by Judy Nunn
Paul had cornered himself a bottle of Moët and two glasses early in the piece in preparation for his groundwork on Edwina. But when he looked around she’d gone. She and Davey had slipped out shortly after Evan. Not to worry, Paul thought. There’s always tomorrow. So he shared the bottle with Narelle as they fed each other Sydney rock oysters.
‘Can I have your attention, please.’ It was Alain, standing at the head of the table. ‘Stay and enjoy the lunch. There’s plenty of champagne and I’ll see you all tomorrow when work begins. In the meantime,’ he raised his glass, ‘to “The Glitter Game”. ’
Everyone joined in the toast and there was a smatter of obligatory applause. Alain flicked a glance in Vicky’s direction but she wasn’t looking at him.
He left the boardroom happy with the day’s events. Apart from Jim’s brief and pathetic attempt to step out of line, everything had gone perfectly. And the girl was coming to his office during lunch break tomorrow. Things couldn’t be better.
Darling Harbour. One of Sydney’s bicentennial gifts to the people. It had been a controversial issue and a lot of merchants had bombed out when the shopping complex took a while to get going but it was certainly an impressive development, Liza thought, as she strolled along the left embankment towards Jordan’s Restaurant.
After a three-day deluge, the rain had stopped as quickly as it had begun and the sun sparkled on the water.
The tiny harbour was surrounded by a contradiction of architectural design which pleased her. The huge underground aquarium, the Chinese Gardens, the massive exhibition hall and, in front of her, Liza’s favourite, the modern gothic complex that housed a colony of bars, grills, coffee lounges, restaurants and tiny shops.
Liza turned into Jordan’s on the ground floor. She nodded to the maitre d’. ‘A table for two outside, booked for one o’clock, name of Farrelly. I’ll have a drink at the bar.’ She ordered a campari soda and leaned back against the bar watching the diners and the passing parade of tourists outside.
Towering over the other side of Darling Harbour was the city skyline linked by flyovers, freeways and the omnipresent monorail.
Liza always arranged her luncheon interviews where the food was good and there was plenty to look at. Television stars were invariably late and, on the odd occasion when she was stood up altogether, at least she could enjoy an excellent meal on her expense account.
Liza was feeling a little irritable. The recent change in the weather had brought about one of the intermittent bouts of pain in her hands. The constant agony she’d suffered before the diagnosis of RSI was a thing of the past and she’d discovered that, as long as she observed the rules, didn’t attempt to write or type, and kept up the visits to the acupuncturist, the pain was negligible. But recently she’d found atmospheric changes could give her hell. Bugger it. She was probably getting arthritis on top of everything else.
‘Ms Farrelly.’ The maitre d’ was at her side.
‘Miss,’ Liza corrected brusquely. She loathed ‘Ms’. It sounded like a mosquito and anyway, she was bloody proud of being a ‘Miss’. Why would anyone want to be a ‘Mrs’? Surely if married women worked under their maiden names there’d be no need for this pretentious ‘Ms’ shit.
‘Your table is ready, Miss Farrelly.’
‘Thank you.’
Liza picked up her drink and followed him out onto the terrace. As she sat down, she looked at her watch. Five to one. She probably had another thirty-five minutes to wait. Oh well, it was a pretty day.
Liza was rich, powerful, respected and still the right side of forty — what more could she want? A lot. Apart from the intermittent pain in her hands, there was one major thing wrong. Liza loathed television. She felt the shallow, glittery world of make-believe to be beneath her.
Whenever she was interviewing some soap queen about the break-up of her latest marriage or the new toy boy in her life, Liza would find herself seething with rage. What was she doing with this stupid conceited woman? What did she care about the silly cow’s love life? Liza wanted to be back in the mainstream of journalism. She wanted to be reporting from war zones and interviewing prime ministers. She supposed she should have stuck to the theatres, the galleries and the concerts instead of television. At least she’d be mingling with some actual talent, then, but she’d be buggered if she’d take the loss of income now she’d become accustomed to more. She told herself that if she wanted the good life she just had to suffer the television shit.
