Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  ‘It’s only rough, I’m afraid. We’re so short of time and there are ten new characters coming on board in the next few episodes. But at least it will give you some idea of the way I’m thinking.’

  ‘No, it’s great to see anything.’ Annie was surprised to find it wasn’t that far off the look she’d come up with herself for the audition.

  ‘I thought we’d go cheap and just a bit tacky to start, rather than opt for the all-out trailer trash look. Bobby has a lot of street cred and you’re a good-looking girl so I’m assuming she would have a bit of taste and be well up on fashion but not have a lot of money. I think she would show off a bit where men are concerned, so I thought I’d buy a few coloured bras, maybe red, tigerskin, that sort of thing, and get a couple of slightly see-through blouses. Then, some tight jeans, maybe a pair of cheap, plastic leather-look trousers and a short skirt or two. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds just like my wardrobe at home.’

  ‘Mine too, come to think of it,’ Eileen joked and they laughed easily together. Annie liked her. They talked about sizes and shoes and jewellery and arranged for Annie to call for a proper fitting the following week.

  Next up Susannah Browne, chief make-up artist. She was older, in her late forties, perfectly groomed and she looked over her silver-rimmed specs at Annie with just the faintest hint of disdain. It was as if she’d just detected a slightly off smell. ‘Hello, dear, come in, sit down. Now, tell me, what sort of look do you normally go for?’ She obviously thought Annie was just like her character and didn’t think much of either, despite the fact that Annie had deliberately dressed down for today, to show them all the real her.

  ‘I don’t really wear much make-up, to be honest. Just a tinted moisturizer, some blusher and a bit of lip gloss.’

  ‘And what brands do you use?’ That look again, the nose held slightly too high.

  ‘This and that. I haven’t really got any favourites.’ Annie didn’t want to admit she used the cheapest ones she could find in Boots or the supermarket.

  ‘What about on the eyes?’ She was scribbling notes in a leatherbound notebook.

  ‘Em, nothing really.’

  ‘Not even mascara?’

  ‘Sometimes, but very seldom. It usually runs or stings my eyes.’

  ‘Are you allergic to anything?’

  ‘Only mornings,’ Annie tried. It was wasted.

  ‘I see, well, talking to Max,’ she said the name protectively, ‘I think we’re going to have to go for quite a pronounced look. Have you done television before?’

  ‘No, but I’ve done a lot of theatre,’ Annie offered, hoping to impress.

  ‘Totally different. I’ll tell you what, why don’t I think about it and chat further with Max. Then I’ll try out some stuff on you next week and we can take it from there.’ She closed the book and took off her glasses. ‘I’ll give you a call early next week.’ Annie was dismissed and was just about to skulk off when she was summoned again.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Hair. Let’s have a quick look before you go. Over here.’

  She led Annie to a swivel chair in the main make-up area, so that she could examine her under strong lights. Annie pulled her hair out of its scrunchy and shook her head.

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She gazed at Annie’s head as if she was discovering nits for the first time. ‘It’s rather, em, dull for the strong lights of TV.’ She continued to poke around with the pointed edge of her tail comb, giving the impression that she was half afraid of catching something.

  ‘I think you mean mousy and you’re right.’ Annie’s normally vibrant hair looked lifeless.

  ‘Nonsense, you’ve lovely hair, really. Sort of auburny, would you say? It’s just that television can be so cruel, sometimes . . .’ She trailed off and smiled weakly.

  Can’t be much worse than this. Annie didn’t say it.

  ‘How would you feel if we gave you some different coloured highlights, just to sort of liven it up.’

  ‘Fine, no problem, just as long as it’s done by a professional.’ Annie wasn’t prepared to let her away with everything.

  ‘Oh, of course. In fact, if you give me the name of your own hairdresser I can talk to him and arrange everything and naturally we’ll pay for it all.’

