by Judy Nunn
Edwina made a snap decision. End of favours time: Rosa was out; better representation was most certainly required. She decided to give credit where it was due.
‘That’s good advice, Liza. Thank you.’
Liza knew she had a foot in the door, and decided to go for broke. ‘Of course, there’s another area you should be looking at, Edwina.’ She stubbed the cigarette out. It tasted awful but it went hand in hand with the familiar showdown feeling and was therefore somehow comforting. ‘You need a promotion campaign for the States. I want to do it for you. And I want the life story of Edwina Dawling.’
Edwina gave a gentle, resigned sigh. It was what she’d been expecting. She’d have to play it gently, evade the issue. ‘Liza, in my experience, you are the best television journalist in the industry … ’
Liza seethed at the term ‘television journalist’. Didn’t the woman realise she’d been one of the country’s top investigative reporters?
‘ … and as such,’ Edwina continued, ‘you would be my immediate choice should I —’
‘I want what you promised Edwina!’ Liza stopped hedging. ‘I want the inside story and nothing less.’
‘And if you don’t get it?’ Edwina’s eyes flashed danger. Was Liza daring to threaten her?
‘You owe me, Edwina.’ Liza glared back with equal intensity. She knew it was the wrong thing to say and that she was burning her bridges by saying it but she’d compromised herself for Edwina and now Edwina was trying to renege on the deal.
Edwina felt something strangely akin to fear. She wanted to look at Davey for support but didn’t dare — it would weaken her position. Instead she stared back into Liza’s coal-black eyes.
‘I don’t owe you a thing, Liza.’
As Liza walked through the channel’s reception area, a sharp pang of neuralgia flashed up the side of her face and she realised she’d been grinding her teeth. Damn! Her teeth hurt, her face hurt, her hands hurt. Damn Edwina! But Liza felt a certain grim satisfaction. Edwina would pay. She’d pay, all right.
Liza looked at her watch. Yes, there was just enough time.
‘You bitch! You fucking hypocritical bitch!’ It happened so quickly there was nothing Edwina could do. Her dressing room door was flung open and Paul was standing there screaming at her.
He slammed the morning paper down on the table and her eye caught a flash of the headline: DAWLING v. SORELL: IS IT WAR? She didn’t need to read the leader — ‘Edwina Dawling’s bid to destroy Paul Sorell’ — to know that Liza had spilled the lot.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Edwina?’
Edwina was frightened. Paul was a strong man and his anger was approaching madness. She tried to placate him, wondering where the hell Davey was.
‘You don’t know the full story, Paul, you’re overreacting —’
‘Overreacting!’ Something in Paul snapped. He grabbed Edwina by the neck and she felt her back crack dangerously as he slammed her against the side of the dressing table.
‘You ruin my marriage … ’ he snarled, his fingers sinking deep into her throat, ‘you turn my wife against me … ’ deeper and deeper, ‘you take my children away from me … ’ The words were now being hissed from behind clenched teeth as he tightened his grip on her throat.
He didn’t hear the bathroom door open. He didn’t see Davey pick up Edwina’s handbag from the sofa. He didn’t see him take out the .25 calibre Colt pocket automatic pistol she always carried.
It was only when Paul could sense that Edwina was near her last breath, when he could feel her back about to break against the dressing table that he became aware of the steady pressure of something metallic against his left temple.
‘That’s enough, Paul.’
Slowly Paul’s head started to clear. Edwina’s terrified bulging eyes were only centimetres from his. He still wanted to see her dead but a shred of commonsense restrained him — and he gradually released his hold, as the metal barrel continued its relentless pressure against his temple.
‘I said, that’s enough.’ Davey’s voice was as steady and as cold as the gun he held and Paul suddenly dropped his hands, leaving Edwina holding on to the side of the dressing table, her chest heaving.
‘Go into the bathroom, Edwina.’ Davey kept his eyes on Paul. Edwina nodded and, still gasping, fumbled her way to the bathroom door.
