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‘I look like a fucking flamingo, and you know it,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Agreed, but a very lovely one.’
Larry’s hand swept dramatically down. Bella glided effortlessly into the telephone conversation, any problem with the offending wire completely forgotten.
‘Paul?’ Her voice was a deep rich contralto, the voice of a woman who was either a chain smoker or imbibed heavily in gin, vodka or possibly both. ‘Paul? Thank God – no listen. Trouble … Yes. Big trouble … Yes, yes …’ She sighed dramatically. ‘Of course, what else? Just keep quiet and listen. De La Tour … Yes, the one that went to Hamburg. Yes. Are you sitting down? Well, you’d better. It’s a fake.’
As Bella finished the sentence, Terri, the assistant floor manager on the adjoining set, cued Geoff, who, as Paul McMaster, had been perched on the edge of the desk and now rose like a pheasant rocketing from a hedgerow.
‘What!’
Tom, who was wandering aimlessly around the office with his hands in his pockets, stopped in his tracks at his brother’s outburst. At this moment, the outer office door opened and a petite blonde entered. She was gorgeously pretty, like a Barbie doll. Paul cupped his hand over the phone.
‘Yes, Gemma. What is it?’
‘Sorry to interrupt you s-sir,’ lisped Gemma breathlessly, ‘but there’s been an accident in the workroom. Young Billy’s cut his hand on the gilly – guillotine.’
Patsy Hall, playing Gemma, was regarded by the rest of the cast as a nonactress. She had been cast by Hugh in a weak moment, having been totally bowled over by her undeniably gorgeous looks and figure. He had felt, rightly, as it transpired, that she would boost the series’ ratings. Unfortunately, she was virtually talentless. As soon as she made her entrance it became apparent that she was ill at ease – and she had fluffed her first line.
Larry, watching like a hawk, but all the while listening on his head-cans to the candid comments coming from the gallery, waited to be told to suspend operations. The gallery was the enclosed glass sanctum high above the studio floor from which the production team directed the show. The director, in this instance, Scott Dudley, quite literally called the shots. Larry rolled his eyes with a ‘Gawd help us’ expression as Patsy then bumped into the filing cabinet, and the scene jerked awkwardly on, the other actors attempting to rescue it, but the rhythm and flow had been disturbed and much to everyone’s relief the sound boom appeared in shot.
‘Okay, hold it everyone,’ intoned Larry, listening to the string of expletives from his earphones. ‘Yes – yes – uh-huh … Yes, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself … Patsy, dear,’ said Larry loudly, turning his attention to the miscreant, ‘the director says we’re going again, and can you possibly manage even an approximation of the text – it’s vital, dear, as we’re using one of your lines to cut to another shot. Oh, never mind,’ he amended as he saw Patsy’s look of total bewilderment. ‘Just remember the lines and don’t bump into the furniture.’
This last was delivered in the clipped tones of Noël Coward. The whole studio chuckled quietly and there was a shout of raucous laughter from Bella, still on her chaise longue, waiting to do another very brief cutaway scene.
‘Standby to go again, studio,’ said Larry in a long-suffering voice. The boom operator shrugged his apologies to Larry. ‘Don’t mention it, dear,’ was the swift reply. ‘It was as welcome as the relief of Mafeking.’
The next time Patsy got it right, but her performance was dull and wooden. Up in the gallery, Scott Dudley was making his opinions known.
‘She’s appalling! She can’t move, she can’t speak, she can’t act – what the fuck can she do?’ he asked, clutching his forehead in disbelief. ‘I mean apart from that,’ he added, seeing the expressions of his colleagues. ‘Look at her, it’s pathetic. Oh God, I can’t bear it. Cut to camera one,’ he said curtly to his assistant, Pam.
‘It’s not his shot yet,’ replied Pam instantly.
‘I can’t help it. Punch up one,’ he insisted.
The remainder of Patsy’s speech was heard out of vision over a close-reaction shot on Tom.
Pam was Scott’s girlfriend. He was heavily married with teenage children, but his affair with Pam had been progressing steadily now for three years. She was devoted to him and was also very good at her job.
‘And cut to Paul,’ barked Scott, switching to a reaction shot on Geoff earlier than was planned.
Geoff noted the red light on the camera that was trained on him come on and reacted accordingly. He was secretly pleased; he was having a very intermittent affair with Patsy, but knew she was totally untalented.
The scene finally finished.
‘Thank you, studio, that’s a clear!’ Larry bellowed. Then: ‘God, what a load of bullshit!’ he muttered to himself as he removed the head-cans. ‘I hope this looks better than it plays.’
