Simon Brett - So Much Blood

Which accounted for the other reason why Martin’s behaviour seemed unimportant. Charles was satisfyingly pissed.

After solitary refuelling at the pub, he had found Anna with the rest of the revue team at Coates Gardens. He had taken her out for a meal, to celebrate the opening of his show and keep her mind off the opening of hers. They went to the Casa Espanola in Rose Street and, since Anna was in a high state of nerves, he had to eat most of a large paella and drink all of the wine. A fate which he embraced with fortitude and which contributed to his present well-being.

It had also been encouraging to see Anna nervous. She was as jumpy as a kitten and it was the first time he had seen her lose her cool at all. Which made her seem more human. And even nicer.

Charles thought of her warmly as he sat in the Masonic Hail and fingered her key in his pocket. He had the drunkard’s feeling of sexual omnicompetence and longed to be with her in the bed over the Lawnmarket. It would not be long. After the revue. He would go discreetly back to the flat and then, after the company giggles and congratulations, she would join him.

The lights dimmed. Not bad; the house was two-thirds full. He sat back in the right mood to enjoy Brown Derby- ‘Simply the Funniest Late-Night Revue on the Fringe.’

If it was, it did not say a lot for the others. Brown Derby was a hotchpotch of styles. Decrepit jokes that should have been allowed quiet deaths were resuscitated and paraded as new. Dull irrelevant puns were presented as wit. The ill-digested influence of television comedy made for uncomfortable production. Though there were flashes of humour, the show was heavy going, and never heavier than in its topical material. The comments on the British political scene showed neither insight nor understanding and the piece on the American presidency was frankly embarrassing. Ten days after President Nixon’s resignation was not the time for a naive and tasteless parody of Adolf Hitler in his bunker (including some pretty tired jokes about golf).

And it was not a case of a brilliant new team struggling valiantly against unworthy material. The cast was not good. If acting at its most basic is making oneself heard and not bumping into the furniture, they failed as actors on two counts. They were rarely audible and kept tripping over chairs (especially during the extended blackouts between sketches, with the result that the lights usually came up on some puzzled youth lying full length on the upturned furniture). They had almost no talent.

Except for Anna. She was extraordinarily good and, given the lack of competition, dominated the show completely. Singing, dancing, flashing through a variety of accents and costumes, she was the only person onstage with any concept of pace or comedy. The direness of the material she had to perform only highlighted her skill.

Charles was amazed. Anna was a beautiful girl, but onstage she was animated by an extra charge that intensified her beauty. A real stage presence. He could feel the men in the audience responding to her. When she came on for her last number A Bunny Girl’s Lament (a reasonable idea, marred by flabby lyrics), dressed in full Playboy Club kit, showing her long brown legs, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. It was not just that she looked sexy; she managed to incorporate an archness which distanced her from her material and was also extremely funny. Anna Duncan was that rare creature, a woman who can be funny onstage without sacrificing either her dignity or her sex appeal.

It was late when she tapped on the door of the Lawnmarket flat. The first night junketings must have gone on a bit. Perhaps the Brown Derby cast had been drowning their sorrows. Or perhaps they were celebrating, thinking that the enthusiastic final applause for Anna was meant for all of them.

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Well, what’s your cool professional assessment?’

‘Can you take it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I thought the show was terrible. The only constructive suggestions that I can make are that your writers should go and sell vacuum cleaners, your male cast should join the Army and your director should become a monk.’

‘Hmm.’ The navy blue eyes kept their level gaze fixed on him. She knew there was more to come.

So he let it come. ‘I would also like to say that you are one of the most talented young actresses I have ever seen.

She smiled and allowed herself a slight relaxation of relief. ‘Charles, I asked for your cool professional assessment.’

‘That was my cool professional assessment.’

‘Hmm. Sounds biased.’ But she was obviously delighted.

‘Biased nothing! I may also happen to think you are the best screw in the world, but I do genuinely believe that you are exceptionally talented as an actress. Now come and make love.’

She grinned suddenly. ‘You talked me into it.’

It was even better. They were completely together. He rolled apart from her and cradled the strong slender body in his arms. Her breasts were slack against his ribs, her breath soft on his shoulder. He recited gently into her hair.

‘“O, happy times! O happy rhymes!

For ever ye’re gone by!

Few now-if any-are the lays

Can make me smile or sigh.” But you’re one of them. You can make me smile and sigh.’

‘I don’t think Thomas Hood meant “lay” that way,’ she murmured lazily.

‘No, I don’t think he did.’

‘Incidentally, I liked your show. I think I was too uptight over dinner to mention it.’

‘Thank you. Mutual admiration society.’

‘Hmm.’ There was a long pause. He wondered if she had gone to sleep. But she spoke again. ‘Do you really think I’m good?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good enough to make it in the professional theatre?’

‘Yes.’

‘In spite of all you said about needing to be tough and calculating, and needing lots of help?’

‘I’ll help you, Anna.’

Soon she was asleep. Charles lay thinking. He could help her. Get her work, maybe. Even cast her in plays he was directing. He felt useful and wanted to give to her. To give a lot. Was it so ridiculous for a man of nearly forty-eight to go round with a girl in her early twenties? His experience could help her. He felt something for Anna that he had not felt for a long, long time. Possibly even love.

Tuesday 20th August was an unsettling day.

It started all right. Charles felt at one with Anna and at one with the world. She left the flat at about half-past nine. (Michael Vanderzee was champing at the bit to get his workshop sessions restarted after the layoff caused by the revue’s opening.) Charles had a leisurely breakfast of floury bacon rolls at the Poppin and then, as a token gesture to detective work, he went back to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery to see if he could work out the reason for Martin’s visit.

The Gallery was well laid out and should have been interesting, but he was not in the mood for inspecting the faces of people he had never heard of. The whole business of searching for clues and motives was beginning to bore him.

He was gazing at a wax model of William III when he remembered the newspapers. The day after a first night (or at least a first lunch) and he had not yet checked to see if there were any notices. The rest of the portraits could wait. He hurried out under the disapproving glare of the large nosed-faces of Scotland’s heritage.

There was a big newsagents on Princes Street. Rather than behaving logically and starting with just the Guardian, he went mad and bought every available daily. Which meant a great deal of waste paper; So Much Comic… had so far failed to capture the interest of the nationals.