Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure

by RR Haywood

  The celibacy came about when Jodie Marsh said she was doing it. Henrietta had already been married twice and was aiming for the third to compete with Jordan’s next marriage when Jodie said she was giving up sex until the right man came along. A day later and after a frantic meeting with her agent and publicist, Henrietta appeared in a double-page tabloid spread telling the world she, too, was choosing celibacy. She explained earnestly, as shown in the well-managed, high-gloss photos, that unlike Jodie she was not doing it for Mr Right as that still meant men had an element of control over her life. She was doing it for all women everywhere and to find herself as a woman and to learn to love herself despite the demons inside.

  Henrietta scans the room and spots the bar where she knows her kinfolk will be gathered. Herding with them offers safety in numbers and friendly faces she knows well, but it will not aid the new direction of her intended journey. The ranks within the industry are clear and to move from one to the other takes dedication and the awareness of a starving, psychotic hawk.

  The crowd shifts and she sees them. The other reality television personalities. A title worthy of an award but that’s what they are. The beautiful and the extrovert. Tattoos everywhere. Perfect hairstyles and toned bodies that give a touch of physical aesthetic to the otherwise ugly back-room masses that dominate the room.

  No, no, no. Not yet. She scans harder searching the faces for an alternative, but the offerings are awful. A gaggle of editors standing next to a group of scriptwriters. Financiers showing gold cufflinks and diamond watches that talk of returns and spreadsheets.

  Fuck it. She looks over at the bar with a wince. The second they see me they’ll shout my name so loud it’ll have everyone else in the room looking over. Come on, Henri. Find someone else. Not the editors; they’ll just stare at my tits. Not the scriptwriters, either; they’re nice enough but they hold no power. Bollocks. I’m almost at the bar but I can’t veer off now unless I have somewhere to go. Which one? Which group?

  Privately educated but common enough to hold a conversation with anyone, but now is the time for those conversations to count.

  There. Oh shit. He’s here. He is actually here. A flutter in her stomach and she veers off like an embarrassed sibling praying her drunk family don’t see her.

  Okay. You’ve practised this. Ease the cheeky smile down to a friendly expression of greeting and watch the language. For fuck’s sake watch the language.

  The group she aims for see her coming, but the target has his back turned, engaged in a deep conversation with another man. Turn round, you fucker. Turn round and see me coming. You can’t miss Henrietta Swallow when she walks through a crowd with her white teeth glinting and the black dress clinging to her enormous breasts.

  Right, Henrietta, be serious. Hold eye contact. Think before you speak and for fuck’s sake don’t swear. And don’t flirt, either. This is not the time for flirting. Or swearing. Please don’t swear.

  Oh fuck. He’s turned round but he’s not looking at my tits. Is he gay? Shit. I’m out of my depth. Abort. Abort. Too late. Wank it, I’m committed now. Right, see it through. Come on, Henrietta, you can do this. Show the serious, intelligent side and for fuck’s sake don’t flirt or swear. It won’t work. I’ll humiliate myself. Don’t do it. Just smile and walk past. Go to the bar and get drunk with the other reality television personalities. Why do this to yourself?

  I need this, that’s why. I need the acceptance of maturity so I don’t get relegated to that woman who used to get her tits out copying everything the other two did. Just be serious and do not fucking swear.

  ‘You know they’re desperate for publicity when Jordan is invited,’ a scrawny old woman with a silk scarf quips drily. Jordan? Seriously? You rancid old haggard whore. Thinking fast, Henrietta works the options and subsequent consequences but she was too close and the comment was too loud for her to feasibly pretend she didn’t hear it. To confront the woman risks embarrassment but to delay and do nothing is a fate far worse.

  ‘And even more desperate when they book me instead,’ Henrietta says, laughing easily. ‘Jordan is the other one.’

  ‘The other one?’ The rancid old haggard whore lifts an eyebrow. ‘I thought that awful Marsh girl was the other one.’

  That’s because you’re as old as dinosaur shit. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make. I’m Henrietta Swallow.’

  ‘It’s those awful things,’ the rancid old haggard whore says, staring unashamedly at Henrietta’s cleavage. ‘Aren’t they just so terribly heavy and cumbersome?’

