by Judy Nunn
At the other end of the canteen, Mandy had seated herself opposite Narelle and Paul to make sure she had her back to Sidney two tables away. She didn’t want her eyes to land on him by mistake. It was just as well as he was into the apple crumble now and a spot of cream rested on the end of his sizeable nose. Mandy would have hated that.
Paul hadn’t enjoyed Mandy’s intrusion. He’d been on the verge of asking Narelle to dinner that night. He’d already rung Barbie and said they’d be working late. Now Narelle’s attention was taken up by Mandy, and the two women were avidly discussing the show and the relationship of their characters. Narelle always enjoyed the company of older people — she warmed to any parental influence and Mandy was playing her aunt, after all.
Mandy couldn’t help but find Narelle’s respect disarming. What a pity more young things didn’t display an equal regard for women a little older than themselves, she thought. She was such an attractive girl too, in the same voluptuous way she herself had been at that age.
‘Yes, it’s a lovely relationship they have, isn’t it? Not like aunt and niece at all, really — more like sisters. I think that’s the way we should play it, don’t you?’ As always, Mandy was working on reducing the age of her character.
‘Oh yes, yes I do,’ Narelle nodded eagerly.
‘I mean Stella’s a gift of a role,’ Mandy continued, speaking of her own character, ‘because she has such convolutions and hidden depths. Take the fact that she’s married a man so much older than herself — she obviously has a father complex, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Narelle hadn’t realised Sidney was so very much older than Mandy but obviously he must be.
‘Why don’t you come around to my place on the weekend and we’ll work on our scenes together?’
‘I’d love to.’ Narelle wriggled excitedly in her seat.
Mandy finished her last sip of tea and looked at her watch. ‘Lunchbreak’s over. We’ll make it four o’clock Saturday, shall we? We can have a bite of dinner after work.’
‘Thank you.’
To Paul’s annoyance, Narelle also rose from the table. Damn — he hadn’t got his dinner invitation in yet.
‘Make sure you know all your lines by Saturday, dear. I don’t like working with the book.’
‘Yes, I will, I promise.’
‘See you in the factory.’ And Mandy was off.
Narelle picked up her bag to follow but Paul rose and blocked her path.
‘Narelle, honey.’
‘Mmm?’ Narelle’s substantial breasts were just brushing his shirt front and Paul shivered with delight at the prospect of burying his head between them.
‘I was wondering whether you might like to have dinner with me after work tonight?’
Narelle sighed disappointedly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Paul. I would have loved to but I have to learn my lines for Saturday.’
As she wiggled off towards the canteen door, Paul fumed. Bloody Mandy.
Davey was savouring the very last mouthful of the very best black forest cake he’d ever eaten as Edwina and Liza sipped their demitasse coffees.
The luncheon had been an unmitigated success. Liza’s tape recorder had been in operation for a good hour now and her intelligent, concise questions were answered in kind by Edwina. The women’s growing regard for each other was strongly evident; Davey was pleased that it appeared Edwina had finally found a media person she could trust and relate to.
Liza had been very careful to keep her questions strictly professional. They all related to Edwina’s career, her rise to fame, her awards, her ambitions; she’d very carefully kept clear of the woman’s personal life. Time enough for that, she thought. She took a final sip of her coffee and turned off the tape recorder.
‘That should do it, Edwina. Thank you very much — it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Yes, it certainly has. I only wish there were more journalists who conducted interviews along your lines.’
Liza put Plan A into action. ‘Well, as you know, Alain has given me top priority in his publicity campaign. I’m sure that he’d agree to let me handle you exclusively as far as any feature or in-depth interviews go. It simply means that the magazines and newspapers would have to buy my stories if they want to feature you, which they will, of course. And it would keep the general press away from you.’
‘What an excellent idea. I’ll have Rosa arrange it with Alain.’ There was a brief second as Edwina appeared to come to a decision. She opened her handbag, took out a card and gave it to Liza. ‘That’s my home number if you should want to get in touch.’
Davey looked up sharply. Edwina never gave her home phone number to anyone. Not even the network. It was unlisted, and the only person who had it was Rosa. All contact was made through her.
