Murder in the Title by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online Page B

grovel.
    â€˜Good, that’s settled then.’ The General Manager screwed up the Stage Manager’s report and threw it into his waste paper basket. ‘You know, I think part of the trouble for you is that you’ve got so little to do in this show.’
    â€˜Maybe. I think we should try to get you more involved in the company. Perhaps there’ll be a part in another of our forthcoming productions.’
    â€˜Well, that’d be very . . .’
    â€˜I’ll see what I can do.’
    At that moment the intercom on Donald’s desk buzzed and a female voice crackled, ‘Mrs Feller in the foyer. She wants to come and see you about
Shove It
.’
    â€˜Oh God. Okay, send her up.’ Donald Mason rose from his desk and straightened his tie. ‘Have you come across the redoubtable Mrs Feller, Charles?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You will. She’s Rugland Spa’s answer to Mrs Whitehouse. A one-woman Puritan Backlash, who only comes to the theatre to count the number of letters in the words.’
    â€˜So she isn’t going to care for
Shove It
.’
    â€˜No. There’ll be protest meetings, picketings, strong letters to the local paper . . . Honestly, what a bloody stupid choice of play for Rugland Spa. Over half the population’s past retirement age – they’re hardly going to lap up the Anglo-Saxon diatribes of Royston Everett.’
    â€˜The theatre’s got to do some modern stuff.’
    â€˜Modern, yes, but it doesn’t have to be obscene. I sometimes think Tony’s judgement has gone completely. He’s just lost touch with reality.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Still, again not your problem, Charles. Anyway, with regard to you, we’ll leave things as they are – Okay?’
    â€˜Yes. Thank you very much.’
    â€˜And if Tony –’
    Donald Mason was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Mrs Feller. This is obviously the early stage of her campaign – she still bothers to knock. It’ll get worse.’
    He extended his hand to the actor. ‘Thanks for coming in, Charles. I’m relying on you, so keep it up.’
    Considering the circumstances, Charles reflected, the General Manager’s final cliché was singularly inapposite.
    Well-being flooded through Charles. Partly it was the first symptom of recovery from his hangover, that breakthrough moment when continuing existence first seems a possibility. When he had woken, three hours previously, the movement from horizontal to vertical had seemed insuperable, and yet here he was, on two feet, moving around, suffering from nothing worse than a light headache playing around his temples. He was even feeling hunger, a sensation which he thought had abandoned his body for ever.
    He went into a little café near the theatre and tucked into an espresso coffee and two jam doughnuts.
    Of course the euphoria wasn’t just physical. The interview with Donald Mason had contributed enormously. Though he’d thought he’d wanted the catharsis of dismissal, he was deeply relieved to have been spared it. Basically he had a respect for his profession and was disgusted by his unprofessional behaviour.
    And the surprise of how he had misjudged the General Manager’s character added an extra glow.
    All he had to do was to behave impeccably for the remainder of the run of
The Message Is Murder
.
    And sort out where he stood with Frances.
    There was a payphone in the café. But there was still no reply from his wife’s number at her new flat in Highgate.
    Still, she was unlikely to be there at twelve o’clock in the morning. If it was term-time, she’d be hard at work at the school where she was headmistress. And if it was half-term or holiday . . . oh God, he could never remember when they came. Frances’ life was always sliced up into neat segments by these academic dividers, while his own remained a shifting