‘Right,’ Matthew said, nodding. ‘So what about the girl?’
Lewis gave him a sharp look. ‘What girl? Oh, you mean Hilary Frampton?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, that girl.’
‘Yes. Yes!’ Matthew repeated, probingly. ‘The one you had us traipsing all over the countryside to find. The one you couldn’t make this film without. Remember?’ He gave an impatient snort. ‘Honest to God, Lewis, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were infatuated by her.’
‘Maybe I am,’ he said quietly.
‘What!’
‘Quiet please,’ shouted the assistant director, an animated little man in his forties. ‘Turnover.’
The camera operator started up the camera.
‘Speed,’ called the sound recordist.
‘And “Action”,’ shouted Miles.
Simon De Silva came running across the grass and leapt onto the quad bike. He revved the engine loudly and glanced back over his shoulder. Jason was sprinting towards him, his face set in an expression of single-minded determination.
With a kick of the engine, Simon tore off across the grass, the cameras following him on the specially constructed track.
‘And “Cut”. That was good,’ Miles said, nodding at Lewis. ‘Yeah, pretty good.’ He peered into the monitor. ‘Let’s try that one more time.’
Matthew was staring at him as if he had gone mad. ‘What?’ he repeated dazedly.
Lewis shrugged. ‘I said, maybe I am.’
‘I heard what you said,’ he hissed. ‘I want to know what you meant.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’ He met Matthew’s gaze with a confused look of his own. ‘I can’t explain it.’ And he couldn’t. How could he put into words what he could barely comprehend himself? All he knew was that he had been mesmerised by her from the start.
He thought back to the very first day he had seen her. It was all there, in his mind - the delightful merriment of her laughter, the sultry vision of her striding across the fields with that huge black horse behind her, and the gleaming silken sway of her hair. And he had wanted her. Not for the film – that was a means to an end – but for him. Yes, he had tried to deny it. He had convinced himself he was drawn to her for professional reasons. She had intrigued him – bewitched him – he needed to know more about her. And he had been prepared to risk everything to find her – even his reputation, he realised.
‘So all that palaver about finding a specific horse-rider – setting up the competition – doing all this,’ Matthew groaned. ‘It was all because you fancied her?’
‘Hmm. Yes, I suppose it was, really,’ Lewis reflected.
‘Bleeding idiot!’ Matthew thumped him on the back. ‘Couldn’t you just have phoned her up and asked her out on a date, like the rest of us?’
‘Didn’t know her name, did I,’ he said, with a rueful smile.
‘Lewis!’ Matthew despaired of him, sometimes. ‘Does Miles know about this?’
‘No, and I’d appreciate…’
‘Yeah, yeah, no problem.’ Matthew lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. ‘So what about the script?’ he said. ‘I thought the setting was supposed to be in the horse riding world.’
‘Yes, well, it still is,’ he said. ‘I mean, we’ve got the Showground, which is a huge bonus. And Simon, or should I say his alter-ego, ‘Brett’ was brought here in the back of a horsebox.’
‘Trussed and bound, and freed by the lovely Tanya,’ Matthew said, positively drooling.
‘That’s right.’
‘So where does the show-jumper fit in?’
‘Hilary Frampton?’ Lewis frowned. ‘To be honest, Matt – I don’t rightly know. But I’m working on it.’
He glanced at his watch. Where was the time going? In forty minutes he was supposed to be in the marquee. Forty minutes. The press would be waiting for him, and all the finalists, and he’d need to take Simon along. He jerked his head up. ‘Matt,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ve just had a brainwave.’
‘Brainstorm, more like.’
‘No, this could work.’ he said. ‘I need a script-editor, some props, and a handful of extras. And bring Miles when he’s finished. I’ve got an idea.’
‘What do you mean, he’s not here?’ Ursula demanded, peering through the huge encompassing folds of the entrance to the Keynes and Bain hospitality marquee. ‘My daughter’s supposed to be meeting him.’
‘Simon De Silva is still filming,’ explained the public relations officer, who had been sent to make sure the finalists were kept happy and comfortable.
Vanessa was certainly happy, having consumed several glasses of complementary champagne. A rather stupid smile was tilting the corner of her face, and her cheeks were flushed and glowing.
‘Well surely I can wait inside with my daughter,’ Ursula said. She had caught sight of Vanessa slumped on a seat in the middle of the floor, and was rather concerned about her welfare. ‘It’s starting to rain out here.’
‘I’m sorry, Madam, but extra guests are not permitted.’
‘Well thank you very much,’ she snapped. ‘Come on Caroline,’ she added, digging her sulky looking daughter in the ribs.’ We’re obviously wasting our time out here.’
‘I hate her,’ Caroline muttered, dragging her heels. ‘She’s so spiteful. Well she is, Mother. You’d think she’d let me go in with her.’
‘I expect you would have done the same if you’d got through,’ Ursula said. ‘Now give me that umbrella, darling. You know how I hate getting my hair wet.’
Sheltering beneath the huge, candy striped brolly, the pair of them made their way back to the horse box area, oblivious to the small army of technicians, sound engineers and cameramen gathering outside the entrance they had so recently vacated.
‘I want extra lighting here, here, and here,’ Miles said, reeling through the list of requirements. ‘And I want a camera on that crane by the entrance. Yep – up there. How soon will we be ready?’
‘Twenty minutes,’ the assistant director assured him. ‘We’ve got mobile units on standby anyway.’
‘How’s the props department doing?’
‘Better than expected.’
‘And the extras?’
‘All present and correct.’
The group of spectators that had been shepherded into the hospitality marquee had been hand picked to help swell the numbers. Lucy and James had been given the task of selecting suitable candidates – those of the well-heeled and country fraternity, and had instructed them to sit at the tables and chat with their neighbours.
‘In other words,’ James said, ‘we want you to act naturally, and please don’t look at the cameras.’
The finalists were told to mingle with the crowd.
‘And mime,’ James said, peering down a camera lens. ‘We don’t need sound. We just need you to look as if you’re talking.’
This was fine by Vanessa, since she was finding coherent talk a bit of a problem. Her words were becoming increasingly slurry. She weaved her way over to the buffet table, and nibbled on a few canapés, before quaffing back another glassful of champagne. Where was Simon, she wondered, giving a soft hiccup? (A middle-aged woman in a silk twin set and pearls gave her a disdainful stare.) She just wanted to see Simon.
The star of the film was in the process of being dressed by the costume department in a dark suit with matching tie, and a crisp white shirt.
‘Eat your heart out Pierce Brosnan,’ Lucy said, standing back to admire him. ‘You look good in formal attire, Simon.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing hurriedly over the amended pages of script. The previous scene had seen him abandoning the quad bike and ducking through the folds of the huge white marquee. Shots of him ‘borrowing’ the clothes from an inebriated young gentleman, who had collapsed unconscious in the toilet, would be filmed later in the studio. Now all he had to do was wander round with a tray of drinks, making sure that he served the finalist, Hilary Frampton.
; ‘Ready?’ Lewis said.
Simon nodded.
‘Right. Well I’ve told Hilary what to do, so I think we’re all set.’ He peered through the flap into the main body of the marquee. Ella still hadn’t put in an appearance. To say he was disappointed was a bit of an understatement, but he couldn’t dwell on it now. The press, in the form of Peter Marchant and his photographer, had arrived, and Miles was signalling that he was ready to start.
‘What about you, Lucy?’ he said. ‘Are you going to be one of the extras?’
‘You bet I am,’ she said, flipping open her compact and taking a last long look at herself. ‘I take it that’s real champagne in