by Fiona Leitch
‘Blow this for a game of soldiers,’ I grumbled, heading for a chair by the fireplace. The gangly footman looked scandalised, until most of the other extras followed suit, finding themselves somewhere more comfortable to sit or stand. Tony pulled a chair across the room, earning a glare from one of the cushion-fluffing crew members but ignoring it. He positioned it next to mine and motioned for Debbie to sit in it, then perched himself on the arm of my chair, lowering his tightly-clad nether regions slowly down until they were almost level with my eyes. I carefully turned away.
The crew started to look at watches and phones. There were mutterings and discussions. Maybe this amount of waiting wasn’t normal. I watched a group of them by the camera, and it looked like they’d just nominated a junior crew member to go and find out what was happening when Lucy the first AD came rushing back in.
‘Sorry, everyone, let’s break for lunch,’ she said, and turned to leave. One of the camera crew called out to her amidst a chorus of groans.
‘What’s happening, Luce?’
‘Nothing. Faith’s just had a little bit of an accident…’
Chapter Three
Of course my ears pricked up at her words. To my mind ‘a little bit of an accident’ was quite often code for ‘flipping great disaster’, especially when spoken in the tone of voice and accompanied by the facial expression currently being employed by Lucy. I followed Tony and Debbie out of the room, wondering what type of ‘accident’ could have put the kibosh on the morning’s filming.
‘Let’s get something to eat,’ suggested Tony. Food always sounds like a good idea to me, although when someone else is cooking it doesn’t always live up to my standards. Shame they didn’t hire me to do the catering, I thought. My cooking is always going to be better than my acting. I wondered if Polvarrow’s kitchens were in a better and more hygienic state than on my last visit.
But I didn’t get the chance to find out because we were directed outside to an area by the old coach house where a classic Airstream motorhome was parked – one of those really long silver bullet-shaped retro caravan things, pure 1950s Americana. Of course, I thought, remembering one of my fellow catering students. He’d told me that when he graduated he was going to set up his own mobile catering business specialising in film and TV shoots, because they don’t always shoot at locations with kitchen facilities; certainly not ones capable of cooking for a large number of people, all day, for days at a time. The facilities I remembered here definitely would have struggled to cope. A flap in the side of the caravan was open, forming a counter, and inside I could see a fantastic custom-made kitchen. Lining the counter were trays of pasta, another of sausages and burgers, tofu, rice, vegetables – it looked like there was something to suit all diets, no matter how faddy, in this hot buffet. Further along the counter were trays of salads and filled sandwiches. The radio was playing loudly and the chef, an olive-skinned guy in his thirties, was singing along to it, either completely unaware or just unbothered by the queue forming outside. He turned around, still singing, holding a tray of the most delicious-smelling curry and added it to the buffet. Then he plonked down a big pile of plates and smiled at the line of hungry film people.
‘Buon appetito!’ he said. ‘Grub up!’
The food looked and smelt fabulous, and I definitely liked the look of that curry. But there was a long queue of people ahead of us and I knew we were in for quite a wait as they all helped themselves.
‘Hmm…’ I murmured quietly to myself, but not quietly enough because Tony looked at me sharply.
‘I know that ‘hmm’,’ he said. ‘What you thinking?’
‘I’m just thinking I might have a little wander around…’
My little wander around took me across the gravelled yard, back towards the bench where Tony and I had earlier had hysterics. There were several people gathered around the large trailer that he’d pointed out to me as being Faith Mackenzie’s on-set home. I recognised her co-star, Jeremy Mayhew, whom I was used to seeing in gritty contemporary dramas where he was invariably clad in jeans and a leather jacket. He was well-built and stocky, and he looked weird in breeches and knee-high riding boots, although at least his shirt was less frilly than Tony’s (I supposed that too many frills would detract from his character’s evil nature). I’d seen him in a repeat of a ludicrous cop show from the Eighties once and he’d been pretty hot in his younger days, but years of heavy drinking had led to the tell-tale red-veined cheeks and nose of an alcoholic. He was still kind of attractive in a craggy-faced, hedonistic way – like the sort of bloke who could show you a good time, as long as you were happy with debauchery and a kebab rather than dinner and a night at the opera.
