The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘If there’s any way I can assist you,’ I say humbly, ‘any way at all … Kitty is very keen that you should have anything you want.’

  Greta’s eyes glint. ‘Of course, dear. Got a pen?’

  I fish around in my bag for one. Miraculously, I also have a yellow Post-It pad in there.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘First of all, I can’t stand that filthy swill they serve for coffee in these places,’ she says, ‘so I want you to run out and find me somewhere that serves a proper cappuccino, and bring it back, of course not in a paper cup, I only drink from china. It’s about self-respect.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I agree.

  ‘And then my dry-cleaning has to be picked up daily. I’ll want fresh flowers delivered to wherever we’re working, and I need you to pop off to Harrods and pick up my Creme de la Mer order.’

  I nod, writing everything down furiously.

  ‘You can start with the coffee,’ Greta says.

  ‘OK,’ I whisper.

  Mark Swan walks into the room just as I get up. He raises his eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m just getting Greta’s coffee. I’m her assistant,’ I add, to his look. ‘My boss wants to make sure she’s taken care of.’

  ‘Does she, by—’

  I give him a pleading look.

  ‘Does she,’ Swan says, calming down. ‘OK. But be back quickly. We’re late already.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ Greta says loudly to me.

  ‘A decent cup of coffee is a necessity,’ Swan says, judiciously. ‘How does everybody take theirs?’

  He goes round the table, taking orders. I dutifully write them all down, wondering how I’m going to manage to carry them all back.

  ‘And you, Anna?’

  ‘Me?’

  He nods.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want one, thanks,’ I say. ‘I think carrying five is probably my limit. Anyway, I take my coffee plain so whatever they have here is fine. Sometimes I like Hazelnut Coffee-Mate, but…’ I notice Greta glaring at me and realize I’m babbling. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ I say brightly.

  ‘You’re just getting Greta’s coffee,’ Swan says. ‘You’re her assistant, is that right, Greta?’

  Greta nods.

  ‘Well then, somebody has to get Anna’s coffee,’ he explains. ‘So it better be me. Anna can get what you need, Greta, and I’ll just run out and take care of everybody else’s order.’

  Greta splutters. ‘What? But that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I intended Anna to learn from me,’ Swan tells her, easily, but with a touch of steel in his tone. ‘So if she’s not here, there’s not much point in me being here. We can run our errands together. Of course, business will have to wait until I get back, but I don’t want to come between you and Kitty Simpson, Greta. Whatever you’ve worked out is fine with me.’

  Greta swallows. ‘Well, of course, I don’t want to hold up our work further,’ she says, looking meanly at me. But Swan is having none of it.

  ‘You don’t want Anna assisting you, then?’

  Greta shakes her head.

  ‘Good,’ says Swan. ‘And naturally I’m sure Kitty won’t complain, as this is your wish. Right?’

  ‘Kitty will be fine,’ says Greta.

  ‘Excellent,’ says Swan, relaxing, and Greta lowers her eyes. It was a battle of the egos, and he won it, no problem.

  I find chills are creeping all over my skin. I daren’t look at him.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Swan says. ‘Anna, if you feel like it, you could run those errands for Greta today, and join us again tomorrow.’

  I look at him gratefully, delighted with the chance to placate Greta just a little. And to get out of there. I know I shouldn’t think about it like this, but having him defend me, it’s just so …

  Well. It’s sort of electric. And I mustn’t think of it that way.

  ‘Of course,’ I say to Greta humbly. ‘I’ll take care of these for you and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  * * *

  The next week is hectic. I go to meetings with Mark Swan, that huge control freak, and I manage to survive them. I get there early, take notes, listen to what he says to the actors, the crew, watch how he slots in our pre-production around the film he’s actually shooting. Swan gets me a pass to go on set, so I get to saunter past that security guard, who pretends he doesn’t recognize me from before. I stand behind Swan on Hampstead Heath, watch him ride up on a crane or walk around with a megaphone, look at him coaxing performances out of the actors.

