He’s just come back from New York, where he was probably dating scores of women whose lives are like something out of Sex and the City, she reasoned with herself, suddenly getting a mental picture of him living in Manhattan, surrounded by models and Broadway actresses. Anyway, she thought, he was probably only being charitable by giving me the time of day. Why would someone like him look twice at me?
She was suddenly filled with self-loathing at the way she looked, hating her lank, mousy-brown hair, her pale, freckled skin and her shapeless rake-thin figure. She was tall, over five feet ten, and at one time had been thought reasonably pretty, with her even features and bright blue eyes, but years of slaving away at Davenport Hall, stressing about how the next bill was going to be paid and what they could do to survive had taken its toll on her.
Right, she thought, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling, at least that’s one problem I can solve. Like it or not, she was going to give herself a makeover.
Breakfast at the Hall was a desultory affair the next morning. Daisy slid into her accustomed place at the kitchen table as white as a ghost and, unusually for her, not saying a word. But when Mrs Flanagan plonked down a plate full of rashers and sausages in front of her, she could take no more. She wordlessly ran out of the room and into the downstairs bathroom, from where everyone could clearly hear her throwing up.
‘Better out than in,’ Mrs Flanagan said cheerfully.
‘Really, Mrs Flanagan, must you make such a Godawful racket?’ Lucasta had growled as yet another plate was unceremoniously clattered down in front of her.
‘Ah, eat yer breakfast and don’t be annoying me,’ replied Mrs Flanagan, well used to dealing with her ladyship after she’d overdone it the night before.
Portia knocked back the last of her orange juice, grateful at least for not having the mother and father of all hangovers, as Lucasta and Daisy did. But even for someone as good-natured as she was, it was bloody hard to have sympathy for either of them, after their joint performance the previous night.
Lucasta slurped the last dregs of her tea and stood up to go. ‘Do you know, I’ve had the most wonderful idea, darling,’ she said to Portia as she shoved fistfuls of uneaten rashers into her pocket to feed her cats with.
‘Yes, Mummy, what about?’ asked Portia, groaning inwardly.
‘About what to do with my share of the money we’re getting for the film. I thought it might be rather jolly for me to go into business. My horoscope says this is an awfully good month for me to embrace new ventures.’
Lucasta consulted her horoscope on a daily basis and rarely took any decision without first checking to see if her planets were favourably aligned.
‘Oh Mummy, what are you thinking of now?’ asked Portia, remembering all too clearly the occasion when an unfortunate visitor to the Hall had found mouse-droppings in the home-made chocolate-chip cookies Lucasta had forced him to buy, her last foray into the business world. Then there was the time her mother had tried to sell her own original pottery to unsuspecting American tourists staying at the Hall, even though the earthenware cups and saucers she tried to make in her knackered kiln looked like big blobby, semi-pornographic lumps. Never one to miss a sale, however, she passed them off as handmade modern art sculptures, without batting an eyelid.
‘I’ve had a road to Damascus revelation, darling, and I really think I could be on to something.’
Portia braced herself. ‘What now, Mummy?’ she asked.
‘Davenport bottled water! Straight from the old well by the orchard and into Tesco’s, sweetie. Aren’t I simply a genius to think of it? It’s a licence to print money, you know, nobody drinks anything but water from bottles now. What do you think?’
‘Mummy, you can’t! Bottled water is supposed to come from two-thousand-year-old underground springs, not from a filthy old well like that. It’s totally unsanitary; Daisy used to pee in there when she was small. And I know for a fact there’s at least one dead cat down there.’
‘Oh really, must you always be so negative? I’m only trying to do my bit, you know. Right, I’m off to phone Steve, he’ll advise me what to do. I’ve nothing more to say to you, Portia, your channels are completely blocked.’ She flicked her long grey mane of hair over her shoulder as she swept out of the door.
Oh, just let her, Portia reasoned to herself. It’s just another of her get-rich-quick schemes that’ll fall flat on its face.
‘Thanks for brekkie, Mrs Flanagan,’ she said. ‘I’m just popping outside to see if the film crew needs anything.’
