The Perfect Fit

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘No I’m bloody not all right!’ I exploded. ‘And neither will Maisie Brady be when I get my hands on her!’

  Chapter 29

  I marched backstage next evening with just one aim. To give Maisie Brady a massive piece of my mind.

  ‘Ok, Maisie, what the hell?’

  She glanced at the puppy by her feet. ‘Do you mean Teddy? We couldn’t find a sitter so Harper said I could bring him.’

  ‘Well Harper’s not in charge! I am! Nominally,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean the dog, I meant your bloody TV show.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That bitchfest last night. You’re still sulking because I didn’t let you play Cinders, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh no, honey. Last night’s episode of The Brady Bunch was finished long before we switched pantos.’

  ‘Right. So you just don’t like me then.’

  Maisie fixed her face into a patronising simper. ‘Well, you have to admit, Becky. You’re not the easiest leading lady to work with, are you?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding! After all the times I’ve stayed late to rehearse with you when everyone else was in the pub?’

  ‘Exactly. Quite the little martyr about it.’ Her gaze flickered momentarily to Gavin, filming us from a corner.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, love, switch that thing off and be a real person,’ I snapped. ‘I just want one nice, ordinary row without feeling like a bit player in your bloody life.’

  Gav looked unsure. ‘Shall I, Mrs Brady?’

  ‘No,’ Maisie said. ‘She signed the consent form, she can’t object.’

  ‘Fine. Film this then.’ I rubbed a v-sign against my cheek. ‘Do you know who had the deciding vote when we cast you, Maisie? Me. I was the one who voted against a better actress when it was three-all on the panel, because I thought that with enough commitment you could make something of the principal boy part.’

  She laughed. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me. And what do you do? Let the other cast members carry you while you’re slagging them off behind their backs. That might be the way it works in Celebrityville, but here in… Realworldsville, we look out for each other. Right?’

  ‘Look –’

  ‘And don’t pretend you’re giving it your best, I know you’re not,’ I snapped. ‘Harper might be deluding himself when he rates you as the showbiz world’s best-kept secret but he’s right about one thing: you’re better than this. So get it sorted, ok? Ask yourself what Kevin Bacon would do.’

  ‘Maybe I could Bacon it, if I had a decent part,’ she snapped back. ‘But you wouldn’t let me be Cinderella, would you?’

  I held up a hand. ‘You know what? I’d rather save my stock of drama for the panto. Stay away from me, Maisie, and keep bloody Blair Witch Gav out of my face. From now on we’re professionals working together and that’s it.’ I glanced down at her puppy, who was sniffing my shoes suspiciously. ‘That goes for you too, dog. Nothing personal.’

  I stormed off to get changed, leaving Maisie scowling in my wake.

  ‘You ok?’ Marc asked when he found me ten minutes later in my bra and tights, struggling to get into my giant ballgown with a black look on my face. Any modesty-related commitment to boy/girl changing areas had gone out of the window pretty early on.

  ‘No I’m not ok. Did you see that poisonous bollocks on telly last night? Bloody Maisie, I could strangle her.’

  ‘Here. Keep still.’ He helped me pull the dress over my shoulders, then turned me round so he could zip me up. ‘Yeah, I saw it.’

  ‘Can you believe it? God, she made me sound like such a… such an amateur.’

  ‘But you are an amateur. We’re all amateurs. That’s why they call it amateur dramatics.’

  ‘I don’t mean amateur as in not getting paid, I mean amateur as in unprofessional. I sounded like some fawning hanger-on.’

  ‘Oh, she’s just trying to keep it interesting for viewers,’ he said, turning me back around. ‘That’s reality telly for you, everything has to be melodrama.’

  ‘What, you’re defending her?’ I said, feeling aggrieved. ‘Do you know how humiliating it was? Don’t know why I ever signed that bloody consent form.’

  ‘Sorry, Becks,’ he said gently. ‘Just trying to make you feel better. I’m on your side, promise.’

  ‘You know, it’s not even the fact it was on telly, really. It’s that she made me sound like she thought I was nothing.’ I looked up at him. ‘I mean, it wasn’t like I thought we were best friends, but I did think she respected me.’