  Yep but yours are swinging next to your knees, you disgusting bitch. ‘Oh you know,’ Henrietta laughs again, winking at one of the men staring at her then inwardly cursing for forgetting she wasn’t meant to be flirting. ‘It’s somewhere to rest my book when I read.’

  ‘Do you then?’ the woman fires back with rapier-like speed.

  Oh my fucking god! Leave me alone, you evil dragon.

  ‘I do apologise,’ the woman says with sudden sincerity. ‘Perhaps I should have asked can you, not do you?’ The space around the group becomes a short-lived vacuum as the air is sucked out by three other people all drawing a sharp intake of air.

  An image of a clenched fist smashing into the woman’s face fills Henrietta’s mind but he is standing right there, watching, waiting and listening with interest. Comments like this had never hurt Henrietta before. She knew what she was and accepted the judgement but right now, at this very second, it’s the last thing she needs and she wracks her brain for a suitable reply while still weighing the options of being humorous, cutting, humble or even bitchy. There is too much at stake, though, and only one response will suit to prepare the path ahead.

  ‘I am sorry you feel the need to say that,’ Henrietta says in that educated voice with a respectful nod before turning to the man she so desperately needs to impress.

  ‘HENRIETTA, YOU FUCKING SLAG!’

  Fuck arse and shit. This time she does pretend not to notice and smiles at the bearded man.

  ‘OI OI, SWALLOW…WANT SOME CHARLIE?’

  ‘Hello, Dolan,’ she says, holding her hand out.

  ‘HENRI? HENRI? WHO’S THE BEARDY?’

  ‘Henrietta,’ Dolan says, shaking her hand while his eyes flick over her shoulder towards the bar and the shouts getting louder.

  ‘Did you get my proposal?’ she asks, feeling the first rare flush of shame creeping up her cheeks.

  ‘OI, SWALLOW? GET YER TITS OVER HERE FOR SOME SHOTS BEFORE THIS FILM STARTS…’

  Dolan inhales while nodding and she spots the apologetic look flicker across his face as the precursor to the answer.

  ‘My piece on the sex workers was good,’ she rushes in before he can speak. ‘The whole immigration angle of forced sex workers…’

  ‘HENRIETTA, LAST CHANCE…YOU WANT A LINE OR NOT?’

  ‘HENRIETTA, YOU TAKING COCK YET?’

  ‘It was good,’ Dolan admits honestly. ‘Very well researched and a good approach to the fairness of the subject from all concerned. The mood, the interviews, the way you portrayed yourself and the…’

  ‘SWALLOW? STOP CHATTING THAT BLOKE UP AND GET OVER HERE.’

  ‘…editing all created a highly engaging account.’

  ‘I did the research myself,’ she says, looking up at his deeply serious face with imploring eyes.

  ‘Did you?’ Dolan asks with a tilt of the head.

  ‘Really,’ she says, stepping closer and feeling the elasticated bond holding her to the shouting morons at the bar growing weaker by the second. ‘I was involved from the beginning. That girl, the one from Afghan? You remember her? I interviewed her in the back of the car?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Dolan says, showing genuine interest.

  ‘I found her,’ Henrietta says, speaking to this man and only to him.

  ‘HENRIETTA FUCKING SWALLOW! ARE YOU COMING FOR SHOTS OR WHAT?’

  ‘She wasn’t going to talk to us but I met her about four or five times to earn her trust.’
>
  ‘Serious journalism,’ Dolan comments, staring down into her now very serious blue eyes. ‘But if I may offer some critique?’

  Oh my god yes. Critique means he’s interested. ‘Of course, please say what you think.’

  ‘I would have centred the whole story on her. She would have been the main subject to cover the human trafficking through to the end result of forced prostitution. I understand that would have taken longer but the end result would have been far more impactful You still gained good exposure but somewhat watered down the seriousness by having so many subjects that the viewer could not connect with. One person. One story. The others would have been added and filtered to show the scale of the problem.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ she whispers, blinking slowly and cursing herself for not having thought of that approach. ‘The budget was tiny, though.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you produced on a tight finance package, and if I may add something else,’ he says seriously as she leans forward an inch. ‘Jodie’s was better.’