When he heard the lock turn, Davey slowly lowered the gun. Paul turned to face him and the two men looked at each other for several seconds before Paul spoke. ‘Tell her to watch her back. Tell her from now on she’d better watch her back.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Paul.’
Paul made for the door, then turned back to Davey with agony in his eyes.
‘Why, Davey? Why?’
Davey couldn’t return Paul’s gaze. He shrugged and looked away. He’d never been able to understand Edwina’s thirst for revenge and the lengths to which she’d go to satisfy it.
The question went unanswered.
As Paul left the room, Davey returned the gun to Edwina’s handbag and tapped on the bathroom door. ‘OK.’
The door opened and Edwina stood looking at him, her hand to her throat.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘You took your time.’
Davey ignored the retort. She was still badly shaken. He sat her at the table and pointed to the newspaper. ‘Want to see the damage?’
‘The maniac,’ Edwina said, still massaging her neck. It hurt to swallow.
Davey had opened to the story. It was anonymous, of course. The newspaper had received verification from a reliable source that Edwina Dawling had been responsible for disclosing Paul Sorell’s sordid background and for bringing it to the attention of the press. The article went on to surmise the reasons for Miss Dawling’s vicious attack. Unrequited love, perhaps? Professional jealousy over Sorell’s increasing popularity? The entire article was a slur on Edwina’s character and worded so cleverly that it would be impossible to make a libel suit stick.
Davey read out every word, painstakingly slowly. Whatever damage Edwina may have wanted to do to Paul in originally releasing the story was nothing, nothing at all, compared to what she now wanted to do to Liza.
When Davey had finished reading, Edwina continued to stare down at the open newspaper. ‘Bring me the telephone,’ she said at last.
Alain cradled the receiver on his shoulder as he held a photograph in each hand. ‘That’s entirely up to you, Edwina. You’re the one who wanted the woman to handle you exclusively. If you don’t want her any more, then just say so.’
He squinted at the photos. One girl was Chinese, the other Indonesian. Both were eighteen but looked younger and he couldn’t make up his mind which he preferred. He was momentarily distracted as he realised that Edwina’s request was more far-reaching than he’d realised.
‘Why do you want her off the show altogether?’ Alain had a vague idea — he’d seen the early edition. ‘She has a contract with us, you know.’
As he listened to the voice, which was just bordering on self-control, Alain smiled down at the photographs. Yes, the Indonesian, he decided, although it was really neither here nor there — he’d be able to judge them in the flesh in half an hour. He dumped the photos on top of the pile of other hopefuls lined up for the auditions and concentrated on the phone.
‘If you put it like that, Edwina, how could I possibly refuse?’ Alain resisted a chuckle. He felt positively gleeful. Edwina was giving him thinly-veiled threats about contacting Bryce. Hell, no! Bryce had countermanded his orders in favour of Edwina’s before, why shouldn’t Alain automatically accept the fact that the man would do it again and therefore immediately acquiesce to Edwina’s demands? Particularly as Edwina’s demands were in direct conflict with the wellbeing of the show. Tim Arnold and the Channel 3 publicity department didn’t have access to the quality publications that Liza had, and their work lacked Liza’s class. If Robert Bryce ever wanted to know why he’d sacked the best in the busin
ess, Alain had only to shrug and say ‘You created the precedent, Robert. You said “What Edwina wants, Edwina gets”.’
Alain couldn’t believe how easy it was to sabotage this show. There was no need for him to do anything — they were doing it themselves. He looked back at the photographs. A ridiculous storyline about Vietnamese boat people, Chris gone, Liza gone. Hell, the only thing left up to Alain was to rip off some ideas from Evan, and that part was easy. Evan was already slaving away over three new concepts under the misguided belief that Channel 3 was going to give birth to one of his embryos and that he would be heralded as the creator of a new hit series. Things couldn’t have been going better for Alain. And Alain couldn’t have been nicer or more agreeable to Edwina.
Yes, of course he would demand that the paper print an apology for any unintended slur upon Edwina’s character. And, yes, of course, he assured her, it would be easy to undo most of the damage. They’d had their headliner story and no doubt would be quite willing to make reparation in exchange for some tawdry bits of smut Tim Arnold could dig up about stars from rival networks.
