‘Aha.’
‘They’re coming out tomorrow. I’m picking them up.’
‘What about your mate?’
‘What about him?’
And I couldn’t resist any longer. I had my shots. ‘Your mate Johnny Rigg …’
There was silence, then a raised eyebrow and a sheepish smirk.
‘Are you two old friends?’
‘We’ve known each other since we were five. Our mums used to model together.’
Cute. ‘Where’s he gone, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Back to London …’
Once he was back in London, my shots would be nigh on old news.
‘I might as well tell you, Ruby, since you’ll probably see him.’ He paused. ‘He’s probably coming back in a few days. With his wife.’
‘I thought … I read … Are they getting back together?’
‘Maybe.’
‘After … ?’ The Vlad/Brad Fiasco.
‘Maybe. The Press don’t know he’s here. He might actually get some privacy. He’s put the apartment next door to ours on hold. If things go well, he’ll take a villa on one of the islands …’
Then he changed the subject, and made me laugh for at least another hour as he told me about his job as a copywriter, about a long-standing offer he had from Johnny to go sky diving (Johnny had dared him a hundred pounds he wouldn’t do it), about the craziest things some of Johnny’s female fans had done over the years and about what he and Johnny used to get up to as kids, when their mums took them on modeling jobs. I could just picture Stu as a five-year-old with a curly blond mop, flirting with the make-up ladies and ankle-biting the photographers.
‘Do you want another beer, or a glass of water?’ he asked finally, as my face threatened to fall off from laughing more in one night than I had in the last few months. I watched him through the window of his apartment, as he poured two glasses of water and fired up a CD player. Maybe it hadn’t been easy jollying his famous mate along through his marital crisis. He set the glasses next to my camera on the table, and grinned. The sound of ‘Volare’ swelled. ‘Want to dance?’
My body practically zinged all over at the thought, but he took my hand anyway, and pulled me to my feet and towards him. His body was warm and strong and he smelled just like the sea air. Blame the heat, or the Cisk, or even the pastizzi, but I surreptitiously threaded a few fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, just to feel their texture. My fingers got tangled and as I looked at him in amused embarrassment, he took his opportunity and kissed me.
As the cicadas chirruped, I almost forgot I was kissing the best friend of my latest victim.
We stopped to draw breath and he moved me against the table, his arms around me, my body pressed into his. Then we kissed some more. After some time, things got a little bit hot and hectic and as we squirmed, we bumped the table and my camera and the glasses of water all smashed to the ground. The glasses shattered and my camera bounced open, exposing the rewound film canister. Stu scooped it up and handed it to me, his eyes heavy.
‘Is it OK?’
I wiped away water droplets and clicked the camera shut. The Nikon was clearly more resilient than its owner. ‘It’s fine.’ I cleared my throat. ‘You know Stu, it’s getting really late.’
‘True.’ He kissed my neck.
‘What time do you have to get up to get your parents tomorrow?’
‘God. I’d forgotten. Early.’
‘I’m exhausted,’ I added.
A girlfriend of mine says: ‘If you like him, sleep with him. But if you really like him, wait.’
I always say, ‘Don’t even get to third base with a man if you’re about to sell intrusive photographs of his famous best mate to a national newspaper.’
I had to go to bed.
Nine hours later, I awoke after a blissful sleep, cocooned in my cotton sheet, bathed in the sunshine sneaking in around the edge of the curtains.
The first thing I thought of was last night’s zinging.
The first thing I saw, though, as I opened my eyes, was the damnable, damned and damning roll of Kodak on my bedside table. I lay awake, reliving the previous night. The main thing that irked me about selling the Johnny Rigg shots was that it would scupper any plans Johnny had of returning to Bencini Bay with his wife. Moreover, another successful paparazzi hit would be just one more reason for Rod Wilson to send me out celebrity-hunting.
I made coffee and watched the yellow and black film canister, feeling like it had eyes which were following me around the room.