  I can see what he’s doing, take it in. He’s a brilliant director. Implacable, but amazing at getting his actors and crew to do the exact best thing. You can see from the monitor, a shot you’d thought was perfect he’ll redo, and then it’ll be much better. I trail around after him like a little puppy, and he asks me questions, sharp ones, to make sure I’ve understood. And when I answer right he nods as if I’m a puppy who’s learned to hold up its paw for a piece of cheese.

  But I’ll tell you something about this process. It’s bloody boring.

  I’m bored out of my mind. Who the hell wants to stand there in the drizzle, with a whipping breeze, watching a bunch of luvvies flub their lines or fake a passionate kiss? Who’s really interested in hearing an assistant director go over a bunch of storyboards? I feel guilty, though, I know there are loads of people who’d kill for this chance, the way he says.

  You know the types. Film geeks. People who like the kind of mind-numbingly dull and worthy movies that John finds appealing. People who actually watch I Love Lucy and like nothing better than those extra scenes on DVDs that go behind the scenes on the set of a movie. People who plunk down twenty quid for a big coffee-table book on the ‘art’ of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

  I am, I realize, not one of those people.

  I don’t understand. It’s quite worrying, in fact. For years I’ve bitten the bullet of my low-salary, low-prestige job in the hope that one day I’d get my big break, get to make movies, and I’d be rich and fulfilled …

  ‘Anna.’

  I look up, clutching my notepad. It’s Thursday morning, and we’re standing outside on Wimbledon Common, in drizzling rain. The sky overhead is as grey as Barbara Bush’s hair.

  ‘Are you … yawning?’ Swan says to me, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Ahem, ahem,’ I say, hastily turning it into a cough. ‘No, goodness. Absolutely not. Got a cold,’ I say, trying to be perky.

  Everybody else on the set is perky, and most of them don’t even drink caffeine. It’s disgusting really. Health nuts standing about in the rain and rhapsodizing over this possible shot and that possible shot and won’t this be the perfect location for the dog-walking scene …

  It makes it easier for me to be around Swan when I’m this bored. I can’t look longingly after him because I’d get caught, and anyway I feel too self-conscious. So while he’s standing there with Trish and the DPP, the guy who sets up the cameras and the look of the movie, I sort of hang back and concentrate on keeping warm.

  ‘Mmm,’ Swan says, eyes glinting.

  Oh crap. Am I in trouble?

  ‘I thought that the pond over there would add some great visuals,’ I offer weakly. ‘Maybe the dog could chase a duck and pull Elsie into the pond and then her nice dress is ruined.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Trish says. ‘I like that.’

  ‘And she’d get all pissed off, but the dog wouldn’t care.’

  ‘It could just lick her face.’

  ‘And ruin her mascara,’ I add, thinking of Winston at Vanna’s. ‘And then she has to go back to the vicarage looking like a total fool.’

  ‘And Mrs Wilkins makes fun of her,’ Trish says, getting into it. ‘And she’s seething. That’s fucking great! You’re brilliant, Anna.’

  I smile at her gratefully and look over at Mark Swan, feeling rescued.

  ‘And this relates to the wedding rehearsal scene how?’ asks Swan.

  ‘What?’ I ask, nervo
usly.

  ‘We moved on from the dog-walking thing an hour ago. We decided this wasn’t a suitable location,’ Swan says drily. ‘Wrong light. Remember?’

  No.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘I remember,’ I add confidently. ‘The light wasn’t any good.’

  ‘Take five, everyone,’ Swan says. ‘Anna, why don’t you just step over here with me a second?’

  Oh, hell.

  Don’t show him, don’t show him. Directors are like sharks. They can smell fear! I paste a suitably radiant smile onto my face, in the manner of an American cheerleader, and walk towards him as he heads for the privacy of a weeping willow.

  ‘Anna,’ Swan says.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ I ask. ‘It’s going great, isn’t it? The location shoots and everything.’

  ‘How would you say you’re doing?’ Swan asks.

  What kind of a question is that?

  ‘I’d say I’m doing fantastically well,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve not been late once!’

  ‘That’s true,’ he concedes.

