by Susan Lewis
Chuckling, Lola said, ‘I expect you’ll tell me the story one of these days. I hear you’re coming over again on Monday.’
‘Yes, but I can’t make dinner till Tuesday, which is one of the reasons I’m trying to get hold of Susannah. She might want an early night before her audition.’
‘I’m sure she will, but the rest of us will still be up for it. I want to hear some more of your stories about Paris and this bloke who keeps waving at you with his eyebrows. You had me laughing for days over that the last time we spoke.’
‘Yes, he’s a pretty unique sort of character,’ Patsy muttered, keeping her back resolutely turned to the dividing glass wall that separated her own office from Frank’s next door. ‘Right now I can feel him ogling me through the window partition that keeps him apart from the right-minded world. He calls it an executive suite, so to humour him, I do too.’
With a choke of laughter, Lola said, ‘I wouldn’t half like to see him. You make him sound a real picture … Oh, hang on, I think that’s my mobile ringing. It has to be Susannah. She got it for me so she could get through when Neve started using my phone all the time. Or it’ll be Neve, asking me to record something. Or it might be Alan …’
‘If you answered it you’d find out,’ Patsy said drily.
‘I would if I knew where the bloomin’ thing was, but it’ll stop ringing before I get there so I’ll say a proper goodbye to you before I go off on the hunt. Any message for Susannah?’
‘Just let her know about next Tuesday, and tell Neve I’ve got samples of a new lip-gloss range for her to try out. I’ll bring them with me when I come.’
As she rang off Patsy returned to her computer, continuing to ignore the scrutiny she could feel emanating through the glass wall like heat. If the man weren’t so excellent in his role as senior vice president, and so popular with the staff, she might be trying to find a way to let him go by now, because he was turning into a menace with his strange behaviour and impossibly thick skin. No matter how withering or abrupt she was with him, he never seemed to get the message, or even to take offence. On the contrary, he almost seemed to welcome her rebuffs, which had made her wonder on occasion if he was trying to turn her into some kind of laughing stock. The theory might have held up if he’d ever teased or flirted with her in front of other people, but he never did. Nor, if the truth be told, did he strike her as someone who’d be so devious or cruel as to try and hurt a colleague that way. In fact, underneath the ludicrous humour and bizarre physique, she’d already detected a hint of a golden heart. Well, there had to be some reason why everyone liked him so much, and it certainly wouldn’t be for his fashion sense.
Anyway, she was far too busy to be dwelling on the oddities of her most senior executive right now, particularly when the final pitch from a new advertising agency was about to begin in the second-floor boardroom. At this stage it required her approval, so she couldn’t hang about any longer waiting for a return call from the VP Commercial concerning the appalling figures that had just come in. Evidently the man was in no hurry to explain the downturn to her, but if he thought she was going to hand the situation to Fronk to deal with, he was gravely mistaken.
‘Patreesha,’ Frank said, appearing in her doorway, ‘are you ready to go down now? I think they are waiting for us.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, and reaching for the pile of things her secretary had prepared for her to take with her she got to her feet. ‘Have you seen the report from Alain Savier?’ she asked.
‘I ’ave, and it is not good. We will discuss it later, per’aps, before you speak with him?’
As she nodded she forced herself to look at him and just as she expected, it was as though the eye contact acted as a switch, because he instantly lit up with one of his dazzling grins. In spite of her efforts not to, she had to admit that his smile truly did turn him into an attractive man – apart from the eyebrows, of course – and he presumably knew it, which was why he played on it the way he did. However, the rest of him was a disaster, because he was heavy, hirsute – excluding the top of his head – and today he was all decked out in a flowery Versace suit with matching wing-collar shirt and a stripy tie. He couldn’t have looked more comical if he’d come as Bozo the Clown. Were it anyone else she’d feel certain he wasn’t serious about such a get-up, but looking at him now, eyeing her in a way that was presumably meant to make him irresistible, she could only presume he was.
