Biggins by Christopher Biggins Page A

screeched.
    The three of us were laughing so much as we parked that I nearly hit one of the fancy cars. And that of course madeus laugh even more. As soon as we got inside I nipped to the loo to try to calm down. But I couldn’t. And because I couldn’t stop laughing I peed all the way down my left leg – leaving a huge wet stain on my light-brown suit.
    ‘Got to hide it, got to hide it.’ But how?
    I’m dancing around, as if movement will make a difference. ‘Dry, dammit, dry.’
    ‘Sorry, I’ll be just a moment.’
    Damn. Someone was knocking on the door. I imagined a long queue forming outside. Disaster. Then salvation. There was a beautifully patterned silk scarf hanging behind the loo door. I picked it up, did a bit more mopping and headed out into the vast hallway using the scarf as cover. But who should I see first but the lady of the house, Georgina’s formidable mother, Heddy Simpson. I soon realised she was a woman who doesn’t mince her words and doesn’t hide her feelings. She was also a woman who owned a beautifully patterned silk scarf.
    I’m not sure I’ll ever forget how Heddy looked me up and down that evening. And my humiliation wasn’t quite complete. As I tried to scarper a waiter bumped into me and spilled a tray of champagne down my right leg. It was a near-perfect match for the stain on my left leg. ‘So sod it.’ I left the scarf on a hall table and headed off to find Jonathan and Vivien.
    It was quite a party. The rich are different – as I’ve been constantly reminded, all around the world, ever since. ‘Time to go swimming!’ The cry went up sometime around midnight. I was handed a pair of trunks, which I had to stretch almost to breaking point to fit my frame. I put my clothes in a neat little pile behind a tree in the garden. Imight have just peed on the lavatory floor and tried to steal a scarf from the lady of the house. But I was still too well brought up to fling my clothes around.
    We all splashed around wildly for a while – Christine Keeler, eat your heart out – and then everyone got dressed again. Everyone except me. Try as I might, I couldn’t find my tree, or my clothes. So I spent far more time than I wanted (and probably more time than anyone else wanted) walking around half-naked that night. But by then I was feeling pretty comfortable at the party. I had been introduced to Georgina, the daughter of the house. We clicked straight away. I had made a friend for life.
     
    Back at the Phoenix, the theatre itself was booming. Veronica had signed up a season of huge American stars for a series of very high-profile plays. Not surprisingly, the box-office managers were making the most of the stars’ potential. Their names – from Rock Hudson to Charlton Heston – were all up in big letters outside the theatre, just below my bedroom window. I was ill with jealousy.
    ‘Could you put my name there instead, just for a joke?’ I asked Veronica one day. She set it up. So for a few blissful hours ‘Christopher Biggins’ got top billing, in big capitals. Rock, Charlton and the others were all relegated to lower-case letters below.
    By now I had upgraded myself from my studio room – I was renting the flat next door as well. So for £28 a week I had ‘rooms’ in Covent Garden, right in the heart of theatreland. It was practically a ‘salon’ and I lived there for five very happy years.
    When I did decide to leave I had one lovely moment with dear Lily, the lady who ‘did’ for me every week. Lily was always a gem – and a chancer. She was supposed to do two or three hours, but if I popped out just after she arrived and needed to dash back for something I had forgotten I almost always found she was long gone herself. But still, she was always ready for a laugh and a gossip and I would miss her. ‘Lily, I need to tell you that I’m leaving at the end of the month. I’m moving out.’
    She started to cry. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without you,’ she