  ‘I was thinking of going to Paul Hession.’ Annie mentioned one of the top stylists in Dublin, whose name she’d only ever seen in one of her glossies. ‘My regular guy has recently moved to London and I need a good cut as well.’ Annie could feel her face turning hot at the outright lie. What was wrong with her, she wondered. She wasn’t usually like this.

  ‘Oh yes, Paul is a friend of mine. He’s wonderful. I’ll phone him and discuss it and tell him to expect a call from you.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘And of course you know you mustn’t do anything to your hair during the weeks of recording, because all the scenes are shot out of sequence and it would be a disaster for continuity.’

  ‘Of course,’ Annie said through gritted teeth.

  ‘OK then, that’s it for today. Bye.’ She was dismissed for a second time.

  Annie swung by the office then to collect some more paperwork.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Isobel greeted her warmly.

  ‘Fine, I think. I’ve to meet them again next week. Eileen has some nice ideas, if you can call that look nice.’ She grinned. ‘And Susannah wants to talk to Max a bit more.’ She didn’t like to say too much.

  ‘Eileen’s a dote,’ Isobel smiled at her brightly and Annie immediately felt better that she hadn’t said the same about the older woman.

  They spent time going through the schedule again and it was after six when Annie finally left, exhausted, wishing her tiny house had a bath. She’d been on her feet since 7 a.m. and she’d have given anything for a long soak in bubbles.

  Still, at least she wasn’t working tonight. She stopped at her local garage for a tin of meatballs in gravy and treated herself to a packet of bourbon creams. It had been a great day overall and she was very happy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FOR LIBBY IT was a day filled with anguish and heartbreak and invading, scalding memories. Being so close to David’s family and all his friends made his absence unbearable. She missed his smile and his touch and his breath on her neck and his arm around her. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, and each thought dealt another blow to her already battered heart.

  Christina had invited family and close friends back to her house for lunch. It seemed a strange thing to do, Libby thought. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to eat or drink today. But of course they did. She wanted to lock herself in her room and scream at them all to go away but instead, she wandered around and kept her head down and tried not to listen to the everyday, if subdued, inconsequential chatter.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Robert English, David’s brother, smiled sadly at her, looking so like him that it sent a red-hot poker scorching through her stomach.

  ‘Badly.’ She hadn’t the energy to pretend and knew she didn’t have to with him.

  ‘Me too. I keep wanting to tell him something.’

  ‘He’d have livened this lot up, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you, Libby.’

  She nodded, a bit more resigned now. ‘For all of us.’

  ‘I’m worried about Dad. I don’t think he’s that well and I’m not sure how he’ll cope with this. Although she pretends otherwise, Mum is actually a much stronger person.’

  ‘I know. David used to say your mum was as tough as overdone roast beef and your dad as soft as mushy peas. Oh, Bob, what am I going to do without him?’

  He said nothing, simply folded her tightly in his arms and they stood like that for ages and people around them tried not to notice her open display of grief as she sobbed on his shoulder.

  Lunch was an exquisite buffet. Libby tried to concentrate and kept forgetting and staring blankly into the distance. Most people left soon afterwards and by mid-afternoon only f
amily and one or two of David’s close friends remained. Vera and Mrs O’Connell bustled about, vying to be top dog, making coffee, discreetly topping up wine glasses and generally driving the caterers mad.

  Her friend Moya glided around, calling everyone darling and rubbing Libby’s back every time she passed. It felt as if she was being burped and it irritated her no end.

  A pregnant Carrie had travelled up from the country, in spite of her all-day sickness.

  ‘Libby, I wish there was something I could do for you.’

  ‘I know, but there’s nothing anyone can do. Oh Carrie, I need him here with me.’

  ‘I just wish I didn’t live so far away.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Carrie sighed. ‘We’ve sort of lost contact, in a way. I don’t really know much about your life any more. So, let’s start by staying in touch. Damn, I wish I wasn’t pregnant right now. I’m not much use to anyone.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come and visit you.’ Both of them knew she wouldn’t.

