TALKING HEADS

WHO IS SYLVIA?

by Pam Gems

Copyright © Pam Gems
Pam Gems is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted her moral rights. 

All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before rehearsal to Rose Cobbe, United Agents, 12-26 Lexington Street, London W1F 0LE, UK. Tel: +44 (0) 20 3214 0800.
http://unitedagents.co.uk/agents/rose-cobbe/. Assistant: Dan Usztan. Email: dusztan@unitedagents.co.uk Tel: +44 (0) 20 3214 0873. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained.

TALKING HEADS

WHO IS SYLVIA?

	Very quiet today.  I said to Norma - where is everybody?

	She said "It's the Cup Tie.  They're all flat on their backs with hangovers."

	I thought yes - being good boys, staying at home and mowing the lawn to make up for sicking up over the front steps and peeing on the bathroom floor.

	Football's never good for business.

	Not that I mind a quiet day - so long as it's not too often.  The rent on this place is phenomenal!  You have to be central, for the right sort of client - Parson's Green, Shepherd's Bush - you might as well be in Ealing or Acton.

	I don't deal in hatch-backs.

	We had the MP in again last week.  He's becoming a regular.  Always asks for Lynn, they seem to get on, same sense of humour.  I hear them laughing over the Earl Grey - we have tea and biscuits ready for him, he says it's a boon to stop worrying about the world, have a sit-down.  She always has a joke for him, she's good at remembering and he never minds hearing the same ones over again...he enjoys that.

	Like the one about Sir John Gielgud - well, plain John he'd have been then - looking up at the barrage balloons over London during the war and saying "Oh those poor boys, they must be so lonely up there."

	That's one of our MP's favourites.

	He's a cosy sort of man.

	Funny really, considering.

	Dusty's off sick - her back's gone.  Delilah's Fridays and Saturdays only and Mai-Lin's part-time with the RSI - one of her wrists is still swollen if you look at them side by side.  She should stick to the regulars.  It stands to reason - come in off the street you don't know who they are, what you're getting.  Trust it to be the day Norman was away with his little problem - thank God we got that sorted out - I can't be management and on the floor at the same time.

	Stock-taking next week...mustn't put it off any longer.

	We need to re-order, and the prices!

	Talk about inflation.

	Tony's in tomorrow.

	He won't like it - us being down, and there's Freddi's bonus to pay - being an illegal, it's not a lot - still - adds up.

	I said to Tony, you can't run a first-class business without first-class equipment.

	Without the right tone, you're lost.

	Quality is everything...Thomas Goode china, petit fours from Fortnums, I won't have no other.  I offer a glass of malt, G&T, or a Burgundy - no cocktails - naff - and no champagne - bad for the liver.  Harry at Harrods looks after me - even asked me if I'd like to join a tour of the French vineyards but I said, no, thanks all the same, Harry.

	I'm not one for groups.

	You're either a tourist or management in this life, my friend Frankie says, and she should know.

	Got her own place now - two places - Marbella for summer, Chamonix all winter - she knows how to live.  Works hard, plays hard - always looks a treat, you'd take her for a lady-in-waiting at Buck House.

	I'm more of a backroom girl.

	Always have been.  When I was nursing it was NHS, never private practice.

	I can put on the style - Paul Smith, DK - Nicole Fahri with a white silk blouse and kitten heels.

	I do have one wicked extravagance.  My hair.

	Costs a king's ransom but you have to look right in this business.  You're there to welcome clients - but they're the stars, not you.  Important to keep it quiet, no flash.  Give them that quiet respect and admiration, make them feel at home.  Soft music - very soft - nice lighting - comfy seats.

	I used to spend a lot of money on flowers but it's a waste of time with men.

	I do keep cigars, cigarettes but they tend to go stale these days.

	I have a little medicine chest for emergencies.

	I've never understood this model thin-as-a-lath look.  Somebody said it was because the clothes hung better but that's ridiculous.  If you're designing for women you're designing for breasts and bottoms.  The men should be the bony ones, not the women in my opinion.  Women are for cuddling up to - like pups with their mothers, lambs with sheep - even swans.

	I like swans.

	Very dominating, swans.

