The Only Boy For Me

by Gil McNeil

  I sit down, and two BT workmen come in. One manages a very impressive glide, and the men sitting at a nearby table hold up paper napkins on which they have written 5.9, 5.8 and 6. They start doing a pretend commentary, saying Ivan has managed a triple toe loop with double dismount. The BT men join in the fun and anticipation builds for the next victim to enter the café. It turns out to be the man from the paper shop next door, who scores 5.9,6 and 6. Maggie then says she has got to dry the floor because someone will hurt themselves soon, and we all reluctantly agree that this is probably a good idea. I get back in the car to discover that the traffic has become completely solid while I was in the café, and I get stuck in a terrible traffic jam on the Old Kent Road, which turns out to be caused by two lorry drivers having a fight. Finally make it into Soho and the office, only twenty minutes late.

  Jenny, who does reception, seems very happy to see me, and I arrange to have lunch with her and Stef, Barney’s PA. This will keep me up to date with the office gossip, and give me the inside track on what Lawrence might be up to. Lawrence is the Executive Producer, and I am the general Dogsbody Producer, who Barney calls in on shoots because he hates having Lawrence. Lawrence is great at all the meetings with agencies, pitching for new jobs and generally crawling to anyone important, but he’s crap on shoots because he gets very anxious and fusses around Barney, which usually results in Barney throwing a fit and sending him home. I go into the office once every couple of weeks for meetings, and to generally pay court to Barney. I’ve worked for him for years, and he’s a brilliant director, if rather prone to tempestuous outbursts. But then they all are, and at least Barney gets loads of work and vaguely knows what he’s doing, which means I get to work regularly too.

  Jenny warns me that Lawrence has been fiddling with my chair again. He keeps adjusting it, ostensibly to fix it. What actually happens is that just when I am least expecting it my chair suddenly descends about three foot, and I end up with my knees up around my chin. Usually I’m holding a cup of coffee at the time. I swap my chair with the one at Lawrence’s desk: all the chairs look the same so he won’t know until he sits on it for a while. Jenny thinks this is excellent, and Stef moves her computer so she will have a clearer view of Lawrence’s desk and can report back as to exactly what happens.

  Lawrence arrives, and as usual greets me with an expression of horror and demands to know why I am in, again. He doesn’t like anyone getting too close to Barney, and he’s on a constant mission to undermine me and get me banished. We’re standing in reception waiting for Jenny to sort out the post when Barney sails in. He says, ‘Thank God you’re in,’ which makes Lawrence wince, and then says, ‘Great suit, by the way, but did you know you’ve got odd socks on?’ Lawrence smirks.

  ‘Yes, Barney, thanks so much for sharing. I got dressed in the dark so I wouldn’t wake Charlie up. Anything else you’d like to criticise about my appearance, or shall we get on?’

  Barney laughs and wanders upstairs to his palatial office which takes up the entire first floor of the building. I can see that Lawrence is furious, and can’t understand how I can talk to Barney like this, as every time he tries it Barney ends up shouting at him. Stef rushes off after Barney, because he’s got a new coffee machine up there and doesn’t know how to work it. If she’s not quick coffee is likely to cascade down the stairs.

  Lawrence glares at me, and sits down at his desk. Jenny brings him a cup of tea, and just as I’m about to go upstairs the chair does its thing and he ends up with his knees higher than his head, desperately trying to avoid tipping boiling-hot tea all over himself. Marvellous. I extend my sympathy to him, and say that my chair does that too, and maybe they have a design fault. Marvellous, marvellous. His face is a wonderful mixture of fury and suspicion.

  I go upstairs for my meeting with Barney, and run through the arrangements for the porridge shoot. The script is pretty bland, a bit like the product really. A bloke gets off his fishing boat early in the morning. He walks up the cobbled streets in a tiny fishing village, opens the door of his cottage, and then we see him sitting at a table in a tiny kitchen eating a bowl of porridge with a beatific smile on his face. Barney says it’s the most pathetic idea he’s come across in ages, but he may be able to turn it into something worth watching. I have a horrible feeling this will involve something tricky with boats, but am trying not to think about it.

