Dead Giveaway (6 page)

For a second it looked as if Greenberg would hit him, but Dirk van Henke laid a restraining hand on his associate’s arm and it didn’t happen. Barrett Doran turned away from them and met John Mantle returning from the bar with a large straight gin. He snatched it and hissed at the Executive Producer, ‘I’ll be in my dressing room. Keep this shit off my back – all right? Or you find yourself another presenter.’

He moved towards the exit, then caught sight of Sydnee, moving, laden with drinks, from the bar. ‘You sorted out that glass for me?’ he demanded.

She nodded. ‘It’s done.’

As he made for the door, Chippy moved forward as if to speak to him. Barrett Doran looked right through her.

She recoiled, her face even more tragic, and came disconsolately over towards the group to whom Sydnee was dispensing drinks.

‘Now, there we are . . . a pint, lager and lime, dry white wine, and . . . yours was the gin and tonic, Charles? Right?’

‘Oh. I asked for a whisky, actually.’

‘Ah.’ Sydnee looked back hopelessly at the increasing crowd around the bar.

‘Never mind. That’s fine,’ said Charles, taking the drink, prepared to change the habits of a lifetime. He didn’t like the taste of gin much, but alcohol was alcohol.

Chippy looked as if she wanted to speak to her friend, but she was interrupted by the arrival of a young man, whose earphones and transmitter identified him as a Floor Manager. ‘Chippy, Clayton wants to go and have something to eat. Can you go and cover in the studio while he’s off?’

‘I suppose so.’ Chippy didn’t sound keen on the idea.

‘He’s waiting till you come.’

‘Okay.’ She turned to Sydnee. ‘Listen, we’ll talk later. Okay?’

‘Sure. What have you got to do?’

‘Keep an eye on the props in Studio B. We’ve got some rather valuable – not to say dangerous – stuff down there.’

‘Sure. See you.’

Chippy wandered sadly off, and Sydnee went to phone Make-up and try and sort out a schedule for getting the ‘professions’ made up without meeting anyone they shouldn’t. Make-up was proving to be a headache. Already the girls were having to work through their meal-break, which was going to put them on time-and-a-half. At least. Which was going to bump up the budget. Which would not please John Mantle.

The hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor stood, sipping their drinks, avoiding each other’s eyes, unable to dredge up even the most fatuous scrap of conversation.

Charles Paris downed his gin and tonic, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. He needed another drink. He hadn’t bothered to bring a bottle with him, relying on television’s usual plethora of Hospitality Rooms. But it looked as if on this occasion he might have come unstuck. He was going to have to stock up for the evening.

He didn’t offer to buy drinks for the others. For one thing, none of them had finished their first round; for another, spending the whole afternoon with them had induced in Charles a kind of selfish misanthropy.

But his path to the bar was obstructed by Sydnee.

‘I’ve sorted it out with Make-up. You’re to go down first.’

‘When?’

‘Now. Straight away.’

‘Oh, but I was just going to get another drink.’

‘Isn’t time. Sorry. They’re just finishing with Joanie Bruton at the moment. Then one of the contestants is going in at quarter to seven. They want you at half-past six. Can you go straight there?’

‘Well, I –’

‘Thanks. And can you be sure you go down the backstairs, through Studio B and then through Studio A? That way there’s no risk of you meeting anyone you shouldn’t. You know where Make-up is when you come out of Studio A?’

Charles nodded, and left the bar with bad grace. He really needed another drink. It was bad enough to be given a gin instead of a whisky, but then to only have one . . . It had only been a single, anyway . . . He felt hard-done-by.

He stomped down the back-stairs, then into Studio B. There was no one about. The cameras were set facing their test-cards, ready for the half-hour’s statutory line-up before the recording. The set looked unchanged, with its random scatterings of weapons and phials of chemicals. If Chippy was there guarding the exhibits from Melvyn Gasc’s Black Museum, there was no sign of her.

He pushed through the double doors out of Studio B into the corridor, where he encountered the black-leather-clad designer, Sylvian de Beaune, who was pacing anxiously up and down.

‘Set looks really terrific,’ said Charles encouragingly.

