by Judy Nunn
Barbie felt sick with the realisation of how self-deluded she’d become. She’d read the signs and she’d ignored them, she’d excused them, she’d deliberately misinterpreted them. She’d even attributed them to her own paranoia.
She supposed she would have continued to do so if this present sex story hadn’t reared its ugly head. Mind you, she might have even invented an excuse for that had she not received the phone call that same morning — the phone call informing her, very factually, of Paul’s weekend of endless sex with Narelle. She didn’t need the gentle but insistent male voice telling her that Paul and Narelle had copulated Saturday afternoon, again that evening and, having spent the night together, presumably Sunday morning as well.
All Barbie knew was that she’d chosen to ignore the age-old signs when she’d met Paul at the airport on Sunday afternoon. The cocky, king-of-the-roost strut (that would have been because Narelle was watching), the tender declarations of love that evening (made not out of guilt, but as an attempt by Paul to cover his tracks). Barbie berated herself. What had happened to her? They were all the old signs she used to read so well and lately she’d been waiting in the lounge every evening with a fresh Scotch and ice for her prince telling herself she was paranoid. No more, she told herself, no more.
Barbie hadn’t been idle that afternoon. She hadn’t left the phone off the hook. After the call informing her of Paul’s weekend activities with Narelle, she’d rung several of her contacts from the modelling world, all of whom were only too happy to welcome her back into the industry with the intimidating words ‘You’ve been a long time away, of course’. But Barbie was not to be daunted. She re-signed with her old agent who was delighted to have her back, she lined up a photo session for new folio shots. (She set it for Wednesday, enough time for the puffiness to go down so long as she didn’t cry any more.) She’d lined up a facial, manicure, pedicure and body massage for the next day. And she even lined up her first job. No money, but that didn’t matter, there’d be press coverage. She was to compere the fashion parade at the charity preview of the new Harry Who range in three weeks. She had a feeling they wanted her because she’d be hot gossip after today’s story, but so what? She had to use everything she had. That was the name of the game.
Barbie looked at her face in the bathroom mirror then thought about the Valium in the cupboard behind it and knew she’d made the right choice. So why did she feel like reaching for the bottle? God, how she loved him. She turned off the bathroom light.
Davey hadn’t liked making the call but Edwina had insisted.
‘There’s a possibility the channel won’t fire him, Davey — he’s very popular. And I want to make sure he suffers so it’ll have to be the marriage.’
Davey knew how Edwina loathed having her private domain trespassed upon and he also knew why. She was angry with Paul and Davey understood that, but he never quite understood Edwina’s ‘vendetta moods’. There was no obvious venom evident — rather a sort of judicial quality. As if she felt she had the absolute right to mete out justice.
No, Davey hadn’t wanted to make the call. But he’d made it. Davey always did as Edwina wanted. He always had and he always would.
The following day Paul was nearly twenty minutes late for his make-up call. His eyes were bloodshot, he hadn’t shaved and his breath still stank of whisky.
Edwina was most conciliatory. ‘It was a shocking story, Paul, but you mustn’t let it affect you like this. Try and put it behind you.’
‘She kicked me out, Edwina. Barbie kicked me out.’
‘Oh.’ Edwina’s face was a mask of sympathy. ‘She’ll get over it in time. She’s hurt and shocked right now but she’ll get over it.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘How did the network take it? Has Alain said anything?’
Paul nodded miserably. ‘Four weeks’ notice.’
‘Oh no.’ She clasped his hand, a very forward gesture for Edwina. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you, Edwina.’ Paul felt grateful. Not many women would be so understanding about a story like that. Her kindness would most certainly help him through this first horrific day.
And it was horrific. He found it impossible to concentrate and the lines that he’d known so well constantly eluded him. Several times during the day he rang Barbie but there was no reply from either her or the answering machine. He finally got hold of Jamie who told him that Barbie had arranged appointments all day and that she was intent on reestablishing her career. Jamie was sympathetic as he told Paul that Barbie’s attitude hadn’t changed — if anything she was more adamant than ever that Paul keep well out of her life.
