Simon Brett - Star Trap

When Miles spoke, Charles took him in properly for the first time. He was dressed exactly as a young executive should be for a dinner of his professional body. Dinner jacket, but not the old double-breasted or now-dated rolled-lapel style. It was cut like an ordinary suit, in very dark blue rather than black, with a discreet braiding of silk ribbon. Conventional enough not to offend any senior members of the professional body, but sufficiently modern to imply that here was a potential pace-setter for that professional body. The bow tie was velvet, large enough to maintain the image of restrained panache, but not so large as to invite disturbing comparisons with anything flamboyant or artistic. The shirt was discreetly frilled, like the paper decoration on a leg of lamb. In fact, as he thought of the image, Charles realised that that was exactly what Miles looked like — a well-dressed joint of meat.

Recalling a conversation that Miles and he had had two years previously on the subject of breeding intentions, he could not resist a dig. ‘When’s the baby due?’ he asked ingenuously.

‘Mid-April.’ Juliet supplied the information.

‘You’ve changed your plans, Miles. I thought you were going to wait a couple more years until you were more established financially.’

‘Well, yes…’ Miles launched into his prepared arguments. ‘When we discussed it, I was thinking that we would need Juliet’s income to keep going comfortably, but of course, I’ve had one or two rises since then and a recent promotion, so the mortgage isn’t taking such a big bite as it was, and I think the general recession picture may be clearing a little with the Government’s anti-inflation package really beginning to work and so we decided that we could advance our plans a little.’

He paused for breath and Juliet said, ‘Actually it was a mistake.’ Charles could have hugged her. He spoke quickly to stop himself laughing. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink… I don’t keep anything here.’ With a last act entrance and an adjacent pub, there didn’t seem any need.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not drinking much, because of the baby.’

‘And I had up to my limit at the dinner. Don’t want to get nabbed on the M4.’ The image came of Miles sitting at the dinner of his professional body, measuring out his drinks drop by drop (and no doubt working out their alcoholic content with his pocket calculator).

‘You say you heard from your mother yesterday,’ said Charles, with what attempted (and failed) to be the insouciance of a practitioner of modem marriage, unmoved by considerations of fidelity and jealousy.

‘Yes.’

‘How was she?’

‘Fine.’

‘How’s the new boy friend?’ He brought in the question with the subtlety of a sledge-hammer.

‘Oh, what do you…?’ Juliet was flustered. ‘Oh, Alec. Well, I don’t know that you’d quite call him a boy friend. I mean, he just teaches at the same school as Mummy and, you know, they see each other. But Alec’s very busy, doesn’t have much time. He’s a scout-master and tends to be off camping or climbing or doing arduous training most weekends.’

Good God. A scout-master. Frances must have changed if she’d found a scout-master to console her. Perhaps she’d deliberately looked for someone as different as possible from her husband.

Juliet tactfully redirected the conversation, a skill no doubt refined by many Pangbourne coffee mornings. ‘It must be marvellous working in a show with Christopher Milton.’

‘In what way marvellous?’

‘Well, he must be such fun. I mean, he comes across as so… nice. Is he just the same off stage?’

‘Not exactly.’ Charles could also be tactful.

But apparently Christopher Milton united the Taylersons in admiration. Miles thought the television show was ‘damn funny’ and he was also glad, ‘that you’re getting into this sort of theatre, Pop. I mean, it must be quite a fillip, career-wise.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, being in proper commercial theatre, you know, West End, chance of a good long run, that sort of thing. I mean, it’s almost like having a regular job.’

‘Miles, I have done quite a few shows in the West End before, and if I have spent a lot of my life going round the reps, it’s at least partly because I have found more variety of work there, more interest.’

‘But the West End must be the top.’

‘Not necessarily. If you want to be a star, I suppose it might be, but if you want to be an actor, it certainly isn’t.’

‘Oh, come on, surely everyone in acting wants to be a star.’

‘No, actors are different. Some want to open supermarkets, some just want to act.’

‘But they must want to be stars. I mean, it’s the only way up. Just as everyone in a company wants to be managing director.’

‘That principle is certainly not true in acting, and I doubt if it’s true in the average company.’

‘Of course it is. Oh, people cover up and pretend they haven’t got ambitions just because they see them dashed or realise they haven’t got a chance, but that’s what everyone wants. And it must be the same in the theatre, except that the West End stars are the managing directors.’

‘If that’s the case, where do I come on the promotion scale?’

‘I suppose you’d be at a sort of… lower clerical grade.’ And then, realising that that might be construed as criticism, Miles added, ‘I mean, doing the job frightfully well and all that, but sort of not recognised as executive material.’

They were fortunate in meeting the managing director on the stairs. Christopher Milton was leaving alone and, suddenly in one of his charming moods, he greeted Charles profusely. Miles and Juliet were introduced and the star made a great fuss of them, asking about the baby, even pretending to be interested when Miles talked about insurance. They left, delighted with him, and Charles reflected wryly that if he’d wanted to organise a treat, he couldn’t have come up with anything better.

Christopher Milton’s mood of affability remained after they’d gone. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Too late. The pubs have closed.’

‘No, I meant back at the hotel.’

‘Yes. Thank you very much.’ Charles accepted slowly, but his mind was racing. The offer was so unexpected. If Christopher Milton were behind the accidents which had been happening over the past weeks and if he knew that Charles had been inspecting his car the night before, then it could be a trap. Or it could be an innocent whim. Acceptance was the only way of finding out which. And Charles certainly felt like a drink.

‘Good. I’ve got a cab waiting at the stage door.’

‘I thought you usually had your car.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately my driver had an accident last night.’

The intonation did not sound pointed and Charles tried to speak equally casually. ‘Anything serious?’

‘Got a bang on the head. Don’t know how it happened. He’ll be in hospital under observation the next couple of days, but then he should be okay.’

‘Do you drive yourself?’

‘I do, but I don’t like to have that to think about when I’m on my way to the theatre. I do quite a big mental build-up for the show.’ Again the reply did not appear to have hidden layers of meaning. No suspicion that Charles was mildly investigating the accident to Pete Masters.

In his suite at the hotel Christopher Milton found out Charles’ predilections and rang for a bottle of Bell’s. It arrived on a tray with a bowl of cocktail biscuits. The star himself drank Perrier water. ‘… but you just tuck into that’

Charles did as he was told and after a long welcome swallow he offered the biscuits to his host.

‘I don’t know. Are they cheese?’