‘Let me know when Guy van der Post gets here, will ya, luv?’ replied Mrs Flanagan. ‘So I’ll have time to wax me moustache, trim the hair on me mole and shave me legs for him.’
In film parlance, today was ‘Day One; Principal Photography’, as the shooting schedule declared. This meant the first day of actual filming, as opposed to all the setting up that had been going on for the last few days.
Well, they’ve certainly got perfect weather for it, Portia thought as she headed towards the gravelled forecourt of the equestrian centre, where they would be filming for the rest of the day. On her way, she bumped into Johnny Maguire, who was bellowing into a walkie-talkie. ‘Yeah, Jimmy D., I copy, we’ll get the talent out straight away.’
‘Hi, Johnny, how’s it all going?’ she asked, catching up with him.
‘Good morning!’ he replied, as cheerful as ever, striding confidently over cable wires as he chatted to her. ‘So far, so good, I think. We’ve been here since first light this morning setting up and now I think Stalin’s ready for the first shot of the day.’
‘Stalin?’ asked Portia, puzzled. Was this a new actor she hadn’t heard of yet?
‘Yeah,’ Johnny chuckled, ‘it’s what the cameraman has nicknamed Jimmy D. Wait till you see him in action, you’ll soon understand why! Do you want to stick around and watch us do this shot?’ he asked. ‘You’re very welcome to.’
‘Thanks, Johnny, that would be terrific,’ she replied, already feeling perkier. This was such a great distraction from dwelling on the dismal events of last night. ‘Are you sure I won’t be in the way?’ she added.
‘No worries, Portia, you can see it all from here,’ he said, gesturing to an empty canvas chair well behind the camera, beside a makeshift desk covered in what looked like sound equipment.
The whole scene was a hive of activity – and the buzz! Portia had never seen anything like it. Everywhere she looked there were people coming and going, men carrying lights and cables, women dashing around with clipboards. Ahead of her, just inside the stable forecourt, she could see Caroline Spencer animatedly chatting to Jimmy D., who looked as cool and unruffled as he always did. He was chomping away on his trademark cigar and sporting a pair of bright green tartan trousers and a jacket to match, which even Rupert Bear would have blushed to wear in public.
Suddenly, Portia’s attention was caught by a giant crane, about twenty feet above her head. She gasped aloud when she realized that there was a cameraman up there, intently focused on the lens and oblivious to the height and speed he was moving at.
‘Don’t worry, he’s perfectly safe, he’s just lining up the first shot,’ said Johnny, seeing the alarmed look on her face. ‘That’s Ivan Lamar up there, one of the best cameramen in the business. He’s Czech, and has worked on just about every movie that’s come out of Eastern Europe in the last few years. He’s even worked with Polanski. They were bloody lucky to get him for a pile of shite like this.’
‘Sorry?’ said Portia, thinking she was hearing things. ‘Do you mean the film’s not going to be any good?’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ came a raucous machine-gun laugh from behind her. ‘She mustn’t have seen a script yet, Johnny!’
Portia turned around to see a skinny, pimply guy with a set of headphones around his neck. He was in his early twenties and had that skin tone peculiar to Irish people, which goes bright red and freckly when exposed to more than five minutes of sunshine. He’d obviously been st
anding around in the sun for some time, as the tip of his nose and his neck were raw red, while the rest of him was blue white. On his right arm was a tattoo, which said simply, ‘Fuck Yis’. The look was completed by a pair of combat trousers, which clearly showed the tip of his bum, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the legend: ‘If you think my face is bad, you should see my hairy hole.’
‘This is Paddy O’ Kane, our sound man,’ said Johnny, introducing Portia. ‘He’s just come off the latest Courteney Cox Arquette movie, Screech Three, so he’s a bit full of himself, but don’t worry, Stalin will soon have manners put on him.’
‘Piss off,’ said Paddy sulkily. ‘So this is your gaff, is it?’ he said to Portia. ‘I’m glad the crew aren’t staying up there; it’s like the house in Psycho. Would you not be terrified getting into the shower?’
‘Where are you staying?’ Portia asked out of politeness; why, she didn’t know.
‘Some Jaysus kip of a b. & b. in the town run by a mental case. There’s fuck all to do here except talk shite to culchies. And how am I going to see Arsenal play on Saturday? None of the pubs have Sky Sports.’