  ‘Promise me you’ll think about it?’

  ‘I promise.’ Libby was like a schoolchild agreeing to do her homework. They hugged each other tightly.

  The endless day at last gave way to darkness. Libby was glad to be surrounded by the inky black night with no magical stars and not even a fingernail of a moon. The hired chef had left a comforting home-made steak and kidney pie with tiny dumplings and a featherlight puff pastry, to be accompanied by steamed, fluffy potatoes, kept warm in an industrial hostess trolley. There was also a spicy baked organic ham, salads and an array of freshly made breads, as well as a mouth-watering display of puddings. Nobody felt like eating but they sat round in the formal dining room for the sake of it and attempted to do the food justice. They sipped the wine mostly because it softened the hollowness.

  By nine o’clock Libby couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘I’m sorry, I think I’ll have to go to my room. Please excuse me.’

  Everyone got up together, it seemed, and it made her feel claustrophobic. She backed away with a haunted look. John Simpson, David’s solicitor and closest friend, was the first to sense her panic.

  ‘I’ll walk Libby to her room,’ he offered, smiling at her mother in an attempt to avoid any argument. Charles English put a gentle hand over Christina’s in a gesture that seemed to speak only to parents.

  She walked slowly, glad to have John beside her. He was a soft, lovely man and he’d loved David too.

  ‘I need some fresh air. Think you can brave it?’

  He followed her out through the sliding doors and they stood for a moment, gazing at the garden in silence. It looked bleak and shadowy in its winter overcoat and Libby shivered, glad there were no comforting sights or scents to try and tempt away the anguish.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t really get to speak to you all day. This must be terrible for you, too. I know how close you two were.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ John said. ‘I’m going to miss him. He always made me laugh, no matter how bad things were. And he was usually so confident, so definite, that he sort of swept you along with him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Try to survive, I suppose.’

  ‘You have to do more than try. It’s what he’d want, you said so yourself earlier.’

  ‘And he usually got what he wanted.’ She said it kindly, with a smile, remembering David’s powers of persuasion. She was going to miss him so much.

  Someone walked on her grave again and she shivered and made her way indoors. John followed, shadowing her protectively as she mounted the stairs.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said as they got to her room. Tilting her face up to his he kissed her forehead and smiled at her tiredly. They’d always been a bit like brother and sister.

  ‘And Libby, I’m around for the next few weeks, so lean on me, OK?’

  ‘It’s the next fifty years or so I’m worried about.’ She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I mean it.’ He held her for a moment.

  ‘I know you do. Good night.’

  Libby stripped off her clothes quickly. Her skin felt tight and her underwear hurt and her shoes pinched. Then she stepped into the cubicle for a shower because she couldn’t face the loneliness of a king-size bed, even though she desperately wanted this day to be over.

  Her nightly cleansing ritual offered no comfort either and she slipped between the sheets and felt the warmth of the electric blanket and shivered. Then she lay, teeth almost chattering in the snug haven, and tossed and turned and dreamed horrible dreams that were still better than reality.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE NEXT FEW days both sped and crawled.

  Annie felt as if she’d been given wings. Her whole outlook changed and she realized just how much she’d been struggling and for how long. Her contract arrived and the promise of a decent amount of money was exhilarating. She knew she’d have to be careful: the temptation to spend had been lurking inside her for years and could do serious damage to her frail finances. So she did what every sensible woman does in moments of crisis. She made a list.

  First up, some new clothes. Jeans, a decent pair of black trousers and maybe a pair of combats. Then a couple of cheap T-shirts, a jumper and a good jacket. She allocated a sum of money. Next, a small amount for make-up and some new face products and toiletries. Finally, a couple of things for the house, including paint for the front door and two windowboxes and a hanging basket, just in case she had to entertain any of her new friends. She added material for curtains for the parlour, resolved to try and find a cheap mirror for over the fireplace and allowed 20 euro for some new plants. If she stuck carefully to her budget, she should still manage to save some for a rainy day. Not that she was planning any. And she was going to do a decent supermarket shop for once.

