Dead Famous

DAY SIXTY-THREE. 11.00 p.m.

When Coleridge got home he was delighted to find that his wife had watched it all.

“Very theatrical, dear, not like you at all.”

“I had to do something, didn’t I? I had no proof. I needed to trick her into a public confession and to do it tonight. That was all.”

“Yes, well, you did very well. Very very well indeed, and I’m just glad we don’t have to watch any more of that appalling programme. Oh, by the way, someone called Glyn phoned, from the am-dram society. He said he’d been meaning to phone for ages. He was terribly complimentary about your audition, said that you had done a brilliant reading, which apparently blew him away, and that on reflection he wants you to play the lead after all.”

Coleridge felt a thrill of eager anticipation. The lead! He was to give the world his Macbeth after all. Of course Coleridge wasn’t stupid. He knew that he had only got the part because he had been on television. But why not? If everybody else could play the game, why couldn’t he? Fame, it seemed, did have its uses.