The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Glad you liked it.’ The steel-blue eyes were lethal. ‘Shall we find somewhere a bit more private?’

  Simon couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Sure.’ And he jumped to his feet. ‘ ’Scuse us, gang. We’re off to run some lines.’

  As Vicky and Simon left the canteen together, Chris prayed that it was a sign of improved working relations. Somehow he doubted it though. Vicky’s face was thunderous.

  ‘You shit!’

  ‘Eh?’

  The moment they rounded the corner, Vicky turned on him. ‘You dirty little junkie pervert!’

  Simon was totally unprepared for the hand that lashed out and struck him across the side of his face.

  ‘What the hell … ’ Simon gingerly touched his ear. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘Listen, you creep. From now on, you keep your distance from me. You keep your hands to yourself, and you keep your pervie little comments to yourself. And I tell you what else, you lay off that junk when we work together.’

  Simon was stunned. ‘But I—’

  ‘I’m warning you, shitbag, the next time I see you spaced out in the studio, I’m going to report you, and I mean that.’

  As he watched her storm off, Simon felt shaken. In his drug-induced state he’d honestly supposed she’d shared his humour, his jokes, indeed, had been flattered by his obvious admiration for her. The slap and her present outrage had genuinely shocked him. Shocked him even to the point of making him feel vaguely uneasy about his coke habit. Could she be right?

  In the canteen, Sandy was just finishing her rave to Chris about the magic of Vicky’s seduction scene. Chris agreed that the girl was a director’s dream, all right, except when it came to working with Simon.

  Jane interrupted. She’d only had a couple of scenes with Simon but found him very difficult to communicate with. ‘His energy’s too dissipated somehow. He seems to be acting for himself, not the other person. That must be hell for Vicky, she’s such a giver.’

  One by one the others at the table were drawn into the discussion and, after agreeing that Vicky was indeed a gifted ‘natural’, the conversation turned towards new young talent in general. It was Sandy who unwittingly struck the first blow.

  ‘What about the preview the other night? The girl in the new Wainwright movie — wasn’t she wonderful?’

  Jane felt her smile tighten as she nodded brightly at comments like ‘greatest Australian film performance ever’, ‘possibly the first Australian Academy Award’. She told herself that they were the sweeping statements always made by actors with a tendency to exaggerate, but she knew they were right. That was why she hadn’t gone to the preview.

  They were always getting invited to movie previews and premieres and as usual Jane had knocked this one back, opting for the theatre in preference. Just another ‘also-ran’ movie, she told herself, knowing full well her true reasons for not putting in an appearance. Every time Jane read an article on Anna Bowrey or saw her picture on a movie billboard, she felt envious. And the envy was turning more bitter by the day. She was starting to feel a distinct dislike for Anna Bowrey. And for Kate Redman. And for Peter Wainwright. And for Alain King for forcing her decision.

  Rubbish, she told herself. No one forced your decision, you made it yourself and good luck to your successor – it’s hardly her fault that you made the wrong choice. But even as she reprimanded herself, she heard Sandy say, ‘When the reviews come out next week the public’ll be queuing for miles to see that girl’, and a tiny voice in Jane cried out for them to recognise her: ‘Don’t any of you remember that role was mine? Have you forgotten already that I was the hit of the season?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Jane got up from the table. ‘Lunchbreak’s nearly up. See you in the greenroom.’

  Chris followed her out. ‘It’s not their fault. They didn’t know you were offered the movie,’ he said after they’d walked in silence for a few seconds.

  But Jane didn’t seem to hear. It was only when they reached the doors to the dressing rooms that she turned to him. ‘Je ne regrette rien. The way Piaf sings it,’ she said. ‘Big and bold. That’s always been my theme song. I’ve always thought you should grab at things as they come along. Sometimes you grab at the wrong thing, sometimes you miss altogether — but in the end it all balances out and as long as you haven’t hurt anyone, you can end up having grabbed at a pretty good life. At least one where you’re not left regretting lost opportunities.’ Chris waited patiently, knowing what she was going to say. ‘I didn’t grab at this one and I regret it, Chris. God, I regret it! The greatest chance of a lifetime and I went for the safe bet instead.’

