‘Sorry about that. Can you start again? And can you please speak very slowly? I’ve got the world’s worst hangover.’
‘Again? You’ve definitely become an alcoholic.’
‘You’re one to talk. Anyway, I’m not one yet. Two big nights in a month isn’t exactly a life on the rocks, is it? Gin on the rocks, maybe. Vodka, too, if my memory is correct. Which it isn’t. Victoria, I met the most hilarious man last night. You should have —’
‘Genevieve, can we please talk about me first and then talk about you?’
‘Sorry. Of course. Definitely. But can you make it quick? I’m late for work already.’ As she spoke, the work phone in her pocket buzzed again. And again. She took it out – nine missed calls. ‘Holy hell. Victoria, seriously, I can’t talk for long. Something must be going on at work. Everyone’s looking for me.’
‘You and your glamorous two phones. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later for a proper supportive conversation. Can I just check what time you’re flying into Sydney? Your text said six, but did you mean a.m. or p.m.? I’m trying to book our onward flights to Adelaide.’
‘P.m. 1800 hours. Mum will pick us up in Adelaide, won’t she?’
‘She’d better. I’m not sure I can handle four hours of Lindy’s wailing. And apparently Dad is shackled to the computer these days and never leaves the station. Thanks, I’ll book the flights today. Who was the man last night? Is he a possible?’
‘No, gay as can be, but I’d marry him anyway. He was so much fun. You know those people who laugh so hard at your jokes that you want to be as funny as possible just to keep them going? He was like that. “You are hysterical, Genevieve. Tell me another one, Genevieve.”’
‘Was that supposed to be an American accent?’
‘I’ll have you know, people often think I am an American.’
‘An American who got lost in the Australian desert for twenty years, maybe.’
Genevieve’s phone buzzed again. ‘Another missed call. I better go.’
‘No, wait. What are you working on this week? I can’t keep up with your showbiz life.’
Genevieve named the TV series and the lead actress.
‘Ooh, what’s she like?’ Victoria said.
Genevieve couldn’t help herself. ‘You know I’m sworn to secrecy and can’t divulge anything about my work.’ She waited a beat. ‘She’s the most selfish, ill-mannered, foul-mouthed cow ever. She’s also having affairs with the director and her co-star, one of whom is male, one female. Both married. She constantly talks about them while I’m doing her hair. She also constantly and openly smokes dope, and the reason she looks so convincingly out of it on screen is because she is out of it. And now I really, really have to go! Farewell, Victoria.’
‘Farewell, Genevieve.’
Genevieve hung up, glanced at her watch and grimaced. She wasn’t just late, she was very late. Only by five minutes, but timekeeping was essential in her industry. It would never do if actors arrived in the trailer to have their hair done and found themselves waiting for the hairdresser or make-up artist. The other way round, sure. That was often the case. But this TV series was already overbudget, and the pressure was on, for cast and crew. The director had made that clear via his latest all-crew email yesterday.
If only she hadn’t had that final drink last night. She didn’t just have a headache. She was nauseous too. But it had been such good fun, and such a treat to have someone listening so intently. Be so amused by her. He’d even given her his number: ‘Ring me any time. You’re fun.’
She hailed a cab. Once she was in the seat, her bags in a jumble at her feet, she took out her work phone again. Ten missed calls. What was happening? She pressed a button to listen to her voicemail. All the callers were asking the same question. Had she seen the New York Post that morning? She brought up the online edition on her phone and scrolled down until she saw it for herself. The gossip page.
The photo by-line leapt out at her first. It was the man she’d spent last night talking and laughing with. The fun gay guy who worked as a graphic designer at the Post, he’d told her. Who hadn’t wanted to talk about himself. Unusual enough in this city. Perhaps he really was a graphic designer. But he was also the gossip columnist. The gossip columnist with either a perfect memory or a recording device that he took everywhere with him, including to noisy night clubs.
Word for word, everything she’d told him the previous night was there. The inside story on the actress. The two affairs she was having. The drugs. The misbehaviour. All the information supplied by what he called ‘an insider on the set’.
