Billy and Me

by Giovanna Fletcher

  ‘I don’t like talking about them.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says with a huff as he rolls over, facing away from me.

  ‘Billy!’

  ‘It’s fine, Soph – but just know that all any of us want to do is be there for you. We love you.’

  ‘I know.’

  There is absolutely no way that I want to open up now with this horrible atmosphere surrounding us. I curl up under the covers and wonder how the conversation spiralled out of control so quickly.

  15

  I fiddle with the waves of my dress with one hand and hold on to Billy’s hand with the other as we make our way, in the back of a blacked-out Rolls Royce Phantom, to the BAFTA awards. My stomach is in knots and my breathing shallow as the nerves kick in.

  ‘You OK?’ asks Billy, squeezing my hand.

  ‘Not really,’ I laugh. ‘You?’

  Billy already knows the outcome of this night could have a huge effect on his career, and thanks to that knowledge he has hardly slept over the past few weeks.

  He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, tilts his head backwards and sighs quickly, causing his lips to blow a raspberry.

  ‘I’m crapping myself,’ he says shaking his head.

  I can’t help but laugh at the pair of us getting ourselves in such a state, wondering if the other guests are as petrified as us.

  ‘We’ve just got to keep thinking, “What’s the worst that could happen?” ’ I try and reason.

  ‘Well, I could faint and wet myself,’ he says, without cracking a smile. ‘Or swear, or look like a bad loser.’

  ‘If you lose …’ I say, emphasizing the ‘if’.

  He shrugs at the correction.

  ‘I’ll be fine once I get there. It’s only the journey that gets me anxious,’ he says, taking another deep breath and looking in my direction, taking me in. ‘You look so beautiful.’

  I can’t help but grin back at him. I feel beautiful. I have had a full glamour makeover, which started yesterday with a spray tan, manicure and pedicure – the best bit being that I didn’t even have to leave the flat for the luxury. Two delightful beauty therapists came to the house and did the whole thing there.

  The spray tan was possibly the most bizarre thing I’ve ever done, with me standing in a pop-up tent in the en-suite bathroom, embarrassingly wearing the tiniest underwear I own, as a lady literally sprayed cold orange liquid onto me as I put myself into different unflattering positions. I won’t lie, at first I looked like I’d been tangoed, so I was petrified at what I might look like when I woke up, having been warned that the colour would darken overnight … but luckily most of the brown came off in the shower, leaving me with just the sun-kissed look they promised. Phew!

  Today the makeover continued with a hairstylist and make-up artist arriving at nine o’clock this morning. My hair has been cut, blow-dried and set in massive rollers by the hairstylist, to give me big bouncy waves, sadly not the plait style Molly had suggested, but I’m sure she’ll love this look when she sees it.

  The make-up artist has inspected my face so closely that I’ve spent the majority of the morning holding my breath so that I don’t breathe on her. She has hidden the flaws, accentuated my cheekbones and made my skin glow. Even I think I look angelic. I am, however, acutely aware that this is the result of several hours in a make-up chair. I’ll be back to looking like me again in the morning.

  ‘It’s a big upgrade from being covered in flour or wearing a Coffee Matters uniform, that’s for sure!’ I say to Billy. ‘But will I stumble in my shoes and fall arse over tit, making a fool of myself? Only time will tell,’ I smile.

  Billy lets out a booming laugh – one I’m aware I haven’t heard in a while.

  ‘I’ll keep a hold of you!’ he promises.

  ‘You’d better … and what about you, Mr Handsome?’ I say, admiring his smart black tux and the way his hair is slicked up in the quiff style he had when we first met. He looks simply divine and every inch the Hollywood movie star.

  ‘What, this old thing?’ he smiles, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt the way men always do in films.

  I can’t help but beam at him as I take in his gorgeousness. I know that my move to London hasn’t been easy so far, but being here with him, on his special night, makes it all worthwhile. I wish I could bottle the feelings of love inside me and save them for a rainy day – to remind myself of their magnitude in those moments of doubt.

