Free Situation Tragedy by Simon Brett Page A

suspects.
    â€˜So you saw Sadie after the pilot recording finished at ten?’
    â€˜That’s right. I met someone in the bar who told me what she was doing that evening and waylaid her as she came out of the studio. I suggested a drink and got my head bitten off, so I said what I really wanted to ask her and . . .
    â€˜Had your other head bitten off?’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜So you didn’t see her for long?’
    â€˜No, she was very short with me. Said she had other fish to fry. And from the tone of her voice I could have believed she meant it literally. I knew the signs well enough to recognise them. She was spoiling for a row with someone.’
    â€˜You don’t know who?’
    â€˜I know where. She didn’t even stop to talk to me. I had to tag along by her side while she marched ahead to sort out the next poor sod. She just marched into his dressing room and I heard her say before the door closed, “Right, what is all this, you bastard?”’
    â€˜Who was in the dressing room?’
    â€˜Ah, I don’t know.’
    â€˜Which number was it?’
    â€˜Number Three.’
    Number Three, the dressing room whose allocation to him had caused such affront to Bernard Walton.

CHAPTER FIVE
    FILMING DAYS ALWAYS start uncomfortably early. Charles had had a make-up call at seven o’clock. A car had been sent to fetch him, which he might have thought was a flattering recognition of his raised status as an actor if he hadn’t seen the prodigality with which television companies send out cars to deliver scripts, pick up cassettes or collect take-away meals. Needless to say, at six-thirty in the morning the driver’s tattoo on the front door at Hereford Road had failed to wake Charles, but had disturbed the hive of lumpish Swedish girls who occupied the other bedsitters. With their singsong remonstrances and the driver’s belligerent complaints at being kept waiting, he had left the house in some confusion.
    But as he was made up, he relaxed. He always found it a pleasant experience. In the theatre he was used to doing it himself, and to have someone doing it for him was a great luxury. Besides, make-up girls are by tradition extraordinarily attractive. And to sit half-asleep in a comfortable chair while a sweet-smelling girl caresses your face must be the definition of one sort of minor bliss.
    Its only disadvantage is that, like all blisses, it is too short. Only seconds after he had sat down, it seemed, the gentle facial massage stopped, a discreet tap on the shoulder made him open his eyes, he had another second to gaze deeply into the brown eyes of the make-up girl, and then it was time to go and join the rest of the cast in the coach which would take them to the location.
Sic transit gloria mundi
. (So it is that transport brings us from the glorious to the mundane.)
    On the coach, Charles saw that George Birkitt had an empty seat beside him and made towards it, but the actor indicated a pile of scripts and said, ‘Sorry, old boy, lot of studying to do. I seem to have a damned lot of lines to learn for this bloody filming.’
    So Charles went and sat by Debbi Hartley, the actress who played the Strutters’
au pair
. She was a pretty little blonde of about twenty-five, but he had never fancied her. She was the clone of too many other pretty little actresses of twenty-five, and her self-absorption was so great that it was almost impossible to think of her in a sexual context.
    She did not seem to object to his company, and started animatedly into a monologue about the wisdom of having her hair cut short once the
Strutters
series was over. Whereas her agent thought it would make her look younger, certain of her friends were of the opinion that it might make her look older. This was obviously of enormous relevance because when one went up for an interview (Charles had noticed how the new generation of actors never used the word ‘audition’),