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‘Crap!’ announced Larry Matthews from the doorway. Both men looked up startled. Larry swung into the room, clutching some scripts and a pair of spectacles in his hands. He closed the door behind him and flung himself into the nearest available chair. ‘Unmitigated crap!’ he informed the ceiling. ‘Weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,’ he quoted for added effect.
The other two looked at each other. Hugh rolled his eyes heavenwards and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew that Larry was right. His verdict was perhaps a little forceful, but he had a point. The series was becoming stale, predictable and – dare one even think it? – dull. Martin looked dismayed.
‘Oh dear, do you think so? I thought it had moments …’ he faltered. ‘Moments of …’
‘It had moments’, interrupted Larry, ‘of hitherto unplumbed depths of dreariness.’ Here he adopted an attitude of extreme languor. ‘That simply dreadful scene with those two elderly juveniles droning on at each other, boring the pants off me and, I imagine, the rest of the country!’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Martin genuinely puzzled.
‘I think he’s referring to Geoff and Bella,’ muttered Hugh. ‘Droning were they? It seemed quite a lively little scene to me,’ he added defensively.
‘Lively? Lively?’ Larry emitted a contemptuous snort. ‘It had about as much life as last week’s doughnuts!’
‘Why do you refer to them as “elderly juveniles”?’ persisted Martin.
Larry looked at him pityingly. ‘Because you know as well as I do that they’re both well into their middle years, yet they insist on prancing around like a couple of teenagers, Geoff in particular. Let’s face it, the succession of prepubescent pulchritude that has passed through these portals, over the last few years to enjoy the dubious pleasure of on-screen, and more often than not off-screen, amorous activities with our leading man, simply to pander to his vanity, has completely deballsed the series.’ He now had their undivided attention. ‘As I remember it, you, my venerable old friend,’ Larry was addressing his remarks to Hugh, ‘had a humdinger of an idea back in the dark ages, seven or eight years ago. A saga centred around a family business of fine arts, antiques, and paintings, the infighting, intrigue of the international art world, sibling rivalry, the struggle for power, at the core of which was a crumbling marriage and all the tensions attendant thereon …’
‘It was your idea, actually,’ Hugh interjected mildly.
Larry glanced at Hugh affectionately. ‘I seem to remember, you dear old thing, that you dreamed up this stunning scenario to provide a suitable showcase for the not inconsiderable talents of the love of your life, the then breathtakingly beautiful Bella – am I right, or am I right?’
There was a pause as the two men regarded each other across the desk.
‘Hot on the alliteration today, aren’t you?’ was all Hugh said.
‘Aren’t I though,’ replied Larry equably.
Martin shuffled his feel uneasily and adjusted his position in his chair. The conversation seemed to have drifted into emotional waters and Martin was feeling like the proverbial fish. He was well aware of Hugh’s abiding passion for Bella. As was Hugh’s wife, Mona. She had learned to live with it. She knew that by comparison with Bella, she was ordinary, the unkind might even say plain. She also knew that Hugh would never leave her. Bella knew it, too. She had been aware from the beginning that the series was a sort of consolation prize. Hugh was giving her all that he was able.
Bella had had a drink problem for some time, ever since she had realized that her career was not going to go the way she had hoped. She had wanted to be up there alongside the greats, among the great classical actresses of her generation. That’s why she had come into the profession. She was not able to put her finger on exactly what had gone wrong. But whatever it was, it had been compounded by seven years as the star of the most popular drama series of the decade, and the alcohol helped to blunt the keenness of the disappointment. She had been twice married and had had innumerable affairs, nearly always with younger men. Hugh had remained the constant element in her life, a sort of father confessor. They had long since ceased to have physical relations. For him, however, she had never ceased to hold an all-consuming fascination. He admired her undeniable talent, her husky beautifully modulated voice, her voluptuous good looks, but he loathed her drinking, not least because he knew he had contributed in part to her reliance on its dubious comfort.
‘We’ve lost the bite this show had at the beginning. The almost unbearable tension between warring husband and wife. The will-they-won’t-they-make-it situation. Everybody knows they won’t because he’s been floating around with a flotilla of fatuous floozies.’ Larry was getting into his stride. ‘And furthermore,’ he continued, ‘I have spent the morning wading my way through Episodes Ten and Eleven and I am now seized with an urgent desire to find a quiet corner somewhere and hang myself!’
The other two regarded him steadfastly and waited. They knew that this histrionic outburst was simply the prelude to an inspired suggestion. Larry would attack the problem in the most extreme terms and then quite casually supply the solution.