Paul drove back to the hotel in a state of acute depression. He bought another bottle of whisky on the way, promising himself that, with an early morning studio call, he couldn’t afford to obliterate himself. He’d just have a nightcap to help him sleep.
By the time the bottle was half-empty Paul’s depression had turned to anger. He’d find out whoever had been responsible for the story and he’d kill them. The bastards! He’d kill them!
Over the next few days Paul’s anger helped him cut back on the drinking. He’d intended making enquiries of every press contact he had as to who had written the article but it proved unnecessary. The press came to him. The first journalist who rang asking for his reply to the story nearly copped a stream of abuse but Paul suddenly thought better of it.
‘I’ll give you an interview if you find out who wrote that shit.’
He tried the same tack on the next four journalists who phoned, to no avail. If anyone knew they weren’t saying, least of all the newspaper editor who’d sworn blind that the article had arrived on his desk anonymously with backup material proving its authenticity in case of a libel suit — of course, it was too good a story for him to knock back.
‘Sorry Paul, no harm intended but I have a paper to sell, strictly business, you —’
Paul had smashed the phone down and knocked back two hefty Scotches.
Jim Avalon and Chris Natteros had worried that Paul’s drinking might get the better of him and that he might let the show down or seriously hold up production but, as the days wore on, they decided that he was going to be able to handle it. In fact they both thought it was a mistake for Alain to fire him. He was giving an excellent performance and was proving tremendously popular with the viewers.
They transferred their worries to Vicky and Simon. Simon Rothwell had only been working on the show several days before a major problem presented itself. Vicky couldn’t stand him. True, he was an arrogant young man but so were many actors of his age — he’d get over it. And his attitude was professional enough, his performance good. Indeed, there were times when his performance was excellent. There were times when his energy level was magnetic and they couldn’t understand why Vicky didn’t respond to it.
Not that Vicky allowed her dislike of Simon to disrupt work or cause any form of dissension. But there was no magic between them. When she was working with Greg there was a wonderful rapport but no matter how electric Simon’s performance was, it drew no response from her.
Chris tried every directorial ploy he knew to no avail. The more energy the boy gave in his performance, the more Vicky withdrew. Finally Chris pulled her aside during a coffee break and hissed frustratedly at her.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you? Why can’t you relate to Simon?’
‘I’m sorry, Chris. I’m trying.’
‘No, you’re not. The more energy the kid gives you the more you hold back. Now why?’
‘Because I can’t stand him, that’s why.’ It was the first time during work that Vicky’s rebellious nature had got the better of her and she could have kicked herself for snapping at Chris. He was a beaut bloke and he didn’t deserve that but, hell, he just didn’t know the score. ‘Sorry, I’ll try harder,’ she muttered and left.
Vicky knew why she couldn’t work with Simon. She’d known why the first day she met him.
Simon
had snorted an extra line that morning before setting off for his first day’s rehearsal and he’d slipped his special little grinder into his pocket in case he needed a bit of a lift during the afternoon.
Vicky hadn’t read the signs immediately. Like the rest of the cast she thought he was pushing a little too hard, probably due to first day nerves, and had tried to help him relax. When he suggested that they have lunch together she agreed. The quicker they got to know each other the better. It was then that she’d realised Simon had a problem. He’d had two quick hits from the grinder in the men’s on his way to the canteen and was on quite a high by the time he met her.
Vicky wasn’t judgemental about social drug users. She’d snorted cocaine a couple of times herself at parties but had quickly stopped when she’d woken the next morning with awful sinus pains. Bugger the pros who said flush your nasal passages out with warm water — it wasn’t worth it.
But it didn’t take Vicky long to realise that Simon wasn’t just a social user. In fact she reached her conclusion about halfway through that first lunch.
