Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

‘It can’t have been. The artists’ options have been taken up.’

‘Oh, sure. But they’re all going to be paid off. Head of Contracts has been ringing round the agents today. Were you optioned for the series, by the way?’

‘No. They just did an availability check. Said it wasn’t definite that Reg the golf club barman would be a regular character.’

Gerald grimaced. ‘If your agent was worth his commission, he’d have got some sort of contract out of them. Who is your agent, by the way?’

‘Maurice Skellern.’

‘Oh. Say no more.’

‘But just a minute, Gerald, they wouldn’t just pay everyone off.’

‘Why not? Happens all the time.’

‘But it’s a huge amount of money.’

‘A huge amount of money for the actors involved, maybe. A very nice little pay-off for doing nothing. But, as a percentage of the budget of a major television production, it’s peanuts, really. So long as you actually keep a show out of the studio, you’re still saving money. In fact, there are producers who have built up considerable reputations by keeping shows out of studios.’

Once again Gerald was showing more than a layman’s knowledge of the workings of television, but Charles didn’t comment. Instead, he said. ‘Anyway, even if that has happened, and I still don’t quite see why it has. .’

‘Nigel Frisch has lost confidence in the series. And they need the studio dates for Wragg and Bowen .’

‘Okay, but coming back to our little problem of a murder motivation, we’re no further advanced. If the artists’ agents were only told about the cancellation today — ’

‘Yes, most of them were. But Bernard Walton, because he was the star, was given the honour of knowing the bad news before anyone else. Nigel Frisch, who, whatever else one may say about him, is never one to shirk responsibility, rang Bernard personally.’

‘When?’

‘Last Tuesday.’

The day before Scott Newton’s death.

The atmosphere at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club Hall for the read-through the following morning was distinctly subdued. Partly, this was because the previous night’s recording had been less than successful, but there was also a communal consciousness that they were now all into a weekly turnaround of shows; they would have to work harder and there would be less time for anything else. And there were some sore heads. The very human tendency to have a few drinks and go out for a meal after a recording that finishes at ten rarely takes account of a ten-thirty call the next morning.

George Birkitt was the only one who seemed cheerful. His agent had come to the recording and told him about the What’ll the Neighbours Say? pay-off. Not only did this give him financial encouragement, because the contracted fees for thirteen programmes came to a very considerable amount, it also seemed a promising augury for The Strutters series. The company was clearly backing the new show at the expense of the old one. And, though he didn’t quite say it, he reckoned that meant they thought George Birkitt was now a more bankable star than Bernard Walton. ‘The other thing is,’ he confided to Charles, ‘it means I’ll be able to take some other work. My agent keeps having calls from casting directors offering quite nice stuff, but always has to turn it down, saying, no, sorry, love, he’s under contract to W.E.T.. Exclusive contracts have their advantages, but they do restrict your movement.’

Charles Paris, whose experience of exclusive contracts was small, nodded wisely.

But George was the only one in a sunny mood. Even Aurelia, whose diaphanous charm rarely varied, seemed distracted. Apparently it was something to do with Cocky, who had been sick during the night and had to have the vet summoned. The lack of sleep this disturbance had caused made the actress look slightly less ageless than usual. Charles was more aware of the strains a television series must impose on a woman in her seventies.

And she was obviously worried about the dog. Throughout the read-through, she kept going across to his little basket to check on his welfare. ‘If anything happened to Cocky,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’

Janie Lewis was also less than her beaming efficient self. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn’t had any sleep the night before and a strained atmosphere between her and one of the regular cast, Nick Coxhill, suggested why. Charles once again thought he might continue his desultory pursuit of her, but his first overture was met with the sharp retort that she was henceforth to be known as Jay, and that she was busy.

Tilly Lake emoted round the rehearsal room, implying enough sighing heartaches to keep a romantic novelist in business for a decade. Charles, rather cheekily, asked her whether she’d heard from Trevor Howard or Laurence Olivier about playing the part of Colonel Strutter’s friend in Episode Five.

‘Both got other commitments,’ she said elegiacally. ‘Otherwise, of course. . Still, I’m not downhearted. Going to continue to aim high. Such a smashing script, after all, lovely part. I’ve been rereading it and I think the character might be rather younger than I first thought. So I think I might try for an Alan Bates, or a Michael York maybe. . or a Derek Jacobi. Keep away from the obvious, anyway, the Toby Roots of this life. Nothing against him, but you know what I mean.’

Charles mumbled some ambivalent response.

‘Casting so easily becomes predictable, so one always admires the people in television who don’t do the obvious. I mean, have you heard, on this programme for the elderly, they haven’t gone for the boring competent sort of presenter like Robert Carton. They’ve chosen Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty.’

‘Yes, I heard that.’

‘Well, isn’t that inventive? And people sometimes say casting isn’t a creative business.’ She laughed tragically, setting up a ripple through the feathers of her hat.

‘What does Bob Tomlinson think about your ideas of casting?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t care. He just told me to get on with it.’

That was Bob Tomlinson’s great quality, the ability to get on with it and to delegate. But he wasn’t slapdash. He had his own standards, as was apparent when he clapped his hands for attention.

‘Before we start this read-through, got another filming date for your diaries. This Friday, the 15th. We’re meant to be rehearsing here, but if we get our skates on, we can miss a day.’

‘Where’s the location?’ asked Debbi Hartley.

‘Back at Bernard Walton’s place.’

‘But I thought we’d done all that.’

‘Got to do it again.’

‘Why?’ Peter Lipscombe’s producer’s instinct picked up the implication of extra expense.

‘Because I saw the rushes this morning of what was done last week, and it’s all bloody terrible. I wouldn’t have film of that quality in one of my shows.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s all bloody arty-farty. All shot over people’s shoulders or up their trouser-legs. Every new director’s first day with a film camera. Just bloody wanking. I don’t know what that little tit thought he was up to.’

Peter Lipscombe still seemed more worried about the prospect of spending money than any disrespect to the dead. ‘Are you sure there isn’t any of it you can use?’

‘Bloody certain.’

‘Well, look, I’ll have to talk to the Cost Planners about this. And then to Film Department to see if they can find us a day to — ’

‘I’ve done all that. Don’t you bloody listen? It’s all set up for this Friday.’

‘Oh.’ Peter Lipscombe had one more try. ‘I’m sure the film can’t be that bad. .’