  ‘Here. Get your hair on.’ Marc placed the heavy Marie Antoinette wig on my head. ‘She does respect you, that’s why she’s behaving like this. She’s jealous of you.’

  I snorted. ‘What, long-legged, big-boobed Maisie Moorhouse, object of lust for every red-blooded man with access to a copy of the Sunday Sport? Do me a favour.’

  ‘Not every red-blooded man.’ He reached round to fasten the necklace that went with my costume, and I lifted the ringlets of my wig for him. ‘Honestly, Becks, I’ve seen how she looks at you. She’s jealous. It’s a compliment, I promise.’

  ‘Jealous of what?’

  ‘Your acting? Your singing voice? Your general Beckyish charm?’ He gave me an encouraging peck on the cheek. ‘Just be a pro, eh? Maisie’s your prince, you’re her Cinderella, you’re madly in love, and until we get out the Temp door that’s all you need to know. You can have a bitch fight in the pub after if you really want. Hell, I’ll even provide the baby oil.’

  Deano poked his head through the stage door and clapped his hands. ‘Right, everybody out here for a director’s pep talk.’

  ‘Since when do we have director’s pep talks?’ Lana asked.

  ‘Since now. Come on, out.’

  The assembled cast – our two dames, Yo-yo, Harper, Maisie, Marcus, Lana and me – traipsed dutifully onto the stage. Deano was marching up and down with his rolled-up script under his arm, doing his best impression of a sergeant-major.

  ‘Right then, you ’orrible lot,’ he barked. ‘Today is the sixth of October. Know what that means?’

  ‘Sixty-four shopping days till Christmas?’ my dad said.

  ‘It means forty-five rehearsal days till opening night, that’s what. So I want you all giving it…’ He hesitated. ‘Infinity per cent, all right? We can’t afford another rehearsal like the last one, people.’

  ‘Infinity per cent?’ Lana muttered. ‘Fuck me, it’s happened. The last sane braincell’s popped.’

  ‘Pantomime is a magical box of wonders in which anything can happen, you maggots!’ Deano went on, waving his script at us with a crazed look in his eyes. ‘Where even the roughest old scrubbers can wear pretty dresses and get laid. Where boys have short tunics and great legs and lady parts. Where mice can turn into horses and pumpkins into coaches.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘I want everyone feeling the magic, and I want them feeling it 24-7 from now until panto! I want pep! I want ginger! I want –’

  ‘You want to get a shift on,’ Gerry called out. ‘This bloody chandelier dress is killing my old shoulders.’

  ‘Quiet, dame. I’m inspiring you.’ He paused. ‘Where was I? Oh yeah. From now on I want everyone immersed in the golden, enchanted world of fairytale at all times, on pain of… me.’ He glanced over the line-up. ‘Becky. No more script blackouts. That Tomorrow scene had better go without a hitch. Lana-banana, I expect those lines to be perfect. And Maisie…’ He winced. ‘Just do your best, love. Let’s try the ballroom scene, then we’ll go through some of the others you made such a hash of last time.’

  The scene got off to a good start. Maisie managed to come in on cue, and Dandini’s crack about the prince having the biggest balls in the kingdom, which we’d written in during our emergency innuendo session, got a snort out of Sue Lightowler on piano. The main problem this time round was me. Or
more specifically, my dress.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ Maisie-Charming asked when we’d done our eyes-meeting-across-a-crowded-room bit and duetted to Some Enchanted Evening.

  ‘I’d be honoured, your highness,’ I said, fluttering my fan coyly.

  Maisie bowed, put her arms round my waist, and Sue struck up a waltz. I tried to move but the bloody velvet ballgown was like wearing a bus shelter. I could barely lift my feet. Maisie was reduced to dragging me around like a sack of spanners while I tried desperately not to send us both flying.

  ‘So… are your family… here?’ Maisie puffed as she tried to make dancing smalltalk while supporting the full weight of both me and my dress.

  ‘My sisters and stepmother are.’

  ‘And are they as… Christ! Are they as… lovely… as you?’

  ‘Ok, stop!’ Deano shouted. Maisie let me go and sagged in relief.

  He jumped up on stage. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Becks? Maisie’s about to have a coronary.’

  ‘It’s the dress,’ I said. ‘It’s too heavy, Deano. I can hardly walk in it, let alone dance.’