Genevieve’s stomach lurched. She rang one of the callers, Megan, her best friend on the set, the show’s make-up artist. As she waited for an answer, she tried to stay calm. The columnist hadn’t named her. No one she knew from the industry had been in the club last night. No one on the show would know it was her he was quoting, would they? Her call went to voicemail. Why wasn’t Megan answering? Genevieve asked the driver to please hurry. She was only a few blocks away now.
Her phone rang. ‘Megan?’
‘Genevieve? Where are you? You’re missing all the fun.’
‘I’m a minute away. What’s happening?’
‘Someone is in deep, deep trouble. The set has sprung a leak. A waterfall. And our director isn’t happy. Our producer isn’t happy. And our star especially isn’t happy. You’d better get here, but you won’t have any work to do. She’s just informed the boss man she’s off the project.’
‘But she can’t. She’s contracted. We’re nearly done.’
‘Apparently she can. She had a clause that if any negative publicity comes from the set, she could pull out. Why do you think we all had to sign that confidentiality clause?’
‘But we always sign those things.’
‘This time they meant it. It’s really serious. You should see everyone’s faces. It’s like a funeral around here. She’ll only come back if there’s a public beheading of the big mouth, apparently.’
‘Do you mean they know who it is?’
‘Not yet. The word is the columnist is shut tight as a vice. Said he never divulges his sources.’
Genevieve started to breathe again. Until Megan continued.
‘But then I heard that the studio will pull all their advertising in the Post if he doesn’t say who told him.’
The cab pulled up at the set. The studio had taken over an entire street on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Trailers, cables and technical equipment were crammed tightly on the sidewalks. Usually there would be movement and bustle by this time of the day. This morning, there were just huddles of people standing around, doing nothing.
All because of Genevieve.
‘I’d better go,’ Megan said. ‘I’m spying on the director’s trailer and his door’s just opened.’
‘See you soon,’ Genevieve said. Her hands were now shaking. It wasn’t just the effects of last night’s alcohol. She was in trouble. Big, big trouble. She ducked in behind a lighting van and took out her phone again. The article was worse on repeated reading. She googled the actress’s name. The article’s contents were already all over the web. The contents, her words, repeated as if they were the truth. They were the truth.
What could she do? Keep quiet? What would Victoria tell her to do? For a moment, she thought about ringing her twin for advice, but this wasn’t the time or the place. This was so serious, there was every chance someone was now bugging their phones. It wasn’t about the actress’s career. No one cared about that. In fact, her notoriety worked in the show’s favour – the more badly behaved she was, the more free publicity the show got. What mattered was money. Every hour the production was shut down cost the investors thousands of dollars. Which meant that her hour-long conversation with that charming, attentive man the night before, all those laughs they’d shared, those stories she’d told, had probably already cost tens of thousands of dollars in lost production.
She moved on, keeping her expression neutral
by sheer will as she passed another huddle of technicians, an unused set of technical desks. Stay calm, she told herself. It might blow over.
She knew within a moment of stepping into the make-up and hair trailer that it wasn’t going to blow over. Megan was up to date with all the news. She was sleeping with the assistant director and he was feeding the intelligence straight to her. She gave Genevieve the latest.
‘They’ve got a language expert on to it now. The column had direct quotes so they’re trying to see if there are any particular speech patterns that will give away who leaked it.’
Genevieve felt what little colour left in her face drain away. She was the only Australian on the set. Yes, she spoke English. Yes, she’d been working in the US for more than two years and had picked up plenty of American slang, as well as a bit of an accent, but would it be enough to wipe out her native language patterns?
‘What was it he or she said?’ she asked, trying to sound relaxed.
Megan read the article aloud. Genevieve listened, even though she already knew the words off by heart. Perhaps she was safe. It wasn’t as if she’d said the actress was a bloody drongo, a stupid sheila, or spoken in any recognisably Australian way. She was saved from having to comment by Megan’s phone ringing. As her friend launched into a lengthy retelling of the morning’s drama, Genevieve took the opportunity to set out her brushes, clips and sprays, pretending it was a normal morning.