Liza was wrong. If only she’d looked a little more closely behind the tinsel facade she might have noticed a wealth of true talent. Many writers, directors and actors had opted for the money, as she had, and even the less artistic of them were, in the main, highly skilled at their craft. But Liza refused to recognise this and had become progressively bitter and more vindictive.
She could see Edwina approaching the restaurant from the broad Darling Harbour walkway. Liza checked her watch again. One o’clock. Good God, the woman was on time. But who was that with her? Then Liza realised it was Davey. Of course, she should have known Edwina would bring him along. She was rarely seen without him. What on earth was their relationship? Were they lovers? But surely he was gay. Everyone thought so, and his gentle, effeminate appearance certainly indicated that they were right. Mind you, Liza herself had in the past shared the odd torrid experience with effeminate men who appeared gay but certainly knew how to enjoy women. One must never judge by appearance. So what was it? Here was a story. The true relationship between Edwina and her loyal Davey. It was likely to be the only emotional angle she’d get on Edwina. She knew that other journalists covering the recording scene had dug deep for smut and found nothing. Liza must win Edwina’s trust — not an easy task.
‘Edwina.’ Liza rose, gesturing for them both to sit down. ‘How kind of you to be so punctual.’
Edwina smiled. ‘I’m only ever late when I feel it serves a purpose. Nice to see you, Liza. You’ve met Davey, of course.’
‘Of course.’ As Liza shook his hand she was surprised at the firmness of his grip. ‘I’m glad you could come along.’
Edwina smiled to herself, aware that the invitation had not been extended to Davey. But journalists would soon find that, if all appointments were made through the normal channels via Rosa, Davey was always to be included. Not that Edwina blamed Liza — it was Alain’s fault. He’d learn. In the meantime, she was prepared to be cooperative with Liza. She’d respected the woman’s style during their odd social meetings and she was certainly the most intelligent of the television journalists.
‘A drink before we eat?’
Davey opted for orange juice as he always did and Edwina went straight to the wine list.
As Edwina’s sashimi and Liza’s Thai raw fish salad arrived at the table, Vicky knocked on Alain’s office door. His secretary Wendy had been told she must go to lunch and stop over-exerting herself even though she was only too happy to work through and complete the backlog of computer input.
‘Come in … Ah, Vicky.’ Alain appeared to have momentarily forgotten their appointment. In fact, he’d been salivating all morning at the prospect. Not that he expected to have her on the first day, but the plan of attack itself was enough to excite him. Alain liked a challenge.
‘Close the door, dear. You’ve brought your script, I see. Good. Sit down, sit down.’
Vicky hadn’t said a word but the electric blue eyes studied him unwaveringly.
Alain was a little disconcerted by her assurance. ‘Don’t be nervous, dear.’
‘I’m not nervous.’ He’s sweating, she thought. And again he reminded her of the Hungarian. Beneath the Saville Row suit his body would be just as gross, his desire just as repulsive as the Hungarian’s had been.
‘Give me your views on the character of Jodie. You’ve had a good study of the character breakdown as well as the first five blocks, I take it?’
‘Yes, Alain.’
For the next fifteen minutes, Vicky mouthed the character analy
sis she knew Alain wanted, all the time thinking, shit, why do we need to play games? Can’t we just get it over and done with?
Then Alain started to talk about the sexual aspects of Jodie and the scene in which the character loses her virginity. ‘Do you identify with that scene, Vicky?’
‘Do you mean, am I a virgin?’
‘Well … ’
‘No.’
Alain was taken aback by her directness and decided on a slight change of tack. ‘The scene will be very tastefully handled, of course, but it will require you to work naked. You’re aware there was a nudity clause in your contract?’
‘Sure. I read all the fine print.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you? Working nude in front of a camera crew? Naturally it’ll be a closed set but … ’
‘No, that’s cool.’ Get on with it, Vicky thought.
