Dead Room Farce by Simon Brett Page A

though they were being paid, everyone except Bernard was rather miffed that they’d been dragged out for the recording. They’d each got such a tiny ‘cough and a spit’ in the commercial that they’d never be identified personally. One voice, any voice – even an anonymous voice like Charles Paris’s – could have been used to read all Bernard Walton’s feed-lines.
    â€˜Let’s get this knocked on the head as quickly as possible,’ said Tony Delaunay. ‘I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m sure you all want a break before “the half”.’ The assembled company mumbled agreement. The company manager turned to David J. Girton. ‘Will you be producing the recording, David?’
    But the director’s moment of assertiveness had passed, and given way once again to his customary languor. ‘No, no,’ he said rather grandly. ‘I have complete faith in you, Tony.’
    The company manager nodded, without comment, and turned to Mark. ‘OK, through into the studio with them?’
    â€˜Sure.’ Mark Lear moved clumsily across to hold back the double doors. His disoriented sullenness had suddenly given way to a kind of giggly euphoria. ‘Through you come, my luvvies!’ A few of the cast bridled – they didn’t like being called ‘luvvies’ – but nobody said anything. ‘Come on, into the studio! Let’s commit this deathless piece of drama to tape!’
    He looked piercingly at Cookie Stone as she passed through. ‘I know you, don’t I? We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ she replied.
    â€˜At the Beeb? Didn’t you ever work for Continuing Education?’
    â€˜No.’ Cookie dropped into a Brooklyn ‘Broadway Babe’ voice. ‘I never got the breaks. From birth I was just a no-hoper. I never made it into Continuing Education.’
    But by then Mark Lear had lost interest in Cookie, in favour of Pippa Trewin. Something of the old charm he’d focused on so many young women came back into his manner, as he murmured, ‘And who are you?’
    â€˜Pippa Trewin.’
    â€˜Oh,
you’re
Pippa Trewin,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well. I know all about you.’ And he fixed her with a beady, challenging eye. The girl looked away, annoyance twitching at the corner of her mouth.
    â€˜Can we get on, please?’ demanded Tony Delaunay from the control cubicle.
    â€˜Yes, of course.’ Mark Lear stumbled through to join him. Tony put the talkback key down, and spoke through into the studio. ‘All gather round the one mike, I imagine. OK, one run and we should be able to take it.’
    They were cramped around the microphone. A green light flicked on and Bernard Walton started speaking. Through the double glass, Charles could see Tony Delaunay and David J. Girton in the control cubicle, both looking confused. Tony turned to Mark Lear beside him. Their dumb show made it clear that no sound was coming through from the studio. Charles saw Mark turn helplessly to a bank of sockets and reach, without conviction, towards a jack plug.
    In one seamlessly efficient movement, Tony Delaunay’s hand swept up to a row of switches and adjusted them. ‘OK, just give me a couple of words for level, Bernard,’ his voice crackled through the talkback.
    â€˜From the minute the script of
not on your wife!
arrived, I knew I was reading the funniest play that –’
    â€˜OK, fine.’ Tony Delaunay’s fingers flickered across the control desk, doing a little more fine tuning. Beside him, Mark Lear had sunk back into his chair, eyes almost closed, happy to surrender responsibility to the company manager. ‘Give us a read and then we’ll go for a take,’ said Tony.
    â€˜Just a moment,’ Bernard Walton objected.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜This line: “the sauciest, sexiest, smuttiest show