by Susan Lewis
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Betty’s just come in. She forgot to take her key. Anyway, I was calling to find out if you’d gone back to London, or if you still need a lift in the morning. I take it you do.’
‘Yes, please. That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘Can we leave at six thirty? Is that too early?’
‘Not at all. Six thirty it is. Now, is everything all right? Eddie seems to have calmed down a bit.’
Carla looked at him, slumped on the floor as though nothing had happened. ‘He’s a menace,’ she scolded, ‘but he’s fine now. I was just feeling a bit edgy I suppose, and irritable because I haven’t heard from Richard … Tell me, do you think I should see him?’
‘Mmm,’ Graham responded, pondering the question. ‘I suppose it’ll have to happen sooner or later. Do you feel ready for it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. Then, to her dismay, she embarked on a lengthy account of the dilemma and doubts she’d been putting herself through for weeks.
Though Graham listened with his usual understanding and patience, and offered some heartening suggestions, she was no more settled in her mind by the time she went to bed than she’d been before.
Scooting Eddie over so she could uncover the spot he’d just warmed up, she slipped in between the sheets, then reached across him to turn out the light. Her mind was racing, but it wasn’t very long before she was completely tangled up in a dream that was about Richard, who became John, who then turned into Graham, before moving on to Betty hanging from the horse chestnut tree, though she wasn’t dead, and then Richard was there with Chrissie and it was Chrissie hanging from the tree, where Richard had put her. However, Carla’s most vivid recollection the next morning was of the powerfully erotic sex she’d had with John, up against the bookshelves next to her desk, which then became a public place, where her orgasm was so immense that it drew a crowd, and finally shook her out of the dream.
Chapter 14
IT HAD TO be fifteen months or more since Carla felt this good. In fact, her old energy was flooding back with such gusto that she was having trouble keeping the emotion from her voice and euphoria from her words as she stood in front of the small cast she and John had chosen, and the production team that was going to enable the new series to happen, briefing them on what it was all going to be about. They were in the ménage’s spacious back room, which, for the next few weeks, was going to double as a rehearsal and viewing room. Standing here, in a brand new plum wool dress, the first she’d bought in over a year, and an expensive pair of black suede boots, addressing her new team as their executive producer, was saying more clearly than anything that she really had pulled through the worst of the bad times, and was now heading right back to the top – and beyond.
‘The funding we’ve managed to raise so far, for the new series, has surpassed even my wild expectations,’ she told them. ‘Last time around we set some very high standards, which we now aim to exceed, and, thanks to the increase in budget, as well as the bonus of having John Rossmore on board – with an exceptionally talented group of actors and crew behind him – I’ve no doubt we will.’ She didn’t look at John, who was sitting in a chair to her right, legs stretched out in front of him, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, though she could almost feel his irony, and was hard put not to smile herself. ‘The last programme in the current series is due to air next Monday at eight, then the entire series will be repeated starting in February, on Tuesday nights at ten. This is a major bonus I wasn’t expecting, and is confirmation indeed that we are as good as everyone says we are, with the notable exception of a few confused TV critics.’
After the amusement had passed Frazer, the production manager, said, ‘Any dates for the new series’ transmission yet?’
‘Probably the same time next year,’ Carla answered, ‘with a repeat showing again in the spring. Everything’s really taking off, but we’d be fools if we believed ourselves invincible, so let’s understand right now that there’s one heck of a lot of hard work coming up, for everyone, and I want you all to remember that no one person is more important than another, because that’s not the way we work. We’re a team, so we all pull together, which means you can feel free to share your complaints, concerns and especially ideas with either John or me, and give us any kind of input you think might be valuable.’
At that moment the door opened and Kit Kingsley, the giant bear of a lighting cameraman, came in with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, a heavy holdall in the other, and a genuinely apologetic look on his face. ‘Sorry,’ he said, grimacing, ‘nothing I could do. The flight was delayed …’
‘It’s OK,’ Carla told him. ‘We got your message.’ She looked around the room. ‘I guess most of you know Kit,’ she said, ‘if only by reputation.’