  ‘I love you, Billy,’ I say, taking his hand to my lips and kissing it gently.

  He smiles back at me with a look of utter love and devotion.

  ‘Then nothing else matters,’ he says with a shrug.

  We both fall silent as our car turns a corner and we spot the commotion outside the Royal Opera House.

  A wide red carpet has been laid out, with metal barriers standing around it, to keep the public and fans under control. They’re squeezed together against the partitions, standing at least ten people deep the whole way up the walkway. It’s rammed. Even from inside the car we can hear them screaming out the names of the other actors who are walking up and down the carpet, giving autographs and posing for pictures.

  The car takes us halfway up the red carpet before stopping to let us out, in the prime position in front of the waiting crowd and world’s media. I take a deep breath, not entirely sure if I want to get out at all – perhaps just staying at home watching this on television would have been a lot simpler. However, before I can express my concerns to Billy, the doors either side of us are being opened by the footmen outside, and Billy slides out. I’m offered a hand by the footman on my side of the car, which I take hold of. He helps guide me from the safety of the car on to the red carpet, where I face the expectant crowd.

  The screams for Billy are insane. I’m actually rooted to the spot as pandemonium seems to be breaking out around us. A couple of passionate girls manage to get over the barrier somehow and fight their way to Billy, only to be removed by security within seconds. Paul was right: it’s loud and scary. I turn to see the car we’ve just left pulling away, leaving us behind. There’s no way out now. Billy comes over to me and takes my hand.

  ‘It’ll be fine, baby. Just smile and relax. We can get through this,’ he whispers in my ear, cupping my face, causing the crowd watching to go crazy. I look up into his eyes and see the nerves and excitement there.

  I’m so proud to be stood with Billy on this important night. I wink at him and feel myself stand a little taller.

  ‘Yes, we can,’ I smile.

  ‘Excuse me? Billy?’ asks a woman wearing a rather official looking headpiece. ‘I’m Heather from BAFTA. I’ll be looking after you until you get inside. Could I ask you to make your way to the photo line-up?’

  ‘Of course!’ says Billy, as we follow the lady further down the carpet, where a big metallic structure has been erected for photographers to work from. They stand in rows set at three different heights, all leaning forward, eager to see who the next arrival will be.

  ‘’Ello, Billy!’ shouts one of them.

  ‘Who’s the pretty lady?’ shouts another.

  ‘Billy Buskin and Sophie May,’ says a man in a suit, stepping forward, who I’m guessing has to announce every person who arrives to avoid confusion among the photographers. ‘Billy is nominated for Best Actor for his role in Twisted Drops.’ A few of the cameramen repeat the names and the nomination details into their cameras before picking them up and aiming them in our direction.

  ‘There are so many of them,’ I whisper to Billy. ‘Which lens do I look at?’

  ‘Let’s start at the left and work our way along, then just go to whoever shouts the loudest.’

  ‘Shouts?’ I ask.

  Billy squeezes my waist and winks at me with a grin before turning to the photographers. I place one arm under his, around his waist, and let the other dangle by my side, squeezing my diamante clutch bag. Once I’m ready I look up at the photographers who start noisily snapping away instantly. I smile as I loo
k from camera to camera and try to keep in control of my face, which has decided to twitch and shake with nerves in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  Once we’ve held eye contact with each camera lens the shouting increases.

  ‘This way, Billy!’

  ‘Excuse me, love, could you just turn into Billy a bit, show us the back of your dress?’

  ‘Billy! Billy! Billy!’ shouts a man at the top of the structure, waving.

  ‘Do you think you’ll win, Billy boy?’

  ‘Can you get a bit closer to each other? Don’t be shy!’

  ‘Over here!’

  ‘Show us your teeth!’

  ‘Your bird scrubs up well, Billy!’

  ‘Didn’t feel like wearing your apron tonight, darling?’

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Thanks, everyone,’ Billy says, holding up his spare hand as we turn to leave.

  ‘You still working in Coffee Matters, love?’ one of them shouts after us.

