Simon Brett - Dead Giveaway

‘No? Well, listen, smartass, I’ve only mentioned it to one person and that’s what she thought.’

‘I’m not sure that actresses are typical of — ’

‘Don’t you try telling me what’s typical or not typical! All I know is that you’re calling this show by the wrong name! And that’s going to lose you your audience and lose you the chance of making a pot. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, we’re talking about the Golden Goose here and you’re trying to wring its neck before it’s laid a single goddamned egg!’

‘What is more,’ Dirk van Henke insinuated, ‘you are in breach of contract.’

John Mantle let them go on. In a little while, he would summon his adviser from the Legal Department. Then maybe the Americans would produce a London-based lawyer to fight their side. All that would take time and, even if eventually they could take out some sort of injunction to stop W.E.T. from proceeding with the show (which, on balance, John Mantle thought was unlikely), there was a strong chance that by then the pilot would be recorded.

So he rode out the storm, confident all the while that downstairs in Studio A rehearsals for If The Cap Fits were still going on.

Barrett Doran was no keener to meet the contestants than Bob Garston had been, but Jim Trace-Smith insisted that they must rehearse the basic sequence of the show or the whole thing would be a shambles when they came to record it. Barrett Doran grudgingly agreed to this, though he was not going to put himself out by being polite to anybody.

His first action, on coming into the studio, was to look at the red, blue and silver set in horror. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘what the hell’s this? I didn’t know the show was meant to be set in a bloody fast food restaurant. Is it no longer possible to get professional designers? What’s the problem — money? Is that why we have to put up with this crap?’

Sylvian de Beaune, who had been slumped in the front row of the audience seating, rose as if to protest, but thought better of it, turned on his heel and flounced out of the studio. Jim Trace-Smith’s eyes followed him out, then realised that the rehearsal must be moved along to cover this awkwardness.

‘Now, for the First Round,’ he said, with his customary limp elan, ‘each of the contestants has to be paired up with one of the celebrities. This is where they have to change round the hats on the four “professions”, and they’re allowed to consult on this.’

‘Seems to make it unnecessarily complicated.’

‘I’m afraid that’s how the format works, Barrett. Anyway, the viewing audience likes it. We’ve done some research on this and we’ve found out that people at home enjoy seeing the contestants and celebrities being all pals together.’

‘Do they really?’ growled the lovable Barrett Doran. ‘All right, you lot!’ He gestured imperiously to the four contestants. ‘Come over here. Each of you’s got to pair up with one of the panel for the First Round.’ He turned to where the four celebrities sat at their long blue desk, sipping from their red-and-blue-striped glasses and discussing their tax problems. ‘Now we’ll do it so’s we get a man and a woman in each line-up, so you, lady, go with Bob, you with Nick, you with Joanie and you with Fiona. Got that?’

‘Erm,’ Tim Dyer objected. ‘Can we change it round? I’d rather be paired with Joanie.’

‘Would you?’ snapped Barrett Doran. ‘Well, I don’t give a wet fart what you’d rather do. The pairings will be as I said.’

Tim Dyer wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d just been round the back of the set and seen the gleaming, brand-new Metro waiting for the moment when it would be driven on to awe-struck “Aaah”s from the studio audience. ‘But I don’t want to be with Fiona,’ he insisted.

‘Why, isn’t she pretty enough for you? You think yourself damned lucky. It’s the nearest a little shit like you’s ever going to get to a bit of crumpet like that.’ The host turned to his producer. ‘What do you want them to do — stand behind the panellist they’re paired with?’

‘Yes, behind, slightly to the right. Then we can get them in a nice close two-shot.’

‘Okay. Get to those positions.’ Barrett Doran looked petulantly back at Jim Trace-Smith. ‘Do you really want us to go right through the whole bloody thing?’

‘We have to make sure everyone knows what they’ve got to do, where they’ve got to stand, that kind of number. .’

‘Okay, okay.’ Barrett Doran went across to his lectern and stood there, drumming his fingers on its top.

Various researchers and stage managers were recruited to stand in the positions later to be occupied by the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. Some unrepresentative hats had been procured for them (though not from Wardrobe, who said they were still not convinced that they should be providing hats for the actual recording, but were damned sure they weren’t going to provide any for rehearsal). The researchers and stage managers then invented professions for themselves and the contestants, with celebrity help, tried to say who should be wearing which hat. Since the hats were wrong anyway, all this took a long time. Barrett Doran conducted the proceedings without even a pretence of geniality.

At the end of the round, Jim Trace-Smith reminded the contestants that they would be awarded money prizes at this point, but that the one with least points would be eliminated. Tim Dyer objected volubly that he would be working under an unfair handicap because Fiona Wakeford was so stupid. The actress proved not quite stupid enough not to realise that this was an insult, and burst out crying. Nick Jeffries threatened to punch Tim Dyer’s teeth out through his arse. Jim Trace-Smith managed to reimpose a kind of calm.

In the next round each of the celebrities was supplied with a hat-box by ‘the lovely Nikki and the lovely Linzi’, two terminally bored-looking models who were part of the set-decoration. The remaining three contestants were then given the names of four types of hat and had in turn to guess whose hat-box contained which hat, helped or misled by clues from the celebrities.

Trish Osborne was the first to play in this round. She had found that, once on the set, her nerves had given way to a mood of almost manic confidence. It was going to be all right. She would manage. Better than that, she would do very well. She would really make an impression.

As she stood beside Barrett Doran at the lectern, he flashed her a big smile. Looking at her for the first time, he had realised that she was rather attractive and thought it might be worth beaming a little of his charm in her direction. Nice short dark hair, full lips, nice trim little figure. Maybe he might invite her to his dressing room for a drink before the recording. . He gave her the practice list of four hats — fedora, fire-helmet, beret and baseball cap. Trish started chatting with the celebrities, moving round to her decision. She felt in control. She was doing well.

‘Oh God!’ Barrett Doran suddenly exclaimed.

Trish Osborne turned curiously towards him.

‘Look at her. We can’t have this. I mean, God, this is peak viewing, a family show. We can’t have her looking like that.’

Trish unwillingly followed the line of his accusing finger, which pointed straight at her bust. In the excitement of the occasion, she saw that both of her nipples had hardened, a fact which the thin blouse and brassiere did nothing to disguise.

Jim Trace-Smith came forward, nonplussed. It was not a situation he had had to deal with before, and he wasn’t quite sure of the correct procedure.

‘Well, come on,’ shouted Barrett Doran. ‘Do something. Get her off to Wardrobe. We can’t have her looking as if she’s panting for it like that. This isn’t a bloody tit show, is it?’