2 (#ulink_f29ee4b1-39e0-5df2-85a6-7766ea24cf61)
‘Yes, that’s right, McMasters, Cork Street, as soon as you can.’ A shot of an ambulance tearing across London from McMasters as the theme music surged accompanied the closing credit titles. Claire Jenner switched off the TV with the remote control unit and sank back against the pillows. The McMasters had deteriorated over the years, she thought. There was a time when she had wanted to be in it. It had been a terrific series when it had first started, full of drive, with punchy and original dialogue. Now the actors were still doing their best with the scripts they were given, but it was becoming decidedly cosy. It needed a kick up the arse, an injection of new life, a sparkling new character perhaps, or story line.
Claire gazed listlessly around the room. Why the hell was she worrying about a TV series? She was quite convinced she would never work again. Anyway, how could she? She was unattractive, undesirable – unnecessary. No one wanted her. Well, Roger didn’t at any rate. The tears started to well up inside her. She heard the clatter of her friend Sal in the kitchen making soup. Dear Sal. Claire would never have come through this without her. The tears coursed unbidden down her cheeks at the thought of her friend’s cheerfulness and kind understanding. The door of the bedroom burst open.
‘Have I missed the end? Damn. What happened?’ Sal demanded, entering and plonking herself down on the end of the bed. ‘Soup won’t be a moment.’
‘Nothing much,’ replied Claire, trying to sound normal, ‘Billy cut his hand and was carted off to hospital. The preceding forty-five minutes were so dull I nodded off.’
‘Dear God, it’s getting more like The Archers every week – what’s the matter with you?’ Sally interrupted herself to look at her friend suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been blubbing again, I hope?’ There was a painful pause as Claire tried to regain control of her feelings to no avail.
‘I miss him,’ she whispered miserably. ‘Oh, Sal, I loved him so much,’ and she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
Sally was apparently unmoved by this spectacle. ‘Really?’ she said dryly, ‘I suppose it’s possible to love a turdfaced piece of shit –’
‘Don’t speak about him like that,’ protested Claire between sobs. ‘He’s beautiful …’
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ observed Sally sagely, relenting and putting her arms round her friend’s shoulders. ‘What he did wasn’t very pretty, though, was it?’ she asked gently.
‘No,’ agreed Claire, brokenly trying to overcome her sobbing. Eventually she said, ‘Sal …’
‘I’m here.’
‘Sal, I wish I could have had the baby.’
Neither of them said anything for a long while.
Claire’s childhood had been almost idyllic. Generous, strong, loving parents had given her a splendid education. She had responded to her happy upbringing in kind. A hardworking, lively intelligent girl, she had done well at school, always coming among the top of her class. She was well-mannered, considerate and charming, and, being an only child, learned to amuse herself. She was an avid reader and loved good music – in every way the perfect child. Until she reached her teens. Still hardworking and ambitious, but now moody, temperamental and a rebel, she flouted her parents’ authority on every occasion, slamming doors, screaming at the top of her voice for no apparent reason and disappearing for days on end. On her return, she would refuse to inform them where she had been. Indeed, she hardly communicated with them at all. Her mother bore this transformation in her adored daughter with true Anglo-Saxon stoicism, was patient, kind and tried to understand. Claire’s father, however, retreated, literally and metaphorically. He withdrew into a hurt silence and increasingly shut himself away in his study. Communication became a problem between all three. Claire conversed with her mother only in monosyllables, and when on rare occasions, Beatrice Jenner tried to elicit from her daughter what was troubling her, she became totally silent and would then disappear again for several days. Her mother would fret and then pretend that nothing had happened when Claire returned.
Her parents were not surprised when Claire announced that she would not be sitting her A levels, but instead was joining a group of friends on a trip to Turkey. Her mother was horrified, her father outraged, that their daughter should throw away her education and chance of university for a whim. Claire argued that a trip in a Land Rover exploring new lands would be an education in itself. But unchaperoned? There would be other girls, well, one other. And three men. But why not sit her exams and go in the summer? Because they were going now, and in any case, she didn’t want to go to university. She had no desire to teach, for God’s sake! Well, what did she want to do then? Beatrice made every effort to get through to her daughter. Her husband sat silently staring at the arrangement of dried flowers that occupied the hearth during the summer months.
‘I want to be an actress,’ Claire announced.
Both her parents were stunned. It was the first intimation they had ever had of it.
‘But you know nothing about acting or the theatre, dear,’ her mother had protested.
‘I don’t care. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’m going to do.’
A strained argument followed, which continued through the evening. Eventually a compromise was reached. Claire would forgo Turkey. She would sit her exams, and her parents would pay for her to go to drama school. If she could get in, of course. Claire was jubilant. Her ruse had worked. Did they really think she would not sit her exams? She’d worked so damned hard for them. She was not about to be thwarted of the brilliant results she knew she would surely get. And she was going to drama school, a closely kept dream come true.