  ‘I’ll have a tall hazelnut latte!’ chimes another, while letting out a menacing laugh.

  ‘Can’t believe the mutli-millionaire would make you do that. Billy, give the pretty girl some pocket money!’

  I squeeze Billy’s hand a little tighter. All I can compare the sensation to is what I expect it would feel like to have a gang of thirty wolf-whistling builders shouting whatever they fancied at you. It’s rude and intimidating and I’m glad to be moving away from them.

  ‘Just ignore them,’ he says to me, continuing to walk away.

  ‘Why do they shout out stuff like that?’

  ‘To get a picture of me running towards them losing my rag.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yep … it would be worth a bit more than me standing there smiling like everyone else, that’s for sure. You OK?’ he asks, stopping and turning to me with concern.

  ‘It’s all a bit bizarre,’ I admit. ‘Don’t you worry about me, though, mister!’

  ‘Billy, Sophie, if you’d like to come with me,’ says Heather. ‘We’ll do a bit of press but then we’ll get to your seats fairly quickly due to the time,’ she explains.

  Billy continues to hold my hand as we walk further down the red carpet, but when he has to talk to various radio stations, TV programmes, magazines and tabloids about the evening ahead I decide to stand back with Heather, rather than standing gormlessly by his side, knowing nothing about the other nominated films. Even though I’m not next to him he still points me out proudly to every interviewer he’s with, leading them to look in my direction with intrigue – to which I give a smile and a little wave, not sure what else to do.

  While waiting on the red carpet for Billy, I take the time to look about me and take everything in. It’s still absolute chaos, but my ears have started to adjust to the sound at least. All around me famous people (I can tell they’re famous thanks to the crazy crowd desperately screaming after them) wander up and down the carpet, greeting fans, having their photos taken and talking to the press. I gawp at them all, taking in the madness of the whole situation, wishing I knew who these important people were.

  Eventually, we get to our seats in the gigantic auditorium of the Opera House, after being stopped by almost everybody we pass along the way – all wanting to wish Billy good luck with his nomination.

  I’m mesmerized as we sit in our luxurious seats in the beautiful red and gold theatre, with its incredible high ceilings and architecture, looking at the glamorous people walking about us. It feels surreal to be here surrounded by such class and prestige.

  ‘How’s my loser face?’ asks Billy, grabbing my attention as he tilts his head to the side in earnest whilst nodding and clapping with a knowing smile.

  ‘You’re going for the “Ah, well-deserved, he’s the rightful winner” look?’

  ‘Correct! With a touch of, “I thought so, I’m just happy to be here.” ’

  ‘Well, it looks good. Very convincing. Erm, just a thought, though – have you written an acceptance speech at all?’ I ask, suddenly realizing that I’ve not seen him practising, writing one out, or anything of that nature, which I’m guessing must mean he has omitted to write one.

  He looks back at me with a sheepish shrug while raising his eyebrows.

  ‘But what if you win?’ I ask. ‘You might actually win! Why haven’t you prepared?’

  It dawns on me that Billy doesn’t think he is going to get his hands on that award after all. For him, it actually is all about the being nominated and being put in the same bracket as the other worthy nominees after battling against his teen-star image for so long.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he says, tapping the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Paul gave me a list of people that I’d need to thank, in case. I’ll just ad lib around that if I need to.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, taking hold of his hand and kissing it.

  ‘Have I told you how beautiful you look yet?’ he asks, changing the subject.

  ‘You might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Good,’ he says with a smile.

  ‘Time for some finishing touches,’ I say, picking a strand of hair from his suit jacket and straightening his tie.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host, Bernard Sharland!’ booms an invisible voice around the theatre, causing people to cheer, as an extremely tall man with thick-framed glasses makes his way out onto the stage, waving. Billy widens his eyes at me in anticipation and shakes my hand in excitement as we snuggle into each other and get ready for what lies ahead.