  Lawrence keeps coming upstairs and loitering, hoping Barney will ask him to join the meeting. In the end he irritates Barney so much he asks him to fetch us both a cup of tea, which goes down really well. I don’t risk actually drinking the tea when he brings it, because he’s probably put bleach in it. I spend the rest of the morning wrestling with the computer and budget sheets, and praying that Lawrence’s chair will collapse again because Stef missed it and is furious. Then we have lunch, and I catch up on the latest gossip, and all the annoying things Lawrence has done in the last couple of weeks. Apparently he told Barney Jenny had forgotten to give him a vital message, when she had told him twice, and he tried to get Stef into trouble over a missing script which it turned out he’d taken home. And he bought himself a new pair of black velvet trousers last week, and Barney asked him to roll about on the Persian rug in his office because the cleaner never vacuums it properly, and the velvet would be an excellent way of picking up all the fluff. We all agree that we adore Barney. Stef then points out that Barney threw a complete fit last week because his astronomically expensive new Italian desklight did not look quite how he thought it would when he put it on his desk. We all agree he can be a tad annoying sometimes, but at least he has charm, some of the time, and is a bloody good director. Unlike Lawrence who has no charm whatsoever, and is crap in a real crisis, which is what being a proper producer is all about.

  The rest of the day is taken up with making hundreds of phone calls to check on the availability of crew, and sending tons of emails. I also spend ages wandering around the West End buying a variety of white china porridge bowls and milk jugs, because Barney wants a choice – and when he says get a selection he means at least twenty. When I get back to the office I start haggling over the budget sheets with Lawrence. Barney wanders over and says, ‘What the hell are you two arguing about now?’ and Lawrence says I’m demanding a totally unreasonable amount of equipment, and the budget won’t cover it. As he finishes he realises he’s made a huge tactical error. Barney launches into a passionate speech, the gist of which is that He decides what kit he needs on his jobs, and if I’ve said we need something it’s because we bloody well do. If Lawrence thinks he knows better he can fucking do the fucking film himself. Or better still he can get a job at a production company which does crap jobs for no money, and see how many awards he ends up with on the office walls.

  The crack about the awards is a bit of a sore point, because Barney wins quite a few and Lawrence decided they would look impressive hung up in reception. Barney said this looked pathetic and made him take them all down again and put them on a back wall. He told Lawrence he wouldn’t know subtle if it punched him on the nose. Barney storms off upstairs, and we all creep about until he’s calmed down. Lawrence is furious with me, and keeps glaring. I glare back. I go upstairs to say goodnight to Barney, and find him perfectly happy, lying on the sofa watching telly. He waves goodbye, but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  Get home to discover that Charlie is asleep, and Edna says he dropped off like a little lamb. I point out that he never does lamb impressions when he’s with me. Collapse into bed exhausted, and wake up what seems like minutes later at seven am, freezing cold, to find Charlie curled up inside the duvet, snoring loudly. He surfaces and announces that he forgot to mention it before, but he has to make a model of a Viking ship, with oars, to take into school this morning. I tell him he must be joking, but he says he’s not, and gets very agitated. We do the best we can with a Shreddies box, felt pens and long wooden barbecue sticks, and make a sail out of a piece of old tea towel. It ends up looking quite good, but I cou
ld have done without this kind of challenge first thing in the morning.

  Miss Pike is thrilled, and says the homework was actually supposed to be thinking about how to make a model of a Viking ship. But this one is lovely and can go on the art table. Charlie is very pleased with himself. Must remember to check with Kate next time, before any last-minute model making. I get home and decide to continue the arts and crafts theme for today and paint the old bathroom chair bright yellow with the leftover paint from my bedroom. It looks very nice, and I’m inspired to have a go at the tiles in the bathroom, which are a hideous green colour. Sponge away madly all over the tiles, and have to restrain myself from starting on the walls.

