Simon Brett - Dead Giveaway

At this point, Trish Osborne, utterly deserted by her new confidence, started to cry. She was led off with meaningless words of comfort by the researcher, Chita. In Wardrobe, after an unsuccessful experiment with Sellotape, her nipples were contained by two sticking plasters.

The rehearsal had to stop at six, so that everyone involved in Studio A could get their statutory hour’s meal-break and the cameras could be lined up, before the audience was admitted at seven, ready for the seven-thirty recording. When the rehearsal ended, the celebrities and contestants had a variety of options as to where they could go. They could eat in the canteen, they could go and titivate, prepare or relax in their dressing rooms, or they could return to their separate Conference Rooms, now converted by the introduction of alcohol into Hospitality Rooms.

For the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor, who had been stuck in the Production Office all afternoon, there were fewer options. Sydnee, still desperate to keep them apart from the other participants in If The Cap Fits, had ruled out their visiting the canteen, and arranged for sandwiches to be brought up to the office. There was, of course, no question of their sharing the largesse of Hospitality in the two Conference Rooms, but, after considerable thought and a few exploratory phone-calls, she decided that it might be safe for them to go downstairs to the W.E.T. bar, ‘if any of them wanted to’.

Charles Paris was the first to state that he did want to. It had been a boring afternoon, it promised to be a boring evening, and he had long since discovered the beneficial properties of alcohol in the treatment of boredom. Since his only responsibilities in the show were standing up and putting on different hats, he did not have any anxiety about drink blunting his performing edge. He just knew that he would feel considerably more human with two or three large Bell’s inside him.

Sydnee led the four of them conspiratorially down the back-stairs to the bar, which was very crowded. As well as the flood of after-work drinkers from the offices above, there were also many of the Studio A technicians and a lot of the team from Studio B, whose recording schedule for Method In Their Murders incorporated the same meal-break.

‘I’ll dive in and get you some drinks,’ said Sydnee bravely. ‘Then I must sort out your Make-up calls. That’s going to be the most difficult bit of all. There’s only one Make-up room and we’ve got to ensure that you don’t meet any of the others in there. Anyway, what will you all drink?’

She took their orders, and thrust her way into the make round the bar. The four ‘professions’ stood around awkwardly. There was nowhere to sit and the afternoon upstairs had long since exhausted their limited stock of mutual conversation.

Charles saw a little knot of people gathered round Melvyn Gasc, the presenter of Method In Their Murders . Gasc had risen to prominence in the previous few years as a pop scientist and, like most who do well on television in that role, was more valued for his eccentricity than his academic qualifications. His plumpness, his broken French accent and his windmilling gestures all made him a readily identifiable persona, which coincided easily with the general public’s view of scientists as mad professors. They also made him popular fodder for television impressionists, and Charles thought he could detect an element of self-parody in the vigorous way Gasc was addressing his circle of sycophants.

One of this circle was the girl, Chippy, whom the ‘professions’ had met on their hurried excursion into Studio B. In better lighting she proved to be strikingly pretty, with wispy blond hair and deep-set dark-blue eyes which gave her an air of melancholy, or even tragedy. As Charles watched, she detached herself from the group and moved towards the door, through which Barrett Doran had just entered.

But she had no opportunity to speak to the host of If The Cap Fits. He was immediately swept up by an earnest-looking man in a suit, accompanied by a short, dark, bearded man and a tall, thin, blond one. They were close enough for Charles to hear their conversation.

‘Barrett,’ said the man in the suit, who was John Mantle. ‘Aaron and Dirk were watching a bit of the rehearsal, and they’ve got a few points.’

‘Have they?’ growled Barrett Doran. ‘Get me a large gin.’

The Executive Producer, apparently cowed by the directness of this order (though in fact shrewdly deciding to leave his game-show host and copyright-holders alone to discuss their differences), made for the bar.

‘Now what the hell is this?’

Aaron Greenberg looked Doran full in the eye. ‘Just that with you the show is dying.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. You aren’t getting anything out of these contestants. Okay, they’re a bunch of loxes — God knows why your researchers couldn’t come up with some with a bit more “pazazz” — but it’s still up to you to get a bit of life out of them. The show’s coming across like a pile of old dog-shit, and that’s because you’re such a bummer. If you stay on as host, it’s not going to work and the company’s going to lose the chance of making a pot. I mean, Eddie, who fronts the show in the States, would never allow anyone to — ’

‘I don’t give a shit what Eddie would or wouldn’t allow. I am doing this show — got that? I know my public, I know what they want, and, come the recording, that is what I will give them. So just keep your big nose out of this — Okay? I’ve been in this business too long to take advice from some jumped-up little Yid!’

For a second it looked as if Greenberg would hit him, but Dirk van Henke laid a restraining hand on his associate’s arm and it didn’t happen. Barrett Doran turned away from them and met John Mantle returning from the bar with a large straight gin. He snatched it and hissed at the Executive Producer, ‘I’ll be in my dressing room. Keep this shit off my back — all right? Or you find yourself another presenter.’

He moved towards the exit, then caught sight of Sydnee, moving, laden with drinks, from the bar. ‘You sorted out that glass for me?’ he demanded.

She nodded. ‘It’s done.’

As he made for the door, Chippy moved forward as if to speak to him. Barrett Doran looked right through her.

She recoiled, her face even more tragic, and came disconsolately over towards the group to whom Sydnee was dispensing drinks.

‘Now, there we are. . a pint, lager and lime, dry white wine, and. . yours was the gin and tonic, Charles? Right?’

‘Oh. I asked for a whisky, actually.’

‘Ah.’ Sydnee looked back hopelessly at the increasing crowd around the bar.

‘Never mind. That’s fine,’ said Charles, taking the drink, prepared to change the habits of a lifetime. He didn’t like the taste of gin much, but alcohol was alcohol.

Chippy looked as if she wanted to speak to her friend, but she was interrupted by the arrival of a young man, whose earphones and transmitter identified him as a Floor Manager. ‘Chippy, Clayton wants to go and have something to eat. Can you go and cover in the studio while he’s off?’

‘I suppose so.’ Chippy didn’t sound keen on the idea.

‘He’s waiting till you come.’

‘Okay.’ She turned to Sydnee. ‘Listen, we’ll talk later. Okay?’

‘Sure. What have you got to do?’

‘Keep an eye on the props in Studio B. We’ve got some rather valuable — not to say dangerous — stuff down there.’

‘Sure. See you.’

Chippy wandered sadly off, and Sydnee went to phone Make-up and try and sort out a schedule for getting the ‘professions’ made up without meeting anyone they shouldn’t. Make-up was proving to be a headache. Already the girls were having to work through their meal-break, which was going to put them on time-and-a-half. At least. Which was going to bump up the budget. Which would not please John Mantle.