  ‘Better?’ she says with a glare that she forcibly morphs into an accepting smile. ‘Yes, of course. I respect your opinion but if I worked with you I could…’

  ‘SWALLOW?’

  ‘DOES SHE THEN?’

  A roar of laughter follows the voices and Henrietta ignores the many faces of the crowd looking over at her.

  She holds the serious expression, sensing the first tendrils of something bordering mutual respect are starting to stretch weakly between her and the Channel Four head of factual programming. That he is even here can only be because of the investment fund given by that channel and the requirement for him to fulfil a quota of public engagements.

  ‘Dolan, I am serious about the proposals. Women in public services could be an amazing avenue to explore.’ She smiles inwardly at getting the line she practised so many times delivered to someone so influential and important. ‘Channel Four are the right people to be involved. Anyone else will seek the humorous side. Channel Five would just exploit the issues and…’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that subject,’ Dolan says, cutting across but not unkindly.

  ‘Women soldiers are on the front line now. How do they retain individuality of being feminine in such a male-dominated environment? Are they even trusted by the male soldiers? What about those that have been injured? With my background in bodybuilding I could really show how they regained their health and fitness while retaining their femininity…’

  ‘Fuck me, Henri. What the fuck you doing over here? Alright, mate. I’m Bennie, nice to meet ya,’ Bennie stumbles into the conversation grinning wildly and shoving a pumping hand at Dolan. ‘Big tits boring you, is she?’ he asks with a laugh that is too loud and too long. ‘Henri, you coming for some shots then or what? Here, hang on. Ain’t you that actor from Emmerdale? That farmer or sommit?’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ Dolan asks as those first so important tendrils snap cleanly through.

  ‘Bennie, I’ll come over in a minute,’ Henrietta says, smiling nicely but showing hard eyes.

  ‘THAT BLOKE FROM EMMERDALE IS HERE,’ Bennie shouts to the bar with an unsteady sway.

  ‘Young man, you have white powder on your nose,’ the rancid old haggard whore points out with a delightedly haughty tone of voice.

  Lurching round, Bennie wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and nose before fixing a toothy grin on the old woman. ‘Yeah, it’s coke innit. You want some? Ha! It’s good stuff. Here, Henri. You comin’ then or what? I bet that bloke over there I could feel your tits without getting slapped…’

  ‘We’ll talk another day, Henrietta,’ Dolan says, quickly seizing the opportunity to extract himself from the increasingly embarrassing scene unfolding as Bennie tries to sell cocaine to the rancid old haggard whore.

  Gone so fast she cannot get a word out that might prevent his egress but left instead to watch the drugged young man. Degrees of separation and if only Bennie had stayed the few metres away on the side of the room dominated by the young, foolish and beautiful instead of venturing drunk into the serious side to ruin the dreams of a woman now seeing a future of tits and smiles.

  Chapter Two

  The mortals that cling to the barriers

  Henrietta Swallow does not give in. Every minute into the event is a calculation of movement and forward planning, and with the exit of Dolan so she gains a greater world view and another internal chastisement.

  The editors. The scriptwriters. The lighting technicians. The make-up artists. The producers, directors, unit managers, sound engineers. Groups within groups but as she watches them from the relative comfort of the reality television personalities she becomes aware of something she has known for a long time. They all know one another. They all talk to one another. Lighting guys drink with the sound engineers. Sound engineers know editors who trade jokes with writers who talk to producers about the FA Cup. How could she be so blind to think she could simply step from the top of one ladder to the next? It doesn’t work like that. You go down the first ladder, step across and climb up the next.

  This is her ladder. The drunk and drugged hogging the bar. The rejects from singing contests and talent shows. The nearly wons who the public reacted to and who were picked up like bait to lure the money from the masses. Doing the rounds of panel shows, chat shows, reality programmes and already peaking at the height of their fame before they slide to obscurity and watch the likes on their Facebook pages dwindle by the thousands. This is her ladder and like the queen at the top she holds court over them all.

