Midsummer Madness
Page 21
‘Till the next one,’ I said. ‘There’ll be another one, I’m sure.’
The West Enders went into voluntary hibernation. The company had no theatre and had to wait until the Royale was rebuilt. We dispersed like migrating birds to softer climes.
Elinor had another contract to fulfil. Jessica went off to Italy to film. Byron successfully auditioned for a small part in a soap. Bill and Millie got engaged and we all needed a holiday after their party. Joe flew back to the States. I didn’t go to Heathrow to see him off. I didn’t want to see him go, walking through passport control.
The management apologized profusely about my abrupt dismissal, said it was a complete misunderstanding and they had been misinformed as to my contribution to the show. They had not realized I was the unknown who had saved the opening night from being cancelled.
It was quite a fulsome apology but not earth-chewingly grovelling. They did not feel they were to blame for the mistake. However, they did give me a glowing reference and a handshake, not quite golden, silver or bronze, but a shade of metal that bolstered my bank account for a few months, settled the urgent bills.
I was packing up the contents of my flat, only a few days after closing, when Elinor phoned me. I was trying to cut down on the self-breeding mountain of books and CDs and ancient 78 rpm records. Soon I would be settled in Dorset and there was barely room for me in the cottage, let alone all my clobber.
‘Sophie dear, are you all right, after that ridiculous fuss?’ It was Elinor.
‘Sure,’ I said, putting a pile of books aside for the charity shop, then changing my mind. How could I throw any away? They were like extended family. ‘Life has to go on. I’m OK, really. How are you?’
‘Madly rehearsing, as usual. Nice to have a part where I don’t have to try and look young. I can relax my wrinkles and let them drop.’
I laughed. ‘You mean, both of them?’
‘You don’t have to flatter me, my dear. Now, Sophie, you know I have a very nice man friend who owns the television company that produces this late-night chat show called After Dark. You may have seen it? No? Apparently they have been let down at the very last moment. Someone has cancelled. Very inconsiderate. And they are one guest short. So I suggested you.’
‘Me?’ I didn’t really understand what Elinor was talking about. I’d never seen the show. ‘Why me?’
‘All you have got to do is chat about what it’s like being a prompt at the Royale, throw in a few famous names, preferably mine. Add some funny anecdotes, you’ve dozens of them, I’m sure. Piece of cake. About ten minutes at the most. They’ll pay, of course.’ Elinor was breathless by the end of all that. ‘Quite generously. And expenses.’
‘But I’m not a chat show person. I don’t know how to chat. Sorry, ask someone else, Elinor. You must know dozens of other, far more suitable people.’
‘Anybody can do a chat show. You sit on a sofa, cross your legs and talk naturally. Easy as pie. Say you’ll do it, Sophie. They are desperate.’
I nearly laughed. So desperate at this moment that they would take anyone, even a total nonentity like me. A couple of parrots could talk themselves into the job without even trying. ‘So when is it?’ I asked, casually, still packing, barely listening.
‘Tonight, dear. Be at the studios by nine o’clock. The show goes on at eleven. Got a pen? Here’s the address. Write this down.’
I panicked. ‘Tonight? You mean, this tonight? I can’t do tonight.’
‘Yes, of course, you can. Are you doing anything else?’
‘No, I’m not, but I can’t. I can’t go on television. I’ve nothing to wear, nothing suitable. I haven’t got a wardrobe full of posh clothes.’
‘Take a selection,’ said Elinor, airly. ‘They’ll choose something. They can do wonders with a scarf. Are you writing this down? Good. Thank you, Sophie. Break a leg, darling.’
That’s how it started. I was a last minute fill-in guest when After Dark were desperate. I was a face and a voice. I could recite Mary, Mary Quite Contrary and make it sound like a sonnet if I liked. They wouldn’t care what I said so long as I filled in a spare space on that sofa.
I phoned Hilda in a panic, wondering if I could borrow something out of the West Enders wardrobe. The costumes were carefully stored in a warehouse while the Royale was being rebuilt. Hilda had the key.
‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘What about that red fringe dress you wore to the press night? You looked stunning in that.’
