JOHN MANTLE, EXECUTIVE Producer of
If The Cap Fits,
reckoned that he was doing well. As the third round of Armagnacs was served in Langan’s Brasserie, he sneaked a covert look at his watch. Nearly half-past three. Even if they left within a quarter of an hour and got a taxi straight away, it would be well after four before they got back to W.E.T. House. And the longer they kept out of Studio A that afternoon, the better.
This thought was not prompted by laziness or an unwillingness to face his responsibilities. John Mantle was a deeply conscientious producer. He had been conscientious during the eight years he had spent learning his craft in the Light Entertainment Department of B.B.C. Television, and equally conscientious since, three years previously, he had moved to West End Television to do the same job for three times the money. But producing, he knew, did not only involve monitoring what went on in studios. That could frequently be left to an obedient underling, and he had the most biddable of lieutenants in Jim Trace-Smith, also from the B.B.C., whose invaluable attributes of diligence, even temper and total lack of imagination, John Mantle had quickly recognised, made him an ideal producer of Light Entertainment. The young man had been easily seduced into commercial television, again by the simple device of tripling his salary, thus becoming the first recruit to the entertainment empire John Mantle was slowly but surely annexing from his former employers.
The presence of Jim Trace-Smith in Studio A that afternoon at least ensured that the preparations for the pilot were proceeding, and freed the Executive Producer for more important duties, which in this case involved keeping his lunch guests out of Studio A as long as possible. The explosion when they finally got there was inevitable, but the later that happened, the less chance there would be of implementing the changes they were bound to demand.
There were two of them – Aaron Greenberg, podgy, grizzle-bearded, voluble, an untidy eater and drinker who allowed no word to go unsupported by an expansive gesture of his short arms; and Dirk van Henke, tall, blond, silent, drinking only Perrier water and constantly dabbing at his mouth with a corner of his table napkin. They represented the American copyright-holders of
Hats Off!
, the game show which had been successfully networked for three years in the States and the rights to whose format West End Television had bought for an almost unbelievable amount of money. They had followed the piloting and development of the show in the States and were thus the honoured bearers of the ‘Bible’, that partly written but mostly unwritten stock of information and advice which would save any new developer of the show from falling into the format’s most obvious pitfalls. They were extremely protective of their property, regarding any proposed change in the show as a direct personal assault.
Since their arrival in London two days previously, John Mantle had spent every waking hour justifying to Greenberg and van Henke the inevitable alterations which transatlantic relocation of the show demanded. They had fought everything; he had had to explain and re-explain each tiny kink and quibble of the revised format; but, by sheer, relentless, debilitating tact and the granting of a few minor concessions, the Executive Producer had managed to satisfy them that their baby, the property that, as Greenberg kept asserting, meant ‘somebody’s gonna make a pot’, was being treated with the care and respect that was its due. They now knew about every change and, grudgingly, they had accepted them all.
Except the title.
John Mantle had first broached the subject in the hire-car back from Heathrow, where he had personally met their Concorde flight. He had explained that
Hats Off!
did not have the right sound for a British game show, and that, after careful assessment of many possible alternatives, West End Television had decided on
If The Cap Fits
.
‘What the shit does that mean?’ Aaron Greenberg had asked.
‘Well, it’s a kind of saying. A proverb, if you like. “If the cap fits, put it on.” It means, if something applies to you, then it applies to you . . .’ John Mantle had continued feebly. ‘It’s a very common expression. Very right for the show. Don’t you have that proverb in the States?’
Aaron Greenberg snorted. ‘I never heard of it.’
‘I think,’ said Dirk van Henke in his quiet, precise voice, ‘our equivalent would be: “If the shoe fits, wear it”.’
‘Yes. That sounds as if it has the same meaning.’ John Mantle smiled enthusiastically at this point of contact.
‘Shit,’ objected Aaron Greenberg. ‘You’re not suggesting we call the show
If The Shoe Fits
? I mean, hell, it’s about hats, not shoes.’
