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Patsy giggled again. ‘You’d have to ask her. She’s usually up here,’ she added looking around the room. ‘She likes a drink or three.’
‘Does she?’ Tony Snellor took out his miniature tape recorder, placed it on the table between them and switched it on. Patsy turned back, disappointed that there was no sign of Bella. Snellor took a large swig of vodka. ‘Tell me, Patsy, how do you get on with other members of the cast?’
Patsy pondered this for some time. She was longing to air her grievances to someone, and maybe if she said she was unhappy in public they would realize and be nicer to her.
‘I wish they were nicer to me,’ she whispered.
Snellor sat up. ‘I can’t believe they’re nasty to you,’ he said hopefully.
‘They are sometimes. Well, not nasty, exactly. Perhaps they’re just jealous, like you said.’
‘I’m sure I’m right,’ said Snellor. ‘I bet you have trouble with that Bella, don’t you? I mean, she must be worried by a younger, beautiful rival, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Patsy, nodding her head sagely.
‘You know, Patsy, I could do you a bit of good here,’ said Snellor, looking at her with interest. He’d just had one of his brainwaves. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they were humdingers. ‘I’ve been watching this series and, I must say, since you’ve come into it, it’s perked up no end. I think you’ve got what it takes. But producers aren’t always so quick off the mark. But if an artist is seen to be getting a lot of publicity, that means something to them. The ratings go up and they start to build up that artist’s part. Soon she’s taken over and become the star of the series. Do you follow me?’ Snellor glanced at Patsy. Had he gone too far? No. She was gazing at him with shining eyes. He pressed home his point. ‘What I’m saying here, Pat, is, you give me the stories and I’ll guarantee to give you the publicity. It needn’t be too obvious. Just little snippets about what’s happening behind the cameras from time to time. We angle it to include a nice big picture of you. We might even put you on the cover of the colour supplement on Sunday if you come up with the right story. What do you say?’
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea, Tony!’
8 (#ulink_e0a2012a-87f4-5047-be95-642bd360285f)
Full of trepidation, Claire started to get ready for her visit to the studio. It was the day of her make-up test and she was apprehensive to say the least. Her previous encounters with make-up artists had not been happy. She had only done a couple of small parts in television, and had not had the nerve to stand up for what she wanted.
‘After all, Sal,’ she had complained to her friend after an earlier disaster, ‘I know my face better than anyone else. I know what suits me. I know how to make the best of my features. I mean, I realize I’m no beauty …’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re gorgeous! Everyone knows that. You’ve just got to be firm; you’re too nice, that’s your trouble. Diana Barry throws brushes and things around if she doesn’t get what she wants.’
Claire looked appalled. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, it’s just not professional,’ she said primly.
‘Well then, you’ll just have to go on looking like the back of a number nine bus.’
‘I know, I know. I just don’t know how to handle those make-up girls. They’re all harridans,’ said Claire feelingly.
‘They’re just bullies,’ retorted Sally, ‘and like all bullies, if you stand up to them, they’ll crumble.’
‘I know you’re right, I just don’t have the guts,’ Claire had replied miserably.
That was a couple of years ago, however. She had the guts now, she was tougher now – Roger had at least done that for her. She was determined not to be bullied this time into having a face that was, in her opinion, totally characterless – no eyes nor cheekbones, just lips and eyebrows. She had looked dreadful. It had destroyed her confidence and she had cried bitterly afterwards. When she had seen herself on the television, she had been enraged. Never again, she thought savagely. This was the biggest break of her career and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of her success. She drove to the studio, nervous but determined to win. The more she thought of her previous humiliations, the more furious and the more resolute she became. She was determined to win the forthcoming battle. For battle there would surely be, she felt certain. By the time she arrived at the studio gates, she was trembling, whether from fear or anger she wasn’t sure, but she managed a tremulous smile for the official residing on the gate.
‘I am here for a make-up test for The McMasters,’ she said, suddenly feeling a sense of belonging to something rather special.
He seemed delighted and allowed her to park in the area in the middle right outside the main building, an honour usually the preserve of the top brass of South Eastern Television. Even famous stars had been known to have been turned away from this car park. The gate attendant’s power was absolute. Every visiting actor was at the mercy of his whims and moods. This unexpected favour put Claire in a buoyant mood. She parked and strode confidently into the building. There were several women officiating in the vast reception area. She approached one and was steadfastly ignored. As she turned to another, a phone rang and the receptionist picked it up and became engaged in an animated discussion. Claire addressed a third.
‘My name is Claire Jenner. I am in The McMasters and I am here for a make-up session. Where do I go?’
‘Red assembly – lower ground,’ said the woman, without looking up. She seemed unimpressed, if not disinterested, by Claire’s announcement.