‘A bit bright, isn’t it?’
‘You’re worse then Elinor. You’d wear black day in and day out like every day was a funeral. I’ll pick out a few dresses for you to take along.’
‘Thank you so much. Or else I’ll have to scour the charity shops for something to wear.’
‘Never. We’ll find you something for the show. For heaven’s sake, we can’t have you going on television in a charity dress. What would Joe think?’
‘He won’t know. He’s back in the States. Directing a new show.’
‘Are you sure?’ There was something in Hilda’s voice but I couldn’t make out what it was. My mind was spinning with what to talk about, stories to tell, how to get the ordeal over without making a fool of myself. This was a madness.
What had Hilda said about Joe? I couldn’t remember. The rest of the day raced into oblivion, filled with washing hair, face pack, doing my nails. Who’d notice my nails? Glittery nail varnish perhaps? A morale booster.
Those devil nerves were starting to attack me. What had Joe said? You need those nerves to give you an edge of danger, something like that. I was only going to sit on a sofa for ten minutes, for heaven’s sake. Not exactly rocket science. And it was late at night. About three people and their dog would be watching. The dog wouldn’t mind what I was saying as long as he had a biscuit.
Hilda met me outside the television studio. She had a couple of bulging carrier bags. ‘The dresses are all non-crease. Just shake them out. I popped in a couple of pairs of sandals,’ she said. ‘Your hair looks great. Sock it to them, girl. Show them what you are made of.’
‘Thank you so much.’ My voice was already trembling. I was feeling sick. I was made of pink marshmallow. ‘I’m sure the dresses will be wonderful.’
‘Don’t forget to mention the West Enders! You know what they say about publicity. Any publicity is good.’
If I got that far. I was going to pass out in the dressing room, collapse on the way to the set, fall off the sofa. It was written in the stars. There was no Joe to support me. There was only me. I was on my own.
A young make-up girl fussed over my face, redoing what I had already done so carefully, fluffing, powdering, glossing and crimping. She zipped me into the red dress, put sandals on my feet. My limbs weren’t working on their own. She chatted away but I didn’t take in a single word.
A groovy, spike-haired male assistant pinned on a body mike as if I was a shop dummy, gave me directions about not looking at the cameras but I didn’t understand a word he said. He was speaking some foreign language, Albanian perhaps.
He pointed me in the direction of the set which was at the end of a bare, empty corridor. I was Alice in Wonderland going down a long tunnel, not knowing where I was going, wading through mud, waiting to die. Over a doorway was a red flashing sign saying ‘Transmitting’. A girl with a clipboard held me back at a curtained doorway, then suddenly said ‘Now,’ and pushed me through. It was like walking on broken glass. My toes curled in the sandals.
The lights were bright, hot. For a second I was totally blinded by the light. I aimed for the sofa, a long leather affair stretching for miles. It was all I could see though it looked solid enough. What on earth would Mark think of his Mum now? Mark. Suddenly I thought of him, smiled at everyone, the invisible millions out there, radiantly, but the smile was secretly for Mark.
‘Hello,’ I said, holding out my hand, on autopilot. ‘I’m Sophie Gresham, recently the occupant of West Enders draughty prompt corner.’
‘Not many people know that we exist,’ I said. ‘Yet every show has one. We’re one of the invisible little people.’
I didn’t remember what else I said, loads of idiotic gibberish, off the top of my head, skimming through the surface of my life. The ten minutes were over in a flash, speed of light. The host was seeing me off the set, thanking me. He looked pleased but it could have been a polite act.
Someone guided me back along the corridor. I was completely lost.
Then I collapsed in the dressing room. They were wiping the sweat off me and fanning me with paper, and giving me sparkling water to drink. It tasted like champagne. I drank and drank. Soon I would be drowning.
‘What did I say?’ I gulped, asking the assistant as he took off the mike. ‘Was it total rubbish?’
‘No way, Sophie. It was funny. It was hilarious, in fact. Everyone loved it. Viewers are phoning in, droves of them. You did good, girl.’
