Still, good. At least he’d got an agent. Slowly he was sorting himself out.
Charles looked at his watch. Twenty past seven. ‘Must just go in and check the old slap,’ he said, gesturing to his make-up.
‘Yes, I’ll come in and wish Alex all the best.’
Charles opened the dressing room door to discover that Alex Household had stopped his ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub’ routine. In fact, though they sprang apart quickly, he appeared to be doing his giving-Lesley-Jane-Decker-a-cuddle-on-his-knee routine. Well, there’s a novelty, thought Charles.
Alex tapped Lesley-Jane on the bottom in a way that was meant to suggest the contact had just been theatrical excess, but he didn’t convince Charles.
‘And thank you so much for the ginseng, darling,’ said Alex, to reinforce the impression of casual contact.
Ginseng. Of course. It would be. Lesley-Jane had got Alex’s number all right.
‘Um. .’ Malcolm Harris began awkwardly. ‘Um, Alex, just came in to say good luck — ’
‘Oh Lord!’ shouted the actor. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ The author looked mystified by the outburst.
‘Don’t you know anything, you bloody amateur?’
‘I don’t understand. .’
‘You mustn’t say what you’ve just said.’
‘What? I mustn’t say good — ’
‘Don’t say it again!’ Alex shrieked. ‘It’s bad luck.’
‘Well, what should I say?’
‘Oh Lord — break a leg or. . anything but that!’
Charles should have remembered: amongst Alex Household’s other fads was devout observance of all the theatrical superstitions.
Malcolm Harris’s minimal confidence had now deserted him completely.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know these — ’
‘No, you don’t know anything!’ snapped Alex. ‘Don’t even know how to write a decent play!’
In a second the author’s hand clenched into a fist and was raised to strike. But in the fractional pause that preceded the blow, the Stage Manager’s calming voice came over the loudspeaker.
‘Beginners, Act One, please.’
Malcolm Harris lowered his fist, glowered at the lead actor of his precious play, and scurried off to find the pass-door to join his wife and his wife’s mother in the auditorium.
Alex Household, Lesley-Jane Decker and Charles Paris hugged each other wordlessly, and passed through the corridor to the stage.
The eruption of applause as the final curtain fell left no one in any doubt that The Hooded Owl had worked, at least for the good burghers of Taunton. Whether it would work for the supposedly more sophisticated audience of the West End remained to be seen.
But for the cast there was no doubt about anything. Each of them had felt the momentum of the play build up through the evening, each of them had felt his doubts about its worth evaporate, each of them felt the relief of consummation after the exhausting preparations. They were all euphoric.
Charles and Alex tumbled back into the Number One dressing room, arms around each other’s necks, giggling like schoolgirls. ‘Yippee, yippee. It works, it works!’ cried Alex.
They both felt emotionally drained — the parts they played were taxing — but lifted above exhaustion on to a high like drunkenness.
As Charles became aware of this, he realised that he had given a performance — and a good one — on an alcoholic intake of only a swig of Bell’s and a quarter bottle of champagne. This was something of a record for him, and momentarily the heretical thought traversed his mind that maybe his talent could flourish without constant irrigation.
Mind you, he really needed a drink now.
As if in answer to his thought, Paul Lexington poked his head round the dressing room door. ‘Terrific, both of you! We have a hit on our hands, babies! Soon as you’re out of your cossies, up to the bar. Drinks are on me tonight!’
‘That’s very generous of you, Paul,’ said Charles.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. I’d laid it on for anyone who came down from London.’
‘And has anyone come?’
A shadow passed over the producer’s boyish face. ‘No, not tonight. I expect they’ll be along later in the week.’
But he was incapable of pessimism. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be on the phone first thing in the morning. Tell ’em the quality of what they’re missing. They’ll be falling over themselves trying to snap this one up.’
At that moment Lesley-Jane Decker burst in, as effervescent as the champagne she had handed out. She threw her arms round Alex Household’s neck. ‘God, you were wonderful tonight.’
‘Oh Lord, praise, praise,’ he said, with a shrug.
‘You were super too.’ Paul Lexington patted Lesley-Jane on the shoulder. ‘See you up in the bar.’
‘Terrific.’
As the Producer turned to leave, he was met in the doorway by a tall lady in a light-brown fur coat. She looked as if she was in her forties, but slightly over-elaborate make-up and hair that had been helped to recapture its former redness made putting an exact date on her difficult.
‘Excuse me,’ she apologised in a rich, elocuted voice. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
She was looking at Alex and Lesley-Jane still clasped together, a sight for which she seemed to have slight distaste.
The young actress turned at the voice and rushed across to the older woman. ‘Mummy! Mummy, do come and meet everyone.’
Paul Lexington, after being introduced, nodded politely and said he hoped she’d join them for a drink in the bar. Alex Household said he was enchanted, but enchanted to see her at last, he’d heard so much about her.
‘And, Mummy, this is — ’
‘Ah, but I know you, don’t I, Charles?’
Charles Paris looked up warily at the woman’s face. Maybe there was something vaguely familiar about it, but he couldn’t for the life of him say where he had seen her before. ‘Um. .’
‘Long time ago, darling.’
‘Oh. . er. .’ He was going to need a bit more of a clue than that.
Malcolm Harris blundered in through the door flanked by ferret-faced women who had to be his wife and his wife’s mother, and there was a pause for more introductions.
‘Wonderful play, Malcolm,’ Alex cooed. ‘Oh Lord, what a wonderful play.’
But the diversion didn’t let Charles off the hook. ‘Have you placed me yet?’ asked Lesley-Jane’s mother seductively.
‘Um, no. .,’ he had to admit, wondering whether their previous encounter had been under embarrassing circumstances.
‘You remember Cheltenham. .?’ she nudged.
‘What? Cheltenham Rep.? Back in the early sixties?’
‘Sssh.’ She raised an elegantly manicured finger to her lips. ‘Don’t let’s talk dates. But yes, Cheltenham Rep. it was.’
Given a context, he did begin to place her. ‘Oh yes.’ But he still couldn’t for the life of him remember what her name was.
She seemed to realise this, and gave in. ‘Valerie Cass.’
‘Of course! Valerie Cass! Well, how are you? Talk about long time, no see.’
As he brought out the platitudes of recognition, he placed her exactly. Yes, of course, early sixties, Cheltenham, young actress, playing ingenue roles. Now he knew the connection, he remembered that she had had that same quality of naive enthusiasm that Lesley-Jane demonstrated. Not as good an actress, though. No, his recollection was that Valerie Cass had been a pretty bad actress.
As if to apologise for this thought, he continued fulsomely, ‘Valerie Cass! You know, you haven’t changed a bit. Have you got a picture up in the attic that grows old instead of you?’
This was the right approach — or at least the approach she liked. She fluttered coquettishly.
‘I’ve followed your career with interest, Charles. Read Stage every week, you know.’
Oh, thought Charles, there must have been a few thousand weeks when you’ve searched it in vain for any mention of me. ‘Are you still in the business?’
‘Oh goodness me, no, Charles. I gave up when I married Lesley’s father. Had my time fully occupied bringing up my baby girl.’