‘A bit, I should think. It really depends how Barrett plays it.’
‘Yes. Well, as I say, I have got a few lines about, you know, being a hamburger chef. . or a stockbroker. . or an actor. . or not being them. You know, these games always sound better if you get a bit of repartee going with the host. I mean. . Anyone fancy any lines? I could write them down on cards for you or — Well, if you do want any, you only have to ask. . as I say. . It’s up to you, really.’
He ran aground on silence.
‘Right,’ asked Sydnee brightly. ‘How many teas, how many coffees?’
There was a marked contrast in moods in the two Conference Rooms that had been properly booked. One contained the four contestants who were actually going to play If The Cap Fits, the other the celebrities whose role was to add a little glamour to the show. In the first there was an atmosphere of obsessive nervousness; in the second, of equally obsessive insouciance.
For the four contestants, the day was the culmination of a long process. They had all originally written in to West End Television, saying how suitable they thought they would be as contestants in the company’s major, long-running giveaway show, Funny Money. In reply to their letters they had been sent a yellow questionnaire, asking information about age, marital status, work, hobbies and ‘any amusing incidents that may have happened in your life’. They had been requested to return the completed form, together with a recent photograph. It was these snapshots which ruled out most of the candidates. Television game shows are constructed on the premise that everyone is attractive, and those whose looks did not meet the researchers’ approval had their participation in the world of television restricted to an appearance on Sydnee’s ‘Ugly Wall’.
Those who survived the scrutiny were requested to appear for interview at a large hotel in their locality on a given date. This date was not negotiable; those who couldn’t make it lost their chances of participating in the show. At the interview (which for most of the candidates involved taking a day off work) they were chatted to for up to an hour by Sydnee or another of the researchers, who then decided which contenders attained that level of cheery triviality which game shows demanded.
The four in the Conference Room, having overcome all these hurdles, had been not a little disappointed when their magic phone-calls finally came through. Yes, they had been very impressive in their interviews. They were just the sort of people who would be ideal game show contestants. Unfortunately, W.E.T. had got all the participants required for the current series of Funny Money. But the company was about to launch a new game show, bound to be quite as successful as the other — would they like to be in on the start of a milestone in television history?
This was not what most of them had had in mind, but they all (in one case only after checking the value of the prizes that were to be given away) agreed to participate. The initial call had been followed by a letter, outlining the format of If The Cap Fits, and then further phone-calls making detailed arrangements about transport and, where necessary, overnight accommodation.
And there they were, actually in a Conference Room in W.E.T. House, guarded by one of Sydnee’s fellow-researchers (with the equally silly name of Chita), and about to go down to Studio A to run through the game with the host, the notoriously good-looking and popular Barrett Doran. It was enough to make anyone a bit nervous.
But their nervousness took different forms, because for each of them the prospect of appearing on television had a different significance. For Trish Osborne, who, though she bitterly resented the description, would be introduced on the show as ‘a housewife from Billericay’, it was a symbolic act, a new start to her fifth decade, a decade in which she intended to assert her own individuality, to be herself rather than somebody’s wife or somebody’s mother. She had a momentary doubt, wondering whether the silk blouse and skimpy brassiere eventually selected for her appearance in front of the cameras was quite suitable, but she bit it back. This was her, Trish Osborne. She was going to prove that she had as much to offer as all those professional television people. She was going to make an impression. This was going to be the start of something.
For Tim Dyer, participating in If The Cap Fits signified something else entirely. For him it was a chance to win, and he was determined that that was what he was going to do. He had studied many game shows from his armchair, making notes on the techniques used by successful contestants. He had spent a long time checking through the format of the new game, and had boned up on General Knowledge and recent international news. He, needless to say, had been the one who had asked about the value of the prizes, and he felt confident that he could finish the evening at least?800 richer, with a video-recorder and camera, the prospect of a champagne weekend for two in Amsterdam and, if all went well, as the owner of a brand-new Austin Metro.
He had prepared himself as far as he could; now all he needed was a little luck. And that luck hinged mainly on which celebrity he was paired with. Joanie Bruton he reckoned was the most intelligent, though Bob Garston was also pretty bright. Either of them would do. Just so long as he didn’t get lined up with that thick boxer, Nick Jeffries. Or even worse that dumb actress, Fiona Wakeford. Tim Dyer sat in the Conference Room, praying to that very specialised deity, the God of Game Shows.
In the other Conference Room the objects of his speculation lounged around, studiously laid-back.
None admitted to having read the format of If The Cap Fits, which had been sent to them, because this had overtones of swotting, taking the show more seriously than was fitting for someone of celebrity status. Nor had they shown much apparent interest when, first the researcher who was in charge of them, and then Jim Trace-Smith himself, had taken them through the mechanics of the game. It didn’t do to look as if it mattered. There were two acceptable attitudes for the celebrities. The first was bonhomous condescension, as if one were helping West End Television out of a spot by taking part, just because one was that sort of person. The second was mercenary bewilderment. . ‘The agent rang about it, I said how much, he said three hundred quid. . well, I thought, I was only going to watch the box tonight otherwise, so what the hell, why not do it?’
They were a contrasted quartet, who might have prompted a philosophical observer to speculate on the nature of celebrity. However, the only observer present was a researcher called Quentin, so armoured with cynicism and so unsurprised by anything that television or fame could bombard him with, that such philosophical speculations did not arise.
Nick Jeffries’ boxing career had ended three years previously. Its start, his winning of an Olympic bronze medal in the Middleweight division, had prompted the customary excesses of the British sporting press, who promised him a professional career of pure gold and saluted a future World Champion. He had held domestic and European titles for a while, but, when projected on to the world stage, had been so comprehensively defeated by the Number Eight contender that his boxing career virtually ended with that fight. However, his face was familiar to the British public through his many endorsements of sportswear, and since, unlike many in his chosen profession, he was capable of speech, he was taken up by a shrewd personal management and marketed as a celebrity. His long-term aim (which he would not achieve) was to attain that level of lovability which the British public had accorded to Henry Cooper. His short-term aim that afternoon (which would be achieved much more easily) was to chat up Fiona Wakeford.
She was an actress who had risen to public notice in a popular W.E.T. sit com, Who’s Your Friend?, in which she played a pretty but totally brainless actress. Since this did not involve the slightest effort of acting on her part, her career looked set fair to be very successful. She didn’t mind Nick Jeffries chatting her up. In fact, she was so used to everyone chatting her up that she was hardly aware of it. She wasn’t aware of much, actually.