As she hung up, Edwina allowed herself a moment’s confusion. Why had Alain been so amenable? Then the rush of hatred for Liza returned. What the hell did it matter? He’d agreed; Liza was out. Now all Edwina had to do was spread the word elsewhere.
As he watched her pick up the phone again, Davey felt powerless. What drove Edwina when she felt this need to destroy? As a friend from childhood, Davey knew every reason for Edwina’s need to fight, but to destroy? Davey shrugged to himself and stood by, helpless. There was no stopping her.
Alain settled back in the semidarkness and sipped at his coffee. In front of him a camera was trained on a small lighted interview set and Chris was chatting to the Indonesian girl. She was even more beautiful than her photograph but Alain was no longer interested. He’d seen what he wanted.
On his way to Studio D, Alain had popped his head into the greenroom to have a quick glance at the Asian talent.
‘Hello, girls. I’m Alain King, executive producer. Just thought I’d wish you good luck.’ There were ten of them, all lookers, and there was the Indonesian girl. Yes, she was the pick of the bunch. But who was that standing behind her? A shy face peeked around the girl’s shoulder and Alain caught his breath.
She was petite and fragile and very, very young, with gleaming blue-black hair. She knew his eyes had sought her out and she smiled a shy, gentle smile in return. She must have been fourteen, fifteen at the outside.
‘Yes … well, good luck, everyone.’ Alain backed out before his desire became too obvious. What was her name? How come there hadn’t been a photo and biog on her? Not to worry, he’d make sure she got the part and then … Alain pushed the door open to studio D … all those research sessions!
After the Indonesian girl, there was a Chinese, a Malay, a Thai and then … There she was. Alain tried to keep his voice steady as he muttered to Jim, seated beside him, ‘Right age’.
‘Too young.’
Jim was rifling through the photographs and biographies. He didn’t notice the sharp look Alain gave him and it wouldn’t have worried him if he had.
Ever since Chris had told him that he was leaving, and the reason why, Jim’s attitude to Alain had changed. He’d put up with Alain’s arrogance in the past because of the man’s talent, but Alain no longer seemed to care about the quality of the show and Jim found that unforgivable.
Jim remained outwardly civil, of course. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. He didn’t want to — he still cared very deeply about the show.
Jim watched with admiration as Chris took the auditionees through their paces. Many of them were very inexperienced but even the most nervous relaxed with him.
The girl’s name was Tran and she was Vietnamese. Chris looked questioningly at Jim. Jim shook his head.
‘We don’t seem to have any details about you, Tran. Who’s your agent?’ Chris asked.
‘No agent.’ The girl’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘How did you know about the audition?’
‘Friend of mine. She was going to come. Then decide not. She tell me I should smash audition.’
Chris laughed. ‘Crash. She told you to crash the audition?’
The girl smiled back. ‘Crash. Yes.’
‘How old are you, Tran?’
The girl looked nervously towards Jim. She’d witnessed the communication between the two men and sensed that it was Jim who was making the rules.
‘Seventeen.’ There seemed a slight question mark at the end and Chris again glanced at Jim. He gave a slight shake of the head and Chris agreed. There was no way this girl was seventeen.
‘I’m sorry, Tran, you’re just a little bit too young for this part.’
The girl’s look shifted to Alain. It was a direct plea and again he felt his pulse quicken with desire.
‘If you’d like to leave your name and phone number with the man at the door — the man with the headphones — we’ll get in touch with you when we’re after someone a little younger, OK?’ Chris was ushering her gently towards the door as he nodded for the next girl to be called.
‘He’s not even going to run the camera on her, for God’s sake,’ Alain hissed to Jim. ‘Call her back.’
‘She’s too young, Alain.’
‘Jesus Christ! The part’s written for a fifteen-year-old.’
‘To be played by someone over sixteen. We don’t want to have to arrange guardianship and everything.’
‘She said she was seventeen.’
Chris joined them. ‘Like hell. And she can’t act. Did you hear that voice? She can’t speak above a whisper.’