‘Thank you.’ Liza pocketed the card as Edwina rose from the table.
‘Time to go. Come on, Davey. I want to call in on Rosa before we go home. Thank you for a lovely lunch, Liza.’
‘My pleasure.’
Liza watched them leave, nodded to the waiter for another espresso and sat back, congratulating herself on her coup. She was fully aware that Edwina never gave out her phone number. Plan A had worked. She’d gained exclusive rights to Edwina and she’d started to win the woman’s trust. She’d bide her time before embarking on Plan B. Plan B was the inside story on the personal life of Edwina Dawling and she’d need to gain a hell of a lot more trust before she made inroads there.
‘Do you think that was wise?’ Davey asked as he opened the car door for Edwina.
‘The card? Yes, I think it was. She’ll want the guts eventually but the more she thinks I trust her the gentler she’ll be about it and the more she’ll keep the rest of the sharks at bay.’ She wound down the window. ‘Go the long way to Rosa’s. She’s not expecting us till three-thirty and I’ve got some thinking to do.’
‘Only too happy to help, my darling, you know that.’ Rosa’s fleshy face was wreathed in smiles and she glowed with the love she reserved for very special people. A stranger could not be blamed for presuming she was talking to a close member of the family or at least a best friend. Not so. This was the love reserved for producers, casting agents and entrepreneurs.
‘Of course, Alain, any time that’s convenient.’ She cradled the receiver on her shoulder and dug in her handbag for an emery board. ‘Friday’s fine. You too, my darling. ’Bye.’
Rosa hung up and attacked the offending nail ferociously. It was one of the little ones with a tiny diamante stud pressed into the heart of the scarlet polish. She was annoyed with Edwina for arranging a three-thirty appointment; she’d had to cancel her beautician and her fake nails were long overdue for a touch-up. She looked in the vast mirror which hung on the wall opposite her office desk, bent forward and parted her hair. Yes, the roots would need redoing soon. The skin was looking good, though. Well, it had only been three years since the last mini facelift. She took out a hairbrush, fluffed the platinum hair, smiled at the mirror, admired the perfectly-capped teeth and thought to herself, looking good, looking good.
And for a woman in her mid-fifties she was looking good. She was looking fake, of course, but then everything about Rosa was fake. Even her agency. The plush decor of her Milson’s Point office boasted a success her agency had no right to claim. And the harbour views from every window of her four-room business suite impressed the actors she represented to such a degree they felt guilty that obviously the commission on their wages wasn’t paying for it. Someone on Rosa’s books must be doing well, but who was it? Apart from Edwina, Rosa’s stable boasted no one of great importance.
The truth was that Rosa’s wealthy real estate husband not only provided her with rent-free office accommodation in one of his many high-rise blocks, but also supplied her with a limitless cash flow. George didn’t mind. The agency was Rosa’s baby after all and he wanted to keep her happy. Besides, giving her something to occupy her time left him free to concentrate on his many business affairs. He kept quiet about
his input, of course. It would have been a blow to Rosa’s pride if people had realised she wasn’t making it on her own.
George hated the hype of show business. He was much happier discussing the market share index with a crowd of stockbrokers than the latest premiere or what someone wore to the Logies, so he was only too happy for Rosa to be accompanied by one of her clients to the many showbiz nights she so much enjoyed.
And it was Edwina who invariably accompanied Rosa. Edwina and Davey, that is. It was a constant cause for comment as to why Edwina remained with Rosa Glassberg Management and a further mystery as to why the women appeared to be such friends. Rosa’s agency was by no means top of the heap and she and Edwina had very little in common. Rosa was brassy with a streak of the common about her which even her husband’s money could not disguise. Edwina had style and breeding. So why were they so close?
Loyalty was the only explanation. Rosa had discovered Edwina as an unknown singer and helped her to land the first lucky breaks. This was surely why Edwina felt compelled to remain loyal to Rosa and her agency. It was further proof of Edwina’s class act. Most other performers dropped their early agents and moved on.