‘It’s a joke, right?’ she said, as they started along the corridor that ran through the middle of the semi-open-plan offices to the lifts at the far end.
‘Comment?’ he replied, apparently not understanding.
‘The suit,’ she explained.
‘Ah, you like!’ he cried happily. ‘C’est un cadeau from Donatella for when we go to the Prix Goncourt last year. I tell myself, this morning, when I take ’im from the closet that ’e will work ’is magic on Patreesha in a way that will make her beautiful green eyes shine. And you see, I am right.’
Patsy took a breath, but had to let it go in a laugh, because there was nothing she could say about his suit, or his belief, that would come even close to crushing him; she’d already learned he was made of rubber where her put-downs were concerned. So instead she changed the subject to the upcoming meeting, and kept her eyes trained on the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower as the lift glided down the exterior of the seven-storey building. She loved this city, there was no doubt about that, but the people, Fronk in particular, were presenting the strangest kind of challenge and, as yet, she didn’t have a clue how to handle it.
Chapter Eight
‘SUSANNAH CATES? WOULD you like to come through please?’ The lanky young lad who’d introduced himself earlier as Ben, the casting assistant, looked up from his clipboard and gave her a busy, but friendly smile.
Casting an anxious glance at the other hopefuls in the waiting area, Susannah rose to her feet, clutching her script tightly and hitching her bag higher over her shoulder. To say she was nervous would be to lend understatement a whole new depth of meaning, but she somehow managed a winning smile as she took the first few fateful steps towards the auditioning room that several others had already passed into that morning. So far none had come out again. Which meant, of course, that there was another exit, but in her absurdly overwrought imagination the inner sanctum of this West End hotel suite was swallowing up actors like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors, and regurgitating them into the dreaded purgatory of ‘waiting for a call back that might never come’.
Standing aside for her to pass, Ben closed the double doors behind him, and sighed as his mobile phone started to bleep.
‘Go on,’ he whispered to Susannah, ‘they won’t bite.’ Then, in a louder voice, ‘Susannah Cates, everyone. She’s reading for the part of Penelope.’
The room was large, plushly carpeted and draped, but unfurnished, apart from a long white linen-covered table where the casting panel was seated, most of whom looked up as she approached. She could only pray that she didn’t appear – or act – as uptight as she was feeling, because right now the butterflies in her stomach might be wearing hard hats and hobnail boots, they were knocking about so wildly. The only face she recognised was Michael Grafton’s, who was sitting at one end of the table, slightly apart from the others. He was every bit as striking as she remembered, with a presence that seemed to dominate the room in spite of his casual appearance with one elbow hooked over the back of his chair, and one foot resting on the other knee. His hair was longish and dark, slightly greying now, and his hooded eyes with their piercingly intense gaze might have made him appear stern to the point of hostile, were it not for the friendliness of his smile.
‘Hello Susannah,’ he said, his voice deep and welcoming, ‘it’s good to see you again. Thank you for coming along today.’
‘Thank you for asking me,’ she replied, somehow managing to sound far steadier than she felt.
His eyes remained on hers for a moment, as though he might say more, or perhaps he wa
s reassessing his decision to call her in, then he turned to the others and began introducing them. By the time he’d finished the only name she remembered was Marlene Wyndham’s, who turned out to be a diminutive, slightly sour-looking woman seated at the centre of the group, and who was glaring at Susannah as though she’d barged into the session uninvited. The others, fortunately, appeared far less formidable, and the fact that only their titles – casting director, two producers, series deviser – had registered, might have unnerved her more if Dorothy hadn’t reminded her again last night that it was Marlene Wyndham she needed to impress.
‘Rumour has it Michael Grafton’s given her total carte blanche with the series,’ Dorothy had warned, ‘which probably means she has a veto on the casting. Have you learned the lines?’
‘Of course. I can recite them in my sleep and play them with every emotion in the spectrum.’
‘So would you recommend Guy Phelps as a coach?’
