by Anne Styles
Jane, worrying about Diana, slipped out of the office to go and phone her. She knew it would be hopeless nagging Nick to go home now. She was fond of Nick's wife, even if Nick wasn't particularly, and did a great deal to keep their complicated lives running smoothly. Luckily, the bike messenger arrived with Oscar's package at that moment, so she had the package in her hand when she went back into the office, disguising her mission beautifully. '
He must have had a biker waiting,' she laughed as she tossed the envelope to Nick. 'Talk about service!' Nick shook the photographs out of the packet and leafed through them, whistling with delight.
'Get Oscar back,' he ordered. 'Set up an audition time. Jane, what's tomorrow like? Is there a studio free?' Jane reached for his diary. 'The ad agency at nine, accounts here at ten-thirty,' she reeled off. 'Lunch with Charlie Hastings, and the small studio is free until two o'clock.' Charles was Nick's associate producer on this film, as well as his long-time friend and partner in NGA.
'Make her eleven o'clock, if you can, and get James in to do the audition with her -1 really do have a hunch about this one. Christ . . .!' And he held out a sheaf of photographs to Jane as Caroline pressed the redial button on the phone. They were a collection of fashion shots - outdoor shots taken on a beach. Fresh air and sunlight obviously suited her, and the camera patently adored her.
There was one shot particularly that caught his attention. She was leaning against a rock, eye-catching legs stretched out in front of her. Nick had always been a leg man, but it was the expression on her face that caught him. Dreamy, innocent, and yet with a mocking look in her eyes that simply said "Abigail" to him.
'Look, Nick, I'll call you at home,' Caroline was saying as he jerked his attention back to the office with a start.
He had not felt that flash of sexual excitement for years - especially over a photograph. 'Oscar has to check with Sarah, and they're just finishing transmission at the studios.'
'I know.' Nick sighed. 'I must get home. You women do gang up on me! It's only a bloody academic dinner, and I didn't want to go to it in the first place.'
'But it's important to Diana,' Jane said. 'Don't be mean, Nicholas!'
'We'll get the showreel over to the flat,' Caroline promised. 'I'll wait for it to come and bring it myself. Go on,' she urged. 'Go home and make your wife happy for once!'
'As if anything will satisfy my wife!' Nick shrugged, and picked up the file and his briefcase before fishing in his pocket in panic. 'Where the hell did I put my car keys?' Jane found them and threw them to him.
'Stop fussing,' she laughed. 'Go on - leave it to us!' Nick smiled as he crossed the entrance foyer with its display of the many awards the company had won over the years; it never failed to cheer him. In a couple of hours he had gone from despair to elation, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. He had to wait and find out if the girl could really cope with the part in the morning.
Normally he lived alone in his flat in Regent's Park. His wife, a part-time lecturer at an Oxford college, prefered to live in their Oxfordshire farmhouse with their only daughter most of the time. They commuted in and out of each other's totally opposing worlds - aided by Jane's efficiency - and had done for years, managing to astonish their friends, and Diana's disapproving family, by somehow staying married for fifteen years.
If Nick strayed occasionally, Diana confidently lived with it. She was secure in the knowledge that it was her he was married to, and that whatever happened she was going to make sure it stayed that way. As a Catholic, divorce was not something Diana had ever dreamt of considering, and Nick respected her beliefs. She was also well aware that, although Nick was no longer in love with her - if indeed he ever had been - he still had a great deal of loyalty towards her, and was far too attached to their daughter. Charlotte, to risk rocking the boat too much.
Pleasure at the thought of seeing Charlotte quickened his step as he parked his classic Porsche and ran through the lobby and up to the flat. Nick had driven one for years, long before they were fashionable, and clung to it defiantly, despite the teasing he sometimes got for his loyalty to the model - the first exotic car he had been able to treat himself to when his business had taken off.
Charlotte had come up with Diana for the last few days of the Easter holidays, and as he unlocked the front door she rushed into the hall, hurling herself at him and talking nineteen to the dozen at the same time.
