Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

She dashed it away. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it seems so inhuman — Charlotte dead and presumably dissected on some police mortuary slab while we meticulously pick through her gynaecological history.’

‘Yes, but there’s something else worrying you, isn’t there?’

She looked up at him, giving the full benefit of those blue eyes. ‘You’re shrewd, Charles Paris. Yes, it was ironical her coming to me with her contraceptive problems. I learned the hard way.’

‘An abortion?’

‘Yes. Sixth form at school.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He offered the useless comfort of someone who knew nothing of the circumstances.

‘Oh yes.’ She tossed her head back to signify her return to a controlled mood. ‘Yes, it’s not really the emotional shock in my case. It’s just the fear that, you know, something might have gone wrong, that I might not be able to conceive again as a result. I mean, not that there’s anyone around at the moment whose baby I want to have, but… I don’t know, you just have this fear that if you couldn’t have children, it’d warp you in some way. It’s all irrational. Forget it.’

Charles changed the subject, but he didn’t forget it. ‘Sorry to have dragged you through all this, but I’m very grateful to you for giving me your time and for being so frank. Can I take you out for a drink to say thank you?’

‘Why not?’ She consulted her watch. ‘Twenty to eight. Yes, I think we can safely assume that all the major impresarios of London have packed their briefcases for the night and that I can leave

the telephone unattended without jeopardizing my chances of becoming a STAR.’

They went to a rather camp Victorian pub in Little Venice and drank large amounts of red wine. Then Charles took Sally to a little Italian restaurant where they drank more red wine. When he saw her back to her flat, there didn’t seem to be any question of his leaving.

‘Why are we going to sleep together?’ asked Charles with the deep philosophy of the drunk as he hopped round the bedroom trying to get his trousers off.

‘In my case,’ Sally replied, pulling her shirt over her head, ‘because I like you and on the whole I do sleep with people I like. Also…’ she paused profoundly, ‘I’m after experience.’

‘Experience that will one day be seen in a stage performance by the public?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, it may surprise you to know that even at my advanced age I’m still after experience.’ He mused. ‘Do you know, I’m fifty this week. Fifty.’

‘There, there.’ She took him in her. arms. ‘Rejuvenate yourself with the body of a young woman. Like Dracula.’

‘You’re nothing like Dracula. If you were you’d have run screaming from the garlic in the pollo sopreso.’

‘There, there. Let’s hope your body’s not as decrepit as your wit. Otherwise I’m left out in the cold.’

‘There, there. And there.’ She drew in her breath sharply as he touched her. ‘I think you’ll find all’s in working order.’

‘Remember,’ she whispered as they rolled together, ‘no strings. Experience.’

‘No strings,’ he echoed as their bodies’ heats fused.

‘And no babies,’ she said, nimbly detaching herself and reaching into her bedside drawer. ‘Good God, considering our conversation, it’s amazing I forgot it.’ She flicked the small white pill into her mouth and swallowed it down jerkily.

‘Tell me…’ Charles’s mind fumbled through the fogs of alcohol. ‘… if you were having an affair with someone, what would stop you from taking your pill? Apart from just forgetting it?’

‘I suppose if the bloke walked out, I might — except that I wouldn’t because I always live in the hope that something else is going to come along. Or if I wanted to get pregnant — except then I’d be more likely to do it at the end of the cycle.’

‘Or…’

‘Or, I suppose, if I thought I was pregnant, I’d stop as soon as I realized… for fear of hurting the baby.’

Charles smiled in a satisfied way as he took Sally back into his arms and crushed her flat but oh so feminine chest to his.

It was unhurried and good. As they snuggled together to sleep, Charles murmured, ‘It simplifies everything, doesn’t it? Sex therapy. Frees the mind.’

‘Yes,’ Sally agreed lazily, ‘it’s freed my memory.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve just remembered the name that Charlotte mentioned, the guy who I think must have been her lover.’

Charles was instantly alert. ‘Yes?’

‘Does the name Geoff make any sense?’

‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘Yes, it does.’

Charles got back to Hereford Road at half-past nine the next morning, feeling pretty good. So it wasn’t all over; it could still happen. His mind started to generalize, filling with images of other nubile young girls through whose beds he would flit.

An envelope on the doormat quickly dislocated his mood. A birthday card. Right on cue. Friday, November 5th. The card was a well-chosen reproduction of an El Greco grandee and continued the message ‘Congratulations on half a century. Love, Frances.’ It served as a brutal reminder not only of his age but also of his neglected responsibilities. Images of future girls gave way to wistful recollection.

To stop himself getting maudlin, he brought his concentration to bear on Charlotte’s murder. Now he knew the identity of her lover, the case seethed with new possibilities. The first thing he must do was to talk to Geoffrey Winter.

The sound of the phone ringing broke into his train of thought. Expecting it would be a boyfriend of one of the beefy Swedish girls who lived in the other bedsitters, he answered. It was his agent, Maurice Skellern.

That was unusual. Maurice was terribly inefficient and never rang his clients. Since he had never got any work for them, there was no point; they could ring him to find that out.

‘Charles, I’ve had an inquiry from an advertising agency about your availability for a voice-over.’

‘What, Mills Brown Mazzini?’

‘No, another one.’

‘That’s good. Hugo said that once somebody uses you in this field, you start getting lots more inquiries. Perhaps I’ve become Flavour of the Month.’

‘Well, they want you to do a voice test.’

‘When?’

‘This morning. At eleven.’

‘Shee. I’d better get straight along. What’s the address and who do I ask for?’

Maurice gave the details. ‘Incidentally, Charles, about this voice-over business. I don’t know much about it.’

‘Well, there’s an admission.’

‘What I was going to say was, I’m glad about all the work, but we don’t seem to have had too many checks through yet.’

‘No, we’ll have just the basic studio session fees so far. A few thirty-five quids. It’s when the commercials go out and get repeated that the money really starts to flow. I mean, if this Bland campaign takes off… well… Exclusive contract has even been mentioned. And, you see, it’s already leading to other inquiries.

‘So you reckon there’s a lot of work there?’

‘Could be. Some people do dozens of voice-overs a week. Mix it in with film dubbing, reading books for the blind, other voice work. Make vast sums. Mostly people with specialist agents, of course,’ he added maliciously.

Maurice was too used to Charles’s snide lines about their relationship even to acknowledge this one. ‘Well, good, good. Obviously the right step for you career-wise. Haven’t I always been telling you you should be extending your range, finding a wider artistic fulfilment?’

‘No, you’ve always been telling me I should make more money. By the way, anything else about?’