Portia was unsure how to answer this last remark, when suddenly Johnny’s walkie-talkie crackled into action. She immediately recognized Jimmy D.’s voice saying, ‘Talent on set, Johnny. We’re almost there.’
‘Copy that,’ Johnny replied into the walkie-talkie. Caroline then rushed by them, heading in the direction of Montana Jones’s Winnebago.
‘Hope to Jaysus she’s sober,’ Paddy said, covering his ears with headphones and fiddling with the recording deck in front of him. ‘You heard about her at the Oscars last year, didn’t you?’ he said, miming someone knocking back drink after drink as he did.
Johnny was about to snap his head off for being so cheeky, when suddenly a silence descended around them.
Montana Jones had left her trailer. It seemed that all the crew and all the technicians turned to watch her as she walked the short distance from her Winnebago to the set. And, boy, was she a sight to behold. She was kitted out in her full costume, which was a Victorian riding habit made of the most exquisite crushed velvet in a shade of sapphire blue which perfectly complemented her eyes. The attention to detail on the costume was astonishing; from the neck down it was covered with oceans of cream lace with delicate touches of mother of pearl hand-sewn into it, so that it shimmered as it caught the light.
Then there was Montana herself. Portia had only ever seen her once, the previous day, when she’d arrived wearing a baseball cap and slightly scruffy jeans, not looking anything like a movie star. But to see her now! She seemed to be wearing a dark brown wig, with thick glossy curls cascading down her back, held in place by a jaunty tricorn hat, with an ostrich plume which fell seductively over one eye. Her make-up was so flawless, you’d think she wasn’t wearing any at all; she just seemed to glow naturally from within. The wardrobe and make-up people had done a terrific job; Montana’s transformation was truly amazing. This vulnerable slip of a girl, who only yesterday was cowering in terror in case her personal assistant caught her having a sneaky cigarette, now looked every inch a fully-fledged Hollywood star. More than a star, a goddess, in fact.
‘Oh my God,’ Portia couldn’t help saying aloud, ‘she’s breathtaking!’
‘Ah, she’s not a bad-looking aul’ bird,’ Paddy replied, tweaking at the sound deck like an expert DJ warming up for a rave in Ibiza, ‘she scrubs up well, all right. But have you seen her without all that slap on her face? Jaysus, she looks like she should be out in Dublin airport sniffing luggage.’
Portia could recall seeing the original film, A Southern Belle’s Saga, one Christmas, years ago now, on the flickering black-and-white TV set in her father’s study. She remembered getting hopelessly swept up in the narrative, and shedding copious tears when the heroine, Magnolia O’Mara, finally lost Brent Charleston, the only man she’d ever really loved, at the end of the film.
And now, here was Montana Jones, Magnolia O’Mara to the very life, about to take up the story, here at Davenport Hall!
Portia fervently wished that Daisy were here beside her, instead of barfing down the loo. She must have seen A Southern Belle’s Saga over a dozen times and could quote freely from any scene at will. Well, she reasoned, they’ll be filming here for at least the next twelve weeks, plenty of time for Daisy to catch up.
‘Quiet on set, please,’ Johnny shouted through a megaphone. ‘Tense up, everybody, we’re going for a take.’
Portia could see Montana shuffling through a few crumpled bits of paper, probably looking over her lines one last time, she thought. Jimmy D. was strolling back towards a canvas chair, which said ‘Director’ in block capitals on the back, the only person who was unflappably cool and calm in the middle of all this frenzy.
‘OK, people,’ Johnny continued to roar through the megaphone in his hand, ‘scene one. Let’s get this in one take if we can.’ Paddy began to madly adjust sound levels on the equipment in front of him.
‘Roll sound!’ Johnny blared.
‘Speed!’ called Paddy from beside where Portia was sitting.
‘Roll camera!’ Johnny shouted next.
‘Shot!’ came the heavily accented reply from the crane above Portia’s head.
‘Mark it!’ said Johnny, as a young crew member sprang out in front of Montana’s face with a clapperboard in his hand. ‘Scene one, take one,’ he said, bringing the clapperboard down with a loud thud.
