The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  Vicky felt herself thrust her groin against his. Then she heard him moan softly and felt his hand in the small of her back pressing her closer as if to forge them together.

  She dropped out of character for a second as she thought, ‘Is this what it’s meant to be like? Could it be like this in real life?’ A cynical voice somewhere said, ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, this is Mills and Boon, this is soap’. Then another voice said —

  ‘Cut. Check that.’

  It was Greg who broke the clinch. He grinned at her and whispered, ‘Good girl, great stuff.’ Then he threw himself back on the bed. ‘God! It’s enough to make a man turn!’ The crew laughed.

  As Vicky donned the towelling robe Ken proffered, delicately averting his eyes, she wondered why she felt strangely empty.

  ‘Very good, Vicky.’ Sandy was struggling back into her clothes. ‘Every move spot-on. And that added buckle business, talk about a mistake that worked! Good girl.’ Sandy patted her on the back. ‘Come and watch the playback, we’re putting it to the floor.’

  As Sandy crossed to a monitor, Vicky thought, why is everyone calling me a ‘good girl’? And ‘every move spot-on’, what did that mean? Then she remembered. The head off the bed for the kiss, the thrust of the groin, Greg’s hand to the small of her back, they’d all been plotted in rehearsal. She’d forgotten that.

  Part of Vicky felt proud that she hadn’t lost a trick even as she had become so immersed in her character, and part of her felt very bewildered. I’ve got a lot to learn about this acting business, she told herself. And she walked over to the monitor.

  Simon didn’t need to watch the replay. He’d seen the real thing.

  Simon was particularly spaced out that day. After all, he didn’t have any lines to remember, all he had to do was to sneak into the studio well before they checked and turned on the ‘closed set’ lights.

  He’d hidden behind one of the unlit sets at the rear of the studio and watched. And as he watched, he fantasised that he was Greg. He was Billy. And when Vicky/Jodie had thrust her groin against Greg/Billy, there’d only been one person who’d really felt it. And that person had been Simon.

  He slipped quietly out of the studio while they all watched the playback. Vicky had been making love to him, he knew that, and it wouldn’t be long now before she realised it.

  Paul turned the sound up on his television set and crouched anxiously before the screen.

  ‘ … the power of the media to ruin people’s lives. And as we promised, here’s the perfect example.’

  Sure enough, as had been promised at the opening of ‘The Five O’Clock Live’ show, there was Paul discussing his personal life with a very shallow in-depth reporter. The camera zoomed in on Paul as he wordlessly mouthed a reply to a question and the shallow in-depth reporter’s shallow voice-over said, ‘Paul Sorell. Fighting for his marriage, fighting for his career and fighting to retain his place in the hearts of the Australian public.’

  Paul cringed. Why had he let Mal talk him into this? ‘Five O’Clock Live’? Rubbish. All interviews on ‘Five O’Clock Live’ were prerecorded and cut to ribbons to present whichever view the network chose to present. God alone knew how they’d choose to present Paul.

  Mind you, Mal had made a lot of sense last week when he’d said, ‘You want to get Barbie back, don’t you? You want to get the viewers back, don’t you? Then stop closing the doors on the press. That’s the way, boyo. You’re an actor, for Christ’s sake! Give them “I love my wife”. Give them “I made a mistake”. Give them your soul. Use the media, buddy. Use it!’

  And Paul had agreed. Mal had lined up the interview for Paul’s day off when the studio was recording the Vicky/Greg scenes. And here he was, only seven hours after he’d recorded it, watching himself ‘live’.

  ‘I love my wife. I always have and I always will.’

  Paul sipped his Scotch and studied the tired, worn eyes that pleaded directly to him from the screen.

  ‘You know that, don’t you, Barbie?’ He looked back to the interviewer. ‘And the children. I miss the children.’

  Paul watched himself look down at his hands, all the while absent-mindedly turning his wedding ring.

  ‘I made a terrible mistake, I know that. But to lose my family … ’ He faltered, took a deep breath to regain control of his emotions and looked out of the fake window of the interview set, shaking his head in hurt disbelief.