  ‘I’ve taken loads of notes, I’ve watched you, and I’ve reported back to Red Crest and everybody’s happy,’ I say. Ha! I don’t fold under questioning like some people I can think of, such as Sharon breaking down and blabbing when John accused her of flirting with every man in the office because she never did any work and didn’t want to get sacked.

  ‘Everybody except one person.’

  ‘Greta’s perfectly fine. I got her that Creme de la Mer she wanted,’ I protest. ‘She’s been very cooperative with you. Maestro.’

  It’s not nice to make fun of Greta.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I lie.

  ‘I’m not talking about her anyway. I’m talking about you. You look like me in a marketing meeting. Bored out of your skull.’

  ‘Well what do you expect?’ I protest. ‘Standing about here all day without even a fire to keep warm, looking at the same boring patch of grass. How can you do it?’

  ‘Anna.’ Swan says, gently. ‘This is producing a film. This is pre-production. You know, checking out locations. It’s part of it.’

  ‘I have been paying attention, you know, mostly. I’ve been on time. I’m doing everything you want. I could try to pretend to be more interested if you like. I’m not trying to be bad. I’m really grateful to you, honestly.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’m not angry.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  I breathe out.

  ‘I want you to come back to my house this afternoon,’ he says. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t. When we don’t have pre-production they make me go back to the office.’

  Kitty doesn’t want me spending any more time with Mark Swan than is absolutely necessary. She watches my hours with him like a hawk. As soon as we’re done with the day’s chores, storyboarding, location scouting, rehearsals, script rewrites, I have to be in a tube station within five minutes and back in the office in ten. Which is fine with me. It keeps me away from Swan and his gorgeous eyes and his muscular chest. It takes my mind off watching how he controls everything, and everybody fawns all over him, and all the pretty young girls bat their eyelids at him …

  He doesn’t have a girlfriend, by the way. He told me one morning over coffee, when I caught a particularly obvious fling-herself-at-him from the pneumatic blonde from the production designers. Her name was Susan, and she was working on a storyboard. Swan likes to storyboard, that’s when you get drawings of what every shot in the movie will look like, so you can plan it in advance. He’s thorough.

  ‘Oh, Mr Swan,’ she kept saying breathily, ‘this is such an honour.’ And then she’d flutter her eyelashes at him and lean forward so he could see her humungous, surely fake, boobs in that low-cut top even better. And she’d put blusher on them to give herself even more cleavage. Plus, do you think a cartoonist needs to come to work in three-inch spike heels? No, neither did I.

  I did actually roll my eyes and he caught me doing it.

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ he asked, to cover his laugh, beating a hasty retreat to his office kitchen. Swan always made everybody’s coffee since the showdown with Greta. He’s not a prima donna, so nobody else dares to try it, not even her. Anyway, he comes back with a tray of coffee, and boobs-girl excuses herself to go to the loo and presumably slap on some more war paint. Her partner, a bloke, heads off for a quick fag and Swan draws me aside.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I begin.

  ‘Don’t be.’ He grins at me. Oh, he is so gorgeous. ‘It’s because of Misty.’

  ‘Misty?’

  ‘My girlfriend.’

  I stiffen, I can’t help it. Of course Mark Swan would have a girlfriend and of course she’d have a name like Misty. She’s American, no doubt, a flawless Heather Locklear clone with bronzed skin, platinum hair, perfect, laser-whitened teeth, and a nice line in the beauty queen wave, the one where you only waggle your fingertips, because anything else is too vulgar for a girl. (You know the kind of woman. Never swears, doesn’t drink, eyebrows are always shaped.)

  ‘A model?’ I ask cynically.

  ‘An actress,’ he says.

  ‘And?’ I can see there’s more.

  ‘And former cheerleader for the LA Lakers,’ he admits.

  I knew it.

  ‘Anyway, I broke up with her last month, and there’s a bit of…’ he’s too nice to say ‘gold-digging’, ‘flirting going on,’ he says.

  ‘Why did you break up with Misty?’

  ‘She was boring,’ he says.

  Ho-hum. I wonder how good-looking you’d have to be for Mark Swan not to find you boring?