  ‘You managed last time, didn’t you?’

  ‘I wasn’t in the underskirts then. Or the wig, that weighs a ton as well.’

  ‘The dames are coping. Their dresses are bigger than yours.’

  ‘But they’re big strapping blokes, aren’t they?’

  ‘Ok, now you’re just ruining the magic.’ He sighed. ‘All right, go take the wig and petticoats off so we can rehearse properly. We’ll have to sort you another costume.’

  After the ball, Harper and Maisie were due to rehearse their dancing. That, at least, had little scope for disaster, since Harper could actually act and Maisie could actually dance. The biggest risk was that close proximity to his wife in tights would have Harper dragging her off to the nearest cleaner’s cupboard.

  Sue opened the scene with a snatch of Shall We Dance?, then Maisie got the ball rolling.

  ‘Are you sure you can teach me to dance in time for the ball, Baron?’

  ‘Ahh, that I can, boyo. Look you, we’ll have you tripping a hornpipe with the best of them by the –’

  ‘Cut!’ Deano shrieked. The vein in his temple looked like it was approaching critical. ‘Ok, Harper. What the hell’s that accent?’

  ‘It’s Welsh, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody hell, is it? I had my money on Tasmanian,’ Deano snapped. ‘Why’ve you suddenly started playing it with an accent?’

  ‘Just trying to give the character a bit of depth, that’s all,’ Harper said sulkily.

  ‘He doesn’t need depth. He needs to say his lines properly.’ Deano groaned. ‘One decent actor, is that too much to ask?’ he muttered, turning his eyes skywards in an impassioned appeal to the gods of theatre. ‘Now even my BAFTA winner’s taking the piss.’

  ‘Well, I’m bored,’ Harper grumbled. He was clearly in the mood to let his ego off the lead. ‘This bloke Hardup winds me right up. How am I supposed to get into his head when I don’t know what his motivation is?’

  ‘He’s a minor character in a pantomime, mate. You’re not playing King sodding Lear.’

  ‘I think he’s right,’ said Marcus, who was watching in the wings with me.

  Deano stared at him. ‘You think what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, what is Hardup’s game? He marries this awful woman, lets her and her daughters bully his kid without a word, and yet we’re still supposed to believe he’s a nice guy. Sorry, but I’m not buying it.’

  If Deano had slumped face-first onto the stage and started beating it with his fists, it wouldn’t have surprised me. But he managed to stay upright, just.

  ‘My point exactly,’ Harper said.

  ‘He’s sort of wet, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘He loves his daughter, but he’s scared of his terrifying wife.’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘Not strong enough. His only child’s being abused: you’d think that’d make him grow a pair if anything would.’

  ‘I can’t believe you lot!’ Deano said in a shrill voice, grasping his hair like the Sesame Street version of a mad scientist. ‘We open in less than two months and you’re trying to find motivation for a cameo character with about ten bloody lines!’

  ‘What if we introduce mind control as a factor?’ I said, ignoring him. ‘Maybe the Wicked Stepmother’s controlling him with hypnosis.’

  ‘No good,’ Marcus said. ‘Baroness Hardup’s not a witch. Ask Yo-yo.’

  ‘Ok, then maybe some mind-altering substance. A potion or, um…’

  ‘What about just good old-fashioned booze?’ Harper said. ‘I do a great drunk.’

  Maisie nodded. ‘He got a fab write-up for playing an alky in Silent Witness once.’

  ‘And if Hardup was a lush, that could explain why he doesn’t get his house in order,’ Harper said. ‘Plus it’d be funny.’

  Deano narrowed one eye. ‘All right, give us your drunk.’

  Harper slurred his way through a few of Baron Hardup’s lines, reeling all over the stage.

  ‘And if I let you play it like that, will you be happy?’ Deano demanded. ‘No more Welsh?’

  ‘Promise. I’m just trying to keep it interesting, that’s all.’

  Deano’s eye twitched. ‘Fine, fine, it’s all fine. Be the drunk then, if you must. That’s just so bloody… fine,’ he muttered as he strode back to the wings.

  Chapter 30

  After the dancing scene, the dames performed their duet of Sisters. Despite the fact it’d been carefully examined for punctures, one of Gerry’s breasts would keep deflating at regular intervals, but apart from that the scene was spot on. It certainly cheered Deano up.