Meeting Stu, and getting even a tiny insight into the life of one of my victims, was deeply unsettling, not to mention extremely inconvenient. Perhaps I’d call Rod at the News, tell him that Johnny Rigg was nowhere to be seen and demand to be taken off the paparazzi circuit. I didn’t want to be doomed to this work, just because I had some hideous knack. Even going freelance and doing bar mitzvahs, weddings and baby portraits – at least to start with – would have to be a step up. My cheapish new car (with the good stereo and new tyres) didn’t bear thinking about.
I showered then breakfasted on the porch, with the roll of Kodak in front of me. Finally, I picked it up and walked down to the water’s edge.
My last paparazzi moment encapsulated it; I was exhilarated at finding Belle, devastated at the results of my hit. I jiggled the film about in my palm, willing it to fall into the glistening sea. Maybe Johnny Rigg could have brushed off a little papp shot of him on holidays as a mere annoyance. But if he was coming back here to reconcile with his wife, who was I to get in his way?
Gripping the film, I drew my hand back behind my head as far as I could then dropped it to my side again. Then I inhaled, drew it back again, and threw it forward, keeping my fist closed, just to see what it would feel like.
Finally, I put the film down on the rock and picked up the nearest heavy stone I could find, and pummelled and pounded the canister until I broke its seal.
I rose and stood, then I threw the roll of film as high and as far away from me as I could. It soared up, peaked then started tumbling down towards the water, glinting as it went, making a tiny splash as it broke the surface.
A gull squawked what sounded exactly like sincere congratulations.
As the ripples dispersed, I heard the gravel crunching on the path behind me. I turned to see Stu rounding the corner, accompanied by a tall, older man, and pushing a little old woman in a wheelchair. His parents. Stu saw me and waved. His mum smiled at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with a raised hand.
As I walked towards her, I searched her craggy face for recognition and found none, thank God.
Stu started to make introductions, but he needn’t have bothered.
I knew his mum.
Her name was Belle Clarke.
Pauline McLynn
Pauline McLynn grew up in Galway, and first started acting while studying history of art at Trinity College, Dublin. She shot to fame playing the inimitable Mrs Doyle in Father Ted, and has appeared in numerous other film, television and stage roles. She has published 10 novels, two of which are for younger readers.
The Sun, the Moon and the Stars
Pauline McLynn
Rosie Andrews leaned against the wall of the narrow corridor and sighed. The screams from the nearby dressing-room grew louder and louder. Some poor soul was getting an earful. Actually, anyone within earshot, and probably for a radius of half a mile, was getting an earful.
‘Red grapes,’ the voice shrieked. ‘Don’t you understand plain English? I said red! Not green!’
It was amazing that such a beautiful woman could make such an ugly sound, thought Rosie. Beverley Tremayne was fast approaching her sell-by date, of that there was little doubt, but she still had the vestiges of her most popular assets, and was still beloved of the nation, particularly for her early roles as doomed heroines in bodice-ripping television series. These had been her forte, as well as marrying and divorcing most of her leading men along
the way.
‘Dear Lord,’ she continued, ‘how am I to summon my muse when I am thwarted at every turn? It’s just one damned annoyance piled on another. How will I rise above the mire? But I must,’ she wailed, ‘and I will! In spite of all of you and your petty meanness.’
Rosie hurried along around the corner. The old Victorian theatre was a warren of corridors and unexpected rooms. She hung a right by a generator and continued along a little-used walkway. The corridor darkened and curved to the left, leading to an unmarked door. She paused to catch her breath and calm her racing heart, her excitement hard to contain. She knocked lightly. ‘Come,’ growled a man’s voice. Oh yes, she would. She opened the door of the room, but could see nothing, so she reached for the light switch. A hand slapped hers away. ‘Don’t you dare. You should know better than that by now.’ Rosie gasped with anticipation; a new game? ‘Take your clothes off,’ the voice ordered, pulling her into the middle of the room. Rosie did as she was told.