  I go upstairs to work in my office for a bit, and confirm with Edna that she will turn up early again tomorrow, so I can drive up to the studio for the porridge shoot. Then I rush off for my aromatherapy massage, with a woman in the next village who Kate recommended. The massage is wonderful, although I’m not keen on the music she plays – lots of flutes, and the sounds of whales apparently having some sort of emotional crisis. I’m not sure that whales are a useful image to conjure up in people’s minds when they are lying draped in towels, wearing only their pants.

  The aromatherapist says I have very tense shoulders, and must relax more. I think this is very good advice, and if she’d like to collect Charlie from school and cook his supper I feel sure I’d get much closer to total calm. She gives me a little bottle of the massage oil and recommends I put it in my bath tonight, and she also gives me a small bottle of mineral water, stressing that it’s vital to rehydrate. I promise to do as she says and nearly drive into a hedge on the way home: I’m dutifully rehydrating by taking giant swigs from the bottle of water, with one hand on the steering wheel, when a car suddenly appears out of nowhere in the middle of the road. A Volvo, naturally. The driver is an ancient old man who can barely see over the steering wheel, and appears to be balanced on a pile of cushions. He waves cheerfully as he drives past, and I wave back. Unfortunately the hand I wave with is also holding the bottle of water, so the entire car is soaked and my trousers now look like I’ve had a very unpleasant accident.

  I do feel more serene than usual, though, once I’ve changed my trousers, and decide to see if it’ll work on Charlie, who says he is not tired, refuses to have a bath, and wants to stay up and play Snap. I hate Snap. Think it would be a much better game if it was called Slap. I massage his legs, which he thinks is lovely, and he begs to have his back done. Put a towel on my bed and he lies on it. I start doing his back, he falls asleep, and so do I. Wake up at ten to find the last bit of oil has dripped out of the bottle and seems to have soaked the entire duvet. I check the answerphone and there are six messages, all of which are about work tomorrow. Decide to have a bath.

  The water is boiling, and the room fills with steam. Gingerly sit down and lie back ready for a nice long soak. I’m admiring the newly painted tiles when I realise that the new paint is slowly sliding down and collecting in yellow puddles on the edge of the bath. It then starts dribbling down into the bathwater. Leap out, and start frantically wiping up paint. Two flannels later I realise I need a proper cloth, go into the kitchen to get one and leave footprints all over the carpet. A hideous half-hour follows, involving paint stripper, rubber gloves, carpet cleaner, and lots of swearing. The bath is finally restored to its usual colour, but I need nail-varnish remover to get the paint stains off my feet, and the bottle is almost empty. The soles of my feet remain pale yellow. I will never paint tiles again. Ever.

  Collapse into bed in a wildly agitated state, and wake up what seems like moments later to hear Edna arriving. I creep about getting dressed and manage to leave before Charlie stirs. I arrive at the studio early, to supervise the final touches to the kitchen set which was built yesterday. The builders are bound to have hit some unexpected snag which will need sorting out before we can start setting up the lights. Barney is due to tip up mid-morning and will be furious if things are not ready. The set looks fine, apart from one cupboard which they’ve put in totally the wrong place. I have a frank exchange of views with the builders and refuse to pay any extra for them to put the cupboard where they were supposed to put it originally. They finally wander off muttering, but fix the cupboard into the correct position, and then the lighting man starts faffing about. The actor turns up and confesses that he actually hates porridge – it makes him want to vomit, and he hopes he won’t have to eat any. Think he might have mentioned this at the casting, as the whole of today’s shoot centres around him sitting down at the table eating a delicious bowl of hot porridge. Of course he doesn’t actually have to eat bowls of the stuff, but it’s not going to be easy if he heaves at the sight of it.

  The crew turn up, and start larking about until Barney arrives. Barney, as usual, spends ages fussing around the set and then gets obsessed with the milk jug, rejecting his earlier choice. I knew he’d do this, and feel very smug about bringing all the other alternatives even though he said this was a waste of time. My smugness quickly vanishes when he declares they’re all crap, and a fisherman would not have a white china milk jug anyway, any idiot can see that. I’m just about to stick someone in a cab and send them to Heal’s to get a whole new selection, and am trying to get Barney to share his vision of a fisherman-type milk jug with me, when he spots an old chipped blue stripy jug on a tray with mugs of coffee which the studio has provided. Barney says it’s perfect, thank Christ, and peace is restored.