‘Thank you,’ said Claire politely. She made her way to the escalator that went down to the basement, glancing as she went at the huge colour photographs that were arranged around the walls of the reception hall. There was one featuring the current cast of The McMasters. She would be amongst them soon, she thought to herself happily. Soon, she too would be as famous as they were. She would not be ignored by the receptionists but welcomed and made much of. At the bottom of the escalator she came to a corridor with another off it at right angles. Illuminated signs indicated ‘Red Assembly’ and ‘Make-up Department’.
Claire could hear sounds of chatter and laughter coming from within. Her heart started to beat a little faster. She approached the door clutching her handbag and script to her, and entered. She stood there for a few moments before anyone noticed her. The make-up room was long and narrow, and the walls were hung with mirrors surrounded by fluorescent lights. The long uninterrupted worktop that went the full length of the room was covered in powder puffs, make-up brushes, jars, bottles, little round pots of pencils, sponges, combs, heated rollers and every known aid to beauty. In front of the mirrors, at regular intervals, were six chairs of the type used by dentists. Actors and actresses were sitting in these, being tended by make-up artists – Claire’s harridans – who were clad in crisp pale blue overalls and seemed to be on very good terms with their victims.
A young man, nearest to the door, observed Claire’s entrance through the mirror.
‘Well, hello!’ he said cheerily. ‘Look what’s just walked in, everyone.’
Claire stood uncomfortably. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to overcome her shyness.
The make-up girl nearest her, who was tending the young man, turned around with no hint of welcome in her face.
‘Yes?’ she enquired imperiously. ‘Can we help you?’
Claire took a deep breath. She knew she had to start as she meant to go on.
‘I’m Claire Jenner,’ she announced loudly. ‘I’m playing Sara Harper – I’ve come for a make-up test.’
The entire room came to a stop. The rest of the make-up girls were arrested in mid-operations to stare at the interloper, whilst the cast members turned as one to eye her with ill-concealed curiosity.
‘Hello, dear – very pleased to meet you,’ said Meg immediately, with great warmth.
‘Hello,’ replied Claire gratefully. ‘And I you,’ and she smiled back at her.
‘And a very attractive addition to the cast, if I may say so,’ said the young man suavely, swivelling round in his chair to face her, stretching out his hand. ‘I’m Simon Lavell, welcome aboard.’ Claire took the proffered hand.
‘Thank you. I’m really glad to be here,’ she said trying to believe it.
‘And we’re very glad to have you, love,’ called Reg from the far end in his homely Northern accent. He played George, the restorer in the series, and husband of the character played by Meg. ‘You’ll liven things up, I shouldn’t wonder. Could do with a new bit of blood.’
Claire laughed, and coloured slightly.
‘Hello, Claire, I’m Amy,’ said a rather pretty brunette with gamine looks, laughing eyes, and hair cut in a bob with a heavy fringe. Claire remembered that Amy played Sophie Longthorn, the receptionist for the McMasters’ rather grand premises.
Also sitting being made up, but too shy to speak, were Frederick Derby, an older actor in his late seventies, who supplied the aristocratic element in this very British television series, and Jason Wright. He played Billy, the boy in the workshop who was responsible for the packing of valuable items. These two turned to smile at Claire. She smiled happily back. At least they all seemed pleased enough to see her. Particularly Simon Lavell. He was still eyeing her in a critical way. The make-up girl who had greeted her so coldly now took charge of the situation.
‘We’re not ready for you yet – we’re in the middle of a recording, you know.’
Claire blushed in spite of herself. ‘I was told to be here at four thirty,’ she said with as much courage as she could muster.
‘By whom?’ asked the termagant.
‘Sonia, Sonia asked me to be here at four thirty,’ insisted Claire, anger starting to rise at this public humiliation.
‘She’s on the floor doing Patsy’s retake, wouldn’t you know,’ said Simon, jerking a thumb in the direction of a large monitor that was affixed to the wall about a couple of feet down from the ceiling. Everyone glanced up at the monitor. The sound had been turned off and there was indeed evidence of a retake of a scene in progress. The screen was filled with huge close-ups of Patsy Hall. Claire looked at her curiously. She had a low opinion of Patsy’s acting ability, although she conceded that she was a lovely-looking girl. She seemed to be looking vacant at the moment, as though unsure of what to do next.
‘Look at her,’ said Simon contemptuously. ‘She hasn’t a bloody clue.’
Claire was astonished at this blunt dismissal of a fellow actor, but said nothing.
‘Get it right, love!’ he jeered at the screen, as it became apparent that the scene was being shot yet again. ‘We all want to go home tonight!’ The rest of the room laughed uproariously, even kind Meg and Reg. Plainly, Patsy was the company joke. Someone turned the sound up and after another attempt, Patsy got it right and the whole make-up room cheered. Except Claire, who was genuinely appalled by the goings-on.