  ‘Good evening, all,’ says the presenter, a well-known comedian and chat show host. ‘Welcome to the BAFTA Awards at London’s Royal Opera House. I am your host, Bernard Sharland, and I will be escorting you through tonight’s proceedings, where we will be celebrating this year’s greatest films and awarding those who have been outstanding in their field. Now, I know what you’re thinking – has Billy Buskin got confused and found himself here instead of the Nickelodeon awards?’

  My insides curdle as laughter spills out around us. Billy had warned me earlier that this was going to happen; being a former teen star there’s no doubt that he’ll be an easy target for jibes like this. I look at Billy and see him smile and salute the presenter, who returns the gesture before continuing.

  ‘Well, don’t worry, folks, he has actually been nominated, and deservedly so, I might add, for his performance in Twisted Drops. But Bill,’ he says, directly to Billy, as if talking to a small child, ‘I do have to warn you that this is a prestigious affair … there will be no heckling, no stunts and no green slime. I understand this could be confusing, but if at any moment you find it all too much, just locate your nearest adult, and they’ll be able to guide you through the proceedings.’

  The audience laughs further, some choosing to clap at the joke too. A few of them look in Billy’s direction to see if he sees the humour in the whole thing, before allowing themselves to laugh.

  ‘No, seriously, it’s good to see you, Billy!’ Bernard concludes before continuing with the rest of his opening speech.

  ‘Well, I thought I got off lightly there!’ he whispers in my ear. ‘It could’ve been far worse. I actually thought it was quite funny.’

  We sit through several awards being dished out before a cameraman runs to our side, sticking his camera lens in our direction, letting us know that Billy’s category is next. He clasps my hand even tighter and turns to give me a kiss.

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ he whispers.

  ‘I believe in you!’ I encourage, as we both turn our attention back to the stage.

  ‘Next tonight,’ announces Bernard. ‘To present the award for best male, we have last year’s outstanding winner. Please welcome the delightful Mr Andrew McGreal.’

  The crowd gives a raucous applause of appreciation as Andrew walks onto the stage and over to the podium, clutching the BAFTA award in one hand and the gold envelope, containing the winner’s name, in the other.

  ‘Good evening all!’ he says to the crowd
with a beaming smile, his broad northern accent instantly making him friendlier than most of the other presenters who have been on stage with their stiffer RP accents. ‘The question I have been asked the most since winning this award last year is “Where do you keep it?” Is it on my mum’s mantelpiece, or in my downstairs loo? Well, if I’m honest, I keep mine with me at all times and whip it out any time I’m in auditions, important meetings or stressful situations, reminding people that I am the best …’ He unbuttons his suit jacket and pulls out his own BAFTA, placing it in front of him on the stand, causing us, and the rest of the audience, to laugh loudly. ‘That’s just to remind you all,’ he smiles, looking down at the envelope in front of him. ‘Let’s crack on with it, shall we? The nominees for this year’s BAFTA leading actor award are: Tom McLean for Bad Mind, Russell Mode for Into the Dark, Sam Watts for Tinker and Billy Buskin for Twisted Drops.’

  I rub Billy’s hand in support, although if I’m honest the action is more to settle my own nerves than his, as the tension causes adrenaline to rush through me unexpectedly.

  Short clips of each actor in their nominated film roles are played on the screens on stage, each receiving a short burst of applause from the appreciative audience.

  Billy turns to me with a smile, letting out a small sigh.

  ‘This is it!’

  He continues to look at me, even though we’re aware that Andrew is opening the winning envelope on stage.

  ‘The winner of this year’s BAFTA for best leading actor is …’ Andrew pauses, before continuing. ‘Well, well, well! It’s Billy Buskin!’

  The room erupts in cheers as I watch Billy’s face drop with shock and his body fold into his chair with disbelief. He takes a few seconds to compose himself before eventually looking around at the people surrounding us who are patting him on the back and shouting words of congratulation. I’m sitting motionless by his side, my hand clamped over my mouth, feeling in awe of the moment. I’m filled with so much pride that I want to burst into tears. Billy looks at me and pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my hair.