by Carla Blake
Carrie humphed. “I doubt it. Knowing Amanda she probably has some master plan. Or you better hope she has, because I’m not wearing that!”
The housekeeper reappeared and crossing to the bed she laid down a plastic dress cover, opening it with a flourish.
Recognition flickered across Carrie’s face.
“Oh!”She exclaimed in delight. “I’d forgotten I had this. Well done, Amanda. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Learn to enjoy prison food?”Amanda offered and watched with satisfaction as Carrie swept the long, silver jacket off the bed and held it in front of her.
The shoulders were slightly padded, and with the hem falling just short of the floor it was long enough to keep Carrie warm, but daring enough, thanks to the split up the back, for Carrie to reveal tantilizing glimpses of what she was weaing underneath.
Rubbing his hands together Carmichael voiced his approval. “There you go then.”He said happily. “Problem solved. Dressed in that every bloke within a five mile radius will want you.”
“Really? Well, theyy’ll just have to want.”Carrie said, turning her attention back to the minimal dress and finding she liked it a whole lot more. “But you’re both going to have to excuse me now while I get changed. Can’t spend all day in a bath robe.”
“Why not?”Carmichael asked. “I think it rather suits you. But, if you insist, I’m sure I could make myself scarce for five minutes. Which reminds me, why did you bring the roses up here, Amanda?”
“Because I thought Carrie might like them in her bedroom?”Amanda replied, a little taken aback at the question. “We already have plenty of flowers downstairs and I thought they’d look nice up here.Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“You most certainly did.”Carmichael said. ‘ When I said that the roses were for you, I actually meant for you Amanda. I bought the dress for Carrie. The flowers, my sweet, are yours.”
CHAPTER THREE
Okay. She was all set.
Her make up was on and the dress was perfect, even if it was the size of a microdot and she had to force herself to stop tugging at the hem for fear of her underwear showing. But at least she had the jacket, which was just as well because she doubted if she would be taking it off very much. Not if she didn’t want tomorrow’s headlines to have nothing to do with the film and everything to do with her legs!
Lord, even Liz Hurley would have felt exposed in this little number!
Carmichael, though, was no doubt hoping she’d cause a sensation and was probably even now working out ways he could persuade her to remove her jacket and give ‘em a flash of the Shilling figure. Well, he could dream on. The man might be a brilliant agent and a perfectly nice guy when he wasn’t flirting outrageously, but there were times when he’d happily treat her like a pound of meat if he thought he could get away with it and tonight he was certain to have his butcher’s apron on under his tux.
But she had the jacket and she was ready. Aside from one, last thing.
The ritual.
A solution Carmichael had come up with after Carrie, on the eve of a phenomenally, glamorous party, had suddenly got cold feet. The function hadn’t been anything she hadn’t done before. In fact, she’d been to hundreds of the things, but for some strange reason, on this occasion nerves had got the better of her and bursting into tears she had begged Carmichael to turn the car around and take her home.
A request Carmichael was more than happy to fulfil, on the condition she gave him a very good reason why first.
Still crying, Carrie had done just that. It was, she wept, because she felt she didn’t deserve any of this. Why was she being invited to this party? What had she ever done to warrant such a grand invitation? One, piddly, little soap and a supporting role in a single film. That was all. Hardly enough to deserve rubbing shoulders with famous movie stars and legendary singers. She should go home. Right now. Before someone decided it had all been a huge mistake and she was turned away at the door.
They didn’t turn round. Instead, Carmichael held her hand and gave her every reason why she did deserve to be there and on arrival at the party he skillfully guided her from guest to guest, effortlessly including Carrie in their small talk before pointing out their genuine smiles and words of congratulations the moment they’d moved on. Proving, he hoped, how much she was liked and respected.
Unfortunately his spirited words only lasted until they were out of the door and back inside the car, then the doubts came flooding back, and Carrie was crying again, leaving Carmichael to try and come up with a solution. A task he quickly discovered had to be completed in record time, especially after Carrie told him she felt this way before every occasion of note and even more especially as he knew Carrie was about to embark on a promotional tour for her new film, ‘Avenging Angels’. The long awaited sequel to ‘Angels with Attitude’ which in a single weekend was set to catapulte Carrie’s career so high they were both in danger of nose bleeds, and which promised to be so stressful that not only were Carrie’s nerves in grave danger of being torn to shreds, but for the first time in her life she was considering wearing false finger nails. Her own already gnawed to the quick as she sought desperately to overcome her terror.
Terrifed himself that Carrie might pull out altogether, Carmichael organised a distraction in the shape of a house hunt, a search that culminated in the discovery of her current home - a twelve bedroom manor house set in nine acres of Surrey countryside. Delighted with it, Carrie’s mind had finally settled on something other than stress and the best way to chew on plastic fingernail replacements, and it was while they touring the recently re-decorated property that Carmichael had come up with the ritual.
“This is just lovely.”He’d enthused, running an appraising eye over the sweeping staircase in the grand entrance. “Pleased with it?”
“Of course.”Carrie had replied. “I love it. It’s spacious, it’s modern, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Okay, so, tell me then. How did you manage to afford it?”
