by Anita Notaro
About the Book
Little girls dream... Libby Marlowe did. And a fairy godmother sprinkled her with gold dust and it all came true. She got her castle and her handsome prince, and as this was a modern-day fairy tale they even threw in a glamorous career as a celebrity chef. As one half of the couple everyone wanted to be like, it was all going in the direction of Happy Ever After until late one night when the dream began to unravel.
Years earlier, someone trod less than softly on Annie Weller’s dreams and she’s still feeling the squash. As a teenager she lost her mother, in her twenties a serious illness almost ended her acting career and now, approaching thirty, insecurity and failure are her constant companions. Until, early one morning, opportunity knocks on the door. Will she let it in?
Two women whose paths would ordinarily never cross. Two lives about to spiral, but in opposing directions. Two very different stories played out in the media spotlight, welding a unique friendship, Behind the Scenes.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Anita Notaro
Copyright
BEHIND THE
SCENES
Anita Notaro
For my mother
Teresa
whatever my achievements, your love
and support have made them possible
Chapter One
THE IMAGE IN the mirror said it all in a single word. Hooker. A pair of anxious jade-green eyes surveyed it one last time. It was one hell of a fashion faux pas. Black clumpy, strappy, too-high sandals. Painted toenails that had seen one coat too many. Short, tight, Lycra skirt. Wonderbra only partially hidden by a flimsy cheap top. Pushed up, fake-tanned boobs. Garish jewellery, lots of it, in gold that was several shades too bright. A hard, caked face. Enough eyeliner to have kept Cleopatra going for months. Ruby-red lips outlined with a pencil that didn’t quite match. Hair that tried too hard.
Annie Weller would normally have had a good laugh at herself, especially given the amount of time and energy she’d invested in perfecting the call-girl look, but today nerves got the better of her so she turned away quickly and belted her sensible, grey tweed coat tightly as she headed out the door. The respectable outer garment didn’t quite manage to disguise the trailer trash image, even with the collar turned up. Immediately she sensed people were looking at her, and she was right. It was nine-thirty on a cold January morning. The steamy bus had shed its workforce and was now crammed with damp-smelling bargain hunters anxious to beat the post-Christmas blues. An elderly lady sniffed as Annie sat down beside her, pulling her parcels and her coat edges closer as if to protect herself. A spotty young Goth opposite chewed gum and gawked. The bus driver winked.
Almost an hour and two bus rides later Annie arrived at the main entrance to one of the country’s biggest independent production companies, in an affluent suburb of south County Dublin. It was a bitterly cold, blustery morning and her bare fake-tanned legs were tinged blue with cold, the inky streaks hinting at varicose veins where none existed. Annie was oblivious to the stinging sensation, however, and to the pins and needles pricking her numb toes.
Glancing at her watch she saw that she was miles too early but it had been difficult to calculate the journey from the centre of Dublin. Anyway, it was a relief to be indoors. A bit more time to mentally prepare, she told herself as she was directed to a large nondescript holding area and took her place amid twenty or so girls all around her own age and all looking way too respectable: masses of virginal white blouses and leather pumps and real jewellery and even the odd ribbon. She wondered again if she’d overdone it. Too late now, she thought as she fell upon the coffee machine, realizing just how cold she was as her hands cupped the flimsy plastic beaker and started to sting. A surreptitious glance round the room told her that no-one here needed the job as much as she did, judging by the number of shoes similar to those worn by Carrie Bradshaw, and the handbags with letters on. Several pairs of eyes stared openly at the newest arrival; others feigned indifference, but what none could have guessed was that her nonchalant head toss hid a steely determination and a burning ambition.
Annie tried to psych herself up but the information they’d provided had been scant. All she knew was that they were looking for a late twenties or early thirties actress to play the part of Bobby, a part-time barmaid and prostitute under the control of a wealthy nightclub owner. It was a tiny part but Annie felt it had potential and the amazing thing about it was that ‘they’ were the producers of the country’s number one drama, Southside.
Originally lauded and laughed at in equal measure when it burst onto Irish screens three years earlier, it had gradually won acceptance as a brave attempt to capture the notoriously fickle 25–40-year-old audience. It wasn’t like other soaps or drama series in Ireland or the UK. The characters were expertly cast. The storylines were shorter and sharper and the issues harder. Set in contemporary Dublin, it was shot mostly on location by young, innovative directors and had slowly built itself into an award-winning series with an audience of almost a million. It now had major clout and Annie wanted in badly.