Next to him was a younger man, who was tall and slim and wearing a baseball cap. I guessed he was around my age (forties), but he had a youthful air about him, and the superhero T-shirt and black-rimmed glasses he was wearing made him look like a fairly typical film nerd. Going by the way the people around him deferred to him, though, he had to be someone important. Lucy was also amongst the group, and every now and then she would turn round and make sure that no one was paying them too much attention; she was obviously trying to play down whatever was happening. A van with the words 24 Hour Locksmith and a padlock and key logo on the side pulled up nearby and a man – presumably the locksmith – jumped out, reaching into the back for a bag of tools. Lucy rushed over to him, talking quickly, and led him to the trailer. The small crowd parted and the man with the tools stood and looked at the door.
‘You are so nosey…’ I jumped as Tony joined me, carrying two hot dogs in long buns. He gave one to me. ‘Onions and ketchup but no mustard.’
‘Thank you.’ I took it from him and took an enormous bite, getting ketchup on my nose. He shook his head and reached out a finger to wipe it off.
‘Mucky pup. Can’t take you anywhere. What are we looking at?’
I didn’t answer straight away. We watched as the locksmith took out a special tool and started to very carefully unpick the lock.
‘Faith’s got herself locked in,’ I said. Tony laughed.
‘Nothing too dramatic, then.’
‘No…’ I took another bite of sausage. ‘Who’s that bloke in the baseball cap?’
Tony squinted. ‘I think that’s Sam Pritchard. The director.’ He swallowed a lump of sausage. ‘Funny, innit? I’ve seen all his films but I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up even if my life depended on it.’
‘Mmm…’ I watched as the director (if that was indeed who it was) spoke to Lucy and then hurried away. ‘How do you lock yourself inside a caravan though?’
‘What do you mean?’ Tony watched the scene with rather less interest than me.
‘Well, it’s a caravan, not Fort Knox. It’s only going to have a Yale lock or something, isn’t it?’ I’d done my fair share of caravan cleaning, growing up as a teenager in a holiday town. Most of my friends had had summer holiday jobs doing the same thing. ‘When you go inside and pull the door shut behind you it locks, yeah? So no one can get in from outside without a key.’
‘Yeah.’ Tony sucked up a straggly slice of fried onion that was threatening to escape from his bun.
‘But all you do if you’re inside is turn the little knob thingy and it opens. So why doesn’t she just open it?’
Tony looked at me. ‘Your sixth sense tingling again, is it?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s the police training. It never leaves you… Maybe she’s collapsed. Maybe she’s been taken ill and can’t get to the door.’ We watched as the locksmith stopped picking the lock and bent down to stare very carefully into the keyhole. Jeremy, who had stayed close by, stepped up to the door and spoke, directing his words towards the caravan, before stepping back again.
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘So much for that theory.’ I felt Tony turn towards me in surprise. ‘He didn’t knock or shout or anything, did he? So the person inside the caravan – presumably Faith – is probably just on the other side of the door. And neither Lucy
nor the director seems particularly worried, just a bit stressed. So Faith isn’t lying unconscious or anything like that.’ I looked around. ‘No one’s panicking enough for her to be ill. These all look like technical crew, not medical staff.’
‘Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?’ said Tony, losing interest.
‘Yeah, so why doesn’t she just open it?’ I watched as the locksmith turned to the first AD and gestured to the lock. She stepped forward again and put her eye to it, but she obviously couldn’t see anything as she shrugged. The locksmith gestured to the door and it looked to me like he was out of ideas.
I started forward but Tony grabbed my arm.
‘Hang on, what are you doing?’
I smiled. ‘I’m just going to offer my assistance. And find out what’s going on.’
‘So, so, nosey…’
I strode across the gravel and stopped next to Lucy and the locksmith, who were still talking.