  It was a great feeling. She cleaned the house with gusto, opening windows at the first hint of sunshine, bashing faded rugs and washing everything in sight.

  In the supermarket she was less sure. Her eating habits had been screwed up for years. She couldn’t really remember much about her mother’s cooking, except jelly and ice-cream on Sundays and fish on Fridays. She could still smell the kippers, and it always reminded her just why she hated all types of seafood. Oh, and buns and a malt loaf on Saturday mornings, she’d never forget that. The memory made her want to lick a bowl all over again. It was funny that the loss of something so long ago still made her yearn.

  Annie had never been a cook. After her mother’s death, dinner for the men in the family became a nightmare. Her father helped in the early days, but drifted away quickly. Annie soon learned that a big pot of potatoes, as much meat as they could afford – sausages when they ran out – and beans or mushy peas went a long way. Biscuits and crisps were the only snacks in the house.

  Then when she was in hospital, the smell of cabbage and sprouts ensured a lifelong hatred of anything green and soggy. The chops were fatty and grey and she shuddered even all these years later. She remembered a tasteless, rubbery chicken curry and rice so watery it could have been pudding.

  When she’d been at home recovering her father had developed a routine and it never altered. A small piece of roast on Sunday. Cold leftover meat on Monday. Mince for shepherd’s pie on Tuesday. Sausages on Wednesday. A chop on Thursday if his budget allowed, otherwise tinned corned beef. Fish fingers, egg and chips on Friday and a takeaway treat on Saturday.

  Those years had had a dramatic effect on Annie’s relationship with food. When she left hospital they’d cautioned her to eat a sensible diet, with lots of fresh fruit and raw or lightly cooked vegetables. She had every one of the ‘you are what you eat’ leaflets. Her father had scoffed at them and even after she’d left home Annie had never really made much of an effort, not really believing that it made any difference. Food didn’t interest her and over the years she’d grown to loathe cooking. She wished she could afford to eat out more often but for that you needed money and frien
ds or a date and all three had been scarce.

  She knew she needed to experiment more and try out different tastes from other countries but, even in the restaurant when she could have anything she wanted, it tended to be steak, or pasta with a token salad which she rarely touched, finding the strong dressings too oily. She was always nervous about trying confit of duck or scallops or venison or other such exotica, afraid she wouldn’t like them or worse, know how to eat them.

  And no matter how hard she tried, vegetables always tasted of hospital.

  Guilt was a great prompter, however, and now as she skated excitedly around Superquinn she resolved to make an effort. She started by swapping her usual white, wrapped loaf for a brown, nutty unwrapped model. Next she decided to buy fresh fruit, but ended up with only oranges and a tin of peaches in syrup. She substituted fresh mince for her usual frozen burgers but hadn’t a clue what to put with it. Ditto with the chicken breast she determinedly threw in her trolley, instead of crunchy, coated chicken Kiev. A few E numbers and a dash of MSG were needed, she suspected, but these weren’t instantly evident on the shelves. She dropped fizzy drinks altogether, but couldn’t resist the usual supply of bikkies. Overall, she felt much healthier already.

  *

  Christina Marlowe was worried about Libby. Her daughter looked dreadful, thin and grey, which she knew was only to be expected, but it was her mood that was causing immediate concern. She was still at home, thankfully, but she spent her days in the bedroom, sitting by the window, staring into the distance for hours, only coming downstairs for cups of coffee and when forced to eat. She’d started smoking, a filthy and damaging habit that Christina had never been aware of.

  It was only in the evenings, when Vera had gone and the sky turned to treacle, that Libby seemed to relax a bit. Darkness suited her. Christina had taken to lighting the fire in the bedroom, then drawing the curtains and opening a bottle of good wine for them both. They sat for long periods in silence but Christina was very used to her own company.