Rosa looked at her watch. Three twenty-five. She pressed the intercom button. ‘Edwina’ll be here in five minutes, Dee, brew the espresso.’ Edwina didn’t like the Kenyan coffee blend Rosa served up for her other clients. ‘And mark in a Friday four-thirty appointment for Vicky Fraser.’
‘Vicky who? Never heard of her.’
‘Fraser. The King’s new discovery. She’s doing “The Glitter Game”. ’
‘Oh.’ Dee sounded impressed. ‘You’re taking her on, then?’
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ Rosa released the intercom button and reached for her highlighter compact. Of course she’d take the kid on, she thought as she touched up her cheekbones. Didn’t matter if she never worked again after ‘The Glitter Game’ but two actors from Rosa Glassberg Management in Alain’s show gave Rosa a distinct advantage in the bargaining stakes.
Rosa was a great believer in package deals and constantly used one actor’s commercial profile to sell another actor further down the scale. ‘You can cut a third off his usual fee if you take her.’ Her catch phrase to producers was, ‘Two for the price of one, darling, say no more.’
The intercom buzzed. ‘Edwina’s here.’
Rosa dumped her compact in the top drawer, stood up, checked herself once again in the vast mirror — looking good, looking good — and threw the door open, arms extended for the embrace.
‘Darling! Edwina, darling!’
The embrace took the form of Rosa clasping both of Edwina’s hands and standing back to admire. Rosa had long ago got the message not to intrude on Edwina’s space. As it was, she was the only person who’d made it to the handclasping stage. And for some unfathomable reason, Edwina allowed it.
‘You look divine. Hello, Davey.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hello, Rosa.’
Edwina sailed into Rosa’s office and Davey followed.
Rosa was most apologetic about Alain arranging a press interview directly with Liza. The temerity of the man! She’d get onto it straight away and if anything like that was attempted again … ‘Just send them to me, darling, send them to me.’
‘I’ve given my phone number to Liza Farrelly.’
A stunned silence. ‘You’ve what?!’
‘I trust her. So far, anyway.’
‘But, Edwina, you’ve never … ’
‘Besides, she’ll keep the others at bay.’
Rosa sensed that Edwina meant ‘end of argument’ and, a brief espresso later, they parted company, promising to meet for lunch on Saturday.
‘I’ll book Eliza’s for one o’clock, all right?’ Rosa called as Davey pressed the ground floor button. Edwina nodded and the lift doors slid together.
Rosa walked back through reception. ‘Brew me a Kenyan, Dee.’ God, how she hated that espresso shit. As Dee collected the cups and headed into the kitchen, Rosa looked blankly around the reception walls at the hundred hopeful faces smouldering, scowling, simpering or simply smiling from their ten-by-eights. But she didn’t notice them. Her eyes locked on to the lifesize full-length portrait shot of Edwina which she’d conned from the producers of the ‘Tonight Show’. It exuded that same elusive sexuality, that same ‘you’ll never know me but I dare you to try’ feeling that Edwina herself generated. Unlike the others on the wall, Edwina never put on a front for the camera. She didn’t need to. She was fascination enough.
Rosa closed the reception door and sank into her office chair. Well I know you, Edwina, she thought. And don’t you ever forget you owe me. It was constantly irksome to Rosa that Edwina never let the barriers down, even with her. The fact that Edwina was closer to her agent than anyone but Davey had been salve enough to Rosa in the past but now there was Liza. Edwina had given her number to Liza. Liza was competition. Rosa seethed.
Edwina was probably the most important factor in Rosa’s life. When the agency hadn’t proved particularly successful, Rosa would have been happy to throw in the towel and become a society benefactress on George’s money, one of those tireless charity workers constantly in the social pages. Then Edwina’s career had taken off and with it came the award nights, the premieres, the charity galas. Rosa had the pick of them all. As Edwina’s personal manager and companion she was a success. But only as Edwina’s personal manager and companion. Rosa was fully aware that this was no business to be in if one weren’t a success — if Edwina were to transfer her loyalties to another or, greatest horror of all, leave the agency, Rosa would be finished.
