by Fern Britton
Smiling, Helen checked her reflection in her cheval mirror. She hoped she’d chosen the right image for her first real day on set. Her skinny black jeans, black suede trainers and black cashmere roll-neck jumper set her newly bobbed auburn hair off well. Her eyebrows had new definition and her top lip and chin were as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom.
Penny had apologised for speaking the truth so cruelly and had treated Helen to a day at the Starfish spa to make it up to her.
Downstairs, she collected her all-weather anorak from the hook by the back door, a large cardboard box from the front door and went out into the biting late January air.
She didn’t have far to go. Turning right out of her gate, she had only to walk the fifty paces to one of the two holiday cottages next door.
The front door was wide open to reveal the Mavis Crewe location production office. Booking the cottage had been one of the last things Charlie had managed to arrange before the disastrous events of the skiing weekend.
A couple of young men were huddled round the tea urn chatting and waiting for orders. Helen recognised the director, Sven, whom Penny had introduced to her the night she’d volunteered to fill in for Charlie. He was sitting in an armchair with his feet up on a low coffee table, stroking his wispy beard and listening intently to a young woman with Titian hair wound up on her head and secured with a bulldog clip. She was wearing baggy jeans with a walkie-talkie radio clipped on to the back pocket and her small feet were clad in green Doc Martens. The whole look was topped off with a short, navy quilted jacket. She had a clipboard and was going through the day’s schedule.
‘The art director, lighting director and DOP want to talk to you in five to set up exactly what you want for tomorrow’s scenes.’ The young woman’s walkie-talkie crackled and a voice said, ‘Jim to Gilly. Meet you and Sven in the dining bus in two minutes.’ Gilly looked at Sven for confirmation. He nodded and pulled his lanky legs off the coffee table to stand up.
‘Gilly to Jim. See you there. Travelling now.’
The pair of them strode past Helen, ignoring her nervous smile.
‘Morning,’ she addressed the two young men by the tea urn.
‘Morning.’
‘I’m Helen – Penny Leighton’s PA. Well, the temporary one.’
‘I’m Jako and this is Haz.’ They all shook hands.
‘I suppose you know all about this filming stuff, do you?’
‘A bit.’
‘Then I’m hoping you can tell me, because I’m a complete novice.’
In the course of ten minutes, the boys gave her a quick and dirty lesson on the essential things she needed to know. The pair of them were twins, freshly graduated from the National Film School, and this was their first major job. They were runners, sometimes known as gofers. Whatever was needed, they did it. The girl with the bulldog clip in her hair was Gilly, the first assistant director, or in film-set shorthand: First. It was her job to organise the schedules, the cast, the crew and anything else the director might want her to do. The DOP was the director of photography or cameraman. The double-decker buses blocking Queenie’s shop were the dining rooms. The large white lorry was the catering truck and the mobile loos were the honey wagons.
‘What you don’t know, just blag. You’ll be fine,’ Haz said cheerfully as he and Jako left to find bacon butties.
*
Helen commandeered one of the three tables as her desk and sat down. There was a phone and little else. She had bought everything she could think of in Ryman’s yesterday, and now she began to take it all out of her cardboard box. She was so absorbed in the pleasure of new stationery that she jumped when her mobile rang. It was Penny.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the holiday cottage. I’m setting up my desk.’
‘Good. Stay there until I call you. Are the computers in yet?’
Helen looked around. ‘No.’
‘Stay put. The IT man is on his way. He said he’d be in by half-eight.’
‘Right, bye.’ But Penny had already gone.
Ten minutes later, Haz and Jako returned with meal vouchers for her – ‘You can’t get any food without handing these over first!’ – and a bacon butty with a polystyrene cup of surprisingly good cappuccino.
‘Thanks, lads.’
‘No probs, Hel. Gotta go – Gilly’s calling for us. See ya. Good luck!’
Over the next hour or so, Penny rang many times with queries and orders. She was at the Starfish, waiting for Sven to come over. The basement of the hotel had been hired as a rehearsal room for the cast. It would be the first opportunity for the actors to meet and read through the script together. Penny was nervous.
