Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

Then he remembered soap and towel. Upstairs again to get them. Inevitably, the bathroom door was locked when he returned. The sound of running water came from inside.

Charles hammered on the door and shouted abuse, but the strange singsong voice that replied over the sound of water told him it was useless. One of the Swedish girls. There seemed to be hundreds of them in the house. And, he thought as he savagely stumped upstairs, all of them old boots. They really shattered the myth of Scandinavian beauty, that lot. Spotty girls with glasses and ruggerplayers’ legs. He slammed the door, picked up the whisky bottle and fell into the chair.

The gas-fire spluttered at him as he sat and thought. There was something odd about the whole business with Jacqui. Her explanation about the photographs seemed unconvincing. In fact, her account of Steen’s sudden change of behaviour didn’t ring true either. A man in his position who wanted to get rid of a girl-friend needn’t go to the length of obscene notes.

For a moment the thought crossed Charles’ mind that he was being used in some sort of plot. To carry something. What? Drugs? Or just what Jacqui said it was-dirty pictures? But it seemed ridiculous. A much simpler explanation was that she was telling the truth.

The way to find out, of course, was to look in the envelope. He’d known since he had had the photographs that sooner or later he would. And, he reasoned, Jacqui must have assumed he would. She hadn’t asked him not to; the envelope was unsealed. But he still felt slightly guilty as he shuffled them into his hand.

There were six, and they were exactly what Jacqui had said they would be-obscene pictures of her and Marius Steen. Perhaps obscene was the wrong word; they didn’t have any erotic effect on Charles; but they intrigued and rather revolted him.

The photographs had the posed quality of amateur dramatics. Steen’s body was old, a thin belly and limbs like a chicken’s. The tatty little leather mask made him look ridiculous. But, Charles was forced to admit, the old man was rather well endowed.

But it was the sight of Jacqui that affected him. There she was in a series of contrived positions-astride Steen, bending down in front of him, under him on a bed. The sight was a severe shock to Charles; it made him feel almost sick. Not the acts that were going on; he’d seen and done worse, and somehow they seemed very mild and meaningless on these shoddy little snapshots. But it was the fact that it was Jacqui which upset him. He didn’t feel jealousy or lust, but pity and again the urgent desire to protect her. It was as if he was seeing the photographs as her father.

A click and silence told him that the gas meter had run out. Blast, he hadn’t got a ten p. Brusquely, he shoved the photographs back into the envelope, sealed it and dressed. Then he started his campaign to get to see Marius Steen. It was half past seven. He went to the call box on the landing and rang up Bernard Walton, currently starring in Virgin on the Ridiculous at the Dryden Theatre.

George, the stage doorman at the Dryden Theatre, looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Charles Paris. Mr Walton is expecting me.’

George’s face registered total disbelief and he turned to the telephone. Charles wondered vaguely if the old man had recognised him. After all, he’d come in every night for eighteen months during the run of The Water Nymph only ten years before. But no, the name Charles Paris meant nothing. So much for the showbiz myth of the cheery old ‘never forget a face-I seen ’em all’ doorman. George was a bloody-minded old sod and always had been.

‘Mr Walton’s not back in his dressing-room yet.’

‘I’ll wait.’ Charles leant against the wall. The doorman watched his visitor as if he expected him to steal the light fittings.

There was a big poster of the show stuck up just inside the stage door. It had on it an enormous photo of Bernard in hot pursuit of a cartoon of two bikini-clad girls. That’s stardom-a real photo; supports only get cartoons.

Charles thought back to when he’d first met Bernard in Cardiff-a gauche, rather insecure young man with a slight stammer. Even then he’d been pushy, determined to make it. Charles had been directing at the time and cast him as Young Marlowe in She Stoops to Conquer. Not a good actor, but Charles made him play himself and it worked. The stammer fitted Marlowe’s embarrassment and Bernard got a very good press. A couple of years round the reps playing nervous idiots, then a television series, and now, entering his second year in Virgin on the Ridiculous, nauseating the critics and wowing the coach parties.

‘Could you try him again?’ George acquiesced grudgingly. This time he got through. ‘Mr Walton, there’s a Mr-what did you say your name was?’

‘Charles Paris.’

‘A Mr Charles Paris to see you. Oh. Very well.’ He put the phone down. ‘Mr Walton’s expecting you.’ In tones of undisguised surprise. ‘Dressing-room One. Down the-’

But Charles knew the geography of the theatre and strode along the corridor. He knocked on the door and it was thrown open by Bernard, oozing bonhomie from a silk dressing-gown. ‘Charles dear boy. Lovely to see you.’

Dear boy? Charles baulked slightly at that and then he realised that Bernard actually thought himself Nod Coward. The whole star bit. ‘Good to see you, Bernard. How’s it going?’

‘Oh, comme ci, comme ca. Audience love it. Doing fantastic business, in spite of all the crisis, or whatever it’s called. So I can’t complain. I’m just opening a bottle of champagne if you…’

‘Do you have any Scotch?’

‘Sure. Help yourself. Cupboard over there.’

‘Bernard. I’ve come to ask you a favour.’ May as well leap straight in.

‘Certainly. What can I do for you?’

‘You know Marius Steen, don’t you?’

‘Yes, the old sod. He owns half this show. You know, if Marius Steen didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him.’

Aphorisms too, thought Charles. Noel Coward has a lot to answer for. Generations of actors who, without a modicum of the talent, have pounced on the mannerisms.

‘The thing is, I want an introduction to him.’ At that moment, the door burst open and Margaret Leslie sparkled into the room, her tiny frame cotton-woolled in a great sheepskin coat. ‘Maggie darling!’ Bernard enveloped her in his arms. ‘Darling, do you know Charles Paris? Charles, have you met Maggie?’

‘No, I haven’t actually, but I’ve admired your work for a long time.’ Charles could have kicked himself for the cliche. It was true, though. She was a brilliant actress and deserved her phenomenal success.

‘Charles Paris?’ she mused huskily. ‘Didn’t you write that awfully clever play The Rate-payer?’ Charles acknowledged it rather sheepishly. ‘Oh, I’m enchanted to meet you, Charles. I did it in rep. once. Played Wanda.’

‘Glenda.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Charles was an incredible help to me at the beginning of my career,’ said Bernard with professional earnestness. ‘I would have got nowhere without him. But nowhere.’

Charles felt diminished by the compliment. He’d have preferred Bernard to say nothing rather than patronise him. It was the gratitude of the star on This is Your Life thanking the village schoolmaster who had first taken him to the theatre.

‘Charles was just asking me about Marius.’

‘Oh God,’ said Maggie dramatically and laughed.

This put Charles on the spot. He didn’t mind asking Bernard a favour on his own, but it was awkward with Maggie there.

‘You said you wanted an introduction?’ Bernard prompted.