‘Two lamb chops, veg and lots of chips,’ Vicky said to the pimply canteen assistant.
‘Same for me,’ added Simon, although he had no idea what Vicky had just ordered. He wasn’t remotely hungry.
They slid into a booth up the back and Simon started. He started talking intensely, gesticulating wildly and laughing loudly. Everything about him was big and unnatural. Vicky looked at his eyes — the pupils were dilated. What’s he on? she wondered. Flecks of spittle were forming in the corners of his mouth and he sniffed loudly several times in mid-conversation. Yeah, Vicky concluded, cocaine — and lots of it too. She’d read the signs many times over the years and knew them well. She didn’t want to look at him and tried to concentrate on her chops.
Simon was convinced that he was fascinating. Vicky fancied him, he knew it. In fact, he was sure that she lusted after him. He tried to catch a glimpse of her breasts as she hunched over her plate and toyed with her chips — she had a great body all right … that tight little arse in those stretch jeans, how he’d love to get his hands around that.
Vicky was well aware of Simon’s drug-induced lust and it disgusted her. She tried to attack her food but gave up. The sight of Simon’s chops congealing before him put her off. It was a pity, she rather liked the canteen’s greasy lamb loins.
Finally she pushed her plate aside and slid out of the booth. ‘I’m going back to the greenroom.’
Simon stopped in mid-sentence. ‘But lunchbreak isn’t over yet.’
‘I want to run some lines.’ She lowered her voice as she leaned forward. ‘I’d go easy on that stuff if I were you.’ And Vicky left the canteen.
The warning meant nothing to Simon. From that day on things only grew worse. In rehearsal, brotherly gestures became an excuse for him to touch her up and he merely laughed when she slapped his hand away.
The situation was intolerable and Vicky didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t report him to management; she’d been brought up not to grass on junkies. Perhaps Greg might know what to do. But if she told Greg, wasn’t she just handing him her dilemma? It would then become his decision whether or not to inform management and, if he did, that would still mean she’d grassed, wouldn’t it?
Vicky actually breathed a sigh of relief when the day came to tape her nude scene. Nervous as she was, it meant a whole day’s taping without Simon. After several morning scenes with Mandy and Narelle, the whole afternoon was scheduled for Vicky and Greg, culminating in the seduction scene.
It was a fun day and went quickly. Vicky was so relaxed that, after rehearsing the seduction scene a number of times, it came as a slight shock when Sandy took her aside and said ‘We’ll need clothes off for the final rehearsal. You OK with that, love?’
‘Sure.’ Vicky gave an efficient nod but started to feel distinctly nervous as Sandy ordered the first assistant to check the ‘closed set’ lights.
When Vicky had read on the advance schedules that Sandy, the second unit director, was to be handling her nude scene she’d been disappointed. She wanted Chris – she knew him and felt safe with him. Then she’d realised that Jim had deliberately scheduled a female director for her and she was touched. It was typical of Jim’s sensitivity.
And now that she knew Sandy she was doubly grateful. She admired the woman’s no-nonsense, direct approach to her work and there was a tough motherliness about Sandy that Vicky responded to.
Sandy was tough, all right. A big woman in her mid-forties, she had fought discrimination in the days when there were few women directors. She was aggressive and had a tendency to be bossy which didn’t endear her to the crew. In fact, many crew members openly disliked her which didn’t bother Sandy at all. If they slacked off then she whipped them into shape and bugger them if they didn’t like it. She positioned herself beside a monitor and nodded to Ken, the first assistant.
‘Final rehearsal, quiet please,’ she called. A pause. ‘Standing by.’ A pause. ‘Action.’
Vicky concentrated hard, trying to block out the studio and crew as she slowly undid the buttons of the cotton shift and let it drop to the floor. She tried to focus on Greg’s eyes as she started the interminable cross toward him. But it was no good, she could feel nothing but the fifteen pairs of eyes, mostly male, boring into her flesh.
