Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

‘I take it you’re in the film,’ said the girl.

‘No, I always look like this. You’re making fun of my natural affliction.’

The girl was checked for a moment, then laughed. ‘That’s not fair. Who are you?’

‘I am Tick, the deformed coachman,’ he said in his First Witch voice (‘Macabre in the extreme’ — Plays and Players). She laughed again. Obviously she was still at an age to be amused by funny voices. Charles felt distinctly inclined to show off. ‘No, who are you really?’ she asked.

‘Charles Paris.’

‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of you;’ she said, polite but uncertain. Ooh, just a minute. Were you ever at the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford?’

‘Yes, a long time ago.’

‘About seven years?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you play Cassius in Julius Caesar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ooh. I thought you were marvellous. We went in a school trip. We all got quite silly about you.’

‘Oh,’ said Charles, in what stage directions describe as a self-deprecating manner. This was all rather playing into his hands. Seeds sown unknowingly long ago. Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will come back buttered. ‘Who are you then?’

‘I’m Felicity Newman. I live here. Daddy owns this place.’ (The ‘Daddy’ caught the slight quack of an English girls’ public school. It was a sound Charles had always found exciting.) ‘I’m fascinated by all this filming. Somebody’s going to show me round, a friend of Daddy’s. I want to work in films.’

‘With your looks I should think you’d stand a very good chance.’

‘No, silly.’ She was still sufficiently girlish to blush at the formula compliment. ‘Not that side of films. The production side. I’m doing a secretarial course and want to get in that way. Daddy knows quite a lot of people in the cinema.

Yes. Charles felt sure that Daddy could pull the odd string on his daughter’s behalf. Sir Lionel Newman put a great deal of money into film production. Charles even had a feeling that he was a major shareholder in Steenway Productions. ‘And how come you’re not doing your secretarial course today?’ he asked in the Morningside accent which he had drummed into the cast of his production of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (‘Slow-moving’ — Evening Argus).

She giggled. ‘Oh, I just took the day off. How do you do that Scottish accent?’

She was easily impressed, but Charles felt like indulging himself in a little tour de force. He went through his entire gamut of the accents of Scotland, from his Hebridean fisherman through to the harsh tones of Glasgow. Indeed, he was in full flood in his Detective-Sergeant McWhirter voice, to an accompaniment of giggles from Felicity, when he heard a voice behind him. ‘Ah, there you are.’

He stopped in mid-flow and turned to see Nigel Steen standing in the doorway. Steen looked annoyed, but it was difficult to tell whether or not he had recognised the voice. ‘Felicity. I’m sorry to have kept you. Shall we start our tour?’

‘Yes. Certainly, Nigel.’ She was suddenly downcast, obviously sharing the world’s lack of enthusiasm for Marius Steen’s son. ‘Do you know Charles Paris?’ she asked.

‘No, I don’t think we’ve met,’ said Nigel Steen, and he looked at Charles intently.

The scenes to be shot were rescheduled and Charles didn’t in fact do anything that day. When this truth, which had been apparent from early morning, was finally recognised by Jean-Luc Roussel and Charles was released, it was about five o’clock. In a state of some exasperation, he was about to organise his car back to Pangbourne, when Felicity appeared round the corner of one of the make-up caravans. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, ‘do you fancy a drink?’

It was exactly what Charles did fancy (or at least part of what he fancied), so he said so. ‘Come on,’ said Felicity, and led him round the back of the house and through a herb-garden into a large modern kitchen. ‘This is the part of the house we actually use. The rest’s just for show.’ She led him upstairs to a homely-looking sitting-room, and opened the drinks cupboard. ‘What?’

‘Scotch, please.’

She took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and poured a wine-glassful. ‘Hey. Stop.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s an expensive malt whisky.’

‘I know,’ she said superciliously, and passed him the glass. He took a long sip. It was very welcome. Felicity still looked rather piqued at his assumption of her ignorance of drink lore. He tried to open out the conversation. ‘Still keen on films after seeing them in action for a day?’

‘Yes,’ she said shortly, and then, to show her sophistication in the matter of alcohol, ‘I think I’ll have a gin and tonic.

‘So it was a good day?’ Charles knew he sounded horribly patronising.

‘All right. The company could have been better.’

‘Nigel Steen, the great impresario.’

‘Shit,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘He’s a creep, always has been. I’ve known him for years. Daddy knew Marius. I think they had plans for match-making. Yeugh.’

‘Not your type?’

‘God, no. I don’t know what my type is really, but it’s not that. Ergh. He made a pass at me once. It was horrible, like being groped by liver. Actually, he invited me out tonight, probably with an ulterior motive. I told him I was otherwise engaged.’

‘Are you?’

‘No. Not unless you’d like me to cook you a meal.’

‘Oh well… I’m sure that you don’t want-’

‘It’s no sweat. I’m doing this Cordon Bleu course as well as the secretarial thing, and I need the practice.’

So they both agreed to show off for the evening. She demonstrated her culinary skills with a splendid Chicken Kiev and Dauphinoise potatoes, and he kept her entertained with a variety of accents and theatrical reminiscences. Felicity raided her father’s cellar for a couple of bottles of an excellent Chateau Margaux. ‘He’ll never notice. Doesn’t know a thing about wine. Just takes advice all the time.’

‘Where are your parents?’

‘Oh, they’ve gone to Jamaica. As soon as all these lighting restrictions came in, Daddy said he wasn’t going to stay in England and they pissed off.’ Felicity’s lapses into strong language, which were meant to make her sound cool, only made her sound immature. But appealing.

Charles found it very difficult. This girl was plainly throwing herself at him, and he knew that if he took advantage of something so easy, he would really feel shabby. And she looked sixteen. Possibly even under age. There is a point where going around with younger women stops and cradle-snatching begins. And Charles prided himself that he had never knowingly taken advantage of anyone (anyone, that is, who didn’t deserve it).

It would have been easier if he hadn’t found her attractive. Usually the sort of woman who makes such blatant advances is eminently resistible. But in Felicity’s case, she was not impelled by the plain girl’s need to take the initiative, but by youthful enthusiasm and social immaturity. Charles was determined to resist her.

But as the alcohol warmed and relaxed him, he could feel lust beginning to take the upper hand. When he had finished her excellent chocolate mousse, he made an immense effort of will, and rose to his feet. ‘I think I’d better be off now. I’m doing my big scene tomorrow. Perhaps I can ring for a minicab.’

She didn’t move. ‘What’s your big scene?’

‘My death. The death of Tick, the deformed coachman, shot down by Sir Rupert Cartland, as he rushes along the gallery to capture the abysmal Lady Laetitia Winthrop.’

‘You needn’t go.’

‘I must.’ Well done, Charles. The Festival of Light would be proud of you.