Management.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Now, Charles, about this rate of commission you pay me . . .’
The Friday’s meeting for the company of
The Hooded Owl
was held in a superannuated gym near Covent Garden. Everyone was in good spirits, ranging from the quiet complacency of Alex Household to the Christmas Eve child’s exhilaration of Lesley-Jane Decker. The week’s break had relaxed them with that relaxation an actor can only feel when he knows he’s got a job to go to. Those based on London had seen friends, seen shows, talked endlessly; those based outside had sorted out digs or friends to land themselves on, seen shows, talked endlessly. And when they all met up again in the gym, they talked further, volubly, dramatically, hysterically.
The meeting was called for three in the afternoon, but by three-fifteen there was still no sign of Paul Lexington. At one end of the gym there was a folding table with a couple of chairs, from which he would no doubt address them when he arrived. One chair was already occupied by a young man in a beige suit with immaculately waved hair. No one knew who he was or made any attempt to talk to him, but he didn’t seem worried by this. He just sat at the table looking through some papers and playing with a pencil.
Peter Hickton wasn’t expected at the meeting. He was still monitoring his next Taunton production,
Ten Little Indians
(called by its author, Agatha Christie, in less sensitive times,
Ten Little Niggers
), which had opened on the Wednesday. He would come up to town for the re-rehearsal, starting on the following Monday. In the view of most of die cast, two weeks was an excessive allocation of time to re-rehearse a show they had brought to such a pitch of perfection in Taunton. They reckoned they were in for a fairly lazy fortnight.
At three-twenty Paul Lexington arrived. He clutched a brief-case full of papers, and still looked pretty exhausted, but he had lost the wild look of the last week at Taunton. His confidence had returned a hundredfold.
‘Sorry I’m late, everyone. There’s been a lot to arrange, and one particular deal I only got signed half an hour ago. Have you all met Wallas?’
He indicated the young man in the beige suit. No, it was clear no one had met him. ‘Ah, this is Wallas Ward, who is going to be our Company Manager.
Wallas Ward nodded languidly, and the company looked at him with new interest. The Company Manager would play a significant part in their lives during the run. He was the management’s representative, responsible for the day-to-day running of the show. It would help if the cast got on with him, though, because of his allegiance to the management, they would never quite trust him.
‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘I’m sorry that we haven’t got round to contacting your agents during the last week, but it has been very busy. I’ve had to set up a Production Office, sort out the deals with Denis Thornton and Bobby Anscombe – there’s been a hell of a lot to do.’
‘Still, the important bits are now settled, and the result of it all is . . .’ He paused, seeming uncertain, which was out of character for him. ‘Well, let me say that I have some good news and some bad news for you.’
The cast was absolutely silent. This was the first discordant note since the euphoria of the Taunton party.
‘Now, as you know, Bobby Anscombe is coming in with me on this production. The credit’ll read: “Paul Lexington Productions, in association with Bobby Anscombe”. Now this is excellent news for the show. I don’t think I need to give you a list of Bobby’s successes. He’s got the best nose in the business, and the fact that he’s with us means that we’re going to have a hit.’
He paused again. The cast hardly breathed. They hadn’t had the bad news yet.
Paul Lexington chose his words with care. ‘Now Bobby Anscombe’s success in the theatre hasn’t been just coincidence. He knows what makes a show work, and, if all the elements
‘Oh yes?’
‘Now, Charles, about this rate of commission you pay me . . .’
The Friday’s meeting for the company of
The Hooded Owl
was held in a superannuated gym near Covent Garden. Everyone was in good spirits, ranging from the quiet complacency of Alex Household to the Christmas Eve child’s exhilaration of Lesley-Jane Decker. The week’s break had relaxed them with that relaxation an actor can only feel when he knows he’s got a job to go to. Those based on London had seen friends, seen shows, talked endlessly; those based outside had sorted out digs or friends to land themselves on, seen shows, talked endlessly. And when they all met up again in the gym, they talked further, volubly, dramatically, hysterically.
The meeting was called for three in the afternoon, but by three-fifteen there was still no sign of Paul Lexington. At one end of the gym there was a folding table with a couple of chairs, from which he would no doubt address them when he arrived. One chair was already occupied by a young man in a beige suit with immaculately waved hair. No one knew who he was or made any attempt to talk to him, but he didn’t seem worried by this. He just sat at the table looking through some papers and playing with a pencil.
Peter Hickton wasn’t expected at the meeting. He was still monitoring his next Taunton production,
Ten Little Indians
(called by its author, Agatha Christie, in less sensitive times,
Ten Little Niggers
), which had opened on the Wednesday. He would come up to town for the re-rehearsal, starting on the following Monday. In the view of most of die cast, two weeks was an excessive allocation of time to re-rehearse a show they had brought to such a pitch of perfection in Taunton. They reckoned they were in for a fairly lazy fortnight.
At three-twenty Paul Lexington arrived. He clutched a brief-case full of papers, and still looked pretty exhausted, but he had lost the wild look of the last week at Taunton. His confidence had returned a hundredfold.
‘Sorry I’m late, everyone. There’s been a lot to arrange, and one particular deal I only got signed half an hour ago. Have you all met Wallas?’
He indicated the young man in the beige suit. No, it was clear no one had met him. ‘Ah, this is Wallas Ward, who is going to be our Company Manager.
Wallas Ward nodded languidly, and the company looked at him with new interest. The Company Manager would play a significant part in their lives during the run. He was the management’s representative, responsible for the day-to-day running of the show. It would help if the cast got on with him, though, because of his allegiance to the management, they would never quite trust him.
‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘I’m sorry that we haven’t got round to contacting your agents during the last week, but it has been very busy. I’ve had to set up a Production Office, sort out the deals with Denis Thornton and Bobby Anscombe – there’s been a hell of a lot to do.’
‘Still, the important bits are now settled, and the result of it all is . . .’ He paused, seeming uncertain, which was out of character for him. ‘Well, let me say that I have some good news and some bad news for you.’
The cast was absolutely silent. This was the first discordant note since the euphoria of the Taunton party.
‘Now, as you know, Bobby Anscombe is coming in with me on this production. The credit’ll read: “Paul Lexington Productions, in association with Bobby Anscombe”. Now this is excellent news for the show. I don’t think I need to give you a list of Bobby’s successes. He’s got the best nose in the business, and the fact that he’s with us means that we’re going to have a hit.’
He paused again. The cast hardly breathed. They hadn’t had the bad news yet.
Paul Lexington chose his words with care. ‘Now Bobby Anscombe’s success in the theatre hasn’t been just coincidence. He knows what makes a show work, and, if all the elements
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