  Good, Paul thought, very good. He was going to bury his head in his hands at that point but thought better of it at the last minute. Don’t lose the eyes, he’d told himself, and he’d been right. The glint of a tear had worked like magic. And the wedding ring. Good bit of business that, very symbolic.

  Paul had meant every word he’d said in the interview and had been genuinely moved. Watching it now he still meant every word and was still moved but the actor in him made it physically impossible not to be aware of what he was doing and watching.

  ‘To lose my family because of one mistake … ’ his image continued then faltered, again at a loss for words.

  One mistake, my arse, Barbie thought. Just the one mistake that caught you out.

  When Paul’s anguished face had first appeared on the screen, Barbie had wanted to reach out and touch it. He needed her — and God, how she missed him. It took her only a few seconds to register the performance. ‘Bastard,’ she muttered and reached for the remote control. But she couldn’t turn it off. She sat compulsively glued to Paul’s image, steeling herself against her desire to believe him. She mustn’t believe him. She was her own woman again, at last — with a life, a career all her own. She couldn’t afford to believe him. She wouldn’t believe him.

  But the general public would and did. The channel switchboard was jammed with callers protesting his dismissal from the show and demanding that he be reinstated.

  The next day, it was a tight-lipped Alain who called Paul to his office. ‘I’ve decided to give you another chance, Paul.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And I suppose you expect me to turn cartwheels, Paul thought. Well, tough. He nodded and said, ‘I’m glad.’

  Paul didn’t ask why he was being reinstated. He knew. It wasn’t Alain reacting to public demand. It was someone else. Someone more powerful than Alain. And that could only be Robert Bryce.

  He was right. The message to return Mr Bryce’s call immediately had been waiting on Alain’s desk when he arrived in his office the morning after Paul’s televised interview.

  ‘I think you may be overreacting a little, Robert,’ Alain suggested. ‘It can be dangerous to allow an actor too much power.’ There was a disturbing silence from the other end of the line. ‘Besides,’ Alain continued, ‘the general public’s memory is short, after three months they’ll have forgotten —’

  ‘Bring him back, Alain. Just bring him back.’

  Alain was annoyed. More than annoyed, he was angry. And the feeling grew as the day progressed. Bryce had spoken to him in the same dismissive way that Alain himself spoke to his underlings. Alain knew what that meant. No respect. Bryce had no respect for him. He’d given the man the greatest TV hit series of all time. He demanded respect.

  Everyone was glad that Paul was back with the show, including Edwina. And she was quite genuine as she congratulated him. After all, he’d learned his lesson, and she’d sated her desire for revenge. Besides, she had weightier things on her mind. Things that had to be sorted out right now.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, conflict?’ Edwina demanded as she dumped the advance storylines on Alain’s desk. ‘That’s not conflict! That’s assassination.’

  ‘Rubbish, my dear. It’s character development — a change of area, change of pace, it helps build the role.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate my intelligence, Alain, it’s very irritating.’ Edwina jabbed the scripts with a manicured fingernail. ‘This is the first step to phasing me out and you know it. If the storylines continue this way Jane will end up the key figure and the public won’t even notice I’v
e gone.’

  ‘That’s not so, Edwina. Not so at all.’ Alain was mentally rubbing his hands with glee. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. Edwina Dawling in his power. Edwina Dawling fighting for her career. And would he help her? Well, he couldn’t, could he? It was out of his hands.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. They’re Evan’s storylines and he’s been given full rein in the scripting department.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Well, by me, of course, but once one’s delegated one can hardly … ’ He shrugged apologetically.

  ‘I see.’ Edwina stood staring at him for a moment — a long moment, Alain thought — before turning and leaving his office.

  Alain felt good. Not as good as he would have felt if she’d pleaded. He’d have liked that. Or lost her temper, spat venom and sworn, that would have been a nice fall from grace. Oh well, you couldn’t have everything. Maybe she’d squirm more satisfactorily when she learned she was to be killed off. In the meantime, her frustration and powerlessness were salve enough. Salve for a day that had started so badly with Bryce usurping his power. Alain was starting to feel on top again.

