Dead Room Farce by Simon Brett Page B

in town”. . .’
    â€˜What about it?’ the talkback demanded.
    â€˜Can we lose “smuttiest”?’
    â€˜The text of the ad has been cleared with Rob Parrott. Not sure that we ought to make any changes.’
    Bernard Walton was adamant. ‘Look, I don’t want my name associated with anything “smutty”.’
    â€˜It’s only a word, Bernard. It goes with “saucy” and “sexy”.’
    â€˜No. “Saucy” and “sexy” are all right. “Smutty” is something else again. “Smutty” is unwholesome.’
    â€˜I don’t think it’s going to worry anyone.’
    â€˜Listen, Tony, I’ve lent my name to this new campaign for standards in television. To the Great British Public, Bernard Walton represents Family Values, the kind of entertainment you wouldn’t be ashamed for your kids to see. Bernard Walton is not associated with anything “smutty”.’
    At this point Tony Delaunay’s unfailing pragmatism once again took over. Rob Parrott might want the word “smuttiest” in the commercial, but Bernard Walton saw it as a potential threat to his knighthood. Persuading the recalcitrant star to include the word could take up valuable time. ‘OK, lose “smuttiest”,’ said the talkback. ‘Do we need another word in there?’
    â€˜No, it’ll flow all right with just “sauciest, sexiest show in town”.’
    â€˜Right you are. OK, let’s go for a read.’
    Mark Lear lay slumped in the chair beside Tony Delaunay. He appeared to be asleep. Certainly he took no interest in what was being recorded in his studio.
    The commercial was done in two takes. Tony Delaunay had got the small reel off the tape machine and left the building almost before the cast streamed back into the sitting area. ‘Where’s a phone?’ demanded Bernard Walton. ‘I need a cab.’ He turned to Mark. ‘Have you got a number for a taxi firm?’
    Mark looked up blearily, and Charles was glad he’d noticed a printed card stuck on one of the notice boards. ‘Here’s one,’ he said, handing it and the cordless phone across to Bernard.
    â€˜Hm . . .’ David J. Girton stroked his hands down over his ample belly. ‘Don’t suppose anyone fancies a little drink? I noticed there was a pub that’s open all day by the –’
    â€˜No,’ Cookie replied shortly. ‘We’ve got a show to do tonight. I’m off to my digs for half an hour’s kip.’ And, without a look or word to anyone, she left the building.
    â€˜Oh, for God’s sake!’ Bernard Walton slammed the aerial back into the phone with annoyance. ‘Half a bloody hour for a cab! “In the middle of the school run rush,”’ he mimicked. ‘What do I care about bloody school runs? I’ll see if I can find a cab on the street.’
    And the star stumped out.
    â€˜Er, Ran,’ Charles murmured. ‘About that twenty quid . . .’
    â€˜Just off to the cash point now, dear boy.’ And Ransome George too was suddenly gone.
    â€˜I should be off,’ said Pippa Trewin. ‘Meeting my agent for tea.’
    David J. Girton chuckled. ‘Oh, right. Mustn’t keep the agent waiting, must we? Particularly when that agent’s . . .’ And he mentioned the name of one of the biggest in the business.
    What is it with this girl Pippa Trewin, wondered Charles, as he watched her neatly and demurely leave the studio. She’s had the best start in the business of any young actress I’ve ever heard of.
    Now there were only the three of them left – Charles Paris, Mark Lear and David J. Girton. ‘Well,’ said the director diffidently, ‘what
about
a little drink . . .?’
    He was preaching to the converted. Charles made a token remonstrance about having to do a show that night.
    â€˜Nonsense. Some of the