John was on his feet greeting the cameraman, who then sat down next to him on one of the assortment of second-hand chairs that were positioned around the edges of the room, with only the odd coffee table, rug, script and ashtray taking up the space in the middle. Carla was the only one standing, with her shoulders and one foot pressed up against a wall, everyone else was either perched on a window-sill or sitting on the chairs. Since Kit was the most senior member of the team, Carla began going through the introductions again, starting with Phoebe Marsh, the stunningly beautiful black actress who was going to be starring in the dramatic sketch on Zanzibar, then the various members of costume, make-up and production, and finishing with Rosa Gingell, whom John had cast as the slave trader’s wife.
Rosa treated Kit to her most winning smile, then, without looking at Carla, returned her eyes to the script she had resting on her lap. Carla’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. Rosa’s coldness towards her had been marked from the moment she’d arrived that morning, and though Carla had no idea why, she could only wish that she’d remembered sooner how resistant Chrissie had always been to casting her. Rosa was too much of a gossip and troublemaker to make it worth having her around, Chrissie had always claimed. It was the reason she hardly ever worked, her reputation went before her. But though Carla had certainly baulked when John had first suggested her, it had been for reasons more to do with Rosa becoming a two-way grapevine between her and Chrissie and Richard, than with Rosa’s spiky personality. Now, only able to imagine that Rosa’s frostiness was part of some bizarre stand on Chrissie’s behalf, Carla just hoped she understood that cold-shouldering the executive producer on day one was definitely not a good start, nor was sucking up to the director, who had only cast her because Yale Winfield – a good friend of Rosa’s who was playing the slave trader – had made it part of his deal. So Rosa hadn’t been John’s choice either, and if Carla knew anything about John Rossmore by now, it was that his laid-back manner and ready sense of humour in no way blunted his ability to sum up a situation, or a person, in less time than it took most to get past hello.
‘OK,’ Carla said, the introductions over, ‘I’m going to talk now about our plans for the upcoming series, starting with your particular episode, which is going to be shot in Zanzibar. For those of you who haven’t yet familiarized yourselves with the island, it’s off the east coast of Tanzania, which is on the east coast of Africa, south of Kenya and north of Mozambique.’
Frazer was on his feet, in front of an enormous map of the world that covered one entire wall. Locating Zanzibar, he pointed it out, though it was a bit like a pinprick on an elephant’s back.
‘I’m sure you’ll agree,’ Carla continued, ‘that the name alone evokes all kinds of exotic images, and believe me, its history and culture outclass even the most vivid of imaginations. Its architecture has a strong Islamic influence, thanks to the long reign of the Sultans of Oman, but it also has several British customs left over from the days of the Protectorate. It was one of the world’s most prominent centres for trade between East and West during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, dealing in ivory from Africa, silks from India, porcelain from China, as well as all kinds of opiates, weaponry, coffee, tea and m
any of the spices that are still exported today, like cloves, vanilla, cinnamon, cardamom, you name it … But, as I’m sure you know, its major trading was done in the slave market, where men, women and children who’d been hunted down and captured on mainland Africa were herded, branded, whipped and a whole lot worse, before being sold to the highest bidders. An extremely emotive subject, but not one that we’ll go into now.
‘One of the island’s most famous visitors was David Livingstone, as in “Dr Livingstone, I presume.” He was there in the mid-eighteen hundreds, and the house where he stayed is now the Zanzibar Tourist Commission. Actually there are plenty of significant people and events that make up the cocktail of the island’s history, most of which you’ll find in the guidebooks that are outside in the office, and in the few pages I’ve written myself that are with the books. But please bear in mind that I haven’t visited the place yet, so my information is culled from the guides, and from the initial research trip that was done a year or so ago.’
At this point she was deliberately not looking at Rosa, since Rosa would know that she was avoiding mentioning Chrissie’s name.