‘I hope so.’ The designer did not seem to be convinced. ‘I hope so,’ he repeated, and walked off towards the lifts. Charles pushed through the double doors into Studio A, and found himself alone in the huge, dimly-lit space.

He was halfway across the set when he had the thought. Still feeling self-pityingly disgruntled about only having had one drink, he suddenly remembered Barrett Doran’s words to Sydnee about his glass.

It was worth trying. With a look round to check that he was not observed, Charles went across to the blue, triangular lectern. On it stood a red-and-blue-striped carafe and a red-and-blue-striped glass. Both were full of colourless fluid.

The contents of the carafe had no smell.

But the contents of the glass smelt reassuringly of gin.

So that was how Barrett Doran fuelled his bonhomie in front of the cameras.

Charles looked at his watch. Nearly half-past six. He’d have to hurry to Make-up.

Still, that sod Barrett Doran could spare it.

Charles took a long swig from the glass.

Then, opting for a sheep-as-lamb philosophy, he took another.

The alcohol burned comfortingly inside him.

He topped up the glass with water from the carafe, and, feeling more cheerful, went out of the studio to Make-up.

THE AUDIENCE WHO came to Studio A that evening had, to some extent, been victims of the same disillusionment as the contestants. All of them, applying either as individuals or on behalf of such organizations as Townswomen’s Guilds, insurance company social clubs and amateur dramatic societies, had written in asking for tickets to attend a recording of that very popular, long-established game show,
Funny Money.
They had all, instead, been offered tickets for a brand-new game show entitled (as far as they were concerned – indeed, as far as everyone except two irate Americans was concerned)
If The Cap Fits.
There had been few rejections of the offer. After all, television was television, and the show didn’t really matter so much as the fact of actually being there.

For many of them, it was their first visit to a television studio, and they gazed around with fascination at the suspended monitors above their heads and the Dalek-like cameras which patrolled the No Man’s Land between them and the distant red, blue and silver set.

After a while an inexorably cheerful man, who introduced himself as Charlie Hook, bounced on to the set and welcomed them. It was lovely to see so many smiling faces on such a cold night, he asserted. He could see, just by looking at them, that they were going to be a lovely audience, and W.E.T. had got a really lovely show lined up for them that evening. There were a few lovely parties he’d like to say hello to. Was there a party from the Braintree Afternoon Club? Oh yes, there they were! Well, a really big hello to them. Didn’t they look lovely? And were they all set to have a lovely time? Good, yes, that was the spirit. Now, as he said, it was going to be a really lovely show, and to make the show really go with a swing, he wanted to hear lots of lovely laughter and applause from the lovely audience. Would they be lovely enough to oblige him? Good, yes, that was lovely. Now, of course, at W.E.T., they didn’t have little men holding up signs saying ‘LAUGH’ and ‘APPLAUD’. What they were after was spontaneous reactions. On the other hand, there could be one or two moments when the audience might need to be told when these spontaneous reactions were required, her, her. So, if they saw him, Charlie, or one of the Floor Managers . . . Ooh, they’d like to meet the Floor Managers, wouldn’t they? Yes, of course they would. Lovely fellows they were, the Floor Managers, lovely fellows. And here they were. Say a lovely big hello. Lovely. So, anyway, if he, Charlie, or one of the Floor Managers raised their arms
like this,
would they please regard it as a cue to applaud and not a signal that they should leave the room, her, her. Lovely, right, good. Well, it would just be a few minutes before they got on with the show, so perhaps he could tell them a rather lovely story he’d heard a few days before about an Irishman who went into a cafe and ordered a hot dog . . .

Eventually, Charlie Hook introduced their lovely host for the evening’s proceedings, someone they all knew very well from countless other shows, one of the loveliest, most genuine people and one of the most popular faces on British Television – Mr – Barrett – Doran!

As soon as he came on to the set, Barrett switched his charm on like a light-bulb. He chatted with members of the audience, told them he felt terribly nervous, reiterated how important their contribution to the success of the evening would be, explained a little about the mechanics of the game and then introduced ‘our four celebrity guests, who will be playing
If The Cap Fits
with us tonight!’