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s a bit awkward,’ he says, nodding towards the locked loo door.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say. Awkward? Why would it be? It’s totally normal, a pretty girl flinging herself at a rich, gorgeous man. If I were her I’d do it too.

  This is life, Anna, I tell myself. You’ve got to get over it.

  ‘You could always date her,’ I offer. ‘She’s, you know, she’s very attractive.’

  Swan looks towards the loo door with horror. ‘The hell she is,’ he says. ‘What, her?’

  I stare gloomily into my delicious coffee, to which he’s added Hazelnut Coffee-Mate. He bought it especially because he knows I like it, even though he’d never be caught dead with anything so naff as Coffee-Mate himself. Swan doesn’t consider boob-girl attractive, not with her waspish waist, nor her blond hair.

  Hey, it’s not so bad. At least I know where I stand.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking about a man I can’t have anyway. This is not like me. I have Charles, and I try to concentrate on him. I go back to the office and tell a rapt Sharon all about Mark Swan’s commitment-free status. Good luck to her, maybe she has a shot. I certainly don’t.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about Red Crest,’ Swan says, jerking me back to the present. ‘Let me take care of that right now.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I plead. I really don’t want to go to his house. By myself? It’s hard enough hanging around him with all these other people. Why his house? Why me? What if I stare at him too long and he catches me? ‘You can’t stop it, Kitty will be furious. You already called her about me coming straight to you in the mornings. She doesn’t like me hanging out with the talent…’ I trail off. Have I said too much?

  He winks at me. ‘I know the type, honey, Watch this.’

  He flicks open his mobile, punches in a number.

  ‘Kitty Simpson, please. Mark Swan. Oh, hi, Kitty,’ he says. I can almost see her jumping to take the call. ‘How are you doing?’ He listens for a second. ‘Yes, well, that’s very kind of you. Very kind. Actually I’m calling about Anna. She’s been talking to me all about your Oscar and your leadership on Mother of the Bride. Yes … she told me everything and I must say, I’m very impressed.’

  I can’t believe it. I can’t stop the grin from spread
ing all over my face. Swan listens as Kitty gushes like an oil well.

  ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Anna never stops talking about you, you’re her heroine. I was wondering, can you send me a memo with your ideas on foreign marketing? Especially in Italy? Since your Oscar was won there … I gather you have real expertise in that market and my people are stuck. How to get our English humour across … great, you can? That’s perfect. I wanted to borrow Anna this afternoon for some grunt work, one of our runners is sick. Any chance? Oh, thanks. That’s really useful. Yes, it will be good for her. So I’ll look forward to getting your ideas, Kitty. Brilliant. OK, bye.’

  He hangs up.

  ‘I think you’ll find you won’t be in any trouble now,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’ I look away, because it’s just too much. It’s so sexy, the way he can snap open a phone and take care of Kitty in five minutes. Swan is so self assured. I wonder if he ever had a klutzy moment in his life.

  ‘You can go,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  Swan waves his rough-skinned hand, dismissing me. ‘Get out of here. You’re just an extra body on the set, you’re worse than useless.’ He looks at my crestfallen face. ‘Just turn up at my place around half five. I’m having lunch with Rachel Weisz, can’t get there before that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rachel Weisz is bloody gorgeous. I try to remember, is she married to anybody? Please let her be married to somebody. They’d make a perfect power couple …

  ‘You know the address.’

  ‘Yes.’ I shake my head, ashamed of myself. Why am I being so dog in the manger? Why shouldn’t he go out with Rachel Weisz. I have a boyfriend. This is so bad. My throat thickens, and I swallow hard. I don’t look at Swan, I feel panicky, as though he might catch me.

  ‘Yeah, no problems,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m going to lunch with my boyfriend.’

  ‘Ah, the millionaire,’ Swan jokes.

  ‘That’s right,’ I reply, tilting my chin up. ‘The millionaire.’ And I stomp off, away down the path, trying to tell myself that at least I’m going to get to be warm.

  I call Charles from my mobile.

  ‘Hi, what are you doing?’

  ‘Me? Just pottering about. Writing. Planning a sequel to my novel.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘How lovely to hear from you. Wasn’t expecting to see you until Saturday, at Chester House.’