	Now - kettle on.

	It's Mr Sandringham - not his real name of course, they never give that.

	Mr...Sandringham...I'll have to look him up.  (She turns the pages of her reference book.)

	Sackville...Samson...Sandringham!

	Yes.

	Thought so.  He's the upside-down cake, coffee and poetry.

	After that Mr Sharif - black coffee and...ye-es...

	That bloody, bloody Tony.

	I could murder him.

	I'd like to take an axe and split him down the middle.

	He's evil.

	Not a nice man.

	"Have you been through their pockets?"

	Of course I've bloody been through their pockets, who does he think I am?

	I said, I told him! - "people are fly these days, they're not fools, they don't leave names and addresses and credit cards in their gear during treatments.  Some of them won't even touch a new note - not even in change, in case it can be traced."

	I told him, the English clients hate the money side of things, you have to be gentle.

	He said "More info" and left.

	Bloody man.

	It makes you sick sometimes, the people you have to work with.  I gave Cyprus Tony the full monthly whack in the end - out of my own pocket to shut him up, and the subs for the two BPs, they're always quick off the mark first of the month - not that I mind paying off the police, they've got a rotten job.  One of them told me about scraping the remains of a little girl off the road after a lorry had flattened her into a rissole.  I gave him some lymph drainage and a free sauna but he was still quivering.

	Regular now, once a week.

	Very straight guy, nothing imaginative.

	We like new ideas, different wheezes - well, it makes the job more interesting, the unexpected cheers you up, puts a bit of life into things, makes the shift go faster.

	Freddi's been arrested.

	Caught dealing on the Avenue, the berk.

	Now I have to look for another heavy.

	I'm not having that bastard Tony fitting me up with one of his Draculas.  I shall go down the gym, get Arthur to choose me a young boxer - a nice big one with a broken nose, that should keep the clients in order.

	Not that we get many troublemakers.

	Ours are the quiet sort.

	People who have secrets keep to themselves...they know how to be silent, to keep their mouths shut.  You hear them, in the pub, the noisy ones, the boasters.  And you know they're not cutting it, doing the business.  All mouth and no motor.

	Funny, it's not always the same with the girls.  When I was working reception for Blanche she liked coarse, noisy girls.  "They're up for anything," she said.  "Go all night and always cheerful."

	Didn't suit every client of course.  You had to cater for all tastes.  My pet hate was the ones who wanted little girls.  I hated that - mind you, we had a laugh.  Our best little girl, Mimi, was thirty-four - and that's only what she owned up to.

	Their money's the same colour, Blanche always says.

	She never stands for moaning.

	Tony's dead.

	The waiter from Mr Chan's next door found him, propped up against the wall outside our door.

	I'm ever so worried.
	Ian and Robbie have been real pals.  Because Lo Chin banged on my door and brought me down to have a look I'm a witness, same as him.

	We're witnesses.

	Anyway, the BPs, Robbie and Ian, they've told me what to say, swear blind I've never seen him before, didn't hear or see anything, nothing unusual.  The girls are to say nothing.

	Of course, the BPs are being careful.  Covering their tracks.

	Something's funny.

	Something's up - there's this feeling of worry in the air.

	With Tony having all that Cypriot protection - much good it did him - if the BPs have stepped over the line or run up short on obligation it'll be their turn next.  That's the trouble with being a bent policeman, you're looking over both shoulders at the same time.  Robbie's OK, he's careful - comes from Edinburgh - sees everything, say's nowt.  Ian's the worry.  Flash dresser, plays the horses, now he's bought another new car.  A Saab.  I'd have an eye on him if I was his super.

	He's probably up to his neck in it himself - they probably have to pay him off - well, you never know where it's coming down from, do you?

	Still, they keep the peace.

	I don't know.

	We thought Tony was a pain in the neck.

	Now they're sending Giorgio round to do the business and he doesn't know his ass from his elbow.

	They should teach him the ropes!  It's no good coming in here shouting his face off, upsetting the clients and the staff.  I had to ring Mr Benoussos.  He was very nice, said he'd see to things - "we've all had a loss, Sylvia."  I should coco.  He said to bear with Giorgio, he'd been stepped up.  Only because of his old man being the brother - "he's still young."  "And stupid" I thought.
	That's the trouble.