‘Definitely, if I get the part. If I don’t, he’s still pretty good.’
She’d have given almost anything for Guy to be with her now, coaxing the very best out of her, but the moment had finally arrived for her to do this alone, and she could only wish that it wasn’t meaning so much – perhaps then she wouldn’t be feeling that this was the last chance she was ever going to get to prove herself.
‘Please, sit down.’ Marlene nodded towards a small table and chair at the centre of the room where there was a script, notepad, pen and a glass of water.
With a bizarre sense of taking the stand in a courtroom trial for her life, Susannah did as she was told, all the time trying her level best to look relaxed.
Clearly she wasn’t succeeding because the next thing Marlene barked at her was, ‘Relax! We’re simply going to run through a few questions to begin with.’ Before she got any further Michael Grafton claimed her attention, and whatever they were discussing seemed to involve Susannah, because a couple of the others threw an occasional glance her way.
Certain they were about to ask her to leave, Susannah sat very still, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to keep herself calm. Then Marlene Wyndham turned back to her, asking abruptly, ‘Have you ever ridden a horse?’
Susannah swallowed. Starting with a negative answer was bad news indeed, but she could hardly lie. Or should she? Some would. ‘No,’ she replied.
Marlene made a note, then said, ‘How do you feel about horses? Are you afraid of them?’
Susannah was aware of an uncomfortable heat rising inside her. ‘I don’t think so. To be honest, I haven’t come into very much contact with them.’
Another note. ‘Do you have any physical disabilities that might prevent you from riding?’
‘None that I know of.’ This part clearly depended on being adept in the saddle, so it was with a surge of misery that Susannah realised she was already wasting everyone’s time.
‘Do you know Derbyshire at all?’ Marlene went on. ‘Most specifically the dales.’
Susannah shook her head. Yet another negative. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she answered. ‘I’d love to though,’ she added, and felt so pathetically unctuous that she immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Can I ask about your family commitments?’ Marlene continued. ‘Are you married? Do you have children?’
‘My husband and I aren’t together any more,’ Susannah replied, certain that if they knew about Duncan any remaining chance she had of being cast would go up in a puff of smoke. ‘I have a fourteen-year-old daughter.’
‘I see.’ Marlene’s tone seemed to suggest that the negative pile had increased yet again. She glanced down at her notes, then said, ‘This series is going to be shot entirely on location in the Derbyshire dales. If you get the part you’ll be required to ride a horse and to spend quite a lot of time away from home. Would either of these situations present a problem for you?’
Susannah took a breath. ‘Not at all,’ she said, and immediately winced as she remembered she’d just admitted that she couldn’t ride, so there was problem number one right off the bat. Problem two, she and Alan were about to move in together. Problem three, Neve would have to stay at Lola’s for most of the week, which could be too much for Lola at her age. ‘Obviously I’d have to take riding lessons,’ she heard herself adding, ‘but I could find a stables straight away … I’m not sure when you intend to start shooting, but hopefully I’d be reasonably competent by then.’
‘The beginning of June,’ Marlene told her, showing no sign of being impressed by Susannah’s willingness to learn. ‘What about your daughter?
Who’s going to take care of her if you’re not around?’
‘My aunt,’ Susannah answered quickly. ‘Neve often stays with her anyway. She lives quite close.’
Marlene nodded and turned to the man next to her. Apparently this was a signal for him to take over, because he sat forward, resting his chin on his hands as he regarded Susannah with a warmth that went a little way towards melting the icy veins Marlene had left her with.
‘In case you need reminding,’ he said, in a mellifluous Welsh lilt, ‘I’m Donald Davidson, the series deviser. We’ll be screen-testing you sometime next week, should you pass this part of the audition, but before we see what you’ve made of the script we sent you I have a few questions I need to ask. The role of Penelope is going to call for some nudity. Would you have a problem with that?’