'Mummy's cross with you, Daddy,' she chided. 'You're late.'
Nick sighed, and, rescuing the file that had hit the floor under her onslaught, braced himself as they went into the living room. He was sure his daughter grew several inches every term; at only fourteen, she was certainly taller than Diana.
For once Diana Grey swallowed her temper and presented her husband with as serene and genuine a smile of pleasure as she could manage as she crossed the room to him. Quietly elegant rather than pretty, she was always beautifully groomed, and tonight was no exception. He suddenly felt guilty that he had not been out to their Oxfordshire farmhouse for weeks, and to hoots of derision from Charlotte he kissed her with as much warmth as he could manage.
'Sickening how these old people carry on,' exclaimed Charlotte, laughing, happily taken in by his display of affection - though Nick knew by Diana's cool reaction that she wasn't.
'Less of the old!' retorted Nick. 'I really did mean to get back early, but. . .'
'Tell me while you change,' Diana chivvied. 'Bill will be here in a minute to pick us up.' While Nick showered she looked at the file of photographs with a distinct feeling of unease. This girl was lovely, and Nick would be on location with her for several months. The budget was fairly low, by Nick's usual standards, but at least he was saving on enormous studio costs by shooting most of the film at Hastings Court in Wiltshire, which was Charlie Hastings' home.
Charles had, like many of Nick's other friends, been hit by Lloyds, and Nick, being anxious to help him out, had decided that Charlie's home would be a perfect location. He also had the distinct advantage of knowing the estate well himself, since he had almost been brought up there by Charlie's parents while his own Army parents had been stationed abroad.
'What do you think?' Nick asked, coming back into the bedroom, rubbing at his wet body furiously.
'Stunning,' Diana said reluctantly. 'If she's going on location I think Charlotte and I may just come down very frequently to spoil your pitch! How old is she?'
'Twenty-four.' He grinned, unabashed. 'Bit young for an old man like me! She's far more likely to be swept off her feet by James Willoughby, particularly since - if I employ her - they'll have a lot of fairly steamy scenes together, and you know what James is like.'
'I certainly do, and I hope you're right!' Diana flicked a brush through her dark hair and repaired the damage he had done to her lipstick. Already half dressed. Nick came behind her to drop a kiss on her bare shoulder.
'Why should I bother with Beaujolais Nouveau when I have champagne at home?' He knowingly recognized and soothed her fears.
'Bill's here,' Charlotte called through the door as he was tying his bow tie.
'Told you I'd make it!'
'By the skin of your teeth, as usual.' Diana retorted, and picked up her bag and coat.
Following her. Nick was issuing instructions to Charlotte about Caroline's impending visit and where to put the precious delivery. 'I'll ring you during the evening,' he promised.
'Be good and don't open the door to anyone but Caroline!' Diana added other strictures, and she groaned at the stream of instructions with the weary boredom of a know-it-all adolescent. Nick laughed indulgently at Charlotte's resigned face.
'You do look very handsome in a DJ, Daddy,' she said adoringly. 'Not old at all!'
CHAPTER 2
In the club at the television studios, the Do or Dare party were on their second bottle of champagne - reckoned to be the best bargain around - and were just getting into their noisy stride. They were a young group - the only one over twenty-six was Paddy
Brennan, their director/producer, an old hand in his fifties who looked after his 'children' with a benevolent fatherly air.
Retreating to the club after transmission was a regular winding down habit, and Sarah thought suddenly how much she would miss everyone if she didn't renew her contract. Paddy wanted her to stay, and had already offered her a considerable rise to do so, and he and Peter Lyngard, her co-presenter, made a very polished duo, the best the programme had had in its two years, they complemented each other - both blonde and athletic young people, his cheeky style a perfect foil for Sarah's easygoing charm. They had an enormous following of young fans, who followed their supposed off-screen romance avidly.
Now they were laughing and teasing her, because the tannoy had just called her to the phone. It was a familiar joke amongst the club regulars that actors got themselves noticed by being paged in the club bar.
