‘I have come to apologise for insulting you, Mademoiselle. I realise you are from a good family, and that you are quite correct not to accept gifts, especially money, from men. But I hope you will allow me to make amends with a small gift now. You were charming company last night, and it would give me great pleasure if you would take this money now, and buy yourself something wonderful.’
Well, what was a girl to do? Yes, quite – I took the money and ran! I bought myself some gorgeous pink cord jeans that were all the rage in France at the time, and a rose pink Shetland sweater. I was the bees’ knees. Carol couldn’t believe her eyes and I don’t think she believed I got them for nothing. But I didn’t care what she thought, because my street cred had gone up one hundred per cent.
At the end of the week we said our farewells to the yachting brigade. Carol did her La Dame aux Camélias act, looking sad and tragic as she waved goodbye. Needless to say, as soon as a fit guy in a car stopped to give us a lift, she was away again giving her femme fatale impression. You had to hand it to the girl, she was a good actress.
We arrived in St Malo in the afternoon, in time to meet the early evening ferry bringing her parents to meet us for the next leg of the holiday. We had just enough money left to buy ourselves a drink. So we did, and sat down in a café to wait. No ferry arrived. On inquiry, it was revealed that bad weather meant it had been postponed till the following day. Disaster had struck again. And yes, you guessed it – Carol burst into tears. It was now seven o’clock at night and the owner of the café was giving us funny looks. But at that moment, help arrived.
Into the square roared a red sports car. It screeched to a halt outside the café and out got the most beautiful man I had ever seen. In fact, he was exactly like the hero of a film that I had just seen called Un Homme et Une Femme. It was the best film I had seen for ages. Very moody and French and the music was incredible. So evocative. This bloke was it. White linen trousers and a white silk shirt, with slightly too-long hair, but clean and shiny and, when he smiled, a row of perfect, white teeth. Both Carol and I stared. He was followed by a rather short, slightly plump man with receding hair. As Carol moved forward to meet the Adonis, my heart sank. Guess who was going to end up with Shorty?
They were absolutely charming when we explained our plight. Well, I explained our plight because I could speak passable French. They invited us to have dinner with them in Shorty’s apartment. We had great fun going round the supermarket buying groceries and such, and then we went to a lovely flat and cooked dinner. Alain, the Adonis, suggested we go on to a nightclub. Why not? So we all piled into his car and drove into town. The club was typically continental. Half outside, with lots of soft lighting in the bushes and ridiculous French pop music.
Carol was trying very hard to seduce Alain on the dance floor, while Shorty and I drank a lot. He was quite nice really, and had a good sense of humour, so I reckoned if the worst came to the worst and I had to spend the evening with him, at least it would be a laugh. But suddenly, I found myself on the dance floor in the arms of my hero. He was whispering in my ear that he thought I was very lovely and why didn’t we go for a drive?
What, me? I was beside myself. I just couldn’t believe my luck. I had pulled Mr Gorgeous. We drove along the coast road with the top down and, on the radio, the music from the film I loved so much was playing. Was this real? Was I in the film? Was this a dream?
We finally pulled up at a block of apartments right on the edge of the sea. I followed him in and found myself in the most exquisite room. Beautifully furnished with white sofas and glass tables. He went round opening the shutters and moonlight flooded in. The sound of the waves breaking outside made the whole thing so romantic. Alain led me upstairs to the bedroom, which contained an enormous bed with crisp white sheets, and cushions and bolsters. Rather like a magazine cover for Good Housekeeping. He opened the shutters in the room and the moonlight fell perfectly across the pillows.
I didn’t know what to do. I was not on the pill, and my sexual experiences to date had been pretty grim. I also felt completely inadequate as the heroine in this scenario. I hated my body and just felt useless. Alain began to undress and indicated to me to do the same. This would normally be the moment when I cracked a joke. The trouble was, I could speak French OK, but not well enough to make jokes. Instead, I found myself performing an elaborate mime to indicate that the bolster on the bed must go IN the bed between us. Alain laughed and proceeded to arrange the bed as I had requested, which was something. He was a gentleman, at any rate.