Susannah tried to swallow, but her throat had turned dry. ‘No, not at all,’ she lied. ‘I mean, provided it isn’t too explicit.’ Her eyes went involuntarily to Michael Grafton, but his head was down, showing that he was only listening, not watching.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll all be done in the best possible taste,’ Donald Davidson assured her with a twinkle.
As the others smiled at the Kenny Everett line, so did she, but inside she was already panicking. What if they asked her to undress now? She wouldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
‘The programme has an eight-thirty transmission time,’ Donald Davidson went on, ‘so hopefully that’ll help to set your mind at rest regarding how explicit the scenes will be. The real issue will be on set. Naturally it’ll be closed to all non-vital personnel while the more intimate scenes are being shot, but you will still be in full view of the director, camera and sound operators, and, of course, whoever you’re playing the scene with.’
Wondering if she’d have come for the interview if she’d been aware of this before, she said, ‘Is it possible to know a bit more about the character? How old she is? What makes her tick?’
‘She’s about your age, beautiful, but not terribly bright. Her passion is horses. She’s had some success showing, and keeps her prize horses at the Larkspur stables, which is where the series is based. It’s not a huge part, but her scenes during the first four episodes are crucial to setting up one of the lead characters and what he’s about.’
‘I see. And is she … Does she disappear after the first four episodes?’
‘At the moment, yes, but there’s always a chance she’ll come back, so don’t give up on her yet.’
As Susannah smiled Marlene said, ‘While she is appearing, she’ll be in enough scenes to make her presence on set necessary two, possibly three, days a week.’
Susannah nodded. Hopefully neither Alan nor Neve would mind too much about that. At least it wasn’t five or six.
‘OK, I think we’ve covered the basics for now,’ Marlene said. ‘Perhaps we could see you playing the lines we sent. Ben will speak the other part,’ she added, waving the casting assistant forward.
As Susannah got to her feet she was wretchedly aware of never having felt less like performing, and noticing Michael Grafton speaking to the person next to him was, for some reason, making her more self-conscious than ever.
Realising she had to let go of herself completely or she’d never get through this, she put her head down and closed her eyes. After a few seconds she began to feel Jackie Drake, the character she and her coach had been rehearsing
in every conceivable way for the past five days, emerging through the mists to take on a clarity that finally eclipsed Susannah.
‘OK, I’d like to see you play it like a victim to begin with,’ Marlene instructed. ‘Someone who’s been kicked about by life and the people around her, and instead of showing strength and rising above it, she’s become frail and sorry for herself. A bit of a whiner, or a whipped puppy.’
Nodding understanding, Susannah/Jackie-the-victim turned to Ben, who was leaning against her small table, holding the script. Their eyes met in a silent agreement to begin.
‘Oh God, not you again,’ Ben started, in a sneery voice.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said tremulously. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I needed some water.’
‘Help yourself. You know where the tap is.’
Jackie-the-victim mimed filling a glass. ‘How much longer are you going to wait?’ she asked, casting him a whipped-puppy glance.
‘As long as it takes. What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing. I mean, I can’t help worrying about you, sitting here all alone. If you’d like some company …’
‘Go to bed, you’re getting on my nerves.’
Susannah had just drawn breath to carry on when Marlene said, ‘OK, that’s enough. Try it in a bored, superior way now.’
A moment later Jackie-the-superior started to yawn as Ben launched into the scene again. This time they completed it before Marlene said, ‘OK, angry, impassioned.’
Jackie-the-impassioned surged to the surface and her eyes flashed wildly as she turned them to Ben. To her surprise Ben gave a whimper as he cowered, and suddenly the unthinkable happened: his mouth began to tremble, and as Susannah realised he was about to laugh she felt herself starting to lose it too. A moment later they were both gasping uncontrollably.
‘I’m sorry,’ Susannah gulped, desperately trying to straighten her face, but to her horror Marlene’s scowl was only making it worse. Ben was almost beside himself, whooping as though the most hilarious event on earth had just occurred, and the more he fought his hysteria the worse it was becoming for them both.