  During the jug crisis the crew have got increasingly bored, and by the time we’re ready to start it’s nearly lunchtime, and they’re all whining that they’re starving. When I point this out to Barney, he tells me to shut up. The crew increase their moaning. This is tricky because if I don’t act quickly they’ll really start acting up, just like toddlers do when they’re over-tired and end up biting you at unexpected moments. I ask Barney if he’s sure he’s not hungry, after all the hard work he’s done this morning, and luckily he misses the sarcasm and agrees to stop for lunch. The crew cheer up enormously except for the electrician, Dave, who can’t find his cigarettes because Kevin has hidden them. I sort this out by threatening to slap Kevin if he doesn’t behave. This is a mistake, because half the crew then launch off into favourite S&M fantasies and beg to be slapped.

  Barney is oblivious to all this, and suddenly announces he would quite like to get some work done, if everybody could stop buggering about. The crew swiftly finish eating and snap into action, and content themselves with occasionally sniggering and calling me Miss Whiplash. The client doesn’t turn up, which is a blessing, and the actor manages not to vomit, but only just. We end up putting brandy into the porridge, to stop him heaving. This works rather well, but thankfully we’re finished before he gets totally plastered and his eyes go glassy. We have a tea break, and then move on to doing hundreds of pack-shots, and shots of bowls of porridge, which bore Barney completely so he keeps wandering off.

  We break again for supper, and then we aim to finish the pack-shots before hitting the magic hour, midnight, when we have to pay the crew double time. The crew try to slow things down as much as possible, as they are very keen on ‘double bubble’. But I’m wise to their tricks, and so is Barney. Finally we get enough pack-shots to satisfy even the most picky client, and the crew start disappearing pretty sharpish. Barney says he’ll ring me tomorrow and will see me next week in the office so we can plan the shoot in Cornwall, where we are doing the tricky bits. I can’t wait – the combination of boats, British weather and an actor who doesn’t like porridge is bound to be great fun.

  I get home to find Edna half asleep by the fire. She says Charlie was a little lamb again tonight, and she has signed his sponsorship form for his sponsored walk, bless him, but don’t I think five miles is a long way? I think it’s a bloody long way. I know nothing about a sponsored walk, and ring Kate in the morning, who says the walk is scheduled for this weekend, and is being organised by the PTA so attendance is pretty much compulsory. Apparent
ly Miss Pike forgot to give out the forms earlier. We are to meet at eleven am outside the pub, and bring wellies and waterproofs. Brilliant.

  Saturday morning, and we are gathered outside the pub in wellies and anoraks, carrying rucksacks full of food for our epic journey. Mrs Harrison-Black comes over and says she’s so pleased everyone has made such an effort, and we aren’t to worry if we can’t finish the whole course, just do as much as we can. Roger whispers that he thinks this is a bloody cheek, and with a bottom like hers she’s in no position to give other people lectures about fitness. Sally says she has brought brandy in a flask in case Roger collapses. Roger says if all he’s going to get is sarcasm then he might as well have stayed at home and read the papers.

  They always bicker like this, but it’s affectionate bickering rather than that hideous I-really-wish-you-were-dead stuff that other couples seem to go in for. They met at university, and have been together ever since. They never have serious arguments, have never ‘gone through a bad patch’, and never had second thoughts. Enough to make you hate them really. Roger is a solicitor with a local firm, but he doesn’t make much money because he’s always helping people out and not charging them properly. Sally teaches part-time at the local secondary school, and is constantly exhausted. The combination of looking after William and Rosie and teaching A-level history to stroppy teenagers is not an easy one. Kate and I have told her that if she tells us one more story about dysfunctional teenagers we won’t stand next to her in the playground any more. As Kate says, we would rather not know. Then when James and Charlie dye their hair blue and insist on speaking in a new dialect based on how drug dealers talk in Detroit, it’ll be a nice surprise.