‘Thank God they’re all here under one roof, at least. But no one has come down for breakfast yet. The read-through starts at ten. I hate it when we get behind schedule on the first day.’
‘When will you rehearse? You start filming tomorrow.’
‘It’s not like a play. They don’t need to learn the lines or rehearse until the last minute because we’ll shoot everything out of sequence. But we do need to get them all together to read the script through so that they know how a scene plays and have met the rest of the cast before shooting begins. God, I hate act—’
Helen heard the sound of Penny’s hand being clamped over the receiver, followed by her muffled voice saying, ‘Dahlia, how lovely to see you! You look great.’ There was the sound of air being kissed, then, ‘Helen, got to go. Once the IT man has been, come straight over here. I need you.’ She hung up.
*
The IT man came soon after. It was apparent that he’d be quite some time, so Helen left him to it and went over to the Starfish with her own laptop, a notepad and a fistful of pens and pencils.
The receptionist showed her down to the basement rehearsal room where she finally entered the heart of the showbiz world.
Sitting on chairs arranged in a circle were roughly thirty people. She recognised Dahlia Dahling immediately. An attractive woman in her late forties, still strongly exuding sex appeal. She sat with her toned, silk-stocking-clad legs crossed neatly and her tight pencil skirt riding up to reveal the lacy line of a stocking top. Her white, tailored shirt was unbuttoned just enough to expose a sumptuously milky cleavage. One black stiletto hung invitingly from the toes of a foot that was crossed over her left leg. A scent of lily of the valley, and possibly sex, hung around her and filled the room.
Wow, thought Helen, she is gorgeous. She looked around the rest of the company. They were all entranced, listening to Dahlia’s sensual voice reading one of the scenes.
‘Darling Mr Tibbs, if we don’t find that missing necklace soon, Jack will go to prison and Hetty’s heart will be broken.’
A good-looking man, also in his forties, sitting next to Dahlia, began to speak. ‘My dear, I am well aware of the consequences should we not locate those pearls. If only we had at least one clue.’
Dahlia waited a beat then, ‘I noticed Lord Trimsome’s maid – Nell, I think her name is – being comforted by Doctor Cochran in the tea shop the other day. Maybe I’ll go up to the house to enquire after her and see if there’s anything else I can find out.’
‘Nancy, if there’s anything to discover, you’re the woman to do it. Now pass the garibaldis …’
There was a brief silence when they reached the end of the scene, then Dahlia and the handsome actor looked up at Sven with smiles on their faces.
‘Great!’ Sven started to clap and everybody joined in. When the noise subsided, Sven continued, ‘Let’s take a short break for coffee. Fantastic first half.’ He turned and started a quiet conversation with Penny, who was on his right.
Helen joined them. ‘How’s it going?’
‘All good so far. Dahlia is perfect as Nancy Trumpet, and David is just so charming and easy-going. He’s already nailed the part of Maurice Tibbs.’ Penny put her arms round Sven and gave him a squeeze. ‘I think we’re going to pull this off! This could be the start of a lic
ence to print money.’
Sven hugged her back. ‘Don’t tempt fate, love! How many more books did old Mavis write about Mr Tibbs?’
‘There are eighteen all together, and Penny Leighton Productions has the TV rights to every last one! Ker-ching!’
Helen laughed. ‘I hope my wages will reflect your success.’
Penny hugged her too, then, ‘Depends how well you do your job! It’s not too late for me to get someone else, you know.’
*
A quarter of an hour later and they were all back in their seats to read through to the end.
‘Right, let’s read on,’ called Sven from his chair, and they did.
Having read the novel as part of her preparation for the job, Helen was already familiar with the plot, but she watched transfixed as the actors breathed life into the characters: Nell Smith, the penniless lady’s maid, three months’ pregnant after being seduced by Lord Gerald Trimsome. Trinsome’s slimy chauffeur, Harold, who stumbles upon Nell’s secret and blackmails her, demanding £250 or else he will go to Her Ladyship and tell all. Jack Smith, Nell’s brother and the manor’s handyman, who has the misfortune to be pruning the wisteria around Lady Trimsome’s window on the afternoon a valuable pearl necklace goes missing from her dressing table. Pompous Chief Inspector Leslie Whistler, who deems the theft an open-and-shut case and wastes no time in arresting Jack.