She had never told anyone about it, even her best friend, Debbie. Claire knew that her parents imagined that she was indulging in every vice known to man or woman when she disappeared for days on end. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She would go off into the country and hide away in a caravan belonging to Debbie’s aunt. They would go for long walks, revelling in the freedom, and work quietly at their A levels. Admittedly, Claire did feel the odd pang of guilt knowing that her mother would be worried about her, but she would quell it hurriedly. She half confided her dream of being an actress to Debbie, but didn’t reveal the whole truth. She casually mentioned that she might like to become a photographic model. Debbie was thrilled and lost in admiration. It sounded so glamorous and so unattainable. Claire shrugged it off as though it were unimportant, and decided not to tell anyone of her secret longing, not until it became a reality.
Claire’s mother, although initially shocked by her daughter’s revelation, comforted herself with the hope that perhaps all the pent-up emotion that seemed to be locked in Claire’s bosom would now find an outlet. And so it proved. Claire had sailed through her auditions and been accepted at one of the leading drama colleges. And she had done well there, too, winning the Shakespeare prize at the end of her three years. It had not been easy to get work when she left, but she had managed to attract the attention of an up-and-coming young director in a workshop she’d done for schools and filmed for television. It had been just the break she needed, getting into TV and innovative theatre work simultaneously. There followed a season with one of the more prestigious repertory companies. A critic whose opinion was respected tipped her as a young actress to watch. She was on her way. And then she met Roger.
It was three days since Claire had had her abortion. She had known at the time that it was probably the only sensible course. Roger no longer loved her – if indeed he had ever loved her. She had wanted the baby for his sake. A small thought had crept into the back of her mind. She had tried to brush it away, but it kept coming back. Had she wanted the baby just to keep Roger, to make Roger love her again? If so, his reaction could hardly have been worse.
‘Well, I hope you don’t think it’s mine,’ he had said furiously when she had broken the news to him.
Claire had looked at him stunned. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone else,’ she had cried. ‘I love you. Why should I want to fuck anyone else?’
‘Oh do try to be adult, Claire,’ Roger said baldly.
‘What do you mean “adult”? I trust you are not trying to tell me that you have fucked someone else?’
‘Well, of course I have.’
It had been said. There was a long frozen silence. She’d half suspected it for months. It wasn’t much of a shock, but it was numbing nevertheless. She felt icy inside. It explained everything – why he’d been ignoring her phone calls, his behaviour on the infrequent occasions they had been together. His lovemaking had been perfunctory; expert but almost clinical. Claire sat there appalled, not looking at him for ages.
Finally she said, ‘I’d better go.’
Roger had said nothing, but as she rose and picked up her things, he had fished inside his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. She had watched him, mesmerized, as he had written out a cheque for £500.
‘You’d better have it terminated,’ he said. He had not been able to bring himself to say the word ‘abortion’, she remembered. ‘This should take care of it.’
He handed the cheque to her. She’d taken it automatically, folding it and putting it away in her bag, hardly realizing what she was doing. She just wanted to get out of the room, away from him. She turned to go without saying a word.
As she reached the door, he said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Claire.’
She left the flat without looking back at him. She didn’t want his pity. She walked down the stairs and out of the main door in a dream. She never remembered driving away, only the pain in her chest, which was almost unbearable.
Sally re-entered the room bearing a tray.
‘You know, darling, what you need is a job. Here, try this. It’s not half bad.’
‘A job? I’m not fit for work,’ protested Claire feebly, shifting her limbs and hoisting herself up in the bed, to receive the soup.
‘Nonsense! If you were offered a part tomorrow, you’d be off like a shot, you know you would.’
Claire took the tray, before replying, ‘I suppose you’re right. I don’t know where I’d get the strength from, though. I feel as weak as a kitten.’
‘You look a bit like one, too. All sort of fluffy and vulnerable.’
Claire laughed in spite of herself. ‘I look a fright and you know it.’
‘That’s better,’ said Sally, smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to hear you laugh.’ Claire turned away. ‘It will get better you know. It will take time, but it will get better.’ Sally laid her hands gently on top of Claire’s.
‘Yes, I know … I’ve been reading the book you bought yesterday. It’s beautifully written.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘Absolutely no sex or violence.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Makes one believe in a better world.’
‘There’s one out there waiting for you.’
Silence.
Finally Claire looked up and said, ‘Sal, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’d never have got through this without you.’
‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Sally breezily. ‘Now what else are we going to watch tonight?’