Alain wanted to run after the girl. ‘I still think we should test her.’
Both men looked at him with loathing. They knew.
‘Hello, Suzie, isn’t it?’ Chris consulted his list and walked over to the Chinese girl who was looking a little lost in the middle of the studio floor.
With the exception of the ninety minutes it took to tape two short scenes, Edwina had spent all afternoon on the phone and was well satisfied with the damage she’d caused Liza. The woman would find it very difficult to get a job in this town again. Well, Edwina shrugged, maybe she could go back to art gallery openings, but that was about it. There was one final phone call to be made.
‘Liza was right about one thing,’ Edwina said to Davey as she dialled. ‘It’s time to get rid of Rosa.’
Davey felt a sudden chill down his spine. Was Edwina going mad? The damage Rosa could do! ‘Edwina, I think … ’
‘Hello, Rosa? It’s me.’
‘Edwina, darling!’ The voice poured sympathy down the line. ‘I’ve called you about twenty times, ever since I read that dreadful article but —’
‘Yes, I’ve been on the phone.’
‘You poor thing, you must be —’
‘I’ve decided to leave the agency, Rosa.’
Well, that shut her up, Edwina thought, as Davey cringed in the background. She waited a long time for Rosa to say something but there was only a stunned silence.
‘The show’s sold to the States,’ Edwina resumed ‘and I need an American agent, so —’
‘Liza Farrelly’s idea, I take it?’ The gushing bonhomie was gone and the voice cut like a knife.
‘Why Liza’s?’
‘Because you’ve been pissing in each other’s pockets for months now and the bitch wants me out, that’s why.’ Rosa’s true vulgarity showed itself whenever she was cornered. ‘Well, I’m not going to let you do it, Edwina.’
‘I don’t see there’s much you can do about it. I’ll call around and collect my files and tapes tomorrow morning.’
‘Like hell you will. Tell your friend Liza fucking Farrelly to come and get them for you — she can collect a nice juicy story while she’s here.’
Rosa slammed the phone down and sat staring at it, breathing heavily, beads of sweat popping out on her brow. Liza Farrelly had convinced Edwina
Dawling to leave the agency! Between them they were about to ruin her. She hated them both.
‘Are you all right?’ It was Dee at the door, all ready to leave.
‘Yes. Go, go.’ Rosa forced a smile. ‘You go home, dear. I’m working late tonight — I’ll lock up.’
As the door closed behind Dee, Rosa picked up the receiver again and dialled Liza Farrelly’s number. Yes, she thought, Liza could come around and see her — she’d give her a few home truths, all right. Rosa felt a rush of uncontrollable hatred. Come on, come on! Answer the phone, cunt.
‘Good night, Mr King.’
Alain didn’t acknowledge his secretary as he stormed out of his office. It had been an irritating afternoon. He’d questioned the first assistant about Tran but evidently she’d left no contact phone number. He’d tried to date the Indonesian girl with a hefty hint that if she was nice to him the part was hers. The bitch had led him on. She’d nodded politely which at first he took to be encouragement, then stupidity, which perfectly suited his purpose. Finally, deciding that actions spoke louder than words, particularly when dealing with a dumb woman, he put his arm around her waist and started shepherding her to the door.
‘Let’s discuss it over a drink, shall we?’
The Indonesian girl stopped nodding and stood her ground. ‘You realise this is sexual harassment, don’t you?’ The voice was beautifully modulated with perfect enunciation and the eyes gleamed with an assurance that put her way out of his league. She was a brown version of Edwina. Alain dropped his hand. ‘Now, piss off,’ the girl said, ‘before I call the police.’
‘Good night, Mr King.’ Alain didn’t acknowledge the receptionist as he stormed past the front desk. He looked at his watch and wondered if it was too late to call the massage agency. The decent girls were probably all booked out by now. The automatic doors closed silently behind him.
‘Mr King?’ The voice, barely a whisper, came from amongst the ornate potted palms which lined the drive to the main doors of the channel. Alain stopped, confused.
