ‘Chippy, Clayton wants to go and have something to eat. Can you go and cover in the studio while he’s off?’
‘I suppose so.’ Chippy didn’t sound keen on the idea.
‘He’s waiting till you come.’
‘Okay.’ She turned to Sydnee. ‘Listen, we’ll talk later. Okay?’
‘Sure. What have you got to do?’
‘Keep an eye on the props in Studio B. We’ve got some rather valuable — not to say dangerous — stuff down there.’
‘Sure. See you.’
Chippy wandered sadly off, and Sydnee went to phone Make-up and try and sort out a schedule for getting the ‘professions’ made up without meeting anyone they shouldn’t. Make-up was proving to be a headache. Already the girls were having to work through their meal-break, which was going to put them on time-and-a-half. At least. Which was going to bump up the budget. Which would not please John Mantle.
The hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor stood, sipping their drinks, avoiding each other’s eyes, unable to dredge up even the most fatuous scrap of conversation.
Charles Paris downed his gin and tonic, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. He needed another drink. He hadn’t bothered to bring a bottle with him, relying on television’s usual plethora of Hospitality Rooms. But it looked as if on this occasion he might have come unstuck. He was going to have to stock up for the evening.
He didn’t offer to buy drinks for the others. For one thing, none of them had finished their first round; for another, spending the whole afternoon with them had induced in Charles a kind of selfish misanthropy.
But his path to the bar was obstructed by Sydnee.
‘I’ve sorted it out with Make-up. You’re to go down first.’
‘When?’
‘Now. Straight away.’
‘Oh, but I was just going to get another drink.’
‘Isn’t time. Sorry. They’re just finishing with Joanie Bruton at the moment. Then one of the contestants is going in at quarter to seven. They want you at half-past six. Can you go straight there?’
‘Well, I — ’
‘Thanks. And can you be sure you go down the backstairs, through Studio B and then through Studio A? That way there’s no risk of you meeting anyone you shouldn’t. You know where Make-up is when you come out of Studio A?’
Charles nodded, and left the bar with bad grace. He really needed another drink. It was bad enough to be given a gin instead of a whisky, but then to only have one. . It had only been a single, anyway. . He felt hard-done- by.
He stomped down the back-stairs, then into Studio B. There was no one about. The cameras were set facing their test-cards, ready for the half-hour’s statutory line-up before the recording. The set looked unchanged, with its random scatterings of weapons and phials of chemicals. If Chippy was there guarding the exhibits from Melvyn Gasc’s Black Museum, there was no sign of her.
He pushed through the double doors out of Studio B into the corridor, where he encountered the black- leather-clad designer, Sylvian de Beaune, who was pacing anxiously up and down.
‘Set looks really terrific,’ said Charles encouragingly.
‘I hope so.’ The designer did not seem to be convinced. ‘I hope so,’ he repeated, and walked off towards the lifts. Charles pushed through the double doors into Studio A, and found himself alone in the huge, dimly-lit space.
He was halfway across the set when he had the thought. Still feeling self-pityingly disgruntled about only having had one drink, he suddenly remembered Barrett Doran’s words to Sydnee about his glass.
It was worth trying. With a look round to check that he was not observed, Charles went across to the blue, triangular lectern. On it stood a red-and-blue-striped carafe and a red-and-blue-striped glass. Both were full of colourless fluid.
The contents of the carafe had no smell.
But the contents of the glass smelt reassuringly of gin.
So that was how Barrett Doran fuelled his bonhomie in front of the cameras.
Charles looked at his watch. Nearly half-past six. He’d have to hurry to Make-up.
Still, that sod Barrett Doran could spare it.
Charles took a long swig from the glass.
Then, opting for a sheep-as-lamb philosophy, he took another.
The alcohol burned comfortingly inside him.
He topped up the glass with water from the carafe, and, feeling more cheerful, went out of the studio to Make-up.
Chapter Four
The audience who came to Studio A that evening had, to some extent, been victims of the same disillusionment as the contestants. All of them, applying either as individuals or on behalf of such organizations as Townswomen’s Guilds, insurance company social clubs and amateur dramatic societies, had written in asking for tickets to attend a recording of that very popular, long-established game show,