I climbed into the bed and lay back on the pillows, feeling very wobbly. The linen smelled of lavender. Alain leaned across and kissed me. A long, lingering kiss. Very gentle. He stroked my face and looked into my eyes and smiled. He was so beautiful. Wasn’t this what I had dreamed about? Romance? My whole body was trembling with longing for him. Was this love at first sight? I just couldn’t stop kissing him. He touched me in places I didn’t know existed. He told me how beautiful I was and I really began to believe I was. Every bone in my body cried out to be touched and stroked. The bolster somehow disappeared and he was making love to me. Very gently at first and then harder and harder. I pulled him into me and was completely lost to the world.
When I woke up a few hours later, I lay for a moment listening to the sea, remembering every detail of our lovemaking. Then I felt Alain stir beside me, and we were once again in each other’s arms. I was completely hooked.
In the morning we had coffee and croissants in a little café by the sea, and then we drove back to town. I was dreading having to say goodbye. The tears were pricking the back of my eyes already but I put on a brave face.
We met Carol and Shorty, who seemed very cosy, and drove to the ferry. The weather was a bit grim and my hopes began to rise. Could it be possible there was a delay…? Sure enough, my fairy story continued for two days with the ferry finally arriving on the third day. Three days of love and romance. I was completely besotted. This was what my mother had tried to tell me about. Well, maybe not quite this, but near enough. When it was time to leave I stood on the quay at the end of a perfect holiday and, guess what? I burst into tears!
As we left, I knew I would never see Alain again, but it didn’t matter. It had been perfect and would remain perfect in my memory. I now understood what was missing from my life. Romance.
I also understood that if I was to continue my search safely, I needed to go on the pill. When I got home to London, I went straight to the doctor and sorted myself out. I thought I was being very responsible.
So, back to college and the daily grind, and my French fancy was stored away. The final year of drama school was fast approaching and real life beckoned. Would we all be ready to take up the challenge of what lay beyond?
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I LOVE ACTING. IT IS SO MUCH MORE REAL THAN LIFE’
(OSCAR WILDE)
OUR FINAL PRODUCTION at Central was the musical Guys and Dolls. I played Sarah Brown, the girl in the Salvation Army. I could sing in those days; quite well, though I say so myself! It was a fantastic production directed by the wonderful George Hall and proved a fitting finale to our three years at drama school. It was so emotional leaving the place. We had all grown up so much and had all our turning points and crises, and now were on our own in the big wide world.
In those days you had to be a member of Equity to be able to work professionally, so we were all keen to get our required forty-two weeks in the theatre out of the way. This then gave us full membership status and allowed us to work in television and film. We all thought we were going to be film stars, me included, so it was a shock to find myself in weekly repertory in Frinton on Sea!
I remember Nik, who had also landed a role at Frinton with me, giving me a list of famous actors who had started their careers there which included Vanessa Redgrave.
It may not have been the Royal Shakespeare, but we did have a laugh. It was crazy trying to learn a new play every week. Especially as we would mu
ch rather sit on the beach, and sometimes I would find myself having to sit up all night to learn my lines. Each play morphed into the next and, as they were all very similar, and either a thriller or a farce, by week five I was mixing the lines up from all the bloody plays! One performance, I was sitting downstage on a stool and I felt a tug on my skirt. I looked down to see a little old lady staring up at me. I leaned down and she whispered very loudly, ‘I liked you much better last week, dear!’
I had been engaged as an assistant stage manager (or ASM), also playing small parts. So not only was I a general dogsbody and scenery painter, but I was also acting at night. This meant there were some wonderful moments, such as me running on from one side of the stage to do a bit of acting, then running off the other side to bang on a water tank for a sound effect.