Anthony Dubray was worried. This summer season had not turned out as expected. He had never finished a theatre run without having an affair with someone, but this one was nearing an end with no affair in sight. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. The air-conditioning system was as ancient as some of his chat-up lines, he thought, sourly. Or could it be that he was simply losing his charm or good looks? Or both? He shivered, in spite of the cloying heat. In the distance he could hear the sound of a raised female voice. He was obviously not the only one feeling the pressure.
The season had sounded like a wonderful idea when his agent had called, although he did not show that he cared even slightly for it.
‘Darling, very exciting project for you. Sir Francis Birkin is mounting an ensemble company to perform some new short plays in rep for six weeks. There is talk that Channel 4 may be interested in taking some of these to television then. What do you think?’
‘You know I hate repertory work,’ he said loftily, ‘chopping and changing parts from night to night. It’s too much pressure for an artiste, and I really do think it’s so passé. Could I not just wait for the telly version to come up?’
‘Frankly, no. You’re in from the beginning or you’re out. And face it, Tony, work has been thin on the ground for you over the last while. They’ve got the best of the youngsters around signed up for the juve roles, and you’ll be playing a few dads to them and some juicy character cameos. On top of all of that, this will get a lot of press attention.’
‘Mmm, I’ll think about it.’
‘No, Anthony, you’ll do it. I’ll get them to bike the scripts and a contract over. Oh, and by the way, your ex-wife Beverley is involved, so that should add some spice. Congratulations, darling, you’ll be just marvellous.’
‘As always,’ he sniffed, to a dead telephone line. The deal was done.
‘Do hurry up, Dickie, the driver is looking daggers at the house. You know how impatient the working classes can get.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can at my age, Oliver. You, as a younger man cannot fully appreciate that, but in time you will, dear boy.’
Richard Hardwicke (seventy) stood in front of Oliver Dickens (sixty-eight). ‘How do I look?’
‘Divine, my dear, divine. And that hair-rinse was pure genius; you don’t look a day over forty-five.’
In truth, both men could have passed for one hundred and forty-five. They took one last gaze into the hallway mirror, adjusted some bits of linen and silk, and wafted out to the waiting black cab.
‘The Drewsbury Theatre, West End,’ Oliver told the driver. ‘Sit right back, Richard. You know there’s precious little purchase on these seats, and we don’t want you sliding about and perhaps hurting yourself.’
‘At my age.’
‘At your age. Now, checklist: scripts, yes; biographies for the programme, yes; signed pictures for the fans, yes; Earl Grey, yes; and a packet of your favourite shortbread.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Richard, teasingly.
‘Um, no, not that I can think of.’
‘Oh, come now, I think we both know that there is a little something I never leave for the theatre without.’
‘No, Richard, I can’t think of what that might be.’
Richard Hardwicke was aghast. ‘You don’t have it, do you?’ He began to fidget, then to hyperventilate. ‘We shall have to go back. I cannot face the theatrical world without it.’
‘Without what?’
‘My lucky Dresden cat, you fool. Dame Edith gave it me, and you know perfectly well that I cannot perform without it. We must turn back, Ollie.’
‘And might this be the little fellow?’ Oliver asked, innocently producing the ornament.
‘Oliver Dickens, you are a wicked, wicked man. You ought be ashamed of frightening an old man so. Give me my treasure. I shall be curator of Diddums henceforth. Your wicked sense of humour precludes you from the job.’ Richard Hardwicke cradled the little china cat in his arms, and attempted to stifle a theatrical sob. The only sound to emerge was a dry, hoarse honk.
‘I was only teasing,’ sulked Oliver.
‘Oh, I forgive you, you foolish youngster. You and your silly pranks.’
The taxi driver took a particularly vicious left into Drewsbury Lane, throwing both men to the right. They were just untangling themselves when the cab jerked to a halt outside the theatre. A small knot of people stood in the portico.
‘Oh my goodness, Ollie, it’s a welcoming committee. I had hoped for a little breather before meeting everyone. I’m so nervous.’
‘Well just don’t soil yourself,’ warned his partner, ‘we don’t have any changes with us.’
Richard Hardwicke and Oliver Dickens gathered their belongings and alighted with considerable aplomb from the car. Delighted chatter filled the air.