	He'll make mistakes.

	There's a skill in protection.

	You're there to look after your customers.

	Stands to reason - you want the money coming in, you have to study people - anyway, make enemies, where does it get you?  Propped up against a Frith Street wall stabbed through the liver!

	It's knowing the little things in life that keeps you afloat - the day by day stuff - like never, ever being rude to a waiter.  Bad enough what they do to the food anyway because their feet hurt.  You put their backs up, that's all they need.  I bet more people have drunk pee in their Chardonnay and eaten snot in their bolognese than I've had hot dinners.

	I always tip well, send something out for cheffie and staff.

	I don't like appearing in court.  Having to give your name, address, occupation.

	Occupation?  Therapist.

	Well, being a coroner's court it wasn't so bad.  I wore my Nicole Fahri with a cream shantung blouse and a hat - I rang Blanche and she said, "Whatever you do, wear a hat."

	I said "What sort of a hat, I've only got that picture hat I wear for weddings."

	She said "What about funerals?"

	I said "No, I always tie a black silk scarf like a turban and put a brooch over one ear."

	She said she'd lend me something.

	I always like seeing Blanche.  She's a real role model.  Terrific looks.  We had tea at Fortnums and went back to her place behind the Ritz.
	You've never seen so many hats in your life!

	A whole roomful!

	We had a lovely time.  She chose one as well so that she could come and give me support.  I liked a soft grey felt with a brim and a little white cockade but she said it made me look remedial - too much like a nurse.  She's got a degree in French - used to be a theatre critic before she took to brothel keeping.  In the end I chose a nice black cloche with a small feather curved over the cheek and a hint of veiling.  Blanche took ages, then went back to her first choice, her new Philip Treacy, a sort of brown chimney-stack with a whitey-yellow stripe of felt let in crossways.  It looked as if she'd just walked under a pigeon but I didn't say anything.  She looked all right.

	We had to wait of course.  First it was put back till after lunch, then the next day.  I popped my suit into the cleaners in case I'd sweated.  I don't sweat much but there are times.  The next day, same again in the morning, in the end they called us at four o'clock.  The usual formalities, I said my piece, Lo Chin went to pieces and Tony was put down as a suspicious death. Blanche and I took a cab back to hers, and popped round the corner to the Ritz for a nice light-as-a-feather dinner.

	It was all dying down!  Ian and Robbie kept me in the picture, on a need to know basis they said.  Well, enquiries proceeding was about all they came up with.  Delilah said forget it, who was interested in one more Soho gang member getting done in and Robbie said he couldn't agree more - one less on the computer.

	We thought it was finished - all over!  I had the bloodstains washed off and the brickwork cleaned - I got one of our regular clients to send one of his chaps round to repaint the door, so we wouldn't be reminded - he did a lovely job, a beautiful dark French green.  I get a lot of favours from satisfied customers - well, they like to help out a woman on her own.  I don't go over the top.

	Then - we're all gobsmacked - Robbie and Ian fall out - can you believe it, over a woman!  Some tart from Muswell Hill, a right little shrike, used to work for Blanche, sets up on her own, starts playing the boys off one against the other.

	So now it all comes out.  Tony got stabbed because he and the BPs fell out - Tony's short-changing them.  They go round to Mr Benoussos - turns out Tony's been cooking the books good and proper - usual story, why do they all think they'll never get found out - they have to push it further and further - they think they can't lose, everybody's a dope but them.  And I've seen it time and time again, the worst, meanest creeps in the world will trust even worse creeps, like fat tarts from Muswell Hill - it makes no sense.

	Anyway, there's a huge explosion.

	Robbie shops Ian, Ian shops Robbie, they both shop Tony, and Mr Benoussos, and all his lot.  So we think, oh Lord - they're all going to get sent down and we shall have a new lot to put up with, worse than before.

	Russians or something.

	However.

	Funny the way it all died down.  Of course, as Mr Benoussos said, somebody will have to put their hands up, and there was no waiting around this time.

	On the button.

	Kick-off on the dot.