As she huddled in a corner to wait her turn she tried not to think about how much she needed the work. Things were tough, money was tight and the worst thing of all was that she was becoming disillusioned for the first time ever. At twenty-nine she should have had her life sussed, but fate had dealt her a difficult hand, although Annie herself never saw it that way.
The youngest child and only daughter of Joe and Anne Weller had not found it easy growing up with four brothers, in a working-class south County Dublin household where money was tight. When she was t
en her mother died and from that day on Annie was expected to assume the role. After they got over the initial shock, life went on as normal for the Weller men. But for Annie, things were never the same again. She lost what remained of her childhood. Her teenage years were a blur. There was no question of going to college, no chance to indulge her passion for drama and the theatre, which had lurked at the back of her mind since the day she’d been introduced to her grandmother’s trunk in the attic. Only about six at the time, she must have been driving her mother bonkers, because she was dispatched to the tiny attic and told to amuse herself. Hours later, when her mother shouted at her to come downstairs immediately and no slacking, Annie appeared in full theatrical garb. The bug had bitten, even if she didn’t yet know it. For years afterwards, if Annie went missing, it was always ‘Try the attic.’ She pored over diaries and photos and begged for stories about the granny she’d never known – Nora Kane, who had been a showgirl and a budding actress. Anne Weller indulged her daughter’s fantasy and allowed her to join a dance class, without ever imagining it would amount to any more than a little girl’s daydream.
All those dreams became submerged by the lead weight of domesticity and for a long time after her mother’s death Annie’s heart was too bruised to successfully nurture even the weakest fairytale. One by one the boys left home and got good jobs. Tom was a chef and now lived in Australia where he had eventually managed to buy a small bar and restaurant. Donal, a builder, had married his childhood sweetheart and moved to London with his three sons. Jim was trotting around the world as manager of a travel agency and Greg was a struggling artist who still lived in Dublin. Annie was closest, in a not close at all sort of way, to Greg and didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d succeed, but he was flaky at the best of times and had never offered much support to a gawky young sister.
Because they were men they just got on with their lives, assuming that Annie would look after everything but never once asking if it was what she wanted. And like her mother before her, the daydreaming teenager wasn’t good at pleading for help. Yet the seed that had been sown that first day in the attic flourished. The dance classes gave her an opportunity to put on a mask, and she shone at many auditions and junior shows. Years later, television drama became a passion, and Coronation Street was her first favourite soap. She couldn’t afford to go to the theatre and anyway, her family would have laughed themselves silly at such grand notions. The pub was their only form of social entertainment, so Annie spent the winter evenings in an amateur dramatic society and no-one even noticed. She saved every penny to further her dream and the local library became her second home where she gobbled up anything to do with her secret craving.
Finally she plucked up the courage to leave home on her twenty-first birthday, scared that she’d never be able to go. Joe Weller, to his credit, had eventually realized what was happening and encouraged – no, insisted – that Annie move out and learn to be independent, assuring her over and over again that he’d be OK. She cried when her father gave her a bank book with an account in her name. It had been opened by her mother when she was born and topped up every time there was a spare few bob in the kitty. ‘She planned to let you have it when you left home, wanted you to have a nest egg in case you still had those flights of fancy about being on the stage,’ Joe Weller said, his bottom lip quivering.
It was a relatively small amount of money but Annie knew exactly what it would buy – a place on a course in one of Dublin’s oldest and most respected acting schools. So she left with great plans and a head chock full of hopes and dreams of her life as a mature student. With a huge circle of friends and a determination to succeed, she’d repay her mother’s faith.
Things took off slowly, much more slowly than she’d expected, but were moving along nicely when she discovered a lump in her breast two months after her twenty-third birthday. Everything came to a big fat full stop. Cancer. It was the scariest thing she had ever had to face up to, but she was well used to coping with whatever life threw her way. Once she could see through the thick fog of fright and loneliness – not helped by being surrounded by men who didn’t know how to deal with the tears and were embarrassed by the problem – Annie discovered that she was one of the lucky ones. After a long, gruelling spell in hospital when she lost every single bit of hair, including her eyelashes – yet miraculously didn’t lose her breast – and over a year in recovery she managed to pick up the pieces of a life that had never really got started.
Her father was amazing: she moved back home and he looked after her. Her brothers had rallied round as best they knew how, and gradually things improved, but it was a long time before anyone saw a spark of the old Annie and even longer before the tiredness left her bones and a little of her former energy returned. Only her determination and natural optimism had kept her going during that first long, icy winter, when all she could do was read and watch TV and dream.