Why had Edwina formed an alliance with Liza Farrelly? Liza was far too clever for Rosa’s comfort and certainly wouldn’t shy off pointing out the limitations of Rosa’s representation should ‘The Glitter Game’ take off internationally as it was expected to.
Rosa looked out of the window at a boat with a bright red spinnaker. Don’t you forget that I could ruin you, Edwina, she thought. The boat slid behind the north pylon of the Harbour Bridge. And don’t you ever forget that you owe me, Edwina.
The fortnight of rehearsals went smoothly as working relationships developed. Chris Natteros was pleased with the general shape the production was taking. The sets were good, the lighting was good, the scripts were good but, most importantly, the performances were good. All, that is, except Edwina’s. And that was Chris’s one major worry.
It wasn’t that Edwina was particularly bad. In a way, Chris wished she was. At least then he’d have grounds upon which to work: ‘Not that way, Edwina’. No, her performance was more of a ‘nothing’. He’d tried to discuss with her the strength of the character — the drive, the power, the sexuality. Edwina always listened attentively, nodded in agreement, then gave him more of absolutely nothing. The woman’s striking social presence seemed to disappear completely when she was called upon to act and Chris was at his wits’ end wondering what he could do about it.
Jane, on the other hand, was inspiring to work with and she and Chris were often seen avidly discussing their work at the canteen during lunch hours much to the chagrin of Sidney who thought more attention should have been given to his own performance. He didn’t see why Jane should get preferential treatment.
The only definitive production note Sidney had been given was to stop dyeing his hair. It shocked him horribly. How had they guessed? Actually Chris was very happy with Sidney’s performance. It was old-fashioned with a touch of vaudeville about it — exactly the performance required for the character. After all, Sidney was playing an old ham.
Mandy was still a bit of a problem. Why couldn’t the woman act her bloody age! ‘No, Mandy, yours and Narelle’s characters do not have a sisterly relationship. They are aunt and niece.’
But Mandy still couldn’t resist an element of girlishness which Chris found grotesque. ‘Stop flirting with Narelle! The viewers’ll think you’re a couple of dykes.’
An injured Mandy gathered her
dignity about her and strode from the set. Chris had made the remark good-humouredly, albeit with a touch of frustration and certainly hadn’t intended to hurt. Then he remembered the vague rumour years ago about why Mandy’s husband had left her. Oh my God! It took him half an hour of placating to get Mandy back on set, only to find that now her performance was wounded little girl. Couldn’t she just be an aunt, for Christ’s sake!
Vicky and Greg were acting up a storm together. Vicky’s early gaucherie was a thing of the past, thanks not only to Chris’s tight direction but the response that Greg’s performance drew from the girl. They were the ideal teenage couple. The younger viewers were going to idolise them.
Paul was good and professional as Paul always was but, as so much of his work was with Edwina, he was getting nothing to relate to. Chris had noticed that Paul had been trying to chat Edwina up and, as it was obvious the woman didn’t want a bar of him, decided to gently point it out to Paul. It wouldn’t help their working relationship if he continually annoyed her.
‘Only trying to be friendly,’ was Paul’s defensive reply.
‘I know, I know, Paul. But try for not too friendly, eh?’
Paul held his advances in check after that but it didn’t make much difference. Edwina either wouldn’t or couldn’t give him anything in rehearsal.
At the end of the last day’s rehearsal, everyone was on a bit of a high. Two days to go till Monday, when the cameras started rolling. Edwina and Davey had left early but the rest of the cast toasted each other with champagne and beer in the greenroom.
Jim joined them and said a few well-chosen words about how hard he’d heard they’d all been working and how pleased Chris was with rehearsals. Jim had kept himself out of the picture to allow Chris space with the actors but he’d been getting daily reports and was also worried about Edwina. Strangely enough, Alain didn’t seem too perturbed.
Jim noted Edwina’s absence from the greenroom with disapproval. Creating a distance between herself and the other members of the cast wasn’t going to help matters. He wondered whether he should have a word with her himself then decided, no, better leave it to Chris. They’d see how things went at the taping on Monday. He downed his champagne.
