Mr Lonely, page 16
‘Are you going to work there, then?’
‘Around Christmas.’
‘Really?’
‘They want me to do a week or two just before Christmas. It’s the worst time of the year for business so they won’t be taking too much of a gamble with someone who’s unknown over there. But the money is ridiculous.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it? You know, working Vegas.’
‘Good—it’s great.’
‘I’ve never been to Vegas.’
‘I have.’ Sid tried to smile, but found it too difficult.
‘Are you taking Carrie?’ she asked, sitting up.
‘If she wants to go.’ He was slowly trying to move some of his limbs.
‘Well, if she doesn’t and you want someone to carry your bags …’
‘And I suppose your husband’ll carry my music.’
‘Oh yes … I forgot I’m getting married.’
‘I could talk Carrie out of going,’ Sid said, putting one foot in front of the other with about as much confidence as a drunken baby.
‘What’s Vegas like at Christmas, darling?’
‘I’m told it’s fantastic.’
Bobbers got out of the bed and quickly put on a négligé. She caught up with Sid, who was slowly walking towards the bathroom rather like a young geriatric. ‘Sid, help me to think,’ she said. ‘I mean there must be a way for you to take me to Vegas with you!’
‘There is,’ he said in a dark brown voice. ‘Tell your husband-to-be that you want to go there for your honeymoon. He’ll do anything for you, that’s what you told me.’
‘Sid, you are a genius. That’s a fantastic idea.’
‘Sweetheart, that’s not an idea, it’s a plan.’ He had reached the bathroom door and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. ‘How could you love anything like that?’ he coughed.
‘I don’t. But he could force me into telling lies when we get to Vegas.’
Sid left her for the bright lights of the bathroom. Bobbers made her way to the kitchen and started to make some strong black coffee. She then sat down at the table to wait and think. Getting her husband to agree was easy, and by the look of it Sid could go without his wife. And with him being a star, he must have connections over there, so he would be able to get them a hotel room and things like theatre tickets. Oh, it was going to be terrific, with all that lovely weather and all those shops … She felt a tremendous excitement at the thought of having her husband and a lover with her on her honeymoon.
When Sid walked into the kitchen, she was on her second cup of coffee and had mentally packed three suitcases to take with her. Sid was dressed in yesterday’s suit; it had lain on the floor all night.
‘You okay now, darling?’ she purred.
‘Coffee,’ he snarled. He was losing his avocado colour as there was a little bit of red creeping in to his face. At the moment he had the look of a cut-out pumpkin on Hallowe’en, with his eyes as the two burning candles. His movement was more relaxed now and less like a surfboard with legs. She poured him a mug of hot black coffee and he gripped it in his hands like a cowboy next to his camp-fire. He sipped the steaming hot liquid. The only sound in the kitchen was his quick slurps.
‘Darling?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘If I get Robin to take me to Vegas for our honeymoon, when would you be going? It would be nice to stay at the same hotel. Maybe you could fix it, I mean a room for Robin and me.’ She refilled his mug.
‘That would be easy,’ he croaked. He ahemed twice and his left eye winked out of control while his right eye just looked unblinkingly ahead. ‘Baby,’ he muttered.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘What did I have to drink last night?’
‘Well, there was a couple of whiskeys here, apart from those at the studios, half a bottle of ouzo—’
‘Ouzo … What’s ouzo?’
‘Ouzo, my lamb, is a Greek drink of very high spirit content, which, when you pour water on to it, goes a cloudy white and has a flavour of aniseed. The Greeks drink it very slowly and with a lot of water. Last night you insisted neat was the right way, and you drank half a bottle, quickly. That was followed by a bottle of red wine, a very good Beaujolais to be exact, of which I had a glass—full, I admit—but one glass. You managed the rest, plus two large Kümmels, then back here you had a bottle of champagne and four large brandies, and that was while I was with you. Then we went to bed.’ She smiled.