‘Fine, fine. You see, it’s the actual disrobing which is the crucial part of the scene. When Jodie decides to give herself to Billy. It’s as she slowly undoes her dress and lets it drop to the floor that Billy realises … ’
‘Do you want me to try it for you now? See if I can get it right?’
Alain was dumbfounded. He’d been about to suggest she rehearse the scene in detail at home then talk to him about it next session. Ultimately of course he would have asked her to perform the scene for him. In depth.
‘I’ll lock the door, shall I?’ Vicky jumped up and crossed to the door and Alain felt suddenly deflated. This wasn’t the way he was accustomed to playing the game at all. The girl was taking control.
In the canteen, “The Glitter Game” cast and crew were lining up for a choice of burnt chicken schnitzel or fatty pork chops. It was always a choice of schnitzel or chops on Tuesdays — sometimes veal or lamb, but always burnt and always fatty.
The canteen was a very levelling experience. Cast and crew alike joined the queue and no preference was shown — except by the fat lady who made up the sandwiches, who always put double filling in for her favourite stars. Otherwise all suffered equally.
Greg had opted out of the hot food queue and was at the sandwich end of the counter behind Mandy. Mandy always had a sandwich during lunch break. It was the easiest thing to eat delicately. She could see Sidney at the other end of the counter ordering two of the largest pork chops and made a mental note to avoid him at all costs.
The fat lady piled a quarter-kilo of ham into Greg’s sesame bun and gazed at him lovingly. ‘Mustard?’
‘Thanks. English — and whack it on, love.’ Greg looked around the canteen. ‘Where’s Vicky?’ he asked.
‘With Alain,’ Mandy answered. ‘No, only a little lettuce dear,’ she instructed the pimply assistant.
Greg grabbed his ham roll, handed a two-dollar coin to the fat lady, and made for the door.
‘I thought you were eating it here,’ she called.
‘I’m not.’
‘There’s ten cents change.’ But Greg was out the door.
As he sprinted up the stairs to the offices on the first floor, he nearly bowled Jim over.
‘Sorry, sorry. Mercy mission,’ and he kept on sprinting.
‘What?’
Greg halted at the top of the stairs. ‘Vicky — remember?’
‘Oh, hell!’
‘You going to the canteen?’ Jim nodded. ‘I’ll give you a full report in a few minutes.’ And Greg was off.
Inside Alain’s office, Vicky was slowly undoing her denim shirt, her eyes boring into his. ‘Sorry about the shirt. We’ll have to pretend it’s a dress but if I do the jeans in the same way you’ll be able to get the general idea, won’t you? Is this slow enough?’
Alain was dying to look away from the girl but her eyes seemed to have locked with his. It was an uncomfortable feeling and he was aware that the semi-erection he’d been savouring all day at the prospect of Vicky, was turning decidedly limp. Alain’s libido was useless unless it was accompanied by a sense of power. It was why he liked them so young. This one was different and he was starting to wish she’d go away. ‘Yes, that’s very good, dear, but I was going to suggest that you rehearse at home and … ’
‘And when she drops the dress,’ Vicky dropped the shirt, ‘she walks towards Billy.’ Vicky walked slowly towards him, unfastening her jeans.
Alain’s eyes finally released themselves from Vicky’s and fastened on her breasts instead. The budding breasts of a sixteen-year-old, ripe with promise. He felt a stirring return to his groin.
‘And when she’s standing in front of him,’ Vicky continued, ‘she puts her hand on him. Like this.’ Her hand suddenly snaked forward and grabbed his scrotum.
‘Aargh!’ Alain sprang back and clutched the desk in fright more than pain.
There was a loud knock at the door. ‘Hey, Alain, is Vicky in there? It’s me, Greg.’
‘Put your clothes on, for God’s sake,’ Alain hissed to Vicky. Then to the door with full-voiced bonhomie, ‘Greg! Yes, Vicky’s here. Just going through a few character details. Come in, come in.’ Another hiss. ‘Hurry it up, girl, hurry it up.’
‘The door’s locked,’ Greg called.