The camera that had been trained on Patsy swerved off her and came to rest on an out-of-focus picture of the set doorway as Larry Matthews listened to instructions on his headphones from the director.
‘Yes, yes, oh thank Christ,’ said Larry in a relieved tone to the empty doorway. ‘It’s a clear everyone.’
Another cheer went up from the make-up room. Suddenly the door burst open and Bella erupted into the room.
‘God give me strength!’ she exclaimed, making for the nearest chair. Simon hurriedly vacated it. Bella collapsed noisily into its leather cushions.
‘Where did they find her?’ she said dramatically. ‘They never told us about this at the Academy.’
‘Of course they did. Didn’t you ever do improvisation classes – where you had to make love to a lamppost?’ asked Simon. ‘I know we did.’
‘I must have been away that day,’ muttered Bella, picking up a brush and tapping furiously with it on the table. It was obvious that she was in a foul mood, the result of trying to act opposite Patsy. Simon decided to create a diversion.
‘What am I thinking of? Bella, my love, you haven’t met the latest addition to this remarkable series, Claire Jenner!’
Bella swivelled round in astonishment, seeing Claire for the first time. She wreathed her face in smiles.
‘My dear,’ she said graciously, ‘how lovely. We’ve been so looking forward to your arrival. Welcome!’ And she rose majestically from her seat to meet Claire who had moved towards her. Bella embraced her warmly, then held her at arm’s length to view her the better.
‘Well, this is an improvement. I’m glad to see that Hugh hasn’t completely taken leave of his senses. You’re much more what The McMasters is about – class! You are extremely welcome!’ And she gave Claire’s upper arm an encouraging grip, then released her, turned abruptly to the chair again and flung herself into it.
‘Now, Glynis dear, what the fuck are we going to do about my face? Trying to act opposite that ghastly little tramp has completely ruined my make-up!’
The door opened again and the object of her ire wandered in disconsolately. She was followed by an attractive brunette, who was looking anxious.
‘Sonia, my pet, you’re late for our new member – what will she think of us?’ said Simon teasingly to the late arrival.
‘Oh, I’m sooo sorry,’ said Sonia breathlessly to Claire.
‘Please, it’s all right, I think I was early,’ replied Claire hurriedly, anxious to establish good relations with the woman who held her future success in her hands.
‘It’s just – that we got held up,’ continued Sonia in a confidential undertone so that Patsy could not hear. ‘But I’m ready for you now,’ she added with a winning smile, guiding Claire to the chair where Jason was seated. He sprang at once to his feet.
‘Hi, I’m Jason. Nice to meet you – I hope we get to do scenes together,’ he said with a shy grin.
‘Hello,’ replied Claire, warmed by his friendly manner. ‘I hope so, too.’ Jason edged out of the way and Claire sat tentatively in his place and braced herself for the next encounter. Sonia stood behind her.
‘I expect you do your own, don’t you?’ she said quietly.
‘What?’ said Claire, startled.
‘Make-up,’ replied Sonia. ‘I can see you’re good at it – you look lovely.’
‘Oh – thank you,’ said Claire, unable to believe her ears. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’
‘You’ll need a bit more base, Claire. Would you like me to do that?’ enquired Sonia, smiling gently. ‘Then you can do your eyes and things.’
‘Yes, of course.’ My luck’s in, thought Claire as she gave herself over to Sonia’s ministration.
‘Now, what are we going to do with your hair?’ running her fingers through Claire’s soft reddish brown curls. ‘It looks quite good tied back in the nape.’
Claire suddenly became aware that she was under scrutiny. She turned and met Patsy’s hostile gaze. Sonia followed her look.
‘Patsy,’ she said, ‘have you met Claire yet?’
‘No,’ said Patsy solemnly. ‘Hi,’ she added casually, before turning away without waiting for Claire’s response.
‘Take no notice of her,’ whispered Sonia in her ear. ‘She thinks she’s the star of the show.’ Claire was rattled by Patsy’s evident dislike of her and thought privately that if she had made an ally in Sonia then Patsy was decidedly an enemy.
9 (#ulink_6ed60817-969b-58d1-978c-9a44183a8bc7)
It was ten o’clock on another blindingly hot day in Bel Air – a misnomer if ever there was one, the only air worth breathing being of the conditioned variety. Somewhere a telephone was ringing. Jim Dutton stirred from the mists of a drug-induced sleep. He moved his head and opened one eye blearily. He became aware that he was not alone. A very young girl with red hair of an impossible hue was sprawled on her stomach across the pillow next to him. Another girl, a blonde of the type known as ‘platinum’, lolled over his loins, her mouth half open near his flaccid cock. They were both sound asleep, the blonde obviously having abandoned her attempt to arouse his flagging ardour mid-operations. The redhead’s breath smelled appalling. The phone continued to ring. Where the fuck was Consuela? The number of phone calls and possible job offers he’d missed through that goddamn broad not answering the goddamn phone … then he remembered he’d had to dismiss Consuela the previous week. Hell! It had come to something when he couldn’t even afford a goddamn housekeeper. Something had to break soon. What the fuck did his goddamn agent think she was doing?