The host rushed into the dressing room. ‘Fabulous,’ he shouted. ‘Sophie, you were great, so funny. You’re a natural. Come back again, any time. Prompt in a corner? You shouldn’t be hidden in any corner. And those voices, all those different voices! Cate Blanchett, Renee Zellweger, Goldie Hawn, Nicole … coming out so naturally. You were absolutely spectacular. I loved it.’
He planted a big kiss somewhere on me, not quite sure where, fairly decent, I think. I was overwhelmed.
They sent me home in a taxi, with bundles of clothes and shoes and bottles of water. I was still in the red dress. I never wanted to take it off.
The phone was ringing. It never stopped ringing. I think Elinor had sent round-robin emails to everyone in the cast and crew. They’d all stayed up to watch After Dark.
Then Mark phoned. ‘Wow,’ he shrieked hysterically. ‘My Mum’s on the telly. In a late, late show. Everyone at school will be so jealous. Gran let me stay up to see it. Some lady we don’t know phoned to tell us you were on. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No. But it’s very late,’ I said, loving his young, excited voice. ‘You should really be in bed.’
‘In bed, when my Mum’s on telly? You’re joking. Fab dress. Do you get it to keep? You looked like a lampshade.’
‘No, it was borrowed. Now you go to bed and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, sweetheart.’
‘Goodnight, telly star Mum. Shine on.’
Shine on. I slept with those words echoing through my head, my son’s voice. I would be seeing him this weekend and nothing was ever going to part me from him again.
I awoke to the phone still ringing. Was it never going to stop?
‘So how is one very funny lady?’ It was Joe. He sounded as if he was in the next room. ‘I caught the show. You’re a dark horse, hiding all that talent. Well done. You were great.’
I tried to wake up, to clear my head. The red dress was flung over a chair. Then I remembered everything. It came back to me in a shock wave.
‘How could you see it? You’re in New York.’
He coughed. ‘Satellite dish,’ he said. ‘They work wonders.’
‘I was as nervous as hell.’
‘The edge of danger. Remember what I told you? Go back to sleep now, angel. I just wanted you to know.’
The rest of the day went by in highly charged confusion. And not only because of Joe’s call. I got another call from a business-like personal assistant. I was summoned immediately to some posh office, somewhere in the West End, to meet the production company. I wore a plain, straight navy slip dress Hilda had put into the carrier bag, hid my basic street anorak in another when I got there.
The office was acres of chromium and silver and a carpet as thick as a bouncy castle. I was surrounded by men in Armani suits, white shirts but no ties. A spectacularly skinny girl poured coffee and handed it round. It was my breakfast. Elinor’s executive friend was there, silver-haired and gracious, not saying much, smiling encouragement. I gathered he owned the company.
The team of producers all began talking at once. They were offering me a regular spot on After Dark. My own spot on that sofa. It would be called Prompt Cornered.
‘I don’t want to do television,’ I said.
‘Surely everybody wants to do television?’ They were amazed.
One of the men came over and hunkered down in front of me. He could see I was stunned. I hardly caught his name, Jones or something. He had very bright blue eyes, probably tinted contacts.
‘You’d interview stars from the shows. Anyone you like. Clear field, but then you’d tell it like it was when you prompted them, if you did, if you didn’t then make it up. No one will check. Be yourself. All the backstage stories. Just like it is,’ he said. ‘About wardrobe mishaps, make-up melting, scenery falling down—’
‘I don’t want to work in London any more,’ I said, wondering who was saying this. ‘I want to live in Dorset with my son.’
‘So we’d pay to put you up at a hotel in London, five star. The show would only be three nights a week, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Email contact during the week. A weekend show only, Sophie. First-class travel, generous clothes allowance. Send a car for you if it’s the wrong kind of rain on the line. Dorset isn’t the Outer Hebrides. It’s only a couple of hours away.’
‘I’ve got a small flat in London,’ I said, mentally rescuing dumped books and putting them back on shelves. ‘Which I rent.’
‘Even better. We’ll pay the rent. A lot less hassle for Administration.’
‘But I’m not on the Internet.’
‘We’ll lend you a laptop.’
