Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

"How can you be sure?" asked Alex.

She opened her handbag, took out the last letter Danny had ever sent her and handed it over to Alex.

"It's almost impossible to read," he said.

"And why's that?"

"You know the answer only too well, Beth. Your tears…"

"No, Mr. Redmayne, not my tears. Although I've read that letter every day for the past eight months, those tears were not shed by me, but by the man who wrote them. He knew how much I loved him. We would have made a life together even if we could only spend one day a month with each other. I'd have been happy to wait twenty years, more, in the hope that I would eventually be allowed to spend the rest of my life with the only man I'll ever love. I adored Danny from the day I met him, and no one will ever take his place. I know I can't bring him back, but if I could prove his innocence to the rest of the world, that would be enough, quite enough."

Alex stood up, walked over to his desk and picked up a file. He didn't want Beth to see the tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked out of the window at a statue of a blindfolded woman perched on top of a building, holding up a pair of scales for the world to see. He said quietly, "I'll write to the Lord Chancellor today."

"Thank you, Alex."

DANNY WAS SEATED at a corner table fifteen minutes before Charlie Duncan was due to appear. Mario had chosen the ideal spot to ensure that they could not be overheard. There were so many questions that Danny needed to ask, all filed away in his memory.

Danny studied the menu so that he would be familiar with it before his guest arrived. He expected that Duncan would be on time; after all, he was desperate for Danny to invest in his latest show. Perhaps at some time in the future he might even work out the real reason he'd been invited to lunch…

At two minutes to one, Charlie Duncan entered the Palm Court restaurant wearing an open-necked shirt and smoking a cigarette-a walking H. M. Bateman cartoon. The headwaiter had a discreet word with him before offering him an ashtray. Duncan stubbed out his cigarette while the maître d' rummaged around in a drawer in his desk and produced three striped ties, all of which clashed with Duncan 's salmon-pink shirt. Danny suppressed a smile. If it had been a tennis match, he would have started the first set five-love up. The headwaiter accompanied Duncan across the room to Danny's table. Danny made a mental note to double his tip.

Danny rose from his place to shake hands with Duncan, whose cheeks were now the same color as his shirt.

"You're obviously a regular here," said Duncan, taking his seat. "Everyone seems to know you."

"My father and grandfather always used to stay here whenever they came down from Scotland," said Danny. "It's a bit of a family tradition."

"So, what do you do, Nick?" asked Duncan while he glanced at the menu. "I don't recall seeing you at the theater before."

"I used to be in the army," Danny replied, "so I've been abroad a lot of the time. But since my father's death, I've taken over responsibility for the family trust."

"And you've never invested in the theater before?" asked Duncan as the sommelier showed Danny a bottle of wine. Danny studied the label for a moment, then nodded.

"And what will you have today, Sir Nicholas?" asked Mario.

"I'll have my usual," said Danny. "And keep it on the rare side," he added, remembering Nick once delivering those words to the servers behind the hotplate at Belmarsh. It had caused so much laughter that Nick had nearly ended up on report. The sommelier poured a little wine into Danny's glass. He sniffed the bouquet before sipping it, then nodded again-something else Nick had taught him, using Ribena, water and a plastic mug to swill the liquid in.

"I'll have the same," said Duncan, closing his menu and handing it back to the maître d'. "But make mine medium."

"The answer to your question," said Danny, "is no, I've never invested in a play before. So I'd be fascinated to learn how your world operates."

"The first thing a producer has to do is identify a play," said Duncan. "Either a new one, preferably by an established playwright, or a revival of a classic. Your next problem is to find a star."

"Like Lawrence Davenport?" said Danny, topping up Duncan 's glass.

"No, that was a one-off. Larry Davenport's not a stage actor. He can just about get away with light comedy as long as he's backed up by a strong cast."

"But he can still fill a theater?"

"We were running a little thin towards the end of the run," admitted Duncan, "once his Dr. Beresford fans had dried up. Frankly, if he doesn't get back on television fairly soon, he won't be able to fill a phone box."

"So how does the finance work?" asked Danny, having already had three of his questions answered.

"To put a play on in the West End nowadays costs four to five hundred thousand pounds. So once a producer has settled on a piece, signed up the star and booked the theater-and it's not always possible to get all three at the same time-he relies on his angels to raise the capital."

"How many angels do you have?" asked Danny.

"Every producer has his own list, which he guards like the crown jewels. I have about seventy angels who regularly invest in my productions," said Duncan as a steak was placed in front of him.

"And how much do they invest, on average?" asked Danny, pouring Duncan another glass of wine.

"On a normal production, units would start around ten thousand pounds."

"So you need fifty angels per play."

"You're sharp when it comes to figures, aren't you?" said Duncan, cutting into his steak.

Danny cursed to himself. He hadn't meant to drop his guard, and quickly moved on. "So how does an angel, a punter, make a profit?"

"If the theater is sixty percent full for the entire run, he'll break even and get his money back. Above that figure, he can make a handsome profit. Below it, he can lose his shirt."

"And how much are the stars paid?" asked Danny.

"Badly, by their usual standards, is the answer. Sometimes as little as five hundred a week. Which is the reason so many of them prefer to do television, the odd advertisement, or even voiceovers rather than get themselves involved in real work. We only paid Larry Davenport one thousand."

"A thousand a week?" said Danny. "I'm amazed he got out of bed for that."

"So were we," admitted Duncan as the wine waiter drained the bottle. Danny nodded when he held it up inquiringly.

"Fine wine, that," said Duncan. Danny smiled. "Larry's problem is that he hasn't been offered much lately, and at least Earnest kept his name on the billboards for a few weeks. Soap stars, like footballers, soon get used to earning thousands of pounds a week, not to mention the lifestyle that goes with it. But once that tap is turned off, even if they've accumulated a few assets along the way, they can quickly run out of cash. It's been a problem for so many actors, especially the ones who believe their own publicity and don't put anything aside for a rainy day, and then find themselves facing a large tax bill."

Another question answered. "So what are you planning to do next?" asked Danny, not wanting to show too much interest in Lawrence Davenport in case Duncan became suspicious. "I'm putting on a piece by a new playwright called Anton Kaszubowski. He won several awards at the Edinburgh Festival last year. It's called Bling Bling , and I have a feeling it's just what the West End is looking for. Several big names are already showing interest, and I'm expecting to make an announcement in the next few days. Once I know who's taking the lead, I'll drop you a line." He toyed with his glass. "What sort of figure would you be thinking of investing?" he asked.