He noticed the smile; it was the smile of reminiscence. ‘I was good, eh?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I was asleep before you got into bed. The last time I saw you, before I fell asleep, you were trying to get your trousers off over your head. Looking at you this morning, I would say you made it.’ She finished her coffee.
‘You mean,’ he said, with genuine surprise in his voice, ‘you’re still a virgin?’
‘As far as you’re concerned, I am,’ she laughed. ‘But personally, I’m not a fanatic about it …’
‘What’s the time now?’ He tried to do an attractive leer.
‘It’s too late or too early. Besides, look at the state you’re in. I don’t want your TV producer here surrounded by Scotland Yard men looking down at your dead body. Have a little—and I hate to say the word—breakfast. It will do you the world of good. Then phone for a cab to take you to the BBC.’ She got up to put her cup on the draining board, adding, ‘Not that I care about your wife, Marie—’
‘Carrie.’
‘Carrie, but, you know, what about you being out all last night? What will she say?’
‘I rang her last night and told her I was staying at a hotel as the car had been locked in the underground garage and the attendant had gone home with the keys by mistake.’
‘She would believe that?’ Bobbers asked, unbelieving.
‘Why not?’ Sid said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Sid, if she believed that rubbish, she deserves you. She’s probably got a lover of her own.’
Sid roared with laughter even though it hurt. ‘Carrie, a lover?’
‘Why not?’
‘Do me a favour.’
‘Come on, Sid. Why not? Is there something wrong with her? Has she got bolts sticking out of the back of her neck?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ he said quickly and defensively. ‘As a matter of fact, she’s a knockout. She’s still got a great figure and lovely soft skin, and not a mark on her legs. There’s nothing wrong with her.’
‘So wouldn’t or couldn’t somebody else think that?’
‘If I found out, I’d kill him.’
‘That’s typical that is. If I found out, I’d kill him. So chauvinistic, so bloody typical.’
‘Could I have some more coffee?’ Sid asked.
‘Get it, you know where it is,’ she snapped.
He had obviously touched on a very sore little nerve. She was glaring at him. He still didn’t feel too well and the small but powerful confrontation hadn’t done his hangover much good. ‘Is there a loo close by?’ he whimpered. He looked very rough.
‘There’s the cloakroom one, by the front door,’ she answered. He rose. ‘But don’t you dare be sick in there,’ she shouted to a retreating figure. She was still angry with him, still wanting to get at and irritate him. ‘Would you like a nice greasy bacon sandwich,’ she yelled. The groan was heard four streets away.
Sid arrived at the studios in a taxi, feeling slightly better but still not super fit. The taxi was stopped at the main gate by a uniformed man.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Sid Lewis,’ the driver said nervously, pointing to the back of the cab with his thumb.
The uniformed man peered into the darkness of the cab. ‘Who?’ he demanded.
‘Mr Lewis, Sid Lewis.’
The name meant nothing to the BBC-employed uniformed man. He was joined by another uniformed man who asked, ‘Trouble, Len?’
‘Sez he’s Lewis—Sid.’
The second man peered into the cab, then said, ‘I’ll check.’ He went slowly into an office while the first man peered once more into the cab. The second man came just as slowly back and peered again into the cab. He straightened up, rocked on his heels, looked up into the sky, gave the taxi driver a smile that could freeze the Thames in August and said, ‘Charlie says it’s okay.’
If Charlie said it was okay, you were in. Charlie was the blind chief car park attendant, thought by some to be richer than most of the stars, thanks to astute handling of four or five spaces for cars of the stars. Some stars who didn’t tip were known to have to walk half a mile to the studios—but only when it rained.
The driver of the taxi stalled the car and left it in gear as he tried to start it again. ‘Hurry up; there are others waiting to come in. Come along now,’ said the first uniformed man, followed by the second uniformed man saying, ‘Get this bleeding lump of junk out of ‘ere. Can you ‘ear me? Get it out of ‘ere, you funny little man.’
Obviously an ex-sergeant-major.