Think, Genevieve. What could she do about this? What should she do?
Confess.
Where had that come from? The depths of her Catholic upbringing? It sounded like something her mother would say. Angela had always insisted on the truth at home. Throughout their school years – at the local school in Hawker and then at their very Catholic boarding school in Adelaide – she and Victoria had often rolled their eyes about it, and challenged her too. Genevieve generally started it. ‘That’s all very well, Mum, but if we do everything the Bible tells us to —’
‘Always turn the other cheek and always think of others —’ Victoria continued.
‘And always stop to help every poor unfortunate person we see on the side of the road —’
‘We’ll never get anything done,’ Victoria would finish.
‘They’re not rigid rules, they’re guidelines,’ their mother would say.
Guidelines to a boring life, Genevieve and Victoria decided between themselves. So as teenagers, they’d come to the conclusion that what their parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Megan was still talking to her friend, reading out the article again. Genevieve didn’t want to hear it. She started rearranging her already arranged brushes, just for something to do.
Megan finally hung up. Her phone immediately buzzed again. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed across to Genevieve. She wasn’t sorry, Genevieve could see it. Megan loved being at the centre of the day’s top gossip story. As Megan launched into the tale yet again, Genevieve picked up her phone to call Victoria. Her number was ringing when the door of the trailer opened. It was Tim, the assistant director, Megan’s current boyfriend. He knew something, Genevieve could tell from his expression. She hung up. Across the trailer, so did Megan.
‘Well?’ Megan said.
‘We’re about to be called together. In fifteen minutes’ time, on set. They want a confession. If the person who blabbed doesn’t tell all by eleven a.m. today, the whole unit shuts down. We get a surprise day off. Possibly a surprise week off. A couple of surprise months off, the way the industry is at the moment.’
Megan’s reaction was noisy enough to cover Genevieve’s shocked silence. So Genevieve was now not just responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars of lost investor money, but also the livelihoods of more than a hundred people? Her heart started beating faster.
‘And if the person does confess?’ Was that really her talking? That calm, quiet voice?
‘They lose their job but we keep ours. The show goes on. One falls for the sake of many. That’s what we’re all about to hear. A no-brainer really.’
Genevieve thought of the bills on the table in her apartment. The credit card bill in particular. She thought of next month’s rent, due in five days’ time. She had already paid for her airfare to Australia. Could she cash it in, not go back? No, she was longing to see Victoria. And her parents. Lindy. Ig. Then she thought of Bill, the lighting guy. His wife had just had their first baby. She knew that Ron, in set construction, was trying to buy an apartment. The actress at the centre of this would get another job, another role, another magazine cover. But the others?
Tim was right. It was a no-brainer.
‘Coffee?’ Again, she was surprised at how normal she sounded.
‘You’re a doll,’ Megan said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Back soon.’ Or possibly never again.
She went to the coffee van first. There was a queue. With production stopped, everyone had time on their hands.
‘Hi,’ she heard.
She turned. It was Coffee Guy, as she and Megan had dubbed him. A man in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, solidly built. Genevieve only ever met him here in the line. They had a running joke that they shared the same level of caffeine addiction. She wasn’t sure what he did on set. A technician, she’d guessed, or maybe one of the security guys, since he wore the black waterproof jacket with the studio logo on the left pocket that they all sported. They never talked much – like today, the line moved too quickly to allow in-depth conversations – but she always enjoyed their exchanges. He’d been to Australia once, he’d told her. He’d gone scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef. She’d never even seen the Great Barrier Reef and she’d grown up in Australia, she said.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve never seen the Chrysler Building and I grew up in New York,’ he said.
‘It’s there, look.’ She pointed behind them.
He turned, raised his eyebrows. ‘So it is. Wow.’ He gave her a big smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘This is my tenth coffee today,’ he said to her now. ‘I may look peaceful on the outside but I’m like Niki Lauda on the inside. The race-car driver? No? How about Nick Faldo? The golfer?’