‘And . . . action!’ said Johnny, loudly enough for them to hear him in Ballyroan. Then silence.
You could have heard a pin drop as Montana slowly lifted her head and surveyed the scene around her.
‘Oh my, oh my,’ she began in a Southern drawl, ‘it feels so good for me to be back here in the Emerald Isle, land of my forebears, ancestral home of the O’Mara clan, among my own people once more and away from the rigidities . . . the rigidities . . . the rigedd . . . SHIT!’
Portia was on the edge of her seat. Surely that couldn’t be part of the script?
‘Line, please,’ called Montana, momentarily slipping out of her Southern accent.
Jimmy D. sighed as he consulted the script in front of him.
‘Cut!’ Johnny called out.
‘Brutal accent,’ Paddy said, whipping off his headphones. ‘Southern belle, my arse.’
Portia could see Jimmy D. walking slowly towards Montana, still smoking his cigar. They were too far away for her to hear what was being said, but she could see Montana gesturing wildly and waving the script under Jimmy D.’s nose in a very aggressive manner. After a few moments, however, Jimmy D. went back to his canvas chair and nodded at Johnny.
‘Make-up checks!’ Johnny called as a youngish man with his hair dyed green rushed over to Montana. He was carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with lipsticks and make-up and proceeded to dab a powder puff across Montana’s beautiful face.
Montana didn’t speak to him, merely nodded her thanks.
‘OK, people, we’re going for take two,’ bellowed Johnny. And then came the same routine all over again.
‘Roll sound!’
‘Speed!’ said Paddy.
‘Roll camera!’
‘Shot.’
‘Mark it!’
‘Scene one, take two.’
‘And . . . action!’
Again, a hush descended as all eyes focused on Montana. Again, she slowly raised her beautiful face to the sky and said, ‘Oh my, oh my. It feels so good for me to be back in the Emerald Isle, land of my forebears, ancestral home of the O’Mara clan and away from the ridig . . . rigid . . . rigidities . . . HOLY SHIT! You can write this crap but you sure as hell can’t say it!’
‘CUT!’ called Jimmy D., stubbing out his cigar as he strode towards her. This time Portia had no difficulty in hearing their conversation.
‘You’d just better get your act together, Montana, or you’re out of here,’ Jimmy D. roared at her. God, he was terrifying when he got going, no wonder the crew nicknamed h
im Stalin. ‘I hired you when no one in LA would touch you with a fifty-foot bargepole and you repay me by showing up on set without even doing me the courtesy of LEARNING YOUR GODDAMN LINES!’
‘I’m a professional actress, I’m here to do the best job I can, Jimmy D., but you cannot ask me to say this absolute HORSE SHIT! I mean, for Chrissake, how in the hell do you expect me to deliver a line like “and away from the rigidities imposed on a woman of my class and breeding by the dictates of society back in Atlanta, Georgia, where I’ve been living apart from my husband Brent for the last three years”? I can’t do it, Jimmy D., Meryl fucking Streep couldn’t make a line like that work!’ She was screaming right back at him now, tears running down her face.
‘OK, people, take five!’ Jimmy D. called out as he followed Montana back to her trailer.
‘Jaysus, it’s going to be a long day,’ said Paddy, wearily taking off his headphones. ‘Do ya fancy a cuppa tea?’ he asked Portia.
‘Yes, that’d be lovely, thanks, as long as I’m not in anyone’s way,’ replied Portia.
‘Catering wagon’s this way,’ said Paddy as they headed towards a double-decker bus parked on the grass in front of the Hall. All of the crew seemed to be heading in that direction, probably glad to be out of the line of fire.
As she stepped on to the bus, she was amazed to see that there were tables laid out in front of the bus seats, groaning with Danish pastries, croissants, bagels and hot cross buns. A rich, aromatic smell of freshly ground coffee hit you next, as the caterers rushed up and down the bus, pouring out tea and coffee for everyone.
‘Mmm, yummy smell,’ said Portia.
‘Yeah, that’s the one saving grace about this gig; the grub’s all right,’ replied Paddy, plastering tomato ketchup on a Danish pastry and stuffing his face with it.
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 7