So, at almost twenty-seven she left home for the second time and started again. It wasn’t nearly as easy this time round. For one thing, she wasn’t a kid any more and cancer had given her a perspective on life that most seventy-year-olds had only recently acquired. Her world seemed a million miles away from that of the carefree students she bumped into at auditions and she felt decades older and no wiser than most. But Anne Weller had been a strong, Irish mother and everything that happened to her daughter somehow made her more stubborn, more ambitious and hungrier than most. So now Annie had a tiny but solid former council house in a quiet area in the north inner city, close to O’Connell Street, in the middle of a settled community who minded each other as only true Dubs can. She’d tried to pick up the pieces of a fledgling acting career but jobs were hard to come by so she worked part-time as a front of house person in a posh restaurant to keep things ticking over. Mostly she felt lucky and happy and content. And best of all, after what seemed like a lifetime in remission, she was now considered cured of cancer.
Nothing exciting had come up on the acting front, which was her one regret. Contacts were everything in this business and most of Annie’s friends had stopped calling after the first few weeks of her illness. She tried not to let it make her bitter. They were young, carefree and selfish and the sights and sounds of their world didn’t include drips and tubes and noisy bedpans; nor did they gravitate towards the pungent smell of disinfectant. But people were kind once they realized she hadn’t died – cancer still carried a death sentence in most people’s minds. A gradual resumption of acquaintances led to a number of roles in amateur productions but none had provided her with the much-needed break. She knew she was good, and she desperately wanted a chance to prove it. Maybe today, she thought longingly as she sipped a second beaker of the comforting liquid that looked like cough syrup and tasted like consommé and tried not to get too excited.
One of the producers on the mega-successful soap had seen Annie in a small production and suggested her for this audition. She didn’t have an agent so they’d gone to considerable trouble to track her down, which pleased her enormously. Getting any audition was usually the most difficult part and she’d heard tales of people who were offered other roles once they’d been seen by the major producers and directors. Still, it was a long shot, she knew, as she recognized some of the faces around her. There were several established names being considered and she wondered for the twentieth time what her chances were. An attack of nerves threatened to overwhelm her but a quick prayer to her mother helped. It always did.
Chapter Two
A VERY DIFFERENT face stared out from an ornate mirror in a stunning period bathroom a couple of miles away, in a huge Victorian house located on one of South Dublin’s most prestigious roads.
‘God, I look wrecked.’ Libby Marlowe was her usual critical self. But she didn’t really and she knew it.
She looked exactly what she was, a stunning, confident, thirty-eight-year-old woman who had everything, including porcelain skin, masses of pale gold hair, big soft boxer-puppy eyes and lips that smac
ked of collagen but had, in fact, been pouty since birth.
As she slipped off her silk robe in readiness for her shower, she surveyed her body in one of many mirrors, not really liking what she saw. Yet the image that stared back would have delighted any artist. Tall, slim torso, long legs, softly rounded hips, flat tummy, big boobs, all covered in a light sprinkling of gold, courtesy of a two-week holiday in the Maldives at Christmas. Libby wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the scalding jets of a power shower and lathered herself in expensive foam.
Forty-five minutes later she was in the kitchen almost ready to face the day, sipping freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice and nibbling at wheaten toast, prepared by her housekeeper. She was dressed in a tailored, pinstripe trouser suit, her make-up was flawless and her jewellery to die for. Mrs O’Connell made herself scarce as a tanned, immaculately dressed man entered and slapped his wife playfully on the bottom.
‘You’re looking good, what’s on today?’ David English smiled.
‘More meetings, I’m afraid. We start shooting the new series the week after next and we still haven’t thrashed out the formula and the stylists haven’t produced one decent image yet. I think I’m about to kick ass.’
‘That’s my girl. Go get ’em.’ She saw he was engrossed in a sheaf of papers. Absently he picked up a piece of her toast and she smacked his hand.
‘You’ve had yours. Go away, glutton.’ He dodged her and smiled in a preoccupied way. ‘Yeah, I’d thought I’d start by having the producer castrated,’ she joked.
‘Sounds good.’
‘You’re not listening to me.’ It was a childish, singsong reprimand.
‘Sorry, darling, actually I need you to sign this.’ She accepted the gold fountain pen but used the smooth metal to stroke his cheek.
‘You look tired, what’s up?’
‘Just a temporary hitch. I need to transfer some funds . . . One of the companies I’ve been dealing with is operating—’
‘Do I need to know this?’ Libby moved closer to him, sidling up seductively. She loved the aura of power that surrounded him.