  It upset Chris to see her so defeated. It was uncharacteristic of his Jane. His Jane the fighter. His Jane the perfectionist. His Jane … Chris suddenly realised how proprietorial he felt. He clasped her hands.

  ‘There’ll be other roles just as good, Jane. And you’ll be the one they’ll be begging for.’ Jane’s smile of thanks was lacklustre as she turned towards the door and Chris knew how trite he must have sounded. He pulled her back, squeezing her hands tightly. ‘For God’s sake, woman, what about this week’s storylines? They’re building you already. “The Glitter Game” is going to become your own personal vehicle.’

  Jane looked back at him. Chris’s intensity was impossible to ignore and he was right, of course, the storylines were going just the way Alain had promised they would.

  ‘There’s even a rumour of an American network sale. In six months’ time you can name the role you want.’

  This time Jane’s smile was genuine and deeply grateful. ‘Thanks, Chris. I needed that. Next time you can smack me on the wrist and tell me to stop dramatising but this time I really did need a boost.’

  ‘I know.’ They gazed unwaveringly at each other. Chris had been about to kiss Jane on the cheek but they both knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  ‘Keep listening to Piaf. You’ve got nothing to regret.’ Chris gave her hands a final squeeze and walked on towards the studio.

  Ray Chaplin had spent a pleasant hour in the canteen. It had been just the sort of animated actors’ discussion he enjoyed. He also enjoyed the fact that the actors were uninhibited enough to conduct such a conversation in his presence. It spoke well of his ability to mingle despite his high-ranking position. Ray would never have admitted, even to himself, that, underneath, he was just a touch appalled by their lack of deference. A group of network executives wouldn’t have ignored him for one minute let alone the better part of one hour. He smiled paternally. Actors were such a colourful bunch.

  Most of all Ray had enjoyed the warmth of Narelle’s thigh, the wriggle of her body next to his when the conversation became especially animated and the flash of an excited but slightly querying smile in his direction whenever she made some comment, as if she were seeking his approval. It certainly wasn’t deference to his position, and it didn’t seem to be a conscious flirtation. What was it? Ray was confused and fascinated. There was something about Narelle. Something elusive, tantalising and utterly erotic.

  Whatever the ‘something’ was, Ray decided he’d better beat a hasty retreat. His erection was becoming an embarrassment. Edwina and Paul had just left and Sandy, Jim and Greg were in deep discussion at the other end of the table leaving Narelle about to turn her full attention on him. He stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and picked up his briefcase.

  ‘Well, goodbye all, keep up the good work.’

  ‘Won’t you be at the telethon tomorrow?’ Narelle’s eyes welled with disappointment.

  ‘Certainly will. That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ Narelle breathed, with something approaching a sigh of relief. Ray left, rather rattled.

  He went out of his way to pass the table where Brian Hopgood was sitting with what appeared to be the same cup of coffee he’d poured himself an hour ago. Ray checked his watch. ‘The boardroom in half an hour, OK?’ Brian nodded.

  Half an hour later, as Alain drained the last of his tawny port and looked
across the broad expanse of water to the Harbour Bridge and the approaching water taxi, Ray called out, ‘Come in’ and thrust the phone at Brian the moment he entered the boardroom.

  ‘Robert would like a word with you.’

  To Ray’s chagrin even he, 2IC to the man himself, was to know nothing of the conversation that ensued between Robert Bryce and Brian Hopgood. He left the room as Robert had requested.

  Although the next day was Saturday, it was still a work day for all at Channel 3. A work day for all but Edwina. Edwina was the only member of ‘The Glitter Game’ cast who had refused to appear on the thirty-six-hour telethon. She found marathon TV charity events not only hypocritical but bordering on fraud. ‘All those phoney performers giving their all for the cause and less than half the money gets to the cause anyway,’ she’d complained to Davey many a time. ‘You know the networks are actually running commercials during telethons these days! The whole thing’s an appalling rip-off.’

  Much of her argument was true, of course, but there were always exceptions to the rule. Many organisers, performers and crew did work tirelessly and many charities did benefit as a result.