Every Wednesday night the set would be changed for the next play, which would open on the Thursday. This meant the scenery had to be painted overnight. Most of the plays were set in either a country cottage or a London living room, so each week we would either be painting wooden beams, à la mock-Tudor style, or wallpapering mock-Regency stripes for a townhouse lounge. It was hysterical.
It was a happy eight weeks and wonderful to be with Nik. It also gave us lots of valuable experience, especially about learning lines quickly, something you have to do in television. I kept my first professional programme in which I was billed as ‘ASM: Lyfta Bellingham’! Quite appropriate, really, considering all the scene-shifting work I had had to do.
By the end of the Frinton season, things were looking up for both of us. Nik was off to the prestigious Nottingham Playhouse; I was off to Crewe. Not so glamorous, but I was going to be playing leading roles.
MY NINE MONTHS at Crewe were another learning curve. Not so much in terms of my acting experience, but in terms of how to live and work in close proximity with a company when you are away from home and all your creature comforts. This is where actors are like gypsies. We move around from place to place and make our lives around the people and places we find ourselves working with. I think this was the beginning of me always needing a home. A base from which to work, and somewhere to come back to. The idea of a permanent home became very important to me over the years. It was my security blanket.
We did some great stuff, including a production of Hamlet starring Richard Beckinsale (made famous by his role as Lennie Godber in Porridge, with Ronnie Barker). He was just starting his career. He was wonderful. Very undisciplined, but when he was on form he was magic. It was so very sad that he had to die so young. He was very naughty and had a wicked sense of humour. Then there was a lovely actor called Peter John, who was the longest-serving member of the company, and kept us all up to scratch. When we did musicals we joined forces with a local band, run by Frank Stubbs, who was a coalman. He and his wife, Monica, were wonderful. They would have all the actors round to a Sunday roast dinner, because they knew we never had any money. They were so kind. Frank died a long time ago now, but I still exchange Christmas cards with Monica.
In stark contrast to Hamlet, we did the musical The Boyfriend and I played Polly Browne, the lead. Unfortunately, the part was vocally too high for me and I strained my voice. One morning, I woke up, cleared my throat and thought, ‘I’ve pulled!’ My voice was so low it sounded like a man’s. It proved to be a disaster as I had a nodule on my vocal cords. Nodules are caused by straining the voice, which affects the tiny hairs on your vocal cords. This is where the cords swell, and rub together, and form little nodes on the hairs, stopping the air from passing through your throat and nasal passages. This creates the husky sound you hear in some peoples’ voices, and is the one thing you are taught to fear at drama school.
All that vocal training, gone to waste. I went to see a specialist who informed me I had two choices. Surgery, which could be dangerous and not completely successful, or silence for three months. Can you imagine what I felt hearing that? I had only just begun my career and now I had to stop speaking for three months. Well, I had no choice. Once again, I had to make the best of things. I went home to my parents and stayed there for the duration. I used to go round with a pad and pencil and write everything down. It was an interesting experience because, when my mother would explain to people that I couldn’t speak, nine times out of ten they then shouted things at me. One day, my mum, who was never rude to anyone, turned to a shop assistant who was loudly asking me what it was I wanted and said, ‘I told you she can’t speak. She is not, however, hard of hearing.’ God bless her!
After the three months, my voice was on the mend but it made me very aware of not straining it again, especially if I was going to do a musical. Which, as luck would have it, was something I was about to embark on again.
WEST SIDE STORY is one of the most exciting musicals ever written, in my opinion, and I heard that Coventry Theatre was going to be casting for it very soon.
It was 1971 and I was working as a telephonist at the British Drama League. This was an old and established society for theatrical usage. It combined a reference library, with courses for young people in all aspects of the theatre. It was headed by a real character called Walter Lucas. Nik Grace had made his acquaintance during his school days, and Walter had taken us both under his wing and, in my case, given me the job on the switchboard.
It would be hard for anyone born after 1960 to begin to imagine this contraption. It was a board with rows of sockets, and one sat with a head-set on and plugged connecting wires into the sockets as calls came in. It was ancient. If it was busy, I lost track of who was speaking to whom, on what line, and had to pull them all out and start again!
