Dead Room Farce Read Free

‘charitable work and services to the theatre’. Any woman who could put up with his whingeing and worrying on all the time about those two subjects would have no difficulty in staying married to him.
    But, thought Charles wryly, Bernard Walton wouldn’t be the first star to have maintained a front of devoted domesticity and had a vibrantly active alternative sex-life going on. Nonetheless, the whispered words to Pippa Trewin did still seem out of character. Apart from anything else, dalliances with young actresses weren’t recommended for an actor with his sights set on a knighthood.
    Still, the conjectural infidelity of Bernard Walton wasn’t Charles Paris’s problem, and, besides, he was in no position to contemplate first-stone-casting. Charles’s own sex-life was currently moribund, and he was at that worrying stage of a man’s life, his late fifties, when ‘moribund’ could easily become ‘over’. Maybe he never would make love to a woman again. The current frostiness of his relationship with Frances, the woman to whom he was still technically married, offered little hope of a rapprochement, and there weren’t currently any other contenders for the role of Charles Paris’s bed-mate.
    The only detail about the whole sad subject that gave him the occasional flicker of optimism was that, although nothing was actually happening, he hadn’t lost the desire for something to happen. He still woke up randy in the mornings, and the flash of a leg, an image on the television, the glimpse of a woman on a poster, could still work their old, predictable, frustrating magic.
    These were his thoughts as Charles Paris made his way through to the cloakroom at the end of rehearsal. The coat that he lifted off its hook felt lopsidedly heavy, and Charles remembered with relief that he’d got a half-bottle of Bell’s whisky in the pocket. Not a full half-bottle, probably a half-full half-bottle, but it was still a reassuring presence. He had a sudden urge to feel the slight resistance of the metal cap turning in his hand, the touch of upturned glass against his lips, the burn of the liquor in his throat.
    He looked around. He was alone in the cloakroom. Just a quick sip . . .? But no. Someone might walk in, and there are certain reputations no actor wants to get in a company – particularly at the beginning of a three-month tour.
    It wasn’t as if he didn’t need a pee, anyway. Charles slipped on his coat and went through into the Gents’. Once there, although the pressure was only on his bladder, he ignored the urinals in favour of a cubicle. He went in and locked the door.
    Just one quick swig. To make him more relaxed when he joined the rest of the company.
    Mm, God, it was good. He felt the whisky trickle down, performing its Midas touch, sending a golden glow right through his body. Mm, just one more. Lovely.
    And a third. But that was it. Charles Paris knew when to stop. He firmly screwed down the cap on the bottle, thrust it deep into his coat pocket, and went off to join the rest of the company in the pub.
    â€˜Sorry, old boy. Didn’t have time to get to the cash machine and it’s my round. Don’t suppose you could sub me a tenner?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Charles opened his wallet expansively. It was Thursday; he’d just been paid. ‘Help yourself.’
    â€˜Well, I’ll take twenty, just to be sure. But you’ll have it back tomorrow, promise. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being in debt to anyone.’
    â€˜No problem.’ Charles was feeling in a generous mood. His Bell’s level had been topped up by a double from David J. Girton’s first round, and then a couple more. Now, ever the one to know how to moderate his drinking, Charles Paris was on the red wine. And that seemed to be slipping down a treat too. He was feeling really bloody good.
    The beneficiary of his bountiful