‘With a proper contract?’ I asked, surfacing carefully, but still stepping on shards of glass. My brain was beginning to function with a strong instinct for survival.
‘Three months initially, with an option. See how it goes. Well, what do you say, Sophie? It’ll be fun, brilliant. So different. A real person talking sense about the theatre. The viewers loved you. They haven’t stopped phoning in.’
What could I say? Every journey begins with a single step. I put out a foot. My left one, I think it was. Then I went shopping and bought some flowers for Hilda.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mark was ecstatic. He shadow boxed round me in the kitchen, pulling no punches. I swear he’d grown another inch since I’d last been home.
‘This’ll be brilliant,’ he said. ‘You’ll be at home all week.’ Punch, punch. ‘Then buzz off to London on a Friday and be home again on Monday morning. You’ll be here practically all the time. Wow, awesome.’ Punch, near miss.
‘But not at the weekends,’ I reminded him.
‘Oh, that’s OK. I’m always busy. I’ll watch you on telly.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. After Dark is on far too late. You’ll be in bed.’
I could see his brain ticking over, manipulating the situation. ‘If we had a video, I could record the programme, then I wouldn’t need to stay up so late. I could watch it several times and give you pointers,’ he suggested loftily. ‘You know, tips from the viewer’s point of view.’
It was my umpteenth coffee that morning. I tried not to laugh. ‘Thanks a lot. I guess I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ I said.
‘And Miss Ferguson at school is going to ask you if you are free to do drama coaching a few afternoons a week. She’s going to write you a proper letter. I said you probably would.’
‘So what are you now? My agent? Thanks very much. I need an agent like I need an industrial licence.’
‘There’s lot of schools round here, especially posh boarding schools. You could turn it into a proper job. Of course, you’d have to get a car.’
‘And where would we park it? At the end of the lane, under a hedge?’
‘The farm is trying to sell off its stables and outhouses. You could buy one of them and turn it into a garage. I expect they’d give you a special
price.’
‘A video, a car, a garage,’ said my mother, bustling about, but at less speed. She was taking it carefully, moved with a sort of watchfulness. ‘You’re spending Sophie’s money faster than she’s earning it, young man.’
I was having other ideas about buying. Living in my mother’s two-up two-down down cottage was decidedly cramped since my mother had come home from hospital. I was camping out in the sitting room, sleeping on a sofa bed which was well past its comfort date. The empty cottage next door began to look more and more like a smaller version of the Ritz in my eyes. I’d even tried the door but it was locked. The hinges were loose. There was some sort of wild honeysuckle entwined all round the door with bluey-green leaves waving in the breeze.
I’d spent time on the garden, planting and pruning, and banishing weeds to the next-door pasture. I planted canons of flowers for next spring, in a mosaic of clumps. Rows on flower patrol are not that much fun.
Then I discovered that both cottages once belonged to the farm at the end of the lane, before my mother bought this one. So I did some reconnoitring, first talking to the farmer’s wife about buying a possible garage. They were eager to sell. Dairy farms were not doing too well, more forms to fill than cows to milk.
‘So what’s happening to the second cottage up the lane,’ I said, bringing it into the conversation. ‘Are you thinking of selling that as well?’
‘I doubt if we could,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s in terrible condition, falling apart. And we can’t afford to get it fixed up. No one would buy it as it is now unless it’s a builder. The only thing that’s good about it is the view. All our spare cash has to go back into the farm.’
‘Do you think I could have a look round it?’ I said. ‘Would you mind if I explored?’
‘Sure. Drop the keys back any time. But be very careful of the floorboards. They might be rotten and we’re not insured. Take a torch.’
So that’s how I came to be clambering around a derelict cottage when an unexpected visitor arrived to see me. It did need a horrendous lot of work. It needed new floorboards, new stairs, new kitchen, a proper plumbed bathroom. The rooms were lumbered down with shadows and sadness. The kitchen consisted of a deep earthenware sink, green with algae, peeling lino, unhinged cupboards and a gas stove dating back to before WWII. The broken loo was located outside in an outhouse. Huge spiders liked it a lot and had set up a colony. It was festooned with cobwebs and awash with signs of poverty and hardship.