'It's far too early, Sarah,' joked the researcher. 'All the important people are still at their desks!' Sarah took it all in her stride, as she usually did, and meandered across to the desk, with the swinging walk of the dancer she was, to take her call.
'Who was it?' Peter teased as she came back with a stunned look on her face. 'Hollywood?
' 'Not quite! It was Oscar. Nick Grey wants to see me tomorrow. He wants me to audition for Home Leave the film Harriet Barrington was going to do!' After the discussion a few days previously, she could hardly believe it had actually happened.
'Well, well, there's nothing like starting at the top!' Peter, though completely without any ambition, was just a little jealous. 'He's certainly the best director this country has.'
'I did some commercials for NGA before I came here,' said Paddy's assistant, and shuddered. 'He's a vicious bastard when he gets going!'
'Very good-looking, though,' sighed another of the girls.
'But old - and married,' said Sarah firmly. 'However, guess who the male lead is going to be?' She paused for dramatic effect. 'Only James Willoughby!'
'Fastest trouser-dropper in the business!' Peter said sourly, painfully aware of Sarah's excitement.
'What a way to go, though!' laughed Polly. 'He's been married twice, hasn't he? Wasn't he married to Tamzin Carpenter at one time?' Sarah let the gossip float over her and struggled not to let her excitement show too much, she could see that Peter was not taking the news too well. But at last, despite her misgivings, she could see a light at the end of her particular tunnel of boredom. Choosing her moment carefully, she got to her feet.
'I think I'd better go,' she said, forgetting her resolve to go out that evening in her new excitement. 'They're sending me a script to read, and if I drink much more I won't be fit to drive home let alone learn any of it!' They all hugged her for luck. Sarah firmly told Peter she was going home alone, and almost floated out of the building to her car. Singing loudly to the radio, she sailed fearlessly around Shepherds Bush and down through Holland Park,, hardly aware of other traffic on the wet roads, anxious to get home to see what the script would be like.
Yes, the doorman had her package. 'Just come, miss.' He gazed at her with his usual wistful admiration. 'The boy said it was important.'
'Could be my future!' Sarah told him gaily. 'I'll let you know tomorrow.' And, clutching the precious bundle, she ran up the stairs to her second floor flat - too impatient to wait for the lift.
A few minutes later she was curled up on the sofa, shoes kicked off, with a carton of yoghurt and a glass of mineral water. Caroline's friendly note was clipped to the top page, confirming her eleven o'clock appointment and asking her to prepare two scenes for her audition.
Home Leave was a tense, exciting story about an Edwardian family, and she read with growing delight.
Abigail, the heiress daughter of the family, was in love with the young, local doctor, but was forced to marry someone else chosen by her bullying father. It ended on the battlefields of World War One, with Abigail reunited with her doctor.
It was a wonderful part, and by far the biggest in the film, Harriet Barrington must be really cursing that she couldn't do it, Sarah thought, gleefully turning page after page of glorious dialogue. Surely there had to be a catch.
Then she found it, just as she had predicted.
She stopped reading in horror. They couldn't really be asking her to do love scenes like that - but Nick Grey had not only written them he had surpassed himself! She was quite adamant that she couldn't cope with exposing that amount of her flesh in front of a film crew - even for him. She had heard enough jokes and stories about nude scenes, even working in children's television, and knew all about the unused clips of them that were shown at Christmas parties within the industry. In a fury, she dialled Oscar's home number and demanded of him whether he had read his copy of the script.
'I skimmed it quickly,' he admitted, annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of a dinner party.
'I couldn't do those sex scenes. They're awful. I've never done them, I won't do them! I'm not doing them for Nick Grey, great part or not!'
'Sarah, dear,' he tried to calm her, 'This is not your average British film director. This is the best. Whatever the script says, it is hardly going to be pornographic. Nick can be explicit, I agree, but he is a professional; he would never go too far. He has a reputation to consider, after all. You'll be fine - he'll handle it beautifully.'
