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.
The hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor stood, sipping their drinks, avoiding each other’s eyes, unable to dredge up even the most fatuous scrap of conversation.
Charles Paris downed his gin and tonic, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. He needed another drink. He hadn’t bothered to bring a bottle with him, relying on television’s usual plethora of Hospitality Rooms. But it looked as if on this occasion he might have come unstuck. He was going to have to stock up for the evening.
He didn’t offer to buy drinks for the others. For one thing, none of them had finished their first round; for another, spending the whole afternoon with them had induced in Charles a kind of selfish misanthropy.
But his path to the bar was obstructed by Sydnee.
‘I’ve sorted it out with Make-up. You’re to go down first.’
‘When?’
‘Now. Straight away.’
‘Oh, but I was just going to get another drink.’
‘Isn’t time. Sorry. They’re just finishing with Joanie Bruton at the moment. Then one of the contestants is going in at quarter to seven. They want you at half-past six. Can you go straight there?’
‘Well, I — ’
‘Thanks. And can you be sure you go down the backstairs, through Studio B and then through Studio A? That way there’s no risk of you meeting anyone you shouldn’t. You know where Make-up is when you come out of Studio A?’
Charles nodded, and left the bar with bad grace. He really needed another drink. It was bad enough to be given a gin instead of a whisky, but then to only have one. . It had only been a single, anyway. . He felt hard-done-by.
He stomped down the back-stairs, then into Studio B. There was no one about. The cameras were set facing their test-cards, ready for the half-hour’s statutory line-up before the recording. The set looked unchanged, with its random scatterings of weapons and phials of chemicals. If Chippy was there guarding the exhibits from Melvyn Gasc’s Black Museum, there was no sign of her.