Free Situation Tragedy by Simon Brett Page B

first impressions were vital and if the director thought of one as too old, one wouldn’t stand a chance for ingenue roles, or if he thought of one as too young, then one wouldn’t get the sort of
femme fatale
parts, because no one ever realised how versatile one was and it was so difficult to avoid getting typecast, but she, Debbi, thought she was just at the stage in her career to do something a bit different, so showing she could do other things as well as the little-bit-of-fluff parts, what did Charles think?
    Since he didn’t really think anything, he didn’t say anything, but his lack of response did not deflect Debbi from the course of her debate.
    Charles looked round. The coach was filling up. Mort Verdon stood at the front, checking names against a clipboard. Janie Lewis entered importantly, carrying piles of bits of paper. He contemplated joining her and exchanging discussion of hair length for that of the relative merits of film and mobile VTR recording, quoted directly from Ernie Franklyn Junior or some other guru of the W.E.T. canteen. There wasn’t much to choose in conversation; the only difference was that he did fancy Janie, whereas he didn’t fancy Debbi.
    On the other hand . . . By the time the coach was on Westway, his eyes had closed. Beside him, Debbi Hartley continued to enumerate her virtues as an actress. It was half an hour before she noticed he was asleep.
    Bernard Walton lived in a large house, set on a hill between Cookham and Bourne End. Charles woke up as the coach turned off the main road into his drive. The house was at this point invisible because of the steepness of the incline, but the approach was impressive. A gravel drive zigzagged up through immaculately planted gardens. Neat stone walls bordered it and on these, at intervals, stood tall terracotta urns from which variegated displays of flowers spilled.
    As the coach groaned and protested through its lowest gears on the hairpin turns, its occupants could see the view the house commanded. At the foot of the hill, green, flat water-meadows spread to the broad gleam of the Thames. Beyond, woods obscured most signs of human habitation.
    Round one last corner and they saw the house itself. It was Thirties Tudor, black and white, not scoring many aesthetic marks, but impressive just for its bulk and position. A tennis court and a service cottage brought right angles to the landscaped curves of the garden. Beyond a neat privet hedge could be seen the polite undulations of a golf course. If the whole location had a manufactured air, it was very fitting for the character of its owner.
    Bernard Walton stood in front of the large oak door waving welcome. More than welcome, he was waving possession and condescension. By allowing
The Strutters
to use his home, he had given the series his seal of approval. But he had also diminished it, as if it existed only by his mandate.
    Charles caught George Birkitt’s eye. ‘Ostentatious bugger,’ murmured the star of
The Strutters
.
    â€˜All part of the image,’ said Charles lightly.
    â€˜Yes. God, if I had his money, I hope I’d show a little bit more reticence.’ But there was a note of wistfulness in George Birkitt’s voice. Bernard Walton’s house had struck a psychological blow against him. He might be the star of
The Strutters
and he might be about to make a great deal of money. But he hadn’t made it yet. Whatever his fantasies, he had still a long way to go to catch up with a real, established star.
    Bernard Walton greeted them effusively. ‘Do make yourselves at home. I’m just pottering around today, so ask if there’s anything you need. The
Sun
’s coming down to do an interview this morning and I’m recording a few links for some radio show this afternoon, but otherwise I’m completely at your disposal. Do remember you’re my guests.’
    This was pure Bernard Walton and Charles couldn’t help admiring