	We made all the papers! - not good for business still.

	I bought a new rig-out, Dolce & Gabbana this time, black of course, shorter in the skirt and with a very nice nipped-in jacket - sort of open in a closed sort of way.  Same hat - the cloche - Blanche said keep it since it suited me.  Red gloves - for holding onto the witness box - a Frenchwoman told me that.  "It distracts them" she said.

	Anyway I got some.

	Picture in all the papers!  
	"Beauty Salon Manager, main witness to Soho murder!"
	"Sylvia Morgan, outside murder scene!"

	I looked quite good.

	Poor old Lo Chin.

	He looked so meagre and fragile in the dock.
	You could hardly see him.  Just his poor nose above the railing and his sad little eyes.  Somebody'd lent him a suit but it didn't fit, he looked like Oliver Twist.  Poor boy.  I did feel sorry for him, but there you are, somebody had to be put in the frame.  I suppose he was the most expendable.

	Actually, when it all came out, he wasn't the patsy after all.  Lo Chin actually did do it.  The murder.  When Robbie and Ian wised up his boss Mr Chan, that Tony was skimming, the old man went ballistic.  Tony had got him into some gambling thing to do with the snooker hall opposite, only of course, when it went pear-shaped and Mr Chan's other restaurant was burnt out and the BPs told him it was all down to Tony, Mr Chan takes down one of his big knives and tells Lo Chin to stand outside and wait for Tony and when he turns up, to kill him.  And when Lo Chin says he doesn't want to do it Mr Chan says he'll have all his family back in Taiwan killed, and when Lo Chin says he's afraid of not making a proper job of it, Tony being over a hundred a twenty pounds, Mr Chan says he'll have Lo Chin's wife and two little boys in Camden Town killed so get on with it.

	There was some sympathy in the court, and an order for Mr Chan to be nicked, but of course he'd scarpered off.  Lo Chin gets life - "I got no option - it's mandatory" says the judge.  They lead the poor little devil away and the turns and catches my eye and gives me a little bow.  It was very touching.  The judge thanks the jury and we all stand up while he lumbers off.

	Later,  Blanche and me, in the foyer of the Old Bailey, deciding where to eat, see him come up the stairs in a navy blue overcoat with a velvet collar and a briefcase.  He sees me and comes across, shakes my hand and thanks me for my clear and honest evidence in the witness box.

	"And haven't I seen that hat before?" he says.

	And Blanche looms up behind him and says "I think you have, Cyril" and they go off together and leave me standing.

	Such is life, as Ned Kelly said when they topped him.

	My friend Aileen, the one who's been doing so well in property, has asked me if I want to go in with her.  She says there's a fortune to be made in places like Hastings and Ramsgate and Whitstable - the fancy-assed ones are all going in for the simple life and down-sizing she says, and the turnover's tremendous.

	I have thought about it.

	Moving out.

	Settling for some fresh air - a quieter life - less of the tension.

	But what about the clients?

	What are they supposed to do?

	Some of my chaps have been with me for over ten years.  Where are they supposed to go?

	To Mad Maisie or that horrible Josie, the cross-eyed bitch?

	I deal with the shy ones - there's only me.  I can't leave them stranded, what on earth are they to do with themselves?

	As Delilah says, we keep their families going by keeping them going.

	No.

	I can't let my old boys down.

	I don't want a suicide on my hands.

	Time for a snack.  I've got Mr Montgomery to string up this afternoon, and I haven't even begun to sort those chains out.  He likes a good thrashing but I'm afraid he'll be on short commons today, I think I've got a migraine coming on - well, they never think about that, do they?

	Oh well, no peace for the wicked.  A quick cuppa and a Jaffa cake then time to leather up.  I'll put on some horrible music, frighten his ears off - that should do the trick.

	You've got to give value.

	(Calls)  Delilah, do you want to bring me down the gear for Mr Montgomery?  I'll have all the chains - yeah, the lot.
	Make two trips!

	Oh - and Delilah - can you sort me out some sound effects - no, no, no - I want something really horrible - what do you mean Slim Whitman?  Where's the Ivan the Terrible CD - well find it - chop chop...

	...I can't keep customers waiting...

END