'I don't care how professional he is; I'm not doing it!' Sarah shouted at him. 'It may be the part of the century, but tell them tomorrow that I'm sorry but the answer is no!'
'Like hell I will!' Oscar rejoined. 'You, young lady, will be at Nick's offices tomorrow with me at your elbow. You are not turning down a chance like this just because of a few hours of exposing your body to the camera. You did that shampoo commercial, remember, and the ice-cream one, and I don't remember you making a fuss about that.'
'I did have some clothes on for those,' Sarah objected.
'They probably suggested far more than these scenes will,' Oscar said firmly. 'Now, do as you're told for once! Wear a skirt and your hair loose. Abigail may have her moments, but she's meant to be a lady.' '
'You could've fooled me!'
'Oh, and another thing - don't wear high heels. James Willoughby is just about six foot; you don't need to be on eye-level with him.'
'I'm five foot eight, Oscar,' she reminded him. 'Not six foot.'
'No more than an inch of heel,' Oscar reminded her. 'Now let me get back to my dinner - tomorrow at eleven!' Sarah slammed the phone down in a filthy temper and swore furiously at it, and at Oscar. Almost in tears, she stamped around the flat.
Reading the scenes again didn't help.
It would be just her luck to get the part, she thought furiously, when it was the last thing she wanted. Sarah Campbell worked hard on her body to keep it looking good but she was paranoid about displaying it naked - even to Peter, who complained bitterly and frequently about her refusal to go to bed with him. But Oscar had been her agent since he had seen her in a RADA production and she knew she was very lucky to have a good one like him.
No way would she go against his wishes - and he knew it.
With a sigh of defeat, she went back to the script to prepare the scenes that Caroline had asked her to do, and tried to work on a way out of it - maybe they wouldn't want her at all ...
* * *
For the sake of peace. Nick made a tremendous effort to be sociable at the kind of event he rarely found very interesting. With an Oxford degree himself, he was the intellectual equal of most of their table, but he had never been able to get excited over some of the more obscure topics academics happily spent hours discussing.
Luckily, he found himself seated next to the young American wife of Diana's immediate superior at the college, and she quickly had him laughing and joking. A pretty girl, with a delicate, elfin face, her dark hair cut wispily short, she was lively and full of fun, and, being a second wife, was relatively unknown to the rest of the group.
Madeleine had spent most of her working life
as a secretary in Los Angeles, a city Nick knew and loved and indeed had a home in. Her father, he soon discovered, was an executive at NBC, so she knew the film and TV world well, and they were soon exchanging Hollywood gossip.
At last, when they were finally free to go. Nick hastened Diana into her coat, much to the amusement of the others. 'I assume it's the tape that you're rushing back for?' she asked sarcastically as they walked out to the car.
'Too right it is,' he said. 'There's a lot of money riding on getting that part re-cast, and Charlie and I will lose a great deal of it if I don't cast it soon.'
'Well, in that case, we'd better hurry!' Impatient as he was, he still exchanged his dress suit for a terry-cloth robe before he went to the study and dropped the DVD into the recorder - formal suits were Nick's idea of punishment, and had been since his Canterbury school-days. He leant back in the comfort of the leather armchair and poured himself a glass of his favourite malt as Sarah Campbell's image came up on the screen.
There were about twenty minutes of an enormous variety of work, including several commercials, most of which he realized he knew well - good production company bosses always knew what the competition was doing - and he kicked himself again. One that he particularly liked, and hadn't seen before, was an American shampoo job, where she was swimming underwater then rising from the sea clad in a very brief bikini, leaving him in no doubt about the slim waist and full, firm breasts that the swinging curtain of golden-brown hair failed to hide as it swung around her shoulders.
But, even more important to Nick, that was also a scene from a modem police drama. Sarah played the victim of some attack, being questioned fairly aggressively. The camera stayed relentlessly on her face, watching her crumble and finally weep under the barrage of questions. It was one take and her performance was superb, her air of vulnerability collapsing into panic as the questions grew nastier.
He played it back with a sense of relief that she really could act, and then he ran through the rest of the DVD.
