Dead Room Farce by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online

casually. ‘I’ve always been lucky with my back-up.’
    It was a splendidly dismissive remark, the kind that a BBC producer might often have made about his secretary. Charles wondered whether Mark was genuinely unaware that Lisa was doing all the work within their partnership. But maybe that was just a reflection of another old BBC tradition. There had always been plenty of producers whose offices had been run entirely by their secretaries, and it had been a point of honour that that fact was never acknowledged. Charles wondered idly how the balance of power operated in Mark and Lisa’s personal relationship.
    His head was now aching horribly again. His mouth was dry and the dryness permeated his body; parts of his anatomy seemed to grind unlubricated against other parts. Mark saw the hand Charles passed painfully across his brow and said, ‘You need a top-up.’
    â€˜Hm.’
    â€˜Alcohol level. Dropping below critical. Serious malfunction could result.’
    The conspiratorial tone and the pseudo-scientific jargon made Mark Lear sound like a naughty schoolboy, and this image was reinforced when he showed Charles the half-bottle of Teacher’s he had hidden in the cistern of the Gents’ lavatory.
    Mark took a long swig. ‘Wonderful. Ideal storage place.’ He winked. ‘No ladies come in here, by definition, and the water keeps the whisky perfectly chilled.’ He proffered the bottle to Charles. ‘Go on, this’ll pick you up.’
    â€˜I’m not sure that I should . . .’ Apart from anything else, he was a Bell’s man. He’d never really been that fond of Teacher’s.
    â€˜Go on.’
    Charles’s hesitation went the way of most good intentions. And the injection of alcohol did give him a predictable lift. But something about the whole episode felt shabby. Two middle-aged men in the Gents’, hiding from a woman to take illicit sips of booze . . . there wasn’t much dignity in the scenario.
    Of course, it put Mark in a worse light than it did him. Mark had actually set up this private cache of whisky to hide his drinking from his partner. Charles would never have done that. He didn’t hide his drinking from anyone. But then, even as he had the thought, he realised that was probably only because he lived on his own. It’s easy enough to be overt when you know there’s no one watching. If he had been cohabiting with someone who monitored his every sip, he wondered how long it would be before he resorted to subterfuge. He had an uneasy recollection of a bit of covert swigging towards the end of the time when he and Frances had lived together.
    Mark Lear led the way back to their coffees with a smug, got-away-with-it smile. He produced a packet of Extra-Strong Mints from a pocket, and popped one into his mouth. ‘Hide the evidence, eh?’ He grinned as he offered the packet across.
    Charles felt uncomfortable. There was something too calculating in all this, too cunning. He knew he drank too much, but he felt there was a degree of spontaneity about his drinking. Surely his own approach had never been this cold-blooded . . .? He did, nonetheless, take one of the Extra-Strong Mints.
    Mark Lear grinned. ‘Should keep us going till the end of the day’s recording. The old “maintenance dose”, eh?’
    Charles resented the implication. He didn’t like the way Mark spoke of their two problems as if they were the same. Mark was clearly an alcoholic, who was in chemical need of a ‘maintenance dose’. Whereas Charles, on the other hand . . . But he knew the exaggerated pique at his friend’s words rose from a suspicion that they might be all too applicable to himself.
    On his way back to the cubicle, Charles thought he caught a flash of suspicion in Lisa’s face as she looked at her partner and Mark averted his eye. But the moment didn’t last. Lisa had clearly been busy on the phone