  Plied with drinks. Flirted with. Chatted to. Some are respectful and polite. Others step over that line with hands on the small of her back which drop down to rest on her arse in a clumsy show of desire. To them she is a veteran and a survivor.

  Bennie and The Boys. The runner-ups in the last season of X Factor but now more famous than the woman who won. From pubs to clubs to venues and their fame grows as fast as their cheeky grins. Candice who won Big Brother and slept with the two footballers at the same time then sold the story to the press and watched innocently as their marriages fell apart. She was a victim, exploited. She never planned it at all.

  Minor pop stars. Wannabe rock stars. Stars in the making trying to launch careers where they spend lives at bars and clubs and bask in the glow of one another while the mortals outside cling to the barriers.

  The conversation on this ladder consists of sex, style, being seen, sex, drugs, sex, money, sex, desperation and sex.

  Over there, though. In the other half of the room the conversations are about subject and substance. They talk about world issues and how best to reflect them. Art and the creation of magic to bring entertainment and awareness to the mortals that cling to the barrier. That ladder is made of normal folk who have shunned the coverage to be able to drive home unknown and unseen but satisfied of what they have achieved.

  Henrietta looks round with that trademark grin spreading wide and the posh laugh sounding out at the punchline of a joke she didn’t hear. Someone presses a drink in her hand while a palm rests on her arse. She steps forward and away as though to listen to someone talk but the palm on her arse follows so she turns ready for a cutting remark to be delivered but stops and rolls her eyes.

  ‘Bennie,’ she groans. ‘Get your hand off my arse.’

  ‘What?’ Bennie says innocently. ‘Weren’t me,’ he adds, shaking his head. ‘It was, er…that bloke over there…’

  ‘I’m sixteen years older than you, Bennie. I could be your mother.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bennie grins happily as she groans again. ‘Milf.’

  ‘No,’ Henrietta says but can’t help the smile showing.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, like no now or no never?’

  ‘No never.’

  ‘What, like no never ever or no never not now never?’

  ‘Never. Just never.’

  ‘Ah, but…’

  ‘Celibate, Bennie. That means I do not
have sex.’

  ‘But…sex is like exercise and you like exercise. Anyway, that Jodie is married now so she’s getting loads of sex so like, you can have sex now and I’ll just lie there and let you do the work, yeah?’ he asks with that look of almost innocent hope in his eyes that won the hearts of millions.

  An idea presents. Bennie is flavour of the month right now and rapidly climbing that ladder of mirrors. ‘Bennie, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Yeah sure, Henrietta,’ he says honestly with such an endearing nod it softens her heart for a split second.

  ‘I need to go over there and talk to some people but I don’t want this lot shouting my name. Can you keep them occupied for me?’

  ‘Okay.’ He nods eagerly. ‘Will you let me have sex with you then?’

  ‘No, Bennie.’

  ‘Oh.’ He deflates for a second before springing back with the eternal hope of the young. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Keep them busy for me. Don’t let them shout my name or let any of them come after me.’

  ‘Okay, Henrietta. I got your back.’

  ‘Thanks, Bennie.’

  ‘Then can I go on your back?’

  ‘No, Bennie,’ she says, snorting a laugh.

  ‘Okay. Will you go on your back?’

  ‘No, Bennie.’

  ‘Will there be any backs involved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, Henrietta,’ Bennie says and turns to face his minions. ‘Who wants to be in our next music video?’

  That does it. A reaction of palpable excitement as a rush starts towards him while The Boys all shrug at one another happy to go with the flow.

  She slips away, easing from the crowd that compress around Bennie who turns to offer a quick wink at Henrietta retreating back into the serious side of the room.

  Down the ladder she goes. Rung after rung. Step after step. From the top to the bottom and she crosses the gap to the first rung and the nearest group of perfectly presented make-up artists. She actually recognises all of them from hours spent in chairs staring at mirrors while they chat amiably.

  Come on, Henrietta. Be engaging and listen. Get your name known in these circles so they say what a nice lady Henrietta Swallow is. Dolan is right there, only metres away. Let him see you working the serious side of the room. Let him see the serious Henrietta Swallow.