got nicked for waving his willy at a couple of lasses. He must have thought that were dead and buried long since. Then up it pops on the front of the News of the World. And his wife a churchwarden.’ She shook her head. I remembered the story.
‘He quit the programme, didn’t he?’ I asked, making a note of our winning score and gathering the cards to me so I could shuffle while Gloria dealt the next hand with the other pack.
‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’ Clive intoned. It would have sounded sinister from someone who didn’t have a snub nose and a dimple in his chin and a manner only marginally less camp than Kenneth Williams. It was hard to believe he was happily married with three kids, but according to Gloria, the limp-wristed routine was nothing more than a backstage affectation. ‘And I should know,’ she’d winked. I didn’t ask.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked now.
‘John Turpin’s what he means,’ Gloria said. ‘I told you about Turpin, didn’t I? The management’s hatchet man. Administration and Production Coordinator, they call him. Scumbag, we call him. Just a typical bloody TV executive who’s never made a programme all his born days but thinks he knows better than everybody else what makes good telly.’
‘Turpin’s in charge of cast contracts,’ Clive explained, sorting his cards. ‘So he’s the one who’s technically responsible when there’s a leak to the press. He’s been running around like all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled into one for the last six months. He threatens, he rants, he rages, but still the stories keep leaking out. One diamond.’
‘Pass. It drives him demented,’ Teddy said with a smug little smile that revealed rodent teeth.
‘One heart?’ I tried, wondering what message that was sending to my partner. When he’d asked what system of bidding I preferred, I’d had to smile weakly and say, ‘Psychic?’ He hadn’t looked impressed.
‘It’s not the scandals that really push his blood pressure through the ceiling. It’s the storyline leaks.’ Gloria lit a cigarette, eyeing Teddy speculatively. ‘Two clubs. Remember when the Sunday Mirror got hold of that tale about Colette’s charity?’
‘Colette Darvall?’ I asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘I must have missed that one,’ I said.
‘Two diamonds,’ Clive said firmly. ‘Off the planet that month, were you? When her daughter was diagnosed with MS, Colette met up with all these other people who had kids in the same boat. So she let them use her as a sort of figurehead for a charity. She worked her socks off for them. She was always doing PAs for free, giving them stuff to raffle, donating interview fees and all sorts. Then it turns out one of the organizers has been ripping the charity off. He legged it to the West Indies with all the cash. Which would have been nothing more than a rather embarrassing tragedy for everyone concerned if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate detail that he’d been shagging Colette’s brains out for the previous three months.’
‘Oops,’ I said.
‘By heck, you private eyes know how to swear, don’t you?’ Teddy said acidly. ‘I don’t think “oops” was quite what Colette was saying. But Turpin was all right about that. He stuck one of the press officers on her doorstep night and day for a week and told her not to worry about her job.’
‘That’s because having a fling with somebody else’s husband is sexy in PR terms, whereas flashing at schoolgirls is just sleazy,’ Clive said. ‘Have you taken a vow of silence, Teddy? Or are you going to bid?’
‘Oh God,’ Teddy groaned. ‘Who dealt this dross? I’m going to have to pass. Sorry, Glo.’
‘Pass,’ I echoed.
‘And I make it three in a row. It’s all yours, Clive.’ Gloria leaned back in her chair and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘God, I love it when Rita’s not here to whinge about me smoking.’
‘Better not let Turpin catch you,’ Clive said.
‘He sounds a real prize, this Turpin,’ I said. ‘I met him yesterday and he was nice as ninepence to me. Told me nothing, mind you, but did it charmingly.’
‘Smooth-talking bastard. He did the square root of bugger-all about sorting out my security. Bloody chocolate teapot,’ Gloria said dismissively. ‘At least this latest furore about the future of the show has stopped him going on about finding out who’s leaking the storylines to the press.’
‘The future of the show? They’re surely not going to axe Northerners?’ It was a more radical suggestion than abolishing the monarchy, and one that would have had a lot more people rioting in the streets. For some reason, the public forgave the sins of the cast of their favourite soap far more readily than those of the House of Windsor, even though they paid both lots of wages, one via their taxes, the other via the hidden tax of advertising.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Gloria said. ‘Of course they’re not going to axe Northerners. That’d be like chocolate voting for Easter. No, what they’re on about is moving us to a satellite or cable channel.’
I stared blankly at her, the cards forgotten. ‘But that would mean losing all your viewers. There’s only two people and a dog watch cable.’
‘And the dog’s a guide dog,’ Teddy chipped in gloomily.
‘The theory is that if Northerners defects to one of the pay-to-view channels, the viewers will follow,’ Clive said. ‘The men in suits think our following is so addicted that they’d rather shell out for a satellite dish than lose their three times weekly fix of an everyday story of northern folk.’
‘Hardly everyday,’ I muttered. ‘You show me anywhere in Manchester where nobody stays out of work for more than a fortnight and where the corner shop, the fast-food outlet and the local newsagent are still run by white Anglo-Saxons.’
‘We’re not a bloody documentary,’ Teddy said. He’d clearly heard similar complaints before. His irritation didn’t upset me unduly, since it resulted in him throwing away the rest of the hand with one hasty lead.
‘No, we’re a fantasy,’ Clive said cheerfully, sweeping up the next trick and laying down his cards. ‘I think the rest are ours. What we’re providing, Kate, is contemporary nostalgia. We’re harking back to a past that never existed, but we’re translating it into contemporary terms. People feel alienated and lonely in the city and we create the illusion that they’re part of a community. A community where all the girls are pretty, all the lads have lovely shoulders and any woman over thirty-five is veneered with a kind of folk wisdom.’
I was beginning to understand why Clive hid behind the camp manner. Underneath it all there lay a sharper mind than most of his fellow cast members ever exhibited. He was just as self-absorbed as they were, but at least he’d given some thought to how he earned his considerable living. I bet that made him really popular in a green room populated by egos who were each convinced they were the sole reason for the show’s success. ‘So you reckon the tug of fantasy is so strong that the millions who tune in three times a week will take out their satellite subscriptions like a bunch of little lambs?’ I said, my scepticism obvious.
‘We don’t, chuck,’ Gloria said, lighting a fresh cigarette while Clive dealt the cards. ‘But the management do.’
‘That’s