‘Yes, I know that. Of course I’m not suggesting we call it
If The Shoe Fits
.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Otherwise you would have screwed yourself out of a deal that’s gonna make a pot for somebody.’
‘No, I’m suggesting we call it
If The Cap Fits
.’
‘No way. Forget it.’
‘But –’
‘
Hats Off!
’ Dirk van Henke insisted softly. ‘
Hats Off!
That is the name of the show. Call it anything else and we don’t have a deal.’
The Executive Producer had left it there for the time being. Much of his work consisted of confronting people with unpalatable facts, and he knew that the most important element in any such presentation was always its timing. After he had deposited his guests at the Savoy, where they were going to ‘shower and sleep off the Concorde-lag’, he had returned to W.E.T. House and got on to the Legal Department, who had negotiated the long, wrangling purchase of the rights to develop the
Hats Off!
format. He wanted to know where he stood legally on changing the title.
Like everything to do with the law, the situation turned out to be ambiguous. The relevant clause was:
The licensees agree not to adapt, rearrange or alter the format in any way without the approval of the owner, such approval not to be unreasonably withheld
.
The crux of the issue was, of course, the last phrase, in particular its penultimate word. What was unreasonable? This, as the Legal Department advised him unhelpfully, was a matter of interpretation. They would investigate and get back to him.
The Executive Producer assessed the position. The set had been designed and built with the changed title all over it. The music links had been recorded. Even if there had been time to reverse the decision, alterations at this late stage would represent considerable expense. And John Mantle always prided himself on keeping within his budgets.
He decided to sit it out. He’d wait and hear what the Legal Department advised when they came back to him, but, unless that was really bad, he would stick by his original decision. It would inevitably lead to tantrums from Greenberg and van Henke, but, if they only found out about the new title on the afternoon of the recording, he judged they would have little opportunity to do anything about it. And, once the show had gone down well in front of the audience, he felt confident that they would be less worried about the change.
He kept his nerve pretty well for the next couple of days. Once he almost lost it, and that moment of uncertainty had led to the confusion of the title at Reception which Charles Paris had encountered. But basically the Executive Producer reckoned he’d get away with it. The Legal Department, when they finally came back to him, had little to add. Everything still depended on the interpretation of the word ‘unreasonably’, and they couldn’t really say how that decision would go in a court of law unless the issue actually
went
to a court of law. In other words, the lawyers proved as helpful as ever.
John Mantle offered more drinks, but even Aaron Greenberg refused this time. As he settled the bill with his American Express Gold Card, the Executive Producer stole another look at his watch. Nearly four. The show started recording at seven-thirty. Only a few hours to survive the Americans’ wrath.
On the way out of the Brasserie, he greeted West End Television’s Head of Drama who was coming to the end of lunch with a moderately famous actress. As a further delaying tactic, he introduced the couple to his guests. Since the actress had recently been seen in a
Masterpiece Theatre
in the States, conversation developed satisfactorily.
John Mantle was discussing a vicious point of W.E.T. politics with his colleague, when he overheard Greenberg saying, ‘Yeah, and do you know what they wanted to call it? Only
If The Cap Fits
!’
‘Really?’ The moderately famous actress chuckled throatily. ‘Why – is it a show about contraception?’
Aaron Greenberg looked puzzled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Cap, darling. Cap. Dutch cap. A form of female contraception.’
The American shook his shaggy head, still bewildered.
‘It’s a thing you put . . .’ The moderately famous actress gave another throaty chuckle. ‘I’m afraid we’re liable to get a bit technical here. It’s a . . . what would you call it? A diaphragm!’
‘A diaphragm?’ Aaron Greenberg echoed. ‘You hear that, Dirk? You know that dumb title they wanted to use?
If The Cap Fits
. You know what a “cap” means over here? A diaphragm! A diaphragm, for Christ’s sakes!’
John Mantle ushered his guests grimly out of the restaurant. He was not looking forward to the next couple of hours.