  Edwina picked up her dressing room phone and dialled. ‘Robert? It’s Edwina Dawling. You told me to call you if I ever needed anything? I do.’

  ‘But the scripts are already written.’

  ‘Then have them rewritten.’

  ‘I think this is a mistake, Robert.’ Alain gripped the telephone receiver tightly in his sweaty palm. ‘I think —’

  ‘It’s immaterial what you think, King.’ Alain’s thinly-disguised venom had not gone unnoticed and Robert Bryce didn’t like it. ‘Edwina Dawling is the star of this show and I want you to keep it that way. In fact, start writing that other woman down. She’s already getting too powerful.’

  ‘But you need conflict to maintain —’

  ‘Get your goddamn conflict from the other characters!’

  It was a direct order and there was nothing Alain could say, but as he hung up the receiver he felt sick with anger. This show was his baby. It had always been his baby. And now Robert Bryce was taking it away from him. He dived for the Mylanta tablets in the top drawer. Alain didn’t undergo anxiety attacks often but when he did it was always his stomach that suffered first and he could feel the early growls of a severe bout of indigestion.

  He pressed the intercom button. ‘Wendy! Get Evan Ryan in here right now,’ he barked. ‘And get Kleinberg on the phone.’

  He’d teach Bryce a lesson, he thought, as he swallowed the last of the Mylanta tablets. He’d teach him that The King wasn’t a Bryce Holdings underling trained to jump on command.

  The conversation Alain had with Evan was identical to the one he’d had with Bryce except the roles were reversed.

  ‘But you told me to highlight Jane’s character. I’ve been working her up to it for weeks. We can’t just —’

  ‘Oh yes we can.’

  ‘Alain, we need the conflict between —’

  ‘Get your conflict out of the other characters.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Do it, Evan. Just do it.’

  The intercom buzzed. ‘Mr Kleinberg’s secretary on the line. He’s available now.’

  ‘Good. That’s all, thanks, Evan. I’ll expect the new storylines by the end of the week. Thank you, Wendy, I’m ready for Mr Kleinberg.’

  Wendy and Kleinberg’s secretary confirmed their respective bosses’ availability, thereby preserving one from the ignominy of having to wait on the end of the line for the other.

  Evan slunk out of the office. What was the use, he thought. Just a hack writer, that’s all I am to them. One day, though, he told himself, one day when he’d completed his best-selling exposé novel about the television industry, the novel that he poured into his computer late Sunday nights, he wouldn’t have to bow to every whim of self-opinionated producers like Alain King. And you’re in it, Alain, you arrogant shit, Evan thought. You’re in it in all your true shades of puce.

  ‘Les! How are you?’ Alain poured bonhomie down the line and nodded his appreciation as it was poured back to him. Now this was the way one did business with equals and if Bryce didn’t accept him as an equal then Alain had no compunction in offering himself to the highest bidder. And that bidder had always been Kleinberg. Les Kleinberg of Channel 8. Alain and Les had worked on a number of projects over the years and they’d been about to clinch a more permanent deal along the lines of Alain taking over all Channel 8 drama production when Bryce had put up an identical offer with money that was too good to refuse. A realistic businessman, Les had acknowledged the winner and bowed out, but the offer to Alain had remained standing.

  ‘Sure, lunch tomorrow would be fine.’ Alain smiled.

  The engine roared into life and the power boat surged through the water. Standing in the stern along with the six other businessmen wooing or being wooed within the world of high finance, Alain felt good. He smiled at Les and raised his glass in return to the salute Les offered with his. Yes, they both thought, as the water taxi took off for Doyles Seafood Restaurant at Watson’s Bay, this was the way to do business.

  As Alain bit into his first Royal Red prawn in tempura batter and Les cracked the first claw of one of his blue swimmer crabs, Ray Chaplin contemplated the large tin tray of battered fish behind the glass of the hot food section in the Channel 3 canteen. There was always fish on Fridays in the canteen and it was always fried. Ray opted for a sandwich instead.