At last the car moved and took Sid up to the front of the BBC. Sid had not interfered because he knew it was useless. He paid the cabbie the right money and began to look in another pocket for some change to tip him with, but as soon as the driver had been given his fare he drove off without waiting for a tip.
Once inside the BBC Television Centre, you see a long reception desk manned by three ladies. No matter which one you go to, you will always pick the one who is just going for her coffee break. So you have to ask the lady next to her for your dressing-room key, but she is usually dealing with a messenger with a parcel. So it was when Sid entered that morning.
‘Look, I don’t know. I’m only the messenger. I was told to deliver this parcel to the BBC for a Mr Ammonds.’
‘What does Mr Ammonds do?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Well, there’s no Mr Ammonds in my book of names. There’s a Mr Hammond … If I’m not mistaken, that Mr Ammonds defected.’
‘Eh?’
‘Mr Ammonds. I think he defected. I think he went to another company—you know, went to the other side.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, love, but it does say BBC and this is the BBC, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, in that case the responsibility is now yours. As far as I’m concerned, you can sod Mr Ammonds.’ The messenger then bent down, rezipped the leathers on his legs and left.
‘Cheeky devil,’ the lady snarled. ‘Gerda, did you hear that?’
‘Could I have my key to green six, please,’ Sid asked via a thick head and dry lips.
‘What?’ Gerda shouted back.
‘That bloody messenger.’
‘Six green, please,’ Sid whined.
‘No, what?’
‘Didn’t you hear him? How rude he was?’
‘Number six green.’
‘They’re all rude. You would think we were here for their benefit.’
‘Yes, sir. What number, please?’
‘Green six.’
‘Has Karen come back from coffee break yet?’
‘She’s here now,’ Gerda said.
‘She’ll look after you,’ the upset young lady said as Karen took her place on the stool. ‘It’s my coffee break now.’
‘Yes?’ Karen asked.
‘Six green.’
‘Name?’
‘Lewis, Sid Lewis.’
‘Ah! Mr Lewis, I didn’t recognize you. Aren’t you well?’
‘Fine,’ he belched, as she handed him the key for six red.
‘Thank you.’ He walked away and then looked at the key. ‘This is six red, love,’ he shivered.
‘Yes.’
‘Six green is the one I asked for.’
‘Green?’
‘Green.’
She looked very quickly through the keys. ‘It’s gone,’ she said finally.
‘Gone?’
‘Gone.’
‘How?’
‘Your dresser’s probably taken it.’
‘Did he sign for it?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I only know him as Butch. He’s very thin, about sixty years of age, wears eye make-up and earrings.’
‘Butch what?’ Sid was asked.
‘I don’t know, but look, don’t worry, I’ll find him myself. Now, if I find him, should I send him to you to tell you that I’ve found him, or should I come back and tell you he’s been found, or should we both come back and tell you that we’ve found each other? It’s up to you. What do you think?’
‘Oh, yes,’ was the reply.
Sid didn’t know if she meant it or whether she was funnier than him. To keep himself on an even keel he decided she meant it. After all, when they are as pretty as she was and funnier than him, that was the time to worry.
He weaved his way towards the swing doors leading to the dressing-room area. This is a maze of rooms and corridors that were specifically designed to make you permanently late. After a few wrong turns and a long conversation with another lost comedian, Sid found the colour of area he was supposed to be in. Now he only had to find the dressing-room. After about five more minutes he found a room that he took to be his, all things being equal. It had a number six on the door. Thinking Butch was in there, he walked in, only to find a fading female singing star and a new young comic in the middle of a routine that will never be seen on television.
‘Sorry, sorry. I’m really sorry.’ Sid tried to sound casual, as if he expected to be in this situation.
‘Jesus! Don’t you ever knock?’ the fading star said calmly. The new young comic just stood there and grinned at Sid.
‘Why should I knock to come into my own room?’ Sid remonstrated.
‘This is my room,’ the fading star answered sharply.
‘No, it’s mine. Number six green.’
‘Number six red, this is number six red,’ she told him as she started to comb her hair.