  The Ugly Sisters were in perfect harmony as they bumped their padded backsides and lifted their skirts to flash their bloomers. By the end of it, Deano looked like he was close to bursting into tears.

  ‘That was beautiful, boys. Beautiful,’ he said, coming out of the wings to give his two dames a big hug each. ‘Gerry, Danny: if it ever doesn’t work out with Sue and Cynthia, I’ll marry either one of you. I don’t even mind that you’ve only got three tits between you, that’s just how much I love you.’

  ‘Steady on, son,’ Dad said, holding Deano back from a hug that was giving every indication of going on for some time. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’ He jerked his head at Gerry. ‘He is.’

  The smile got wiped off Deano’s face pretty cleanly in the next scene we rehearsed though, the shoe-fitting. I could see right away that my barney with Maisie earlier had been festering. Prince Charming entered stage left with a glance at me that didn’t say future bride so much as future murder victim.

  ‘There’s one young woman who hasn’t tried the shoe,’ Marcus-Buttons said when both dames had failed to get the size five glass slipper onto their honking great man feet. ‘My friend Cinderella.’

  ‘Buttons! How can you be so absurd?’ Stepmother-Yolanda snapped. She simpered ingratiatingly at Prince Maisie. ‘Pay no attention, your superlativeness. The girl is a mere servant.’

  ‘Let me have another go at that glass slipper,’ Dad-Tabitha said, barging Gerry out of the way. ‘I was using my big foot before.’

  ‘If anyone should get another go, it’s me,’ Gerry-Griselda said. ‘My toe was still swollen from when you stamped on it, Tabby, you big galumphing elephant.’

  ‘Ooh! I’ll get you for that, Grizzly.’ Dad got Gerry in a headlock and the two started wrestling. We hadn’t written that into the script, but it was a good bit of comedy adlibbing and Deano let them carry on for a minute before he waved to Lana to move the scene forward.

  ‘Ladies, ladies, you, er…’ Lana-Dandini flinched, but she managed to fumble out her lines. ‘You had your chance. Show some, um… some decorum in front of his highness.’

  ‘Is there another young lady in the
house then?’ Maisie asked in a can’t-really-be-arsed-with-all-this tone. She was staring straight at me kneeling by the grate, so I don’t know why she bothered to ask.

  ‘Yes. My youngest daughter,’ Harper said, stretching out his hand to guide me to my feet.

  ‘Then she must also try the shoe,’ Maisie said stiffly.

  I sat on a stool and stretched out my foot. Maisie jammed the shoe onto it with force.

  ‘Oh look. It fits,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Ow! Jesus Christ, Maisie!’

  ‘Er, Becks, your line is “Yes, I was the mysterious stranger you danced with last night”,’ Deano hissed.

  ‘She’s bloody crippled my toe, Deano!’ I glared at her. ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’

  ‘My hand slipped.’

  ‘Look, if the pair of you can’t –’ Deano stopped and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Marcus peered round the stage. ‘Oh God. It’s the bloody puppy.’

  ‘Oh!’ Maisie jumped off stage and ran to Teddy, who was standing by a suspicious-looking puddle looking mightily pleased with himself. ‘Naughty Teddy. See what you did?’

  ‘Why the hell did you bring him if he isn’t housetrained?’ Deano demanded.

  ‘Well I can’t leave him home alone, can I?’ Maisie said. ‘He’ll be good from now on – won’t ’oo, Teddy Bear?’

  Deano groaned. ‘Right. Get that cleaned up, Maisie, and in future we’re having a No Dogs policy. And you and Becky are doing extra sessions together from now on, till you can act a bit more like a couple in love and a bit less like women’s prison inmates.’

  ‘What, I’m getting detention?’ I said. ‘She’s the one who –’

  Deano held up a hand. ‘Don’t want to hear it. Right, the Schrödinger’s Behind You.’

  The Schrödinger’s Behind You was Deano’s theory that until Cinders turns round and actually sees the Ugly Sisters, they’re simultaneously both behind her (Oh No They’re Not) and not behind her (Oh Yes They Are), the point being to keep the audience in a state of suspense for as long as possible. Which was a typically Deano way of saying he thought I turned around too quickly.