The celebrities came on, with varying degrees of ostentation, and sat down behind their long blue desk. Barrett Doran told the audience that, once the show started, they would be meeting some delightful (and very plucky!) contestants who had also agreed to take part in
If The Cap Fits.
He then asked the Floor Manager how ready everyone was to start the recording. Had to check with ‘the boffins in the box’, he explained to the audience. Terrific production team they’d got on the show. Great Executive Producer, John Mantle. Really talented Producer, Jim Trace-Smith. Really great back-up team, as well. All great chums, one big happy family. How about a nice round of applause for all those people out of sight whose contribution was so important in making the evening the success it was absolutely bound to be?

The audience duly applauded.

There were a few more delays, but finally the recording was ready to commence. Members of the audience were advised to watch the monitors rather than the set, because the opening credits were on film. The audience duly gawped up at their monitors. They saw the clock which was used to identify the programme. It was started and ticked away for sixty seconds. For the last three of these the screen went blank.

Animated credits of cartoon figures changing hats appeared. High-pitched jingle voices sang out the words as the title,
If The Cap Fits,
appeared in silver letters on the screen. A deep, unseen voice intoned portentously, ‘And tonight, on
If The Cap Fits,
our star prizes include . . . a portable video-recorder and lightweight camera . . .’

A shot of this hardware, carried by a grinning, bikini-clad Nikki, was shown on the screen. ‘Ooh,’ went the audience, and applauded.

‘. . . a champagne weekend for two in Amsterdam . . .’

An inappropriate clip of a Dutch windmill appeared. ‘Ooh,’ went the audience, and applauded.

‘. . . and tonight’s super-duper star prize – a brand-new Austin Metro with all the extras, plus a full year’s tax, insurance and petrol!’

The Austin Metro appeared on screen. Through its open window a grinning, bikini-clad Linzi waved awkwardly. ‘Aaaaah,’ went the audience, and applauded frantically.

More cartoon figures changed hats. ‘All these could be won tonight by some lucky contestant,’ the voice continued, ‘if the cap fits! And here’s the man who wears a variety of hats with equal success . . . Barrett Doran!’

The show’s host bounced, smiling, up to his lectern. The audience gave him an ovation which might have been warranted if he had just invented an antidote to radiation sickness.

‘Hello, hello, and thank you very much. Welcome to
If The Cap Fits.
And if it doesn’t, well . . . keep it under your hat! Thank you, thank you. And without more ado – nice girl, Moira Do, pity she couldn’t be with us tonight . . . thank you – without Moira Do, let’s meet our panel of celebrities who are going to find out for themselves tonight . . .
if the cap fits!

‘First, it’s a great pleasure to welcome that lovely actress, who you all know as Lizzie Parsons from that very funny series,
Who’s Your Friend?
– Fiona Wakeford!’

The actress simpered prettily in response to the applause.

‘Tell me, Fiona,’ asked Barrett, ‘are you really as dumb as you appear?’

‘Well, no,’ she replied, bewildered. ‘I can talk.’

The audience screamed at this Wildean riposte.

‘Next we have a gentleman who really packs a punch – Nick Jeffries!’

The audience saluted their faded Great White Hope.

‘’Ere!’ The boxer made a fist. ‘I don’t like your attitude.’

The audience hailed another shaft of wit.

‘Actually, Barrett,’ Nick went on as the noise subsided, ‘that reminds me of a joke about a man with a dog. This bloke –’

‘I make the jokes around here,’ said the host with a smile on his lips and a deterrent steeliness in his eyes. ‘Next, we have a lady who’s brought happiness to millions – and without taking her clothes off, which has to be a novelty – the country’s favourite Agony Aunt – Joanie Bruton!’

The audience roared as she smiled in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.

‘Tell me, Joanie – or may I call you Auntie? – could you help me with a little personal problem that I have?’

‘Perhaps, Barrett.’

‘Well, my trouble is that I keep thinking I’m a pair of curtains. What do you think I should do about it?’

‘Pull yourself together, love.’ Joanie completed the old joke with commendable promptness and the audience howled their appreciation for this devastating sally.

‘Finally, we have a gentleman who never seems to be off your television screen these days, investigating frauds, righting wrongs, standing up for the little man . . . you may know him as Joe Soap – Bob Garston!’

The last panellist gave his gritty, proletarian smile as the audience clapped.