‘…mechanism’s buggered,’ he said, and then stopped as they both looked at me.
‘I’m a bit busy,’ said Lucy. ‘What is it? A problem with your costume?’
‘No…’ I started, and then stopped. ‘Does it look like there’s a problem with my costume?’ I tugged self-consciously at it.
Jeremy Mayhew had stopped to give me a really obvious once over, but turned away (I was slightly offended by the speed with which he’d decided I wasn’t worth more than a casual glance) and spoke to the door again.
‘Look at the lock one more time, darlin’. You see that little knob? Just give it a turn—’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jeremy, I know how to open a bloody door! I haven’t locked myself in!’ I recognised Faith’s voice from inside the caravan; she sounded just like her character off the telly. And ready to explode.
Lucy was still staring at me, waiting for me to explain myself.
‘No, sorry, I was just coming to see if Ms Mackenzie might like someone to bring her some food if she’s stuck in the caravan?’ I said, in my most helpful voice. ‘I could get her a plate from the food truck.’
‘Oh, yes please!’ said Faith, before Lucy could react. ‘Why didn’t you think of that, Lucy?’ The first AD glared at me, like it was my fault the caravan had a dodgy lock.
‘I’ll get someone…’ Lucy said, but Faith’s disembodied and slightly exasperated voice interrupted her.
‘No, let her do it. She’s already here and willing. What’s your name?’
‘Jodie,’ I said. ‘Is there a window we can talk through? Might be easier than shouting through the door…’
‘Round the back,’ said Faith. I walked around to the back of the caravan. There was a wide window which I guessed must run the length of the lounge area, but it was too high to look through from ground level and heavy net curtains had been hung there for privacy. I looked around; there was a plastic storage crate nearby. I tipped out the cables that were inside and carried it over to the window, standing on it just as the net curtains moved and the window was opened a little way.
Faith Mackenzie, ex-model, movie star, and doyenne of the soap opera, peered out. In her late fifties (or maybe early sixties – no one knew her real age), she looked like a much younger woman. She had great skin, lovely hair, and a slim figure, all of which pointed to someone who spent a lot of time (and money) taking very good care of their appearance. I couldn’t imagine her ever leaving the house in less than full make-up, and definitely not in track pants and a T-shirt unless it was to actually go and exercise – not popping down the road for a pint of milk and a packet of biscuits, which was the only time these days that my exercise gear got a workout. She also had a nice smile, even now, when she must be thoroughly bored and starting to get impatient.
‘Cooee!’ she said. ‘Hello, Jodie, wasn’t it? Thank you for thinking of me.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I said airily. I have to admit I was a little bit starstruck; I’d never really been into soaps, but since Mum had more or less moved in with me we’d started to watch all of them together. And although Faith was obviously on a break from filming her role in Mile End Days, her episodes were still showing and we’d actually watched her playing pub landlady Clara Brown the night before. Clara was a mouthy cockney matriarch, not someone you’d want to get on the wrong side of, and it sounded like her role in this movie was basically the same but with a posher accent.
I cleared my throat. Oh my God I’m talking to Clara! Mum’ll have a fit. ‘So, what’s going on in there? Are you all right?’
She rolled her eyes, but at the situation rather than me, I felt. ‘The blasted door is stuck. They tried to tell me I’d locked it by mistake, but I haven’t. They all think I’m some menopausal old biddy. And if Jeremy tries to talk me through opening a door one more time, I swear to God…’
I laughed sympathetically. ‘Well, I just heard the locksmith say the lock mechanism’s broken, so hopefully that’ll shut him up. I don’t suppose you can climb out of this window, can you?’
Faith sighed. ‘I actually am a menopausal old biddy, and a National Treasure. There’s no way I’m squeezing out of a caravan window. Can’t someone just break the door down? There must be a ton of strong young men out there.’
‘Which way does the door open?’ I asked. ‘Inwards or outwards?’
‘Outwards.’
‘Then someone would need to kick it down from inside. I don’t suppose you fancy trying that either,’ I said, and she laughed.