  He wasn’t hungry, anyway, he told himself, as he walked to the other end of the bar where the fat lady was piling mustard onto Greg’s roast beef sandwich.

  ‘G’day, Ray. You down here for the telethon?’

  ‘Hello, Greg. Yes, that’s right. Egg and lettuce thanks.’

  They chatted amicably while the fat lady made their sandwiches and agreed that it was going to be a great telethon.

  The ‘telethon’ was every channel’s major charity event. An annual competition had developed between the networks to see whose telethon could raise the most funds. It was a big status-booster for the winner.

  Actually, Ray was not down for the weekend telethon at all. His instructions were to discreetly ensure that Bryce’s orders with regard to Paul and Edwina had been carried out to the letter. Robert Bryce hadn’t liked Alain’s reactions at all.

  Gentle queries had ascertained that Paul and Edwina were indeed being looked after according to Bryce’s instructions but the news that Alain was lunching with Les Kleinberg was an added note of interest that Ray thought had made his trip even more worthwhile. He nodded to the security man in the far corner of the canteen and the omnipresent Brian Hopgood nodded a greeting back.

  Ray Chaplin accompanied Greg as he joined the ‘Glitter Game’ cast at one of the centre tables. Ray was aware that it was possible his presence might initially inhibit the actors but that didn’t worry him in the least. It was Robert Bryce’s policy that his senior directors mingle with all levels of the corporate pyramid.

  ‘Everyone who works for Bryce Holdings is important’ was Robert’s constant quote. Making people feel important also made them feel committed — something Channel 3’s station manager would do well to learn, Ray thought, as he offered his hearty congratulations on the show and pulled up a chair. (‘You’re going to eat with the actors?’ the station manager had exclaimed when Ray had knocked back his luncheon invitation. ‘In the canteen!’) Oh yes, Robert Bryce would be interested in a reaction like that, Ray thought, as he became aware of Narelle’s thigh warmly and naively settled against his own. He’d much rather be with the actors than the tedious network executives anyway. He liked actors. He smiled at Narelle. Narelle smiled back. She thought Ray was a lovely man.

  Mandy and Sidney shortly made their apologies. They had a photo call. Sidney had taken to eating sparingly of late and he and Mandy appeared to have called a temporary truce. Yesterday they’d done an interview for a family magazine, today was a colour spread for a feature call
ed ‘At Home with the Happy Mature Couple’, and tomorrow was the start of the thirty-six hour telethon. Thirty-six hours of giving their all to the public — that is, whenever they’d be able to claw their way to the camera … so many other stars had made themselves available. Nevertheless, it was thirty-six hours of intermittent star-playing. Thirty-six hours before they had to go home to their little bedsits and empty flats and admit that they were just people, and lonely, ageing ones at that. It created an unspoken bond between Mandy and Sidney.

  Paul saw himself in Mandy and Sidney. He recognised the awful, lonely possibility that he could be like them in twenty, thirty and forty years’ time. He had his career back, yes, but Barbie was light years away from him. She didn’t need him, she didn’t love him and without Barbie, what was he? He felt the familiar flood of depression start to wash over him. Then Edwina, seated beside him, clasped his hand comfortingly. He smiled back at her with gratitude. Thank God for Edwina’s friendship and support.

  As Sandy entered the canteen, there was a general round of applause and a standing ovation from the ‘Glitter Game’ table. Word had got around about her studio strip during Vicky’s seduction scene.

  ‘Wish I’d been there,’ Chris said, as he cleared a space for Sandy between Jane and himself.

  ‘You better believe it,’ Vicky grinned, trying to ignore Simon’s hand under the table as it crept yet again up her knee and into her groin. Every time she slapped it back he giggled childishly. The giggle annoyed her even more than the wandering hand.

  ‘I liked your strip better,’ he whispered in her ear. There was a moment’s silence as Vicky turned and stared at him coldly. ‘Oh, you watched the scene, did you?’

  Simon missed the warning signs completely. ‘Did I what!’ he leered.

  ‘And you felt it worked?’

  ‘It sure worked on me, it was a real turn-on.’