“What do you mean how did I afford it? You know how. I used the money I made from the movie.”
“Exactly! You used the money you made from the movie. Money you earned. No one gave you this place, Carrie. No one handed it to you on a plate. It was your own, hard work that made it all happen and you should remember that. And next time you get an attack of the wobbles, and start thinking that you don’t deserve all the recognition and praise, walk round this house and just remind yourself that without all those long, tedious hours of hard work, that you put in, none of this would be here.”
Thus, the ritual had been born.
Not that Carrie had initially given its chances of success much credence. The first time she’d attempted to take the agent’s advise, she’d simply felt stupid. Wandering around her home, dolled up to the nines, trying to convince herself that she did deserve the twelve bedrooms, the four bathrooms, the huge, sweeping staircase and the opulent entrance hall with marble fittings was to her mind, simply daft. As was trying to make herself believe that the spacious lounge with its comfortable furniture and the panoramic views of glorious, sweeping countryside were hers by right and not just thanks to blinding good luck.
Nor did she feel any better when she entered the dining room and run a hand along the polished, walnut table and across the backs of eight Regency style chairs with the memory of the ancient and battered old thing her family had been forced to eat off still fresh in her mind. Or when she wandered into the kitchen and saw everything sparkling and new. The remains of the evening meal nothing but a fading aroma mingling with the smell of Amanda’s home made bread, proving that this kitchen did actually function.
In the entrance hall again, she’d still felt silly and crossing over to her study, she’d hastily let herself in. Only then starting to feel better.
This was her sanctuary. Her bolt hole. A place that not even Amanda was allow
ed to enter. A rule which drove the loyal housekeeper mad with frustration, but which no amount of pleading would make Carrie sway from. This space was hers, and if it needed dusting or hoovering, she would do it. Amanda could stand on the other side of the door gasping at the thought of her employer actually running a bit of pledge over the shelves all she liked, it wouldn’t change anything. In here, she had total control. She could lounge in her leather chair with her bare feet on the desk and do nothing if she wanted. She could eat a sandwich and not care about crumbs. She could even swig straight from the bottle and then belch without anyone raising a disapproving eyebrow. It was wonderful and safe and it was here, more than anywhere else that Carmichael’s words finally began to make sense.
In the framed photographs, newspaper clippings and trophies. All evidence of her success. Proof positive of her achievements.
And okay, she admitted it, she had been amazingly lucky in getting the break in ‘ Friends and family’, but afterwards she had worked damn hard. Episodes of the soap were churned out daily, weekends off a rarity, and it hadn’t got any easier once she’d started in the movies. Her first had worn her out, merely because she’d spent much of it standing around doing nothing and the second, in which she’d starred, had knackered her for the simple reason she was practically in every scene. So, yes. If anyone deserved to go home to a nice, warm, comfortable house at the end of the day it was her.
Now she was all dressed up again and ready to attend her third movie premiere.
She had top billing, too. Above Ray Stephenson. A jaw dropper if ever there was one. Stephenson’s star, she’d once read somewhere, shone so bright it made the sun jealous, but here she was with her name way above his and with a larger slice of the action to boot.
Fortunately Ray hadn’t complained and had even whispered to her over coffee and bagels, that he was, in fact, rather glad he didn’t have the starring role. He was, he confessed, getting far too old for all this running about nonsense, and if she wanted to take over all that bloody hellish stuff, she was more than welcome to it. He was more than happy to sit back, take it easy, and collect his cheque at the end of the day. Having his name at the top of the flyers no longer mattered to him. Living his life and actually enjoying it, did.
Laughing, Carrie had thanked him and toasting his very good health with decaf, wondered if she would ever reach a point in her career when she could afford to be as magnanimous.
It certainly wasn’t now, that was for sure. She still had a long way to go before she reached the heady heights of global fame that Ray Stephenson enjoyed. The entire world recognized him, whereas only the UK and parts of Europe greeted her with any enthusiasm, and she suspected some of that was only because Carmichael coached them beforehand on how vigourously to clap.
Still, if Carmichael was to be believed, this, her third movie, was the one destined to bring her international fame, although the USA hadn’t exactly gone wild for the first one. Instead America had practically ignored it in favour of some corny comedy with Steve Martin, and her disappointment hadn’t been overly soothed by Carmichael telling her that ‘ Angels with Attitude’, had already been done in the States. Under a different name, of course, and using American actors, but undoubtedly done, meaning that the interest in an almost identical English version hadn’t been exactly forthcoming.
The follow up movie, therefore, hadn’t been released on the other side of the pond, although her latest movie, entitled ‘ Walking Wild’ was due to be shipped out amid as much publicity as they could manage. Why, when the other two hadn’t exactly set the Yanks on fire, was a mystery to her? But as usual Carmichael had all the answers and remained convinced that not only would ‘ Walking Wild’ become a phenomenal success but come the end of the year, she would be on the cover of America’s ‘The Face’ magazine. Yeah. Right.
It was done.