She was too jittery to be able to joke back to him. She just smiled. His heart was racing? Hers felt like it was on warp speed. She collected her three coffees, smiled at him again as she walked past and then delivered the drinks back to Megan and Tim. They were still gossiping in the trailer. She couldn’t join in. She couldn’t even drink her coffee. Her pulse rate was at dangerous levels already. There was something she had to do. Right now.
‘Back in a while,’ she said to Megan.
‘More coffee? You won’t be sleeping for weeks.’
Genevieve had to ask for directions. She hardly knew what the director looked like, let alone where his trailer was. She’d had more dealings with the production manager. It had been going so well for her here in New York. She’d loved every minute of the past two years. She’d worked on feature films, music videos, TV ads, one-off specials. She’d met film stars from her childhood, up-and-coming indie actors. Nice people, horrible people. She’d seen great actors with ordinary faces and poor actors with photogenic faces. She’d pinched herself every day to think that the career that had begun as an after-school job in outback South Australia had brought her here, to New York, to the set of an Emmy Award–winning TV series —
That she had brought to a halt.
Her final steps to the director’s trailer felt like a prelude to an execution. Five people were standing in front of it. She knew just one of them, Laurence, the third assistant director. He was reading something on his phone that was making him frown. She waited, then took a breath and walked across to him.
‘Laurence? Can I have a word? In private?’
‘It’s not a good time —’
‘I know something about —’ she made a vague gesture, ‘the situation.’
‘Sorry, who are you?’
Why would he know who she was? ‘Genevieve Gillespie. I’m the h
airstylist.’
‘You know something about the article?’
She nodded.
‘Stay there.’
She’d thought she could tell him and he would then tell the director. But he’d gone up the stairs, spoken to someone and was now back in the doorway, beckoning her over. To talk to the director? The director who had won four Emmys and was rumoured to be directing his first feature film for Harvey Weinstein as soon as this series wrapped?
He gestured again. Hurry up, it said.
She’d longed to meet the director. But not in circumstances like this.
She walked up the stairs. Laurence let her pass, then stepped outside. It was now just her, Genevieve Gillespie, hairstylist, age thirty-two, twin to Victoria, formerly of Errigal sheep station in outback Australia, standing in a small trailer in New York City, opposite one of the best-known TV directors in America.
She swallowed, so loudly they could both hear it. He stared at her, waiting. She started to talk. And talk. She told him everything, about the bar, the drinks, how she’d struck up a conversation with this man, how they’d laughed, how she couldn’t seem to stop saying things to him, because he was laughing so much. The more the director stared at her, the more she told him. Until finally there was nothing to add. Nothing to do but stare at him staring at her.
She’d hoped for understanding. For a brief flare of anger followed by forgiveness, reassurance that this would all soon be forgotten, that she’d learn never to trust eager listening ears in late-night bars, that this city thrived on gossip but gossip had a price.
She was wrong on all counts. Within seconds, a security guard was leading her back to the make-up trailer to collect her things. Her work phone was taken from her. Megan had the decency to give her a hug, to say, ‘I’ll call you’, even if she only whispered it in her ear. It was afterwards she remembered Megan had her work phone number and Genevieve no longer had her work phone.
She was brought back to the director’s trailer. An assistant had appeared, a printer was whirring. With shaking hands, she was forced to sign a hastily typed-up affidavit that would be couriered across town to the actress’s luxury hotel. It got worse. She was forced to film a confession, looking into the camera on the director’s iPhone. They told her exactly what to say. ‘I, Genevieve Gillespie, was the source of the false and hurtful gossip that appeared in this morning’s New York Post. I accept that it was wholly untrue and without foundation and I am deeply sorry for any hurt I have caused by my actions. I have handed in my resignation.’ It stuck in her throat, saying the words she knew were untrue, in front of the director she knew was having an affair with the actress. She also knew with sudden clarity that this confession, her stuttering apology, with her hungover eyes and hastily tied-back blue dreadlocks, would be leaked to Twitter, Perez Hilton, TMZ and every other gossip site in town, within minutes.
Hello from the Gillespies Page 5
