At the interval there was a buzz of satisfaction in the audience. Charles, who was feeling tired and achey after his bruises, couldn’t face the rush for the bar and sat quietly with Frances. Greatly daring, like a schoolboy on his first date, he put his hand on hers and squeezed it. She returned the pressure, which made him feel ridiculously cheerful. Their hands interlocked and he felt the familiar kitchen-knife scar on her thumb.
He looked at the busy stalls. He could see Kevin McMahon in the middle of a congratulatory throng, smiling with satisfaction. Gwyneth, David Meldrum’s assistant, was coming up the aisle towards him. They were like creatures from a previous existence.
Gwyneth stopped by his seat to ask how he was. He told her, but she hung around, for the first time in their acquaintance seeming to want a conversation. He asked a few idle questions about the company and production details. Running out of things to say, he asked, ‘Who’s the new stage manager?’
‘New one? Why, it’s still Spike.’
‘Still Spike?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s in charge in the fly gallery tonight.’
A familiar cold trickle of anticipation crept into Charles as the lights dimmed for the second act.
It continued to go well. The audience, enlivened by their gins and tonics, seemed more relaxed and receptive. The show was building up to the climax of the Chase Scene. The profusion of comic business meant that no one was aware of the butchery that the plot had undergone. The audience exploded with laughter time and again. Only Charles Paris was silent.
The Chase Scene arrived and the audience roared. Charles held his breath when it came to the Star Trap moment, but the machinery of the King’s Theatre delivered its burden safely on stage at the correct time and gained an enormous laugh.
But the respite for Charles was only temporary. He knew what was happening behind the scenes. While doubles onstage continued their interweaving and dancing, the real Tony Lumpkin climbed to the gallery where he would have the Kirby wire attached to the corset he was already wearing. The audience laughed away at the action onstage while Charles fought with the nausea of horror.
Bang on cue, Christopher Milton appeared. He descended slowly from the heavens and his appearance gathered the round of applause that always attends spectacular stage effects.
The pace of his descent suddenly accelerated. The applause died as if it had been switched off. No longer was the star coming down at a controlled speed; he was free-falling. The real panic in his eyes and the jerking of his arms and legs communicated his fear to the audience. For about twenty feet he fell and then sharply the wire was taken up again and he came to rest bobbing about five feet above the stage.
There was a long pause while Charles could feel the agony of the corset cutting under the star’s arms. Then Christopher Milton pulled a Lionel Wilkins face and said, ‘I beg yours?’ The house erupted into laughter and applause.
And that was how the rest of the show went. Everything that should have got laughs did, every song was applauded to the echo and Christopher Milton could do no wrong. At the end there were twelve curtain calls and the audience was still shouting for more when the curtain came down for the last time.
Afterwards Charles, who was the least showbiz-conscious person in his profession, felt he had to go round backstage. There was an enormous melee of people outside the stage door.
He met one of the stage management struggling out against the crowd (no doubt sent by thirsty actors to stock up with drinks before the pubs closed). She recognised him. ‘How are you? Wasn’t it marvellous tonight?’
‘Great. Barbara, where’s Spike?’
‘Well, that’s strange. I don’t know. He was in the gallery and then there was that cock-up in the Chase Scene. Did you notice it?’
‘I think the whole audience noticed it.’
‘Oh no. Apparently most of them thought it was deliberate. Anyway, Spike went off straight after that. It was very strange, he said something about some things you can’t beat and that he was leaving and wouldn’t be coming back. And he went. Amazing, isn’t it? He always was a funny bloke.’
‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘He was.’
At that moment the stage door crowd surged forward and Charles and Frances found themselves swept into the theatre. Standing in the green room (he had been mobbed before he could even get to his dressing-room) was Christopher Milton. He was smiling, radiant, happy, as the world milled around him and everyone said how marvellous he was.
He saw Charles and reached out a hand to wave across the throng. ‘Hello. Are you better? What did you think of it?’
‘Bloody fantastic,’ said Charles. And he meant it.