There was an actress called Fenella Fielding who used to ring quite a lot because she was friends with a man who worked at the British Drama League. I loved her very low, very posh, husky voice, and I could do a mean impersonation of her on the quiet. One day, she called and asked to be put through to this man, and I just couldn’t resist responding in her voice. There was a silence on the end of the line, and then she said, ‘Are you taking the piss?’ I was so surprised I hung up. Then later I plucked up courage to call back and apologise. She was not very amused.
While I was working at my telephonist’s job, I would often have to oversee auditions that would be held in the rehearsal room, which was booked by any producers and directors who wanted to use it. I would show people in and make the director and suchlike tea and coffee. I would then wait till the end of the day and, after they had seen everyone, I would burst through the door and try and impress them with my talent: ‘Hi! guess what? I’m not really a telephonist. I am a budding actress and I am begging you to please give me an audition!’ Amazingly, it worked most of the time.
However, when they were auditioning for West Side Story, I was not so lucky. I was told by the assistant director that the director, Roger Redfarn, was only going to be seeing people up in Coventry and I would have to ring up. No problem. I was straight on to the switchboard. I tried every day for a week. The answer was always no. Finally, on the last try he said yes! I have no idea why, but maybe he just wanted to shut me up. I took the train to Coventry and got the part of Rosaria, one of the girls in the Puerto Rican gang who sing ‘(I want to be in) America’ with Anita. Of course, I really wanted to play Anita, but that was pushing my luck. I had so little experience. But I was happy. It was going to be a big production that would attract lots of people from London to come and see it.
With this new role, I was part of a wonderful company made up of many different types of entertainers. Roger Redfarn was fast acquiring a reputation as a great director of musicals and he had hired a choreographer called Sheila O’Neil to handle all the dance routines. There were dancers brought up from London to do the hard bits and we actors were sort of slipped in between. The dancers taught the actors to dance and the actors gave the dancers tuition with their lines. So many people remain locked in my heart from this time: Leo Dolan, who was one of the funniest men I ever knew. We became firm friends, and I introduced him
to his wife, Sheila Mackintosh, and am godmother to their daughter, Joanna. They also have a son, Luke, who is now a producer on The X Factor.
Leo and I played a husband and wife in a play about Burke and Hare called The Body Snatchers. We used to crouch in the dark, supposedly terrified of these two dastardly men and, at one point, I had to scream loudly. As you will recall, I had only just recovered from losing my voice, so this was not a good idea, night after night. But Leo hit on the solution: he would do the screaming for me, then I would run on and say my lines!
We were also sharing our dark corner with the wondrous Carmen Silvera, of ’Allo ’Allo! fame. We used to spend every night in fits of laughter, because Carmen had a terrible wind problem. She would happily scoff baked beans on toast at tea time and then Leo and I had to suffer the consequences.
Then there was Gareth Hunt, God rest his soul. A beautiful man. He was the leading man at Coventry at the time and did he know it. He was very popular with the ladies. When we did The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, and we were all playing the schoolgirls, he had a full-blown fan club! Leo and he became very good friends, and when times were hard over the years, they used to have a decorating business together. A far cry from Gareth’s starring days in The New Avengers. Then there was Wally Michaels, a Ukrainian dancer from the wilds of Saskatchewan, Canada. He has become a lifelong friend and now lives in Toronto.
I HAD BY NOW got myself an agent, Peter Campbell, and he had an assistant called Felicity Larner. We had become good friends. She had a flat in Maida Vale and needed a lodger. The timing was perfect. I had left Coventry and got a small part in a television series called The Misfit, starring Ronnie Fraser. I had been away from London for the last year and a half. My flat-sharing with Nik had reached a natural conclusion, for many reasons, but mainly because we were both off discovering ourselves and doing what we had to do. We were too close as friends to part company for ever but, at this moment in time, we needed a break from each other.
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