Fortunately for Jack, amateur sleuth Maurice Tibbs, the St Brewey bank manager, and his glamorous secretary Nancy Trumpet are determined to prove his innocence.
Standing in the basement of the Starfish Hotel, watching the actors in their modern-day clothes, reading from scripts, Helen found herself transported to 1930s St Brewey. Though she had yet to see all the locations, she could picture the interior of Mr Tibbs’ office as a chance remark from Mrs Trumpet had him springing up from his desk in excitement: ‘Nancy! That’s it! Quick, get the car out, we are going to Trimsome Manor.’ As she listened to Tibbs gently extracting the truth from Nell and then demanding an audience with Lord Trimsome and his chauffeur, she imagined the contrast between the servants’ quarters and the grand surroundings of His Lordship’s library, where the final denouement would take place.
While Dahlia assumed the soft tones of Mrs Trumpet comforting poor Nell, David Cunningham was majestic in his cross-examination of the philandering Lord Trimsome and his blackmailing chauffeur. Shaken by Tibbs’ revelations, His Lordship invites Lady Trimsome to join them in the library, and it emerges that she has known all along about her cheating husband and Nell. Hoping to get the girl dismissed before the scandal of the baby could be discovered, it had been her intention to hide the pearls and accuse Nell of having stolen them. On learning that Jack’s heartbroken sweetheart Hetty has attempted suicide, Lady Trimsome breaks down and confesses.
‘My work here is done,’ read Cunningham. ‘I have important business at the police station. You stay here, Mrs Trumpet, and look after the women. I’ll pick you up once I have reunited Jack with Hetty.’
Dahlia now took centre stage as Nancy and set about persuading Lord and Lady Trimsome to provide Nell and her baby with a home and income by allowing her to stay on as Her Ladyship’s personal maid. Lord Trimsome, having thanked his wife for her kindness and understanding, excuses himself and leaves the room. Some minutes later, a gunshot is heard in the library. His Lordship has done the decent thing.
The final scene featured Mr Tibbs and Mrs Trumpet leaving the graveyard after the funeral.
‘A sorry business, Mrs Trumpet.’
‘Yes indeed, Mr Tibbs. But at least that poor child will have a wonderful life.’
‘There’s a new tea shop opened by the river. Fancy some tiffin, Mrs Trumpet?’
‘I thought you’d never ask, Mr Tibbs.’
There followed a short silence, then David Cunningham began a deep, joyful laugh. ‘That is the best ending ever! Hilarious. Bless old Mavis Crewe.’
Everyone was laughing now.
Penny nudged Helen under the table and whispered, ‘This is a good sign. If they feel it’s fun from the off, the shoot will go a lot better.’
Sven was back on his feet. ‘Congratulations, everyone. Play it straight like that, and the warmth and humour of Miss Mavis Crewe can’t fail to delight the viewers. If this doesn’t win a BAFTA, or at the very least a National Television Award, I shall eat my director’s hat.’
More appreciative laughter. Sven shushed them with his hands. ‘And I am delighted to tell you that Mavis herself is hoping to visit us when she gets back from her world cruise. OK, that’s it, everyone. Lunch!’
*
With the exception of Miss Dahling and Mr Cunningham, who were shown into a waiting Bentley, the cast were taken by minibus down to Pendruggan’s location catering, the double-decker buses that had now been moved a suitable distance from Queenie’s, for their lunch. The afternoon would be spent in final costume fittings and wig checks, ready for tomorrow: day one of filming.
Helen and Penny walked down the broad steps of the hotel to Helen’s car. ‘What a great day,’ said Helen. ‘What time do you want me tomorrow?’
‘This day has only just begun, girl. You knock off when I tell you to. Drive me down to the location production office and we’ll get stuck into some real work.’
