‘You try jumping about in eighteenth-century costume,’ complained an anonymous female dancer’s voice.
Christopher Milton did not object to the interruption; he continued as if it were part of his own train of thought. ‘Yes, we’ve got to change the girl’s costumes there. Get more of an up-to-date feel. Like go-go dancers. Really get the audience going.’
‘Why not have them topless?’ drawled one of the dancing queens.
‘Yes, we could — no.’ His objection was, needless to say, not on grounds of anachronism. ‘We’ve got to think of the family audience. I think this Chase Scene can be terrific. Wally Wilson’s working on it now and we can make it into something really exciting. Going to mean a lot more work, but it will be worth while. Oh, that reminds me, we’re going to need flying equipment for it…’
‘What?’ asked David Meldrum weakly.
‘Flying equipment for the Chase Scene. I’m going to be flown in on a Kirby wire. Have we got the stuff?’
‘No, I don’t think so. We’d have to get it from London.’
‘Well, get it. Who organises that?’
‘I suppose the stage manager.’
‘Is he about?’
‘Yes, I think he’s backstage somewhere.’
‘Then get him to organise that straight away. I want to start rehearsing with it as soon as possible.’ As if under hypnosis, the man whose title was ‘director’ wandered offstage to find Spike.
‘Now, in that sequence, we’re also going to be making a lot more use of the trap-doors and doubles for me… Okay. It’s going to make that bit longer, but I think it’ll give the show a great lift towards the end…’
Charles’ part was so small that, short of cutting it completely (and in the current climate, that did not seem impossible), the management could not do it much harm. As it was he lost four lines and left the theatre for the pub feeling that it could have been a lot worse. Just as he went through the stage door, he met Spike coming in. ‘Oh, they were looking for you. Something about a Kirby wire.’
Spike’s papier-mache face crumpled into a sardonic grin. ‘They found me. Yes, so now his Lordship wants to fly as well as everything else. It’ll be walking on the water next.’
Charles chuckled. ‘I wonder if he’s always been like this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Always ordering everyone about. I mean, he couldn’t have done it when he started in the business, could he?’
‘With him anything’s possible.’
‘Where did he start? Any idea?’
‘Came out of stage school, didn’t he? Suppose he went straight into rep.’
‘You’ve met lots of people in the business, Spike. Ever come across anyone who knew him before he became the big star?’
There was a pause. ‘I don’t know. I’m trying to think.’ Spike wrinkled his face; when the acne scars were in shadow, he looked almost babylike. ‘There was an actor I once met who I think had been with him a long time back. Now what was his name…? Seddon… Madden, something like that. Paddon, that’s right.’
‘Not Julian Paddon?’
‘Yes, I think that was the name. Why, do you know him?’
‘I’m only staying with him here in Bristol.’
Mark Spelthorne was sitting in the corner of the pub. It was only eleven-thirty and there weren’t many people about. Charles felt he couldn’t ignore him. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Brandy, please. Medicinal. For the cold.’ He looked frail. His nose was comically red, the lines of his face were deeply etched and for the first time Charles realised that the hair was dyed. Mark Spelthorne was older than the parts he played. As Christopher Milton had said, overcoming the current setback in his career wouldn’t be easy.
Charles ordered the brandy and a pint of bitter for himself. That meant he was in a good mood. He drank Scotch when he was drinking to change his mood or delay a bad one and beer when he wanted to enjoy the one he was in.
‘Cheers.’ They drank. Charles felt he could not ignore what had happened. ‘Sorry about all that this morning. Must’ve been pretty nasty for you.’
‘Not the most pleasant few minutes of my life.’
‘That I believe. Still, he says things like that in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t mean them.’
‘Oh, he means them.’
Though he agreed, Charles didn’t think he should say so. He made do with a grunt.
‘Yes, he means them, Charles, and what’s more, he’s right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They aren’t going to do any more Fighter Pilots.’
‘Well, so what? Something else will come up.’
‘You reckon? No, he’s right about that too. They launched that series to see if it caught on. If it had, I’d have been made, got star billing from now on. But now it’s failed, nobody’ll touch me.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll keep in work.’
‘Work, yes. Supports, but not star billing. My career’s ruined.’ Charles tried to remember if he’d ever thought like that. So far as he could recollect, his aim in the theatre had always been for variety rather than stardom. Still, it obviously mattered to Mark. He tried another optimistic tack. ‘But there’ll be other chances. I mean, you made this pilot for your own radio show…’
‘Yes. They don’t want it. It’s been heard and they don’t want to make a series.’
‘Ah, ah well.’ Charles searched through his store of comforts for such situations and could only come up with cliche ‘Never mind, one door closes, another one opens.’ It was patently untrue. In his own experience life’s doors worked like linked traffic lights — one closed and all the others closed just before you got to them. Mark treated the platitude to the contemptuous grunt it deserved. ‘My God, he’s such a sod. I feel so angry, just so angry.’
‘Yes,’ Charles said, inadequately soothing.
‘And the world loves him. Lovable Christopher Milton. Every time he’s mentioned in the press, there it is, lovable Christopher Milton. Doesn’t it make you puke? If only his precious public could see him as he was this morning, could see all the meanness that goes to make up his lovability. My God, do people have to be that unpleasant to appear lovable?’
‘He works hard at his public image. It’s all very calculated.’
‘Yes, calculated and untrue. He has no integrity, his whole life is a masquerade.’ Mark Spelthorne spoke from a position of extreme righteousness, as if his own life had never been sullied by a shadow of affection. ‘You know, I think I’d give anything to expose him, show him to the public for what he really is — a mean-minded, egotistical, insensitive bastard.’
‘But talented.’
‘Oh yes. Talented.’ Even in the violence of his anger Mark could not deny the facts.
Charles thought a lot about what Mark had said. Because possibly he held in his hands the power to expose the star. If the series of accidents which had happened to Lumpkin! and been perpetrated by his driver could ever be traced back to Christopher Milton, that would be exactly the sort of scandal to bring the star down in the public estimation.
And yet Charles did not believe that Christopher Milton was directly involved. True, all the crimes turned out to the star’s advantage, but Charles was convinced that the driver had either been acting off his own bat or on the orders of Dickie Peck. Either way, the motive had been a protective instinct, to keep the star from the harsh realities of life (like people disagreeing with him). Somehow Christopher Milton himself, in spite of all his verbal viciousness, retained a certain naivete. He assumed that everything should go his way and was not surprised to find obstacles removed from his path, but his was more the confidence of a divine mission than the gangster’s confidence in his ability to rub out anyone who threatened him. The star might have his suspicions as to how he was being protected, but he was too sensible to ask any questions about such matters. And far too sensible to take direct action. For a person so fiercely conscious of his public image it would be insane and, when it came to his career, Christopher Milton seemed to have his head very firmly screwed on.