Unmasked, by Peter Morford

Sir Thespian Mountebank is the leading classical actor of the age. He graces Shakespeare, Ibsen, Wilde and Ayckbourne. He spends three months a year on stage, and about a month filming spectacular movies like Star Conflicts 6, CatMan and Pirates of the Bylet. While his first love is the stage, it is the films which have enriched him beyond ambition.

He is a contented man with just two regrets. “I’ve never created anything,” he will modestly say. “I’ve only been the interpreter of other men’s work.”

His second regret is that his wife, Lady Tracey, IS a creative artist. That her nine literary novels, travel books and her chairship of the Booker earn her a pittance compared with his massive fees…is not the point. She invents, he merely acts.

“As I’m free for a few weeks I’ve decided to write a novel,” he said, after dinner.

“Good idea, Thespy. With your name you’ll sell thousands and make a fortune…”

“It’s not about money, it’s an old ambition. I’ll write under a false name. I’ll be Harold Bennett, a man who doesn’t give interviews. The book will fail or succeed on merit alone.”

Next morning he started to write. Six enjoyable weeks later he had 150,000 words and a neat ending. It was time to email it to an agent.

After five agents had politely rejected him with their best wishes, he decided to self-publish. He opened negotiations with a vanity publisher who drew up a contract. They accepted “Mr Harold Bennett’s” deposit of £15,000 towards editing, publicising and printing the first 1000 copies.

While this was going on, he had time for a season at Stratford and then to be a Dark Ages wizard for his friend Steven and two million dollars.

Meanwhile Burbage, his publisher, emailed to report that every literate newspaper and magazine had been sent a copy of the novel. Stacks stood in Waterstones and Foyles. All he wanted was a tv interview which, of course, he had to decline.

Kind critics called the book “a promising first novel. The next would probably be better.” But sales were a trickle and booksellers reduced their displays. Sir Thespian felt crushed and depressed. Lady Tracey said some soothing things.

After a quick trip to India to perform five short speeches in a Bollywood film, (fee $65,000), he was back. He had an email from Burbage. “Read today’s Guardian.” The prominent headline read  ; “Sir Thespian Mountebank is the mysterious author. See page 6.”

Carper of The Guardian had written a fresh review. He rated the book as being poorly-plotted, with wooden characters, boring plot and disappointing finale. “But,” he added, “Sir Thespian should keep

writing. Sadly, his great name alone will sell his book by the truckload. “

Sir Thespian flung the paper into the fireplace. In his King Lear voice, he roared, “I’m a failure.”

The phone rang. It was the BBC inviting him to be appear on The One Show.

“I suppose I’ll have to go. Dammit.”