He crawled across the redhead, who moaned and rolled over onto her back, displaying a pair of enormous breasts. This had the effect of giving him an instant hard-on, which almost distracted him from his mission. The phone rang relentlessly; it obviously intended to go on ringing until someone answered it. He glanced hungrily at the huge nipples. ‘Later, later,’ he muttered, and staggered across the room. He always kept the bedroom phone on the table by the window. It was the only way he could be certain of making an early morning call at the studio. He had to be sure of actually getting out of bed.
‘Yeah,’ he said huskily into the mouthpiece of the onyx and gilt turn-of-the-century-type telephone.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ said a cheery voice on the other end. It was Meriel his goddamn agent! ‘I was beginning to think you’d died on me, honeybunch.’ She sounded in high good humour.
‘Likewise,’ growled Jim. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months!’
‘Jimbo, that is such a lie. If you’re alluding to the Universal project, we are pushing as hard as we dare at this point in time. Now, concerning the Golden Globe Awards –’
‘Holy shit!’ intoned Jim. ‘Have you any idea what time I hit the sack?’
But Meriel was questioning him closely on his activities at the awards ceremony. Had he interacted with the right people? Meriel started giving him a list of the casting directors who apparently had been impressed by his appearance. Jim caught sight of his reflection in the huge mirror that served as the bed head.
‘Jeez,’ he muttered to himself as he gazed longingly at the recumbent beauty on the bed, ‘I’m standing here completely nude with an erection like the Empire State Building and my asshole of an agent, who can’t get me an interview much less a screen test, is giving me the third degree on last night’s guest list.’ He started to work his foreskin up and down his penis automatically. If only Meriel would get off the goddamn phone he could get down to the biggest pair of tits he’d seen in a long time. He groaned involuntarily.
‘What was that, honeypie?’ queried Meriel.
‘Uh, nothin’, it’s okay – uh, say Meriel, can any of this wait? I’m kind of busy right now.’
‘Oh sure thing, sugar – oh, just one thing, though, there’s these two British-type guys – want to sign you up for a TV series.’ Was this broad raving or what?
‘A British TV series? They only ever get shown on HBO, Meriel!’
But Meriel was unimpressed by his reaction. ‘Think about it, Jimbo. There’s not a lot of work around right now and there’s a lot of talent chasing what there is.’
Meriel knew how slim the chance was that Jim would get the Universal movie. It would go to Kurt Russell or Patrick Swayze for sure. Unless they got a better offer – and then Jim would be up against the two-dozen others in his own league.
‘You’ll be getting a call from them any time – I gave them your number – they’re flying over to see you in the next couple of days.’
I do not believe I’m having this conversation, Jim thought wildly. One day I’m being tipped as the hottest thing to come out of Hollywood since Kevin Costner and the next I’m on a meteoric ride to obscurity in a British TV series. This cannot be for real.
Jim was good-looking, even by Hollywood standards – but apart from possessing a physique that could have passed muster as a quarter back with the Miami Dolphins, Jim’s main asset was a gentle, sensitive, little-boy-lost expression that seemed constantly to assail his features. Women were bowled over by it. So were female casting directors (who, although technically women, were in fact a breed apart). Producers, on the other hand, seemed strangely resistant. Once it had dawned on Jim that his boyish charm and devastating good looks could be used to get what he wanted, he used them mercilessly. He had been discovered by his agent, Meriel Brooks, playing Chance Wayne in a production of Tennessee Williams’s Sweet Bird of Youth at the Pasadena Playhouse. She had got him a small but regular part in a daytime soap series and he had bedded her out of gratitude. This in fact had not been necessary so far as Meriel was concerned. Her job was the motivating factor in her life, that and the antiques that graced her lovely West Hollywood apartment, and her plastic surgeon’s bills that were extortionate. But she had accepted Jim’s offer without any fuss. It had only happened once and they had been firm friends ever since.
She had introduced him to the Hollywood social scene. They had breakfasted at the Beverly Hills Hotel, lunched at Le Dôme, dined at the Ivy, been to countless premieres, awards ceremonies and charity galas and benefits. The Hollywood élite had welcomed them. The champagne had flowed and the cocaine had drifted. Jim had launched himself into a full and varied sex life. Women flung themselves at him and he had lost count of the number of girls he had bedded.