‘Not really.’
‘Fair enough.’ I looked at the window again. ‘Does that window open any further…?’
‘You want me to do what?’ Tony looked as if his flabber had been well and truly ghasted.
‘You can get through that window. Go on, you always wanted to be a hero.’
‘Did I? Don’t remember that.’
‘All right, but you did always want to be an actor, and if you get on the right side of Faith you might get bumped up to a speaking part.’ I gave him a shove. ‘Go on.’
‘Jodie…’
I put on my most sincere face. ‘I believe in you, Tony. And more to the point, I’m not big enough to bash the door in myself or I’d do it.’
He looked at me for a moment, and then laughed.
‘All right, I’m going in.’
Faith looked out of the window at our approach. Lucy had ignored me upon my return to the caravan as I was carrying a tray of food lovingly dished up by Gino, the singing food-truck man. The movie star’s face lit up hungrily, which I at first put down to the plate of pasta salad I was carrying but then realised with a shock that it was Tony she was staring at. Hmm. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
‘Here’s your food,’ I said, reaching up. Tony, being taller, took the plate from me and handed it through the open window.
‘Miss Mackenzie,’ he said, with a slight bow. Yeah, all right, don’t overdo it, Tone, I thought. She ain’t royalty; she’s just playing it. She smiled.
‘Please, call me Faith,’ she said, taking it from him. She had a lovely smile and she shone it, full beam, on Tony. Hmm…
‘Now, if you’d like to stand aside, Miss … Faith, I’m coming in too.’
‘Ooh, are you here to rescue me or are you dessert?’ she giggled, with an eyebrow raised in a suggestive fashion. It suggested something to me, anyway. Hmm…
Tony laughed. ‘We’ll start with getting that door open,’ he said. He stepped up on the plastic crate, then pulled himself up so that his torso was level with the window sill. I thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to fit after all – he had put some weight on since I’d back, as I’d been feeding him a bit too often – but the tight trousers were evidence that he’d been taking more care of himself lately, and he managed to wriggle through until just his legs were sticking out. He’s been working out, I thought approvingly.
I could hear muffled laughing from inside the caravan, and then Faith must’ve taken hold of his arms and pulled because he suddenly disappeared from
view.
‘Dammit!’ he cried.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, concerned.
‘Bloody trousers…’
Faith laughed and I suddenly had a vision of Tony sitting on the caravan’s couch next to a ravening Faith in just his pants. What if he couldn’t get the door open? They’d be stuck in there together for goodness only knows how long, and I didn’t fancy his chances against her. If he even puts up a struggle, I thought. I jumped up on the plastic crate and tried to haul myself up.
Tony looked out of the window. ‘I’m fine, I just split my— What are you doing?’
I looked up at him nonchalantly, or as nonchalantly as it was possible to when you’re hanging onto a window ledge with one leg stretched up as far as it will go, while also wearing a hideous maid’s costume. ‘I thought you might need a hand.’
‘Don’t be daft. Go round the front and warn them that I’m going to try and kick the door down.’ His head disappeared again and I stood there for a second, absolutely furious with myself for suggesting it, with Tony for agreeing to it (although that was also my fault because I’d badgered him into it), but most of all with Faith for being a much more attractive prospect for any man than a penniless single mum with a failing business and a muffin top currently straining against a brown hessian shift dress. Not that I cared.
The locksmith was packing up and Lucy was in discussion with a couple of crew members, while Jeremy stood around looking manly but ultimately useless.
‘We could try and take the door off its hinges and lift it off,’ said one of them, doubtfully.
‘No need,’ I said. ‘You’d better stand back.’ Lucy looked at me, but before she could speak there came a howl from inside the caravan, like a cross between a constipated Bruce Lee and a banshee, and the door burst open. Tony’s momentum carried him through the doorway after it and he hurtled into the air, missing the steps that led from the door down to the ground and careering into me. I staggered back under his weight but he somehow managed to stay upright and hold onto me at the same time, pulling me into his arms before I ended up on the grass.
