The Dead Side of the Mike Read Free Page A

tomorrow. It’s my own fault. I stayed the extra day.’
    Steve explained. ‘She was due back yesterday to start work today. But she decided to stay on.’
    â€˜Ah, it was very important. I was finding out some very interesting things. I had to stay. It was necessary to the cause of investigative journalism.’ She stumbled over the last two words. ‘I have found something eminently worthy of investigation.’
    â€˜Are you a journalist?’ asked Charles.
    â€˜No, just a humble SM. Today an SM – tomorrow ruler of the world or dead in the attempt.’ She dropped into an accent for the last phrase. Charles revised his earlier opinion that she was drunk. She had had a few drinks, but her excitement was more emotional.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I don’t speak BBC. What’s an SM?’
    â€˜Studio Manager. Knob-twiddler, teacup-rattler, editor, tape-machine starter and what you will.’
    â€˜Ah. So what does that mean in practical terms? I mean, what have you done today?’
    â€˜Today? God, what day is it? Today started about forty hours ago with pancakes and bacon in a coffee shop on a very hot Lexington Avenue . . . But, coming up to date, having been met at Heathrow by my good friend, Miss Stephanie Kennett, I rushed to Maida Vale to record a music session for the famous Dave Sheridan.’
    â€˜Should I know him?’
    â€˜What, you mean you don’t know the famous disc jockey? Him, over there – with Nita Lawson – she’s his Executive Producer.’ She pointed to the tall man who had deferred to Charles at the bar. ‘The session was the usual Radio Two treacle – I say . . .’ A new thought struck her. ‘If you haven’t heard of Dave Sheridan, can it be that you are a lover of real music? Real classical music?’
    â€˜Sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very musical at all.’
    â€˜Oh, never mind. It’s just that in these degenerate days, lovers of real music have got to stick together. And fight the barbarian hordes who play Simon and Pumpernickel into the wee small hours of the morning.’ She grimaced at Steve, who said ‘Simon and Garfunkel’ with automatic amusement. It was evidently an old joke between them.
    â€˜Anyway, where was I?’ Andrea was so wound up that nothing could stop her flow. ‘Yes, right, that was the music session, at which would you believe the great man Dave Sheridan actually put in an appearance. So we exchanged badinage. Then, after the session, I hopped into a taxi – which I can claim because I was carrying tapes and they can be wiped by travelling on the Underground – took them up to the Library and here I am. This evening I have to record – would you believe – a European Cup soccer match. It’s not even my group. Someone’s sick in the other lot and I’m on standby. The match is broadcast live from Munich at nine o’clock and I have to sit in a channel and record it. How long do soccer matches last?’
    â€˜I don’t know. An hour and a half maybe.’
    â€˜Ugh. So, if I don’t drop dead beforehand, half-past ten will see me staggering into a cab, telling the driver to take me to Paddington, taking a Mogadon and falling into bed for about a fortnight.’
    â€˜I’m sure you could get someone else to record this match for you,’ Steve remonstrated. ‘You look dead on your feet. Alick’d do it, I’m sure, if he’s free.’
    â€˜I am booked for it,’ said Andrea stubbornly, ‘and I’ll do it. I can do anything at the moment. I’m on an incredible high.’
    â€˜So it seems,’ said Charles.
    â€˜Just try not to be around when the low comes.’
    Andrea’s ebullience was momentarily curbed by the appearance of Mark with the drinks.
    â€˜I’m sorry I took so long. I was talking to John Christie and . . . Oh, hello.’
    Neither Mark nor Andrea