‘Ah,’ boomed Sir Francis Birkin, ‘it’s the two Dicks.’
Marcus O’Neill surveyed the rehearsal room and its assembled company as Sir Francis welcomed them and gave the initial, obligatory pep talk. His innards were heaving with terror, but his calm and beautiful exterior betrayed nothing. Two months ago, he had been sitting in a rented flat in Dublin wondering how he would pay his bills. He had just completed a hugely successful production of The Plough and The Stars, which had played at the Abbey Theatre, toured Ireland, and then, most crucially, wowed London audiences at the National. He had been paid well for the job, but he had also lived well for the duration, and so the O’Neill coffers were bare. Unbeknownst to him, as he fretted in Dublin, Sir Francis was putting together his own package in London, and Marcus O’Neill was top of his wish list.
‘We need his youth and vision. He’s wonderful with actors, by all accounts; well, the results speak for themselves. Let’s hitch this season to this rising star. And of course, we catch him at the start of his career; so he’ll be that little bit less expensive.’
Marcus had met everybody, however briefly, before this first read-through. Some of the actors had been chosen by Sir Francis, because he had worked with them before, or felt that they were box-office draws. But Marcus had insisted on informal one-to-one chats with all of them, to assess them and to make a personal welcoming contact. He pinched himself surreptitiously, to check that this was not a dream. There were faces in this room that dated from his childhood, stars from television and film. Perched by one corner of the huge table at which they sat was Alan Larkin, whose sitcom Then as Now had run for nine years on the BBC. Marcus could still hear him say his famous catchphrase ‘Well now, Mary-Lou’. Opposite Alan was Beverley Tremayne, who had played havoc with his teenage hormones as she undressed every Sunday evening in The Follies of Beckford. She had deliberately distanced herself from the youngest female member of the cast, Elysha Bryant. If the young woman noticed, she gave no indication, but sat arm-in-arm with Ashley Hancock, with whom she had just starred in The Tempest at the RSC. They were both hanging on Sir Francis Birkin’s every word. Anthony Dubray looked lustily in Elysha’s direction. He, no doubt, would ply her with hi
s I-was-just-pipped-to-the-post-for-James-Bond-by-Roger-Moore-but-of-course-I-was-far-too-young-anyway story by the coffee break. Marcus did not rate Anthony’s chances of success there. Oliver Dickens was dispensing shortbread to Richard Hardwicke, and catching the young director’s eye as often as possible for a flirty smile. Marcus could not resist a chortle; the man was old enough to be his father twice over.
Sir Francis was nearing the end of his speech.
‘I will be pressing you to talk to the media throughout our short rehearsal period, a necessity in this day and age. And we’ll be running our own aggressive publicity campaign over the coming weeks. Our tag-line is “Bringing home the Birkin”, as this is my first theatrical venture in London for some time. Hammy, yes,’ he acknowledged to the company’s groans, ‘but catchy too. Any questions? No? Good. Then I’ll hand you over to Mr O’Neill, who will take over today’s proceedings from here.’
There was a smattering of applause as Marcus rose to his feet.
‘Welcome all,’ he purred in his deep, Celtic tones. ‘I’m delighted that you could all find availability to work on this project. I think we’ll have a lot of fun with it, as well as doing some good, innovative work. The acting core has been introduced by Sir Francis, so I’d like to introduce our production staff. Many of you will know James Long, our designer, and Frank Williams, our lighting designer. To my right is Rosie Andrews, our stage director and her assistant Jonny Brewer. And last but by no means least is Greta Moore, our wardrobe supervisor. Obviously, this is a very daunting project, but I feel sure that it will be a very satisfying one also. Right, I think it’s time to read the plays out loud, don’t you? Let the games begin.’
Again, applause sounded in the room. Marcus’s heart was pounding hard in his chest as he sat down. Only Rosie noticed his hands tremble. She was delighted; he was sensitive as well as gorgeous. She wondered how she would concentrate on her work with such a distraction close by.
Some hours later they all knew the scale of what they were attempting.
Girls' Night In Page 27