‘Surely not?’ Alain looked at Vicky. She was doing up the last button. ‘Sit down,’ he muttered, then crossed to the door. ‘Wendy must have put it on lock without my realising,’ he said as he swung the door open to reveal Greg, complete with ham roll. ‘What can I do for you, Greg?’
‘It was Vicky I wanted to see, actually.’ Greg bounded in with his usual lack of inhibition. ‘I’ve had this great idea for our opening scene, Vick. Want you to go through it with me right now before I lose it. Here.’ He thrust the ham roll into her hands. ‘I bought you a ham roll so you don’t miss lunch. I’ve already had mine.’ Then an aside over his shoulder to Alain as he dragged Vicky to the door. ‘OK with you, Alain?’
‘Sure, sure. Good to see you so keen.’ He was speaking to the air. Greg and Vicky were through the reception area and halfway down the corridor. Alain sank into his chair gratefully. Thank God Greg had arrived. The girl had been hot for him and there was no way he would have been able to perform. It was a pity about those breasts but he’d have to steer clear. She was definitely not normal.
Down the end of the corridor, Vicky dragged Greg to a halt. ‘I didn’t need rescuing, you know. I had it under control.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Vicky stared back at him defiantly. She’d looked after herself for as long as she could remember and she didn’t like her independence being usurped, albeit well-meaningly. ‘I’ve handled stuff like that before. Tons of times.’
‘Pretty tough, aren’t you?’
‘Tough enough.’
‘Always got out of it before?’
Vicky felt herself weaken a little. The memories weren’t good. ‘Not always.’
‘So how did you know you were going to get out of this one?’
‘Because underneath he’s a wimp, that’s how.’
Greg held her look for a moment, then laughed. ‘I think you’re right.’
Vicky contemplated the ham roll. ‘Thanks, though,’ she said and, to cover the fact that she meant it, she took a large bite.
‘That’s OK. Won’t do it again, I promise.’
‘Shit!’ The mustard hit the back of Vicky’s throat and went up her nose and her eyes started to water. ‘What the hell have you put in this thing?’
‘Give it back, it’s mine.’ Greg took the roll from her. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you one without mustard.’
Jim was watching the canteen door as Greg and Vicky entered. Greg gave him the thumbs-up sign and took Vicky to the counter where he asked the fat lady to give her a ham and salad roll with the works minus mustard. Then he slid into the chair beside Jim.
‘All OK?’ Jim asked.
‘Yeah. I thought I’d got there just in the nick of time to start with. Alain had the door locked … ’
‘The bastard.’
‘ … but I’m not so sure who was conning who now.’
/> ‘What do you mean?’
‘She can look after herself all right, Jim.’
‘Oh, I know she’s tough, but is she that … ’
‘Yes, she’s that tough. Alain was actually relieved to see me.’
Jim looked at him incredulously. ‘But he eats them for breakfast.’
Greg shook his head. ‘Not this one he doesn’t.’
Jim breathed a sigh of relief and looked across at Vicky as she ordered a milkshake with double malt and double chocolate. Just another teenager. He smiled fondly. ‘There’s something about that kid. She’s tough on the outside but … I don’t know. There’s something about her.’
Greg patted Jim’s hand as it rested on the table. ‘You’re just an old softie, aren’t you, Jimbo?’
Jim withdrew his hand as if he’d been stung and laughed self-consciously.
‘We should get together sometime,’ Greg continued flippantly. ‘We could have a little cry at old movies. I’m a softie too.’
Jim decided things had gone far enough and he snapped brusquely. ‘Come off it, Greg. We have nothing in common. Nothing at all.’
‘Oh but we do.’ Greg’s tone was no longer flippant and Jim didn’t dare look at him. ‘Don’t we?’ The voice was gentle now and, as Jim dragged his eyes to meet Greg’s, he saw the look was one of sympathy. ‘Takes one to know one, sport.’ A slight smile. ‘Old movies can be fun. Think about it.’ And he left Jim staring at his coffee cup, his pulse racing.