29
Helen had never worked so hard in her life. Not that it was hard physical work, like running around after a toddler all day, but mentally, and emotionally, it was exhausting. Penny, on the other hand, worked like a machine, her brain apparently faster than the super-fast Internet connection newly installed in the location office. The demands on her to make speedy decisions came every few minutes:
‘I don’t like the blue of Trumpet’s office. More lavendery … And the wig is too strawberry … I want Trumpet’s hair to be platinum …’
Helen’s only respite was the ringing of Penny’s BlackBerry, announcing a new interruption.
During a brief lull, Penny motioned Helen to pull up a chair next to her and said, ‘I am now going to give you the blueprint of a day’s shooting schedule. Write it down, and commit it to memory. ANY schedule can be worked into this. If it’s a night shoot, just insert p.m. for a.m. And vice versa. OK? Ready?’
‘Right, yes, let me just get my pen—’
But Penny was off, ‘Five forty-five a.m.: wake-up call for cast and crew. Six forty-five: everyone on set. Seven: breakfast – no one works well on an empty stomach. Seven-twenty: crew start setting up, actors to make-up and wardrobe. Eight: check that SA’s are in position.’
‘SA’s?’
‘Supporting artistes. A fancy name for extras. Otherwise known as Background. They are always hungry and trying to get themselves in shot. Eight-thirty: call actors on set for rehearsals, then release them back to wardrobe and make-up. Nine a.m.: hopefully first shot of the day. One p.m.: break for lunch. Try to be first in the queue or you’ll wait for ages, and I like my lunch hot.’
‘Right.’
‘One-thirty: crew back at work to set up again. Seven-thirty p.m.: wrap for the day – we don’t want to pay overtime and have union squabbles. Sven will give notes on the day’s work to cast and crew alike, then the cast return to the hotel to learn their lines and have an early night. Although by week two they’re usually in the bar till late and bed-hopping for the rest of the night. Eight-thirty: crew to make the set safe and secure before leaving. Nine p.m.: crew in bed and lights out … One hopes.’ Penny looked up at Helen. ‘Got that?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. Don’t forget it.’
‘Penny, please don’t speak to me like that. I am your friend, remember, and doing you a favour.’
Penny smiled sheepishly. ‘Oops. Sorry, Helen, I am grateful.’
Then she was off again.
‘Another thing you need to know is about actors. They are insecure, charming and dangerous. DO NOT fall for one.’ Helen glanced up from her notes. ‘Don’t give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look, lady.
On your current form, you’ll be beating them off.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
Both women laughed.
‘Let me continue. Actors work perfectly well in the real world. They can drive cars, work kettles and open doors. On set, they can do none of these things.’
Helen laughed again.
‘No, I’m serious. They will blame everyone but themselves if things don’t go their way, and they will also have some sort of emotional breakdown at the slightest criticism of their performance, costume, wig et cetera. AND they will expect to sleep with whoever they choose.’ Helen’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. ‘It’s true! Even you, Helen. And they make some quite extraordinary demands too, you wait and see.’
Penny leant forward and added in a more serious voice, ‘Having said all that, actors are brave and hard-working, and the good ones are incredibly gifted. Can you imagine a job where you put all your thoughts and emotions, not to mention your body, out there for the world and his wife to adore or criticise without mercy? To learn lines, to pretend to be in love with your co-star, even though you actually loathe each other. It’s a hard and cruel profession, but if you get it right the rewards, emotionally and financially, are huge. Get it wrong and you’re yesterday’s man – or woman.’
‘Blimey. No wonder they have a reputation for being tricky to handle.’
‘Quite, but don’t go soft on them. They need boundaries, regular meals and an early bedtime.’
‘Like kids?’
‘Yes, Hel, just like kids.’
*
The two friends worked well into the night. Helen typing up endless notes and schedules while answering emails, getting coffee and trying to sneak a proper look at the transformation taking place in Pendruggan. A couple of weeks ago it had been a twenty-first-century village. But now it was a quintessential 1930s village. The false row of buildings masking the council houses were fully dressed with wisteria up the walls, quaint front gardens and curtains at the windows. The stately South-West Friendly Bank had its sign up, hand-painted in wood to look like solid brass, but if you walked through the front door you’d meet nothing but the scaffolding that was keeping the whole lot standing.