Larry Matthews’s position at South Eastern Television was unique. He was ostensibly PA to Hugh Travis, and responsible for the smooth running of the studios during recording days. But he had somehow managed to engineer himself into a position immediately behind Hugh’s right ear, and had a very large say in the casting, story lines and even budget allocation. He had been at drama college with Hugh twenty-five years previously, where they had become fast friends. When Hugh had reached his exalted position as Head of Series at SETV, Larry had suddenly turned up one day demanding a job. Acting, he had said, bored him. He needed a new challenge and it was absolutely certain that he, Hugh, was the man to provide it. It was true that Hugh was at that very moment in need of a personal assistant, a fact that he was quite sure Larry had somehow ferreted out for himself. They had gone off for a long luncheon together, during which Larry had poured out his heart to Hugh. His personal life, he confided, was in disarray. He needed a new start in life. He begged his old friend to give it to him. He was prepared to work his balls off for the chance. Hugh knew, looking at the intelligent good-looking face, now showing signs of age, that Larry would be as good as his word. He also knew he would make an invaluable assistant. As to what personal problems Larry might have, Hugh did not know and didn’t care to enquire. He had never been quite sure as to Larry’s sexual predilections – he had a feeling that he had possibly had a string of attachments of both sexes, but he let that pass. He gave him a job, and after a couple of minor successes together they had thought up and put on The McMasters, which was, and had been from the first episode, a smash hit. Hugh regarded him now with an amused tolerance. Larry had certainly breathed life into South Eastern Television. Things were never dull when he was around.
‘I take it you have a solution?’ Hugh said eventually, aware that Larry was waiting for a cue.
‘Of course,’ replied Larry languidly. ‘I’ve rewritten them,’ and he closed his eyes, as though the exertion of his labours had been too much for him.
‘I thought you might have,’ said Hugh mildly.
‘What’s Colin going to say?’ Martin looked perturbed.
‘Fuck Colin,’ replied Larry blithely. He opened his eyes and looked at them. ‘You’re the producers of the series, you’re the arbiters of taste, for God’s sake, and we all know that what has been served up in Episodes Ten and Eleven is nothing more or less than sentimental drivel!’
There was a longish pause, then Hugh said, ‘Right! Well, we’d better hear your rewrites then.’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ observed Larry dryly, as he sat up, put his half-glasses on the end of his nose and opened the first script. ‘That’ll teach me to take holidays,’ he muttered as he found the right page. ‘That load of twaddle that passed for “prime-time drama” last night was perpetrated when I was in San Francisco, of course. Ah, here we are. Now first of all I think I should mention I’ve introduced two new characters –’
‘You’ve done what?’ exploded Hugh, sitting bolt upright. This time Larry had gone too far.
‘Two new characters,’ repeated Larry patiently.
‘Without consulting me?’ Hugh was outraged.
‘I’m consulting you now,’ said Larry, unimpressed by Hugh’s outburst, ‘that’s why I’m here. This is the consultation.’
‘Have you any idea how much two new actors will cost the series? Yes, of course you have,’ said Hugh, answering his own question. ‘We’ve been over the budget together!’
‘I know exactly how much it will cost – and we solve the problem by losing two of the others.’
Throughout this exchange Martin had looked aghast and was incapable of speech.
‘Who do you suggest?’ asked Hugh, scarcely able to believe his ears.
‘Well, the appalling Patsy for one,’ Larry said, looking beadily at Hugh, whom, he noticed, had the grace to blush. ‘Crotch casting never works,’ Larry had stated bluntly at the time. ‘Then, there’s dear old Fred – he’s finding the going a bit rough. We could put him out to pasture – or not have him in the series quite so often,’ he added hurriedly, seeing their horrified faces. ‘Oh come on, girls, we’ve got a hit series on our hands here, which has at least another couple of years’ life in it. We’ve got to keep it up to scratch or, let’s face it, we won’t be asked back again. It’ll go down the pan at the end of the season.’
There was another silence as they considered the prospect.
‘All right,’ said Hugh, finally. ‘What’s your idea? Who are these newcomers?’
Larry looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘I want to put the cat among the pigeons,’ he said quietly. ‘A threat, a rival, a stunning young woman. She tries to steal Paul McMaster’s clients, his business, and, finally, his heart.’ There was another pause.
‘I like it,’ said Hugh simply. Martin nodded in agreement. Larry allowed himself a small smile. ‘And the other character?’ asked Hugh.
‘An American,’ said Larry, watching their faces closely. ‘A rich American playboy with a weakness for fine art, who falls for the new girl and decides to back her financially.’ And he sat back to watch their reactions. They both stared at him unblinking.
‘I like that, too,’ said Hugh sanguinely.
‘What do you think, Marty?’ demanded Larry cheekily.
‘I think you’d better read us your rewrites,’ was the quiet response.
‘Attaboy!’ said Larry enthusiastically, drawing his chair up to the table.