  Greg was as aware as Edwina of the phoney aspects of television marathons but figured they were still worthwhile fund-raisers and had proved himself the best telethon MC and anchor man in the business. This time around was no exception.

  ‘And here it is … ! Here she goes … ! Watch the lights …!’ Behind Greg, the two-metre high, four-metre wide screen of lights flashed crazily until they found the sequence they wanted, a fanfare of trumpets rang out, first assistant Ken jumped up and down inciting a riotous reaction from the studio audience and Greg screamed above it all, ‘And there she blows … one … point … five … million dollars!!’ Whistles and hooters and streamers, supplied courtesy of Channel 3, were blown, honked and thrown with great abandon as Ken and the crew encouraged hysteria. Everyone was having a wonderful time.

  Not even halfway through, Greg thought wearily. Still, he’d have his break in a minute — a full five hours. Bliss. It was three am and he’d been going since midday. There’d been a crew change but Ken had also done the full fifteen-hour stint. Poor bugger, Greg thought, he looks dead on his feet. The fanfare died down and Greg beamed excitedly at camera two.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep just because it’s the wee hours, though. Stay with us, stay with the fun, get on those phones and keep the money rolling in. Let’s go to the phones now and see what’s happening.’

  As Greg threw to the phone room, Mandy and Sidney, wearing funny hats, leapt into action encouraging more whistles and hooters and streamers.

  ‘One point five million! Isn’t that marvellous?’ Mandy shrieked girlishly. ‘All you marvellous people out there!’ She smacked loud kisses at the camera.

  Not to be outdone, Sidney held his arms wide in an all-embracing ‘thank you’ and gave his Donald Wolfit best. ‘Wonnnderful! Wonnnderful effort!’

  Mandy and Sidney were having the best time. Apart from a couple of appearances on the panel with the rest of the ‘Glitter’ cast they’d been pretty much ignored during the peak viewing hours when every visiting celebrity and pop star had been available. Now, however, they were ‘in demand’ and the weariness born of hanging around the make-up department and VIP lounge magically dropped away. Sidney was dangerously boosted by the copious amounts of free Scotch he’d downed in the VIP lounge but he’d managed to stay just the right side of silly.

  In the main studio, the relief first assistant took the headphones from Ken and nodded to Greg. ‘Well done, mate, see you at eight o’clock.’

  Greg gave a thumbs-up to the late night newsreader who was taking over the anchor and headed for the VIP lounge where he quickly downed two double brandies. They hit the hefty amount of gin and tonic he’d been knocking back under the guise of mineral water and gave him an instant boost. Suddenly he wasn’t tired. He didn’t want to go home to his empty flat and his lonely bed … what did he want to do?

  He slammed his glass down on the table and headed for the car park. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

  Eight hours earlier, as he waited to present Robert Bryce’s personal cheque to the telethon, Ray Chaplin decided he was having a pleasant evening circulating among the many performers in the VIP lounge. The television personalities were aware of his position of course but many of the cabaret and stage performers had no idea who he was.

  ‘I beg your pardon, are you talking to me?!’ Yvonne looked incredulously at Ray and her voice was loud with contempt.

  ‘Yes,’ Ray answered. God, the woman must be deaf. ‘Just saying how well the tally’s going — looks as if we might make the five million target.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she turned her back on him. ‘Who’s the drab little accountant person?’ she asked her leading man who was terrified of her and shrugged nervously.

  Yvonne Dupres (born Alma Cox) was presently playing to packed houses in the lavish revival of South Pacific at Her Majesty’s. She was a big woman. In fact no Nellie Forbush had ever been so big, but the voice was big to match — so big that critics and public alike forgave her and flocked to the production. Just as they had flocked to the last two productions she’d starred in. The Sound of Music and West Side Story Marias had both been inexplicably big and totally forgiven and it appeared Yvonne could do no wrong in the eyes of Australian audiences. Her head grew proportionately big and she became insufferable.

