‘What time do you make it?’
Mona squinted at a tiny gold watch. ‘Eight-thirty. I shan’t be staying late. I’m voice-coaching in the morning, teaching a class of Essex girls not to use glottal stops. They hardly need elocution to work in nail salons, but the money’s good.’
The vast semicircular lounge had a sweeping curve of glass overlooking the Palladian streets below Trafalgar Square. All along the blue silk back wall were arranged dozens of theatre souvenirs: playbills, autographed headshots, programmes and props. At any one time there were over two hundred plays booking in London, and their convoluted histories were well represented here. The Duchess, the Duke of York’s, Wyndham’s, the Garrick, the Aldwych. Gielgud, Olivier, Richardson, Bernhardt, they all smiled down at the guests. There were Indonesian silhouettes and Chinese shadow puppets, Italian harlequins and French Guignol dolls.
On one side of the lounge door stood a grotesque iron-plate minstrel in a top hat that grinned and rolled its eyes when fed coins. On the other side was a Jolly Jack Tar in a wooden case. The Victorian seaside amusement was a museum piece that seemed designed for the specific purpose of giving children nightmares. Its skin was just plaster, its rictus smile mere painted wood, but it looked leathery and cancerous, like an embalmed corpse. When a ten-pence piece was inserted, it rocked back and forth squealing with laughter while a crackly organ recording of ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ played. The sailor grinned and eyed the guests from the side of its moulting head, as if to say I know what you’re up to.
It was, everyone agreed, an extraordinary apartment. But then, it belonged to an extraordinary man, the host of this evening’s event.
‘I used to love the theatre,’ Mona Williams said. ‘So many British playwrights wrote eloquently about the human condition. Griffiths, Ayckbourn, Brenton, Nichols, Barnes—they created proper parts for real women, but where are those parts now? These days I’ll settle for a play that’s got a practical meal in the first half and a sofa in the second, so long as it’s closer to the West End than Harrow-on-the-Hill.’
Always bitching, thought Neil Crofting wearily. She’s hardly been off the stage all her acting life, and still she complains about being hard done by. The West End is full of dreadful old musicals starring teenagers from TV talent shows. She should be glad she’s still working.
A dull rumble of thunder tinkled the glasses on the sideboard, like an approaching earthquake. A moment later, rain drummed against the great windows of the penthouse. The conversation lowered its volume for a moment, as if in respect of the gods above.
A knife rang out against the side of a delicate Lady Hamilton wineglass.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment.’
The host, Robert Julius Kramer, glared at the room’s inhabitants until they became more stilled by him than by the storm outside. ‘Thank you all so much for joining me here tonight in celebration of our first production, The Two Murderers. As you know, we took the unprecedented step of providing the critics with a special matinee today, in order to guarantee simultaneous reviews for the production. So far their advance comments have been, shall we say, unequivocal.’ A ripple of uneasy laughter pulsed through the room; the reaction of the critics as they filed glumly out into a miserable afternoon on the Strand had been absolutely horrific. ‘However, our producer, Gregory Baine, has just handed me a spreadsheet of the advance bookings, and I can safely say that we already have a guaranteed three-month run ahead of us. A clear indication that the public has much better taste than the critics.’
Everyone turned around and stared at the critics in the room, who squirmed awkwardly. When it came to creating nervous tension, the party’s host was a master of his art.
‘It matters not,’ Kramer continued, ‘because there’s always a new Hamlet at the National for the critics to enjoy, and there’s always something in the West End to please the sensation-seekers, so everybody wins. Although I’d happily stage Shakespeare with pole dancers if I thought it would get more bums on seats. I’m a showman, not an intellectual.’
‘You can say that again,’ murmured Mona.
The embarrassed amusement turned to forced applause. Kramer air-patted his congregation back into obedient attention. ‘As you know, my plan is to establish a permanent company at this theatre, starring in at least three repertory productions throughout the next winter season, four if we can manage it. And I am pleased to announce that we will begin casting for the second of these productions within the next few weeks. I’d like to thank our wonderful leads, Della Fortess and Marcus Sigler; my producer, Gregory Baine; our director, Russell Haddon, who has guided us through perilous seas; our brilliant set designer, Ella Maltby; our genius writer, Ray Pryce; and especially my lovely wife, Judith, whose handbag habit requires that I continue working later in life than I had intended. Oh, and to the critics here who were happy to take our bribes, stay and enjoy your free champagne. Now, I’d like you to charge your glasses to The Two Murderers—long may they continue to bring death and destruction to the West End.’