‘John, Kit, Hugo, Russell, Frazer and Verna will be going to recce the island in about three weeks,’ she continued. ‘I should mention at this point that those of you who aren’t up to date on your vaccines should talk to Marjie, my temporary assistant, who’ll tell you what you need and where to go. Marjie, by the way, probably knows more about television production than the rest of us put together, so be nice to her, because I’m doing my level best to turn her temporary status into a permanent one, and if any of you can discover her temptation of choice, I might be happy to indulge yours too, depending on what it is.’
As their attentive faces relaxed into laughter, Carla leaned down to John and said, ‘I’m about done here, shall we break for coffee before you take over?’
‘Good idea,’ he answered. Then added, ‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re a hard act to follow?’
‘All the time,’ she answered without missing a beat, then, after announcing a fifteen-minute interval, she headed for the door.
In the office outside Marjie, who looked like everyone’s favourite aunt with her grey wavy hair, gentle blue eyes and bosomy front, was in conference with Felicia and Leo, Avril’s account managers, while Jeffrey, Avril’s exec. VP, was at his desk over by the fireplace, talking on the phone and tapping into his computer. Eddie, who’d been banished from the meeting, leapt out of his sulk the instant Carla reappeared, and was soon quite delirious at being surrounded by so much cooing and fondling again.
After grabbing a coffee Carla returned to her desk, and the pile of messages Marjie had taken over the past couple of hours. Flipping through them, she sat down to start returning the most urgent, while John and his first assistant, Hugo, perched on the edge of John’s desk opposite, and began discussing the various technical requirements. Kit and Russell, the designer, soon joined them, leaving the cast sitting around the table in the kitchen, either gossiping, looking through the script, or reading the notes and guidebooks Carla had mentioned.
By the time the coffee break was over Carla had only managed to get through two lengthy, but necessary calls, and though the urgency attached to the others was growing, John and the cast were about to embark on a read-through of the script, and as the writer, she had to be there. So abandoning the build-up of work to Marjie, who was so unflappable she could make a dead man look manic, she seized her own copy of the script and headed back to the meeting room.
John began by outlining the story. Naturally they’d all read it, but this was his first chance to give them some idea of how he, as the director, saw it. In less than five minutes everyone, including Carla, was aching with laughter. Though the story of a beautiful black slave girl was essentially a tragedy, it was John’s take on his own role, as the dashingly handsome Sultan, that was making them all laugh, mainly because he was making it sound so utterly beyond belief that he, the putative womanizer, gambler and rampant user of illegal substances, could ever have been cast in such a role.
‘Rampant, of course, is a word that sums up this sultan chap to a T,’ he said. ‘I mean, what else can you call a man who’s got two dozen wives and at least as many mistresses?’
‘A dreamer?’ Carla suggested.
John’s head went back as he and everyone else laughed.
Carla crooked an eyebrow and glanced at Rosa, who’d failed to find the joke funny.
‘OK,’ John went on, ‘whilst the evil slave trader and his harridan of a wife are doing double deals all over town for the exquisite beauty, I, being the dashing hero that I am, ride to the rescue on my sturdy white steed and carry her to the safety of my harem.’
‘Which is a bit like taking her from the proverbial pan and dumping her straight in the fire,’ Phoebe commented.
As everyone laughed, Carla looked at Phoebe’s lovely face, then at John’s, and felt a small flutter inside at how easy she found it to imagine them together, not only because of their matching good looks, but because of the chemistry that was already starting to flow. Swallowing her dismay, Carla tried to assure herself that John would be professional at all times, and respect the fact that Phoebe was married. She supposed she had to hope that Phoebe would respect it too.
‘So, where were we?’ John was saying. ‘OK. I’ve got this fabulous creature hiding in my palace, when in burst the evil slaver and his wife to snatch her back. In this they succeed, and promptly sell the hapless beauty to the wicked pirate who buys her for his lascivious crew. Just a minute,’ he said, looking at Carla, ‘I thought I was the rampant one.’