‘Cut,’ Sandy called. She nodded for the towelling robe and helped Vicky into it. ‘Tell the crew to take five,’ she said to Ken.
‘Take five’ — I must have been terrible, Vicky thought. Unscheduled coffee breaks are only ever called when things were definitely wrong.
‘Feeling self-conscious, are we?’
Vicky nodded miserably. ‘Does it show that much?’
‘Of course it does. You’re supposed to be offering yourself to the man you love. Giving him your body.’
‘I know, but … ’
‘You look as though you’re offering yourself to an orthodontist. Giving him your root canal problem.’
Vicky felt like bursting into tears. What was wrong with her? She’d never been particularly prudish. Why on earth should it bother her so?
‘I’m sorry, Sandy, but I can’t seem to help it. I —’
‘Of course you can’t. You’re sixteen, for Christ’s sake.’ Sandy stopped barking but there was still an efficient edge to her voice as she continued. ‘Now you listen to me, Vicky. All those guys are working, they don’t have time to perve.’
‘I know, but —’
‘Just you remember that everyone here has a job to do and nobody wants to be the one to let the side down.’
Vicky nodded. It made sense. She didn’t want to let the side down either.
‘You might as well be fully clothed as far as they’re concerned. They’ve got their time cut out concentrating on what they’re doing. OK?’
‘OK, Sandy.’
‘Good girl. Greg’s giving you everything. Now you give it back. Off you go and run some lines with him while Ken calls the crew.’
Vicky felt decidedly stronger as she joined Greg. He gave her a wink but said nothing as they sat on the bed and went through their lines. Greg figured the way they handled Vicky’s mental block was strictly between Sandy and Vicky.
The girl’s got a bit of fight back in her, Sandy thought. That’s good. It didn’t bother Sandy that she’d lied to Vicky. Of course the crew would perve. Some of the less tasteful would even compare notes down the pub: ‘Good tits, great bum.’ And it was common knowledge that they ran a points system out of ten on the sex appeal of the female members of the company. What Vicky didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
She still looked a bit tense though. Sandy knew she needed to relax her even more.
‘Set up for a take,’ she said to Ken and slipped behind one of the flats.
‘Positions, please. Next one will be a take,’ Ken called.
When each member of the crew was in position, Sandy stepped out from behind the flat. ‘Ready to go?’<
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Everyone, including Vicky, burst out laughing and there was a round of applause. Sandy was stark staring naked.
She let the applause roll as she crossed to a monitor and sat beside it, then she barked. ‘OK, that’s enough, or the whole crew goes naked.’ Another nod to Ken.
‘Roll tape,’ he whispered to his headphones.
The production team in the control room fought to contain their mirth as they cued up and the studio crew shook their heads begrudgingly. You might not like Sandy but you sure as hell had to admire her.
As the second assistant held the slate up to camera two, Sandy looked at Vicky. Yes, the laugh had done her good.
‘Scene 16, Take 1,’ the second called.
Ken looked at the cameraman. ‘Set,’ the cameraman said.
‘Standing by … and … action.’
Vicky started to undo her buttons. Her eyes locked with Greg’s. Sandy’s right, she realised, he is giving everything. Go, Greg, go! And she started to give back.
It wasn’t a naked Vicky who crossed slowly to the boy. It was a naked Jodie. And the boy was Billy. Vicky felt it all happen and somewhere in the recesses of her brain was the realisation that this was what acting might be all about.
She started to undress him. She fumbled clumsily with the buckle but her eyes never left his. Her hands fought feverishly to free the buckle. She wanted to undress him. She needed to undress him.
And then they were on the bed together. Clasped together. There was a sudden halt to the frenzy as he pulled back and looked at her questioningly. Was this what she really wanted? She raised her head and kissed him. His hand cradled the back of her neck as he responded, gently forcing her head down onto the pillow.