The ritual circuit of the house complete, and although by now she wasn’t entirely convinced she still needed to walk this personal tour, she was loathe to give it up. Somewhere along the line, it had transcended beyond simple ritual to an all powerful talisman and she was scared that if she gave it up something disastrous would happen.
Not that she truly believed it would. But you never knew.
Still she was finished now and settling herself into her leather chair- trying not to think about how far the dress was sliding up her thighs- she steepled her fingers under her chin and glanced around her study, wishing she had time to light the fire but knowing there would be plenty of cold, winter evenings when she could and when she could sit right in front of it, hugging her knees and waiting for her face to go a ridiculous shade of red.
Smiling to herself, her eyes rested on the mantlepiece above it and to the photograph of her parents and little brother, Darren.
Her family lived in an old farm house in Wiltshire, and although she knew they were enormously proud of her success, they’d never once been down to London to share in it properly. London was too busy and intimidating, her mother had explained, and they were frightened that if they did land on her doorstep they’d either get in her way or say something they shouldn’t to one of those dreadful ‘ camera people?’ And then how would they live with themselves? If they ruined everything for her? No. It was better if they stayed in Wiltshire where they could do least harm. Didn’t mean they didn’t love her and it certainly didn’t mean they weren’t as proud as punch!
Carrie would have liked to argue the point, but fearing she might upset her mother, had ultimately dropped it, figuring she couldn’t really blame them for being apprehensive. London was alarming at times, Heaven knows she’d sweated over it enough. But it would have been nice if they could have made it down just once instead of keeping in touch over the phone. She missed them terribly and praise and congratulations just weren’t the same when they were diluted by distance.
Not that her mother’s worries had stopped her brother, Darren. He’d trundled up by train, accompanied her to lunch and proceeded to chat up every female in sight with the wonderfully witty opening line of , “My sister’s Carrie Shilling. Want an autograph?”
Cringing into her Caeser salad, Carrie could have slaughtered him on the spot for embarrassing her, but the swine had actually ended up marrying one of the girls he’d got chatting to and she could hardly hate him for finding happiness. She could gladly have lived without him trotting out the same, old line at his wedding, however, causing her to blush furiously and for every head to turn in her direction as the entire room clapped and then lined up for an autograph.
Fifty she must have signed. Easily. And the rotter hadn’t even brought her a drink!
But one day, she smiled, gazing at her brother’s grinning face in the photograph, she would get her own back.
An Owl hooted out in the garden and she stared at the large windows either side of the fireplace, seeing nothing but her reflection and that of her bookshelf Reading, she would have been the first to admit, wasn’t really one of her favourite pastimes, but it was clearly the ‘done thing’ to have a bookcase in a study and so she had purchased one, filling it with books she promised herself she would read ‘ one day’ but never had.
A row of shelves placed behind her desk occupied that wall, each adorned with a variety of accumulated stuff. Film scripts, awards, magazines, candles, ornaments, all kinds of bits and bobs arranged in no particular order to anyone else other than Carrie, giving her yet another very good reason for baring Amanda.
An hour in here and Amanda would have it so neat and tidy she wouldn’t be able to find a thing!
A battered but incredibly comfy sofa, rescued from her old house, claimed the left side of her study and nothing on earth could have persuaded her to part with it. Here she could cuddle up with a script in one hand, glass of wine in the other, safe in the knowledge there was absolutely no chance of being disturbed if she didn’t want to be. Her sofa was bliss on a stick and looking at i
t now, she wished she could just curl up and sleep. But the door to the outside world was beckoning and picking up the remote control, she swiveled round to face the colour television nestling on a shelf and flicked through the various channels, finally arriving at one showing a live outside broadcast of her own, impending premiere.
The crowds were already beginning to build. The red carpet the focal point, even though the only people anywhere near it at present were security, trying very hard not to shiver in the freezing weather.
Watching them, Carrie sympathized, appreciating how cold they must feel. It truly was bitter out there tonight and the last time she’d looked the weather channel had shown a map literally covered with little, blue symbols.
If she didn’t get hypothermia, going out in nothing but a flimsy, silver strap then she would count herself lucky!
The camera angle changed again and Carrie gasped when she saw the waiting crowd. Standing three deep, they were wrapped up against the winter chill and jostling for position. Holding aloft cameras, camcorders and mobile phones, whilst the police urged them to stay behind the barriers and linked arms to form an impenetrable line as the first in a line of limousines pulled up and a teenage star from a soap opera stepped out to rapturous applause and a thousand flash bulbs.
Safely dispatched inside the building, he was then instantly forgotten as a second limo discharged its passengers and a famous film star turned and waved. Smiling confidently at the cheering masses, his latest escort hanging delicately onto his arm.
By the time the third car arrived, the crowd had reached fever pitch and pushing against the barriers, Carrie saw the first of many heated arguments start to explode between police officers and besotted fans.
“... and the star of the show, Carrie Shilling, hasn’t even arrived yet.”The news reporter said into the lens. “We can only hope that when she does, the police presence is strong enough to cope.”
You’re not kidding, Carrie thought, and snapping off the television set, poured herself a large brandy.