  Ray smiled politely and turned back to the bar. He wasn’t a little man. According to statistics he was the exact height, weight and all-round measurements of the average adult Australian male but then he supposed the average Australian male was little in comparison to Yvonne Dupres. Also he saw no reason to be ashamed of his accountant background. Some of the most clever people he knew were accountants. He came to the conclusion that Yvonne was a malicious person and therefore probably very difficult to work with. He must remember to mention that when he and Robert next discussed the series of in-concert specials they were tying up. If the choice still rested between Dupres or Farnham they’d be much better off going with John Farnham. Such a nice man to work with.

  ‘You’re wanted on set, Mr Chaplin.’ A flustered young second assistant with headphones and two-way radio was at his side. Ray nodded, ignored Yvonne’s bulging eyes as her head snapped in his direction, and followed the second. ‘OK, OK. Travelling, travelling,’ the second hissed to the director’s assistant who was nagging him through his headphones.

  Oh shit! Oh shit, no! Not the Chaplin? Not the Chaplin who is 2IC to Robert Bryce? Not the Chaplin who virtually runs Network Three? Yvonne prayed fervently she was wrong but she had a horrible feeling …

  ‘… And they feel, without doubt, that the Channel 3 telethon is the most important and worthwhile event on their busy annual calendar,’ Ray concluded. ‘So on behalf of Robert and Melanie Bryce I’d like to present their personal cheque of $50,000 and their best wishes to all concerned with Telethon 19 … ’

  But the fanfare of trumpets, the flashing lights, the whistles, the hooters and the screaming studio audience drowned him out.

  ‘And we’ve hit the big one!’ Greg screamed. ‘Just look at that! One … million … dollars!! Six big fat beautiful zeros!!’

  That had been at seven pm — prime viewing time — and the director had rigged the presentation of the cheque to coincide with the tally reaching the one million mark. His calculations had been a little out and they were nearly $200,000 over the million but the viewers didn’t need to know that.

  In the VIP lounge Yvonne had turned her back on the monitor and sunk deep into an armchair. She pushed aside the drink proffered by the nervous leading man. ‘You shit. You could have told me.’

  ‘I didn’t know, Yvonne, I swear I didn’t.’

  The flustered second assistant was shepherding Narelle out of the VIP lounge to the studio and a panel appearance when Ray re-entered.

  ‘You were wonderful, Ray.’ It was very crowded and Na
relle’s hand was against his chest. From anyone else the gesture might have been apologetic, saying ‘Excuse the contact, I’m being shoved from behind’. From Narelle it was the most intimate caress and Ray couldn’t prevent a strangled gasp as his penis leapt to attention. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ she breathed. ‘We could have a drink when I get off the panel.’

  ‘Fine, fine. I’ve got a bit of business to tie up before I go.’ He didn’t, and had intended leaving immediately for the hotel but his erection seemed to be speaking for him.

  ‘Lovely.’ The hand slid away from his chest and she was gone.

  Ray couldn’t understand it. Nobody had ever had this effect on him before. He was not a man prone to instant erections. In fact he’d always considered his libido to be rather less than normal, probably because he channelled so much of his energy into his work. His wife of twenty-two years had always been grateful for his low sex drive and, after the birth of their two children it was patently obvious she wished he’d lose it altogether.

  Not that she’d always hated sex. He could remember their college dating days: his aching spine, the creaking springs in the back seat, the way she planted her feet on the roof of the Holden and met his every thrust. Then suddenly she was pregnant and they were married and they were just nineteen and sex was no longer joyful. Ray wondered with a touch of bitterness whether it had ever been joyful for Penny. He hated to think that her little animal whimpers might have been faked. But as the years rolled by even that didn’t matter. It was probably his fault anyway. After all, rocking the back of the Holden and groaning with lust had really only been a release for him, hadn’t it? Well, he supposed it had.

  Several years after their marriage Ray set out to be unfaithful. A number of times. Purely experimentally. After all he and Penny had been virgins when they met and maybe, if he learned a few tricks of the trade, he’d be able to improve on their sex life. He’d chosen one-night stands and the odd high class call-girl. He didn’t want to threaten his family life. But if anything the liaisons had cooled his libido even more. He’d rather be back humping in the Holden.