Sid put his head outside the corridor to check. The number on the door was six, but it was on a small red background, not a small green one. He swallowed hard. ‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘forgive me. I am truly sorry. Yes, you are right. I should be in green—I must have somehow got … Er, you haven’t seen Butch anywhere, have you? I’m looking …’ His voice faded.
‘I suppose this will be all over the studios now,’ she wept.
‘Why?’ Sid asked. ‘You’re not going to mention it, are you, son?’ he said to the still-grinning new comic.
‘Not me. Can I have your autograph, Mr Lewis? No, I mean, when I tell the wife I’ve seen you she’ll be knocked out. She thinks you’re great. So do I. Bloody great.’ Walking over to his trousers, he fished out a scrap of paper. ‘I based the whole of my act on yours. I copy everything you do,’ he grinned.
‘Thanks,’ Sid said.
‘You never told me you were married,’ the female voice said. ‘How dare you … Get out of my room, you creep!’ The grinning new comic was looking for some of his clothes.
‘Who do I make this out to? What’s your wife’s name?’ Sid asked.
‘Elsie,’ the grin replied, adjusting his pants and tucking his shirt in. Sid gave him his bit of paper, the new, young, grinning comic looked at it, nodded his head, said, ‘Thanks,’ and left the room. It was now very quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the static coming from the fading star’s hair as it was still being combed.
‘Well, I’ll be going now, I’m late for rehearsals as it is.’ Sid made for the door.
‘Sid, sit down a minute,’ she said.
‘I’m late already,’
‘Please, Sid,’ she begged. ‘I’m so confused.’
Sid sat on the arm of the settee. He was a star and being a few minutes late was really no sweat. ‘You’re confused about what?’ he asked.
‘That horrible little man.’ She looked at Sid through the mirror as she sat down. ‘I didn’t know he was married, honest,’ she purred. ‘You know me, Sid. I mean, how long have we known each other now, Sid? Good God, you got one of your big breaks on one of my shows, didn’t you, dear?’ Sid nodded. ‘Well, they’ve asked me if I’d use that little squirt on my new special. Well, I mean, I had to say yes. They want us to do a dance routine together and a couple of songs, and they want me to do one of his sketches. He works like you, but he’s nowhere near you, Sid.’ She got up and took a cigarette from her handbag. ‘I happened to meet him in reception and he asked if he could carry one of my bags.’ Sid just made the appropriate noises. ‘I mean, I never knew he was going to attack me. It was a good job you came in when you did, darling.’ She lit the cigarette and drew an enormous amount of smoke down into her lungs. ‘You won’t tell anybody, will you, Sid? You won’t, will you, darling?’ She looked at him directly for the first time since he had stumbled into the room.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘What do you take me for?’
She smiled a thankful smile and took another drag of smoke in. ‘Haven’t you been well, darling?’ she asked, looking at him as she walked nervously around the room.
‘Food-poisoning,’ he lied.
‘Oh’. She was over by the door. She turned the key and took it out of the lock, looked at him and threw the key on to the dressing-table close to him.
Sid rose from the arm of the settee and walked past her towards the door, key in hand. He checked that it was locked this time, switched out the lights and heard the sound of clothes being discarded. He slowly and quietly unlocked the door and walked out. As he walked along the corridor he heard a female voice shout a word that his father would definitely deny.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
June, 1978
Sid had seen some beautiful women in his time—and his time was usually between nine-thirty p.m. and one-thirty a.m. Now being a star, he went around in the social circle to receptions or, as they were called in his youth, parties. He was very popular at these receptions and luncheons, and often he would be invited to a small private dinner of six to twelve up-market people. He was a star. ‘Lord and Lady Up-market request the pleasure of Mr and Mrs Sid Lewis’, ‘Sir Henry and Lady Beatrice …’, ‘The Right Honourable …’, ‘The Russian Embassy’, and so on and so on. Mrs Lewis rarely went. This was known within the circle, so a lone female guest was often invited.