‘And then,’ said Hugh, ‘we’d better draw up a shortlist of possible actresses.’
‘And possible Americans,’ added Martin, determined not to be left out. ‘Quite a few live in this country, I believe.’
Larry delivered his final bombshell. ‘I thought we might import someone from Hollywood,’ he said airily. ‘Shall I start reading?’
4 (#ulink_5a5637da-d771-59ff-a360-03ca94d1c75a)
Geoffrey Armitage stood in the untidy rambling kitchen of his spacious home. The face that featured so effectively in The McMasters, making millions of female hearts beat faster every Sunday evening between 7.45 and 8.40, was at this moment gazing with unseeing eyes at the deep yellow wall in front of him. The intensity of the colour offended him to the depths of his soul.
‘Why yellow?’ he had asked his wife, Sukie, as he stared aghast at the deep yellow ochre walls after they had just moved in.
‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’
‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.
‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’
‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’
‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’
‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.
‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.
‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’
‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.
‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’
‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.
‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.
Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.
‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.
‘Ugh!’ Nicky exclaimed in disgust. ‘Brambles has farted! What a pong!’
‘Nicky,’ protested Sukie feebly.
Geoff decided to be firm. ‘Kindly get on with your breakfast and if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all – and you don’t need that.’ He deftly removed the sugar packet that Sukie had obligingly found and put on the table. He crossed to the kettle, which had just boiled, and poured water onto instant coffee in a cracked mug.
‘Is it a studio day?’ asked Sukie. ‘I’ve lost track.’
‘No, it is not a studio day,’ Geoff said with elaborate politeness. ‘It is a read-through day. We are reading through the next two episodes.’
‘Well, let’s hope to God they’re better than last Sunday’s horror,’ said Sukie calmly.
‘Thank you for those few words of encouragement and support,’ replied Geoff satirically, after a brief pause. ‘I appreciate your keen interest in my work and I’m gratified to learn that you rate my talent as an actor so highly.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with your talent as an actor,’ she retorted. ‘I’m just saying that the episode was bloody awful, that’s all.’
Nicky decided he could make a useful contribution to the conversation. ‘Timpson Minor said it was stupid,’ he said, then clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing that ‘stupid’ could hardly be classified as ‘pleasant’ and said hurriedly, ‘His sister loves it. She’s six.’
‘That’s about the age group it’s aimed at,’ Sukie agreed. ‘And as for that bimbo what’s her name, Patsy? Yes, Patsy Hall. Where on earth did they find her?’
Geoff lowered his head to hide the fact that he was blushing furiously. He had been having an intermittent fling with Patsy ever since she’d joined the series. He was aware that she was totally talentless, but she smelt, felt and tasted delightful. He decided to employ double bluff tactics.
‘Oh come on, she’s not that bad.’
‘She’s appalling.’ Sukie poured herself some tea. ‘She can’t act, she can’t move, she can’t speak and, worst of all, she has absolutely no class!’
‘I think she’s one of Hugh’s mistakes,’ Geoff said lamely.
‘I really think you should have a word with Hugh. He may be losing his grip.’
‘Have I met him?’ asked Geoff, abruptly changing the subject and addressing his son – ‘this Timpson turd?’
‘Geoff,’ Sukie remonstrated.
‘No, Dad, his parents are very rich. I’d hardly bring him back here, would I?’ asked Nicky, giving his father a pitying look.
‘Oh that’s nice, isn’t it? Are you suggesting that your home is not good enough for turdfeatures Timpson?’ enquired Geoff icily.
‘Geoffrey, please,’ interposed Sukie.
‘Dad,’ said his son calmly, ‘if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all.’
‘I shall say what I bloody well please,’ said Geoff venomously. ‘You can tell Timpson Minor from me that I think he’s a pain in the arse.’
‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’ panted Ben, as he came in through the back door clad in running gear. ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hello, Ben,’ said his father, surprised. Ben was fifteen and as laid-back as Nicky was energetic. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here, remember?’ replied his son easily.
‘I meant, why aren’t you at school, and what are you doing in your tracksuit?’
‘Marathon practice,’ replied Ben briefly. ‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’
‘Ben,’ said Sukie sternly.
Nicky filled him in. ‘I was telling Dad that Timpson Minor thought Sunday’s episode of The Old Bastards was stupid.’
‘Nicky!’
‘Well yes,’ said Ben, ‘but he only said that because Timpson Major said it.’
‘Who the hell do these Timpsons think they are?’ Geoff asked in a voice rising with sarcasm and disbelief. ‘Are they experts in the field of the television dramatic critique or what?’
‘No, of course not, Dad,’ replied Ben equably, ‘but on this point you must admit it’s a fair assessment.’
‘Did you see Sunday’s episode?’
