A Decent Interval Read Free

enormously with a little encouragement.
    tony copeland: I personally think it’s cruel to encourage someone who has no talent.
    ned english: Are you saying Kelly-Marie has no talent?
    tony copeland: I’ve seen more talent in a plank of wood.
    [Shocked audience laughter. Camera cuts to unfortunate aspirant, having even more difficulty in fighting back the tears.]
    ned english: Oh, that’s just unfair, Tony.
    tony copeland: I agree. Yes, I apologize for what I said.
    ned english: I’m glad to hear it.
    tony copeland: Comparing Kelly-Marie to a plank of wood is definitely unfair … to planks of wood!
    [Riotous audience laughter and applause. Camera cuts to unfortunate aspirant, now in floods of tears, being led away by a hostess in a sparkly dress.]
    And so
StarHunt
went on, like all so-called ‘reality shows’, humiliating members of the public, an activity rather easier than shooting fish in a barrel.
    Charles Paris noted that Ned English also looked different. Even back in Hornchurch days he had been completely grey, and yet for television he sported a glossy mane of chestnut hair. And his dark brown eyes now peered through round comedy tortoiseshell glasses.
    Watching the repeat of
StarHunt
made Charles extremely cross. Is this what the theatre’s come to? he fulminated into his whisky glass. Can’t a production of one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays get into the West End without this ridiculous publicity circus? And, even more pertinent, can’t Ophelia be cast by the normal auditioning process, to reward some genuinely talented young person who has worked her way through drama school and the early dispiriting uncertainties of a professional career in the theatre? Rather than some jumped-up teenager from Essex whose Mum produced fond footage of her singing and dancing to the video camera at the age of two?
    The thought brought Charles back to one of the enduring qualities of his profession – its unfairness. Like most actors, he reckoned that if talent were all, the hierarchy at the top of the theatrical tree would take a very different form. But it wasn’t the most skilled actors who tended to get the breaks. It was often the ones who came with some publicity story attached, some special detail that brought them to the notice of the public. It didn’t have to be much. Good looks were sometimes enough. Being in a relationship with someone more famous never hurt. And, of course, being born into a theatrical dynasty made you a shoo-in.
    Charles Paris had lost count of the number of actors he had encountered who were more talented than the ones he’d seen become stars. And though he’d never admit it to anyone for fear of sounding as if he’d overdosed on sour grapes, he did actually include himself in that number. If only he’d had the breaks, Charles Paris’s career could have been … But no, he must stop thinking like that. It wasn’t helpful and was unlikely to improve his mood.
    He thought back to a production of
Hamlet
he’d seen with his wife Frances not that long before. He couldn’t remember exactly how long, and he wondered whether it was actually the last time they’d met. Must ring Frances, he reminded himself. Though they didn’t cohabit, Charles liked to feel that there was a lot of warmth still between them.
    The reason they had seen the production was that the actor playing Hamlet was the boyfriend of one of his wife’s former pupils. (Frances was headmistress of a girls’ school.) The girl – whatever her name was, he’d forgotten – was playing Ophelia. But what Charles remembered was being blown away by the young man’s raw talent and the intelligence of his interpretation of one of the best parts in world theatre. What was his name? Something hyphenated … Oh yes, Sam Newton-Reid.
    Charles remembered talking to the boy with his girlfriend in the bar afterwards. The venue wasn’t