A Prisoner Of Birth - By Jeffrey Archer Page 0,143
before offering him an ashtray. Duncan stubbed out his cigarette while the maitre d' rummaged around in a drawer in his desk and produced three striped ties, all of which clashed with Duncan 's salmon-pink shirt. Danny suppressed a smile. If it had been a tennis match, he would have started the first set five-love up. The headwaiter accompanied Duncan across the room to Danny's table. Danny made a mental note to double his tip.
Danny rose from his place to shake hands with Duncan, whose cheeks were now the same color as his shirt.
"You're obviously a regular here," said Duncan, taking his seat. "Everyone seems to know you."
"My father and grandfather always used to stay here whenever they came down from Scotland," said Danny. "It's a bit of a family tradition."
"So, what do you do, Nick?" asked Duncan while he glanced at the menu. "I don't recall seeing you at the theater before."
"I used to be in the army," Danny replied, "so I've been abroad a lot of the time. But since my father's death, I've taken over responsibility for the family trust."
"And you've never invested in the theater before?" asked Duncan as the sommelier showed Danny a bottle of wine. Danny studied the label for a moment, then nodded.
"And what will you have today, Sir Nicholas?" asked Mario.
"I'll have my usual," said Danny. "And keep it on the rare side," he added, remembering Nick once delivering those words to the servers behind the hotplate at Belmarsh. It had caused so much laughter that Nick had nearly ended up on report. The sommelier poured a little wine into Danny's glass. He sniffed the bouquet before sipping it, then nodded again-something else Nick had taught him, using Ribena, water and a plastic mug to swill the liquid in.
"I'll have the same," said Duncan, closing his menu and handing it back to the maitre d'. "But make mine medium."
"The answer to your question," said Danny, "is no, I've never invested in a play before. So I'd be fascinated to learn how your world operates."
"The first thing a producer has to do is identify a play," said Duncan. "Either a new one, preferably by an established playwright, or a revival of a classic. Your next problem is to find a star."
"Like Lawrence Davenport?" said Danny, topping up Duncan 's glass.
"No, that was a one-off. Larry Davenport's not a stage actor. He can just about get away with light comedy as long as he's backed up by a strong cast."
"But he can still fill a theater?"
"We were running a little thin towards the end of the run," admitted Duncan, "once his Dr. Beresford fans had dried up. Frankly, if he doesn't get back on television fairly soon, he won't be able to fill a phone box."
"So how does the finance work?" asked Danny, having already had three of his questions answered.
"To put a play on in the West End nowadays costs four to five hundred thousand pounds. So once a producer has settled on a piece, signed up the star and booked the theater-and it's not always possible to get all three at the same time-he relies on his angels to raise the capital."
"How many angels do you have?" asked Danny.
"Every producer has his own list, which he guards like the crown jewels. I have about seventy angels who regularly invest in my productions," said Duncan as a steak was placed in front of him.
"And how much do they invest, on average?" asked Danny, pouring Duncan another glass of wine.
"On a normal production, units would start around ten thousand pounds."
"So you need fifty angels per play."
"You're sharp when it comes to figures, aren't you?" said Duncan, cutting into his steak.
Danny cursed to himself. He hadn't meant to drop his guard, and quickly moved on. "So how does an angel, a punter, make a profit?"
"If the theater is sixty percent full for the entire run, he'll break even and get his money back. Above that figure, he can make a handsome profit. Below it, he can lose his shirt."
"And how much are the stars paid?" asked Danny.
"Badly, by their usual standards, is the answer. Sometimes as little as five hundred a week. Which is the reason so many of them prefer to do television, the odd advertisement, or even voiceovers rather than get themselves involved in real work. We only paid Larry Davenport one thousand."
"A thousand a week?" said Danny. "I'm amazed he got out of bed for that."