‘We’re not dealing in reality,’ she reminded him. ‘In this, you’re the good guy who happens to respect a lovely young girl’s innocence.’
He frowned. ‘Doesn’t sound very sultanish to me,’ he said.
‘It’s the way it happened,’ she assured him, reminding them all that this was based, very loosely, on an actual story.
‘OK, well, after that what can I say,’ John continued, ‘except you must have gathered by now that I want to play most of it tongue in cheek, but the seriousness of the undertone shouldn’t in any way be lost. It’s there in the writing, so it needs to come out in the acting. Today, we’re just going to read through, then we’ll have an informal chat about characters and costumes and that sort of thing. Next week we’ve got two rehearsals scheduled, a third just before I go to Zanzibar, then two more in the week running up to the shoot. Any questions? Frazer, you wanted to say something?’
‘Just that the publicists have arranged a photoshoot for December ninth,’ he said, with an habitual blush. ‘If anyone can’t make it, would you let me know so we can try to fit you in another time.’
‘Will you be wanting them in costume for the photoshoot?’ Jackie, the wardrobe mistress, asked.
Frazer looked at John, who looked at Carla. They both nodded. ‘Where’s it going to be happening?’ John asked.
‘At a studio over in Ladbroke Grove,’ Frazer answered. ‘Felicia’s got all the details, I’ll make sure I get them before everyone leaves today.’
‘OK,’ John said, rubbing his hands. ‘Let’s start reading, why not? Is anyone going to put a watch on it?’
Carla held up her hand. ‘I’ll time it,’ she said.
Half an hour later, having clocked up a rough duration of twenty minutes, Carla returned to her desk feeling more than satisfied with the way it had read. The dialogue worked, the humour was subtle, and the undercurrent of menace was at just the right level. That wasn’t to say no polishing was called for, because it was, and no doubt the rehearsals would throw up all manner of changes between now and when they left. On the whole, however, the rather fantastic love story was looking as though it would provide the perfect vehicle to take them not only into Zanzibar’s colourful past, but all around its impossibly romantic present.
Actually, it was the romance of the island’s tropical splendour, with its white sandy beaches and
aquamarine sea, that had given her the most problems while she was writing, because it was impossible not to think of Richard and Chrissie experiencing it all and creating, no doubt, some of the most precious memories they now shared. Though she tried not to let herself dwell on it, it still hurt almost beyond endurance, but with everything moving ahead at its own rapid pace, there was simply no way of avoiding it now.
It was close to eight that evening by the time Frazer, the last one to leave, took his blushing face out of the door, having just had his offer to walk Eddie politely turned down by Carla, because she needed the air. In fact, she ended up staying out much longer than she might have, mainly because it was a bright, moonlit night that was almost warm, considering the time of year, and the air, the trees, the large white houses, exclusive restaurants and traffic were so magically London that she was absorbing it like an elixir. What an incredible first day of production, with everything going so well she was almost afraid of tomorrow, for she couldn’t imagine it getting any better. But there was still tonight to get through, which was going to be her first alone at the ménage, and though she wasn’t exactly nervous, she was a little apprehensive, mainly because of the loneliness she could sense waiting to claim her. Of course there were any number of old friends she could call and arrange to see, but not at this short notice, and with her schedule being so hectic now it was hard to make any firm arrangements for the future. Besides, there was too strong a chance that someone would start talking about Richard, and since things had changed in ways none of them could know about, she had no desire to hear what they might have to say.
Letting herself back in the front door, she closed and locked it behind her, then took Eddie into the kitchen to get him some supper. She should probably eat something herself, but she didn’t feel like much, so, contenting herself with a glass of wine and a dish of nuts, she returned to her computer, linked up with the Internet and printed out the latest email from Richard. That done, she checked everything was turned off, then went upstairs to her studio, where she put on some music, lit candles under the pots of fragrant oils, and settled down on the sofa with Eddie to read the message.