Sydnee’s game of hide-and-seek with the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor had continued through the afternoon. They had finally had their inappropriate hats grudgingly fitted in Wardrobe, been shown where to stand on the red, blue and silver set, and been conducted up five floors of W.E.T. House to the Conference Room where they were to await their call. Unfortunately, when Sydnee opened the door, she found the four non-celebrity contestants who were to play
If The Cap Fits
already ensconced, and had to beat another hasty retreat.
She led her four charges into an empty office, found a phone and immediately punched four digits. ‘Hello. Mandy? Listen, how many Conference Rooms got booked for this pilot today? Well, no, there should have been three. Yes, I know on
Funny Money
it’s one for the celebs and one for the punt-. . . for the members of the public, but in this game we’ve got two different sets of members of the public and they mustn’t meet. Yes, well . . . what? No, we couldn’t put the contestants in with them. Mixing with members of the public?. . . the celebs’d never wear it. No. Well, is there another Conference Room free? Oh, shit. No, no, okay, not your fault. Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out. Yes, after this little holocaust, fine. ‘Bye.’
She turned to face the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. ‘Sorry. Cock-up on booking. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait here in the Production Office.’ She gestured round the room. ‘Welcome to where I work. I’ll organise some drinks and things for you later.’
‘What’s that?’ The one female in the party pointed up at a wall which was covered with small head-and-shoulders snapshots pinned up in rows.
‘Oh, that’s our “Ugly Wall”,’ Sydnee replied. Then she seemed to wish she hadn’t said it and try to cover up. ‘I mean, it’s a very ugly wall, so we just try to stick as many things as possible on it.’
The stockbroker looked more closely at the snapshots. ‘These look like the sort of pictures we had to send in when we got your form about taking part in game shows.’
‘Oh, do they?’ asked Sydnee innocently. ‘Now, can I get you all a tea or coffee? I’m afraid you’re going to have rather a long wait. You must understand, with a pilot it’s always a bit difficult to work out quite how long all the rehearsal’s going to take. I’m sure we’d get it sorted out better if the show ever went to a series.’
‘I thought,’ the stockbroker objected, ‘the producer said it definitely would go to a series.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, of course,’ said Sydnee.
The office door opened and a tall man with steel-grey hair and thickly-lashed blue eyes entered. Ignoring the other four, he walked straight up to Sydnee. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? Have you got that list of “hat” lines?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘Oh yes.’ She reached into a drawer and produced a few typewritten sheets. ‘I went through all the dictionaries and books of quotations. I should think you ought to be able to work out some links from that lot.’
‘I’ll see. Other thing, check my glass on the set after rehearsal.’
‘Your glass?’
‘Its contents.’
‘Oh. Oh yes,’ said Sydnee, understanding.
The four ‘professions’ remained mystified by this exchange, but the stockbroker, bolder than the others, addressed the grey-haired man. ‘It’s Barrett Doran, isn’t it?’
He turned on her the kind of look rose-growers reserve for greenfly. ‘What?’
Sydnee stepped into the breach. ‘Barrett, these four are the “professions” for the First Round.’
‘Oh,’ said Barrett Doran without interest, and turned to leave the room. But, as he reached it, the door opened and he was confronted by a pale youth with ginger hair and an apologetic expression.
‘Ah, Barrett. I was looking for you. I have worked out a few one-liners on the “hat” theme. If you want to cast your eye over them, I’ll be happy to –’
‘I do my own links,’ said Barrett Doran. ‘I don’t need any of your bloody crap.’ And he walked out of the office.
The pale youth let the door close behind him and looked at the five who stood there. His face was vulnerable, almost tearful. ‘Hello, Sydnee. If there’s anything I can . . . you know, for this lot . . .’
She introduced him to the hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor. ‘Jeremy Fowler’s our Script Associate on the show. He’s got an endless supply of funny lines for all the contestants and everyone. You know, so if you want to have a few witty ripostes, and you can’t think of any yourself, ask Jeremy.’
The youth smiled weakly. ‘I have got a few lines. I mean, I only got the list of your professions late yesterday, but I have worked out a few things you might say.’