‘There’s one of those Hollywood biblical epics on later,’ said Claire, glancing at the paper, which was amongst the reading matter strewn across the bed.
‘Oh good, I love those,’ said Sally gleefully. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and, boy, could we do with one. And then there’s all those lovely hunky men wandering around in their little skirts – it’ll do you good to see that there are some other good-looking men around, even if they are all in Hollywood.’
‘As this movie was made in 1954, most of them will be pushing seventy,’ observed Claire.
‘Now, now, no ageist remarks, please. What’s wrong with older men? Come to think of it, it’s what you need, a nice older man to look after you. Might treat you properly.’
‘Do they get any better as they get older?’ asked Claire doubtfully.
‘Not really,’ replied Sally, who prided herself on being an authority on the sex. ‘Usually a bit more reactionary. Oh, and their balls get bigger.’
‘Really?’ Claire giggled. ‘How do you know?’
‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Sal airily.
‘I might give it a try in that case,’ replied Claire.
Sally smiled her approval. ‘That’s better, you’re sounding a bit more like your old self.’
‘I can’t be my old self, not without Rog,’ said Claire bleakly.
‘I mean your old self,’ Sally emphasized. ‘The one you were before you met Svengali.’
Claire looked up, surprised.
‘Oh yes,’ Sally continued, ‘you’ve no idea how that man dominated your life. What was the big attraction?’
Claire reflected for a moment. ‘Sex – initially. It had never been so good with anyone before.’
That night, after Sally had gone home, Claire lay in the dark, trying to sleep. Her mind unwillingly turned to thoughts of Roger. Whatever his faults, he was a considerate and thoughtful lover. She had been astounded the first time they had been in bed together. It had been at his flat after a photo session. First he had stroked her neck and shoulders gently, and kissed her softly, running his fingers lightly down her throat to her breasts, just brushing the tips of her nipples. He had caressed her, lovingly kissing her body all over, driving her wild with anticipation. The sudden unexpected violence of his entry into her drew from her a gasping scream, which seemed to spur him on. His bottom lip glistened with lust as he thrust into her. She had become frantic, when he had suddenly withdrawn and started licking her clitoris avidly. Then sucking on it. She moaned and begged him to fuck her. His eyes had narrowed and the gleam of white, even teeth showed, an indication that he was amused by her pleading. Then he had slapped her sharply on the face, telling her to shut up. He would fuck her in his own good time.
She came to expect more shows of violence from him. On occasions, he would tie her by the wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then make her wait for the sublime lovemaking she knew was to follow. After a while, he would kneel astride her face and slowly push his cock into her mouth. He would bring himself almost to the point of orgasm before suddenly stopping and masturbating her until she had reached the same point.
Other times, he would be waiting for her, naked. ‘Tie me up,’ he would say, as she started to undress, eyeing her hungrily. She would see that his erection was already huge. He would stand obediently while she tied him with his hands behind his back to the posts at the foot of the bed. She would take her scarf and blindfold him, then spend an intensely pleasurable half-hour tantalizing him. On her knees she would work her way up his legs with small kisses. As she arrived at his balls, she would see his cock jerk in anticipation of her touch. She would then leave him to wait. He would groan and beg her to continue. After a while, watching him writhe in anticipation, she would suddenly take his cock into her mouth, pushing his foreskin back with her lips. She enjoyed the power of being in control of him sexually on these occasions. After these bouts of titillation, their lovemaking would be frenetic and entirely satisfying, leaving them both exhausted.
Claire lay unblinking in the dark. He’d become bored with her. That was all. He had needed new stimulation, which she could no longer give him. She knew he had not wanted to make any sort of commitment, and had not expected any from her. The last thing he had wanted was for her to have a child. Claire wondered for the hundredth time how she had managed to get it all so wrong. She had thought he loved her. She realized how that she had mistaken lust for love. Well, she’d know better next time. Next time? How could there ever be a next time? She only wanted him. She would never be able to do all those things with anyone else. What she could not put from her mind was the thought that Roger was perhaps doing them at this moment with someone else.
Whoever she was, she couldn’t possibly give him all that she, Claire, had given him. Four years was a long time. He’d soon realize his mistake. He’d start to miss her and come back to her. With this reassuring thought, Claire finally drifted off to sleep.
3 (#ulink_79cc775f-993a-537b-8224-8dc77a230ca4)
‘What did you think of last night’s episode?’ Hugh Travis, the producer of The McMasters, tentatively put the question to his immediate superior, Martin Roberts. They were both seated at either side of Hugh’s desk, reading through the next batch of episodes. There was a considerable pause as Martin mulled it over.
Finally he said, ‘Not bad, not bad – a bit slow in places, perhaps, but on the whole, it was – er – well, it was – er –’
