Alek Popov - Mission London

“I’ll go and see how the preparations are going,” he mumbled, then stood up and left.

“Sir and Lady Brandon Croft!” announced Barry Longfellow ceremoniously.

Down the improvised red carpet came two middle-aged figures, looking grandiose. A thick band of pearls was wrapped around Her Ladyship’s neck; she smiled dazzlingly and arched her spine gracefully. Applause echoed to the rafters of the Factory.

‘Lady Croft’, known to the majority of the population as Susan Lamour, usually played Brigitte Bardot. Recently, her fame had been steadily dwindling, and she had gladly accepted the role of an extra in the new extravaganza. The role of Brandon Croft was played by a well-built, womaniser, who usually played a popular, kick-ass football player. The family of Sir Brandon, according to Debrett’s Peerage was traceable back to 1234. Its heredity consisted of some land in Lancashire and a small castle in Wales.

“The Reverend Adam Sacks, Bishop of Neverbury, director of the Celestine Charitable Trust,” Barry shouted once more.

A tubby gentleman appeared on the walkway, wearing a purple cassock, his eyes were playful. It did not take much to guess whose double he was. His real name was Pat Moremead, but in every other detail he was Benny Hill: voice, face, walk, mannerisms; as though the great comic had left them to him in his will.

The Reverend Adam Sacks sidled up to Lady Croft, raised his eyes to Heaven, and pinched her bottom. Everyone burst out laughing fit to cry.

“Cut!” cried Ziebling professionally. He was standing at Barry’s shoulder watching the ‘Parade of Benefactors’, as he had dubbed it. “You are not to do that, got it? You are not Benny Hill for the time being!”

“Oops, sorry!” exclaimed Pat to more laughter.

Barry wagged a finger at him and shouted, “Baroness Remoulade!”

Remoulade had been a sauce for chips, bangers or mash, but it sounded eminently aristocratic to the ears of one Thomas Munroe, the author of the honours list. At a certain point he was bored to death with Debrett’s and its dry articles and, reaching for his pint, had noticed the packet of sauce on the table and decided to indulge himself in the luxury of create-your-own aristocrat. He had listed Remoulade as an ancient Danish family, Lords of the Keep of the Baltic Island of Faarhoeighen. From the start of the fifties their descendants had moved to London.

Baroness Remoulade was a washed-out blonde, with the face of a drowned victim staring at the sky through a thick layer of arctic ice, and all the grace of a walking robot. She was wearing a light-pink checked suit, white gloves and big glitzy hoop earrings. Her Star had risen eighteen months previously, when the housewife Lorena Bobbit had cold-bloodedly cut her cheating husband’s penis off, written a book about the whole thing, and achieved fame on both sides of the Atlantic. From that moment her personality had stoked the fires of passion in many of the populace, and it was pure business-sense for the Factory to respond to the new demands. The unpleasant Elaine Carter, who was also a middle-class housewife and thus very suited to the part, played the role. She did not have the courage of Mrs Bobbit, but needed money to repay the loan she had taken out for her breast enlargement. Bobbitt’s star had burned itself out quickly, but her loan repayments were still a fact.

“Lord De Fazaposte, and his sister Lady De Viyent!” announced Barry.

A wheelchair appeared on the carpet, pushed by a severe-looking, eagle-nosed woman, dressed as a widow. The good Samuel Fogg, also known as ‘Hawking’, occupied the wheelchair, dressed like a Chelsea Veteran. The able make-up crew of the Factory had managed to make him look respectable. But that did not stop the assembled cast from laughing, to which he responded with a maliciously vacant smile.

“Lady Marx, the Duchess Van Der Brayne, Sir De Vilajidioff!” Barry continued like a true medieval Herald. “Hugh Munroe, esquire, President of The Monarchist League, Sir Jay.”

Those announced walked forward with grandeur, chests puffed out, and professional smiles in place. Once the glamorous parade was over, Barry turned to his boss. Ziebling applauded appreciatively and gestured to them all to gather round.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “We find ourselves on the eve of a unique Super-Production. Until now we have never done such a thing: every one of you had your own little show, quite separate from the rest. This evening, however, you will be called upon to be a part of a grand-scale scenario, which requires an unusually high level of realism. Despite the fact that most of you are playing minor roles, there will be many guests present and you most be in-role at all times. They want realism, so we’re going to provide it!”

He looked around at the silent actors and continued, “People around the world get their kicks in different ways. Prestige, High Society, Fame, these things have always been the most powerful aphrodisiacs, and always will be. Those who are attracted to these things, however, rarely admit, even to themselves, that what they truly desire from them is actually selfish sexual gratification. Sometimes they even go so far as to disguise this behind various abstracted and ill-defined goals. But they cannot fool their own subconscious. The nature of orgasm is both mysterious and capricious. Millions never achieve its heights in their entire life, whilst others get there every day. Some spend a fortune to avail themselves of one, to others it falls like a golden shower. Blessed are those who are content with little. Our clients, though, are not amongst these blessed souls. They want it all! If that helps them climax, all the better.”

Ziebling paused, before making a sweeping gesture with one arm, “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced poignantly. “Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.”

Everyone turned to look at the start of the carpet. An elderly woman stood there in a light-green hat and white shoes. Behind her, in the role of the bodyguard, stood Desmond, wire in ear, wearing the obligatory strict black suit. The lady raised one hand and waved regally. She seemed almost too real, and the others stared in respectful silence.

“Who is she?” hissed Baroness Remoulade in Sir Brandon Croft’s ear.

“No idea,” said the Manchester player. “First time I’ve set eyes on her.”

“Well lookie here!” exclaimed Pat, who had been with the agency longer than most. “The Return of Mrs Cunningham! Hip, hip, Hurrah!”

The queen stopped and gave him an unimpressed look, “Off with his head!”

Ziebling burst out laughing. He went over to the elderly lady and hugged her warmly. “Auntie Helen! As unique as ever! I’m extremely pleased to see you amongst us once again.”

“Well I’m not so pleased,” she replied harshly. “But I need a new fridge. And with that teacher’s pension…” Mrs Cunningham shook her head angrily.

“Well, you might even make it two fridges!” said Ziebling, nudging her elbow, “What do you think of our little scenario?”

“Dull as life itself,” she spat. “But I’ll manage, it’s not like this is the first time.”

“Now that’s what you call a professional,” said Ziebling, turning to the others. “Are you all ready?”

The group nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Enough rehearsals then. I think we all know what we’re doing here. The scenario isn’t complicated but you need to be on your guard. Don’t get drunk, don’t get chatty, remain grand and reserved, and it’ll all be fine. I’m off to see that the stage has been properly set. Barry will look after you all. I’ll see you this evening.”

Katya had followed the rehearsal, idly leaning against one wall of the make-up room. She was not involved in the scenario for obvious reasons but did not feel any pangs of regret. The fact that that grotesque spectacle would be taking place within the bounds of the Bulgarian Embassy, threw her into confusion. Why, who needed it?? And who was footing the bill? She felt personally degraded. Then she simply stopped caring. She was happier than ever that she had left the place far behind.