DIRECTOR   Listen. You wrote the play. I’m directing it. I don’t care a damn what this refugee from a second-hand clothes shop thinks.
Halliwell leaves and we hear the swing doors flapping behind him.
I won’t have him at rehearsals. It fucks up the actors. After all, it’s your play. It is your play, isn’t it?

ORTON   Of course it is. (Orton gets up to go.)

DIRECTOR   Then what’s all this ‘we’?

INT. ARTS THEATRE. FOYER. DAY. 1964.

Orton goes into the foyer and sits down, still studying his pad. A charwoman mops the floor expressionlessly while this is going on.

HALLIWELL   You just want to be liked, that’s your trouble.

ORTON   Am I twenty-five or twenty-six? (Orton is writing on a pad.) For publicity purposes. Peggy is pestering me for some undisputed facts.

HALLIWELL   Why not tell the truth? Thirty-one.

ORTON   I can’t put thirty-one. I don’t look thirty-one. Besides thirty-one is a well-known bus. Married or single? (Silence.)
Married and divorced. One kiddy. Look. (He shows Halliwell the manuscript.) I’ve dedicated it to you. What more do you want?
Halliwell looks at the dedication.

HALLIWELL   Could you put my full name? Not just Kenneth.
Orton shrugs.

ORTON   I’ll put your phone number too if you want.

INT. WIGMAKER’S SHOP. DAY. 1964.

A cubicle. Halliwell’s head is being measured by a Wigmaker. Orton is watching. The Wigmaker goes out.

HALLIWELL   Why now? You’re not ashamed of me?
Orton shakes his head as the Wigmaker returns with one or two wigs, which Halliwell tries on, with Orton watching critically.

ORTON   Hair loss is often thought of as a sign of sexual potency. Does your experience bear that out?

WIGMAKER   More people wear wigs than is commonly realised: trades-union leaders, sporting personalities, members of the Royal Family.

ORTON   It’s better than the beret.
Halliwell is obviously taken with it.

WIGMAKER   Shall we keep it on?

HALLIWELL   Oh yes. I think so. I shall wear it to our first night.
He is obviously very pleased, and Orton is pleased that he is pleased.

WIGMAKER   That will be seventy pounds.

HALLIWELL   Seventy pounds!

ORTON   This is on me.

HALLIWELL   And this is on me. (He looks at himself in the wig.)

EXT. ARTS THEATRE. NIGHT. 1964.

Neon sign: ‘ENTERTAINING MR SLOANE BY JOE ORTON.’ Orton and Halliwell looking at it.

HALLIWELL   I’m not calling you Joe. You sound like rough trade.
To me you’re John. You’ll always be John.
Orton puts his arm round Halliwell’s neck.

ORTON   For Ken and Joe. Opportunity Knocks.

INT. ARTS THEATRE. DRESSING ROOM. NIGHT. 1964.

Over the tannoy the sound of the last scene of Sloane, punctuated by laughter. An old waitress from the theatre arranges glasses on the dressing-room table. Bottles of champagne, telegrams, etc. Applause starts, tumultuously. She betrays no sign of emotion or expectation, merely opens the door and waits outside in the corridor.

INT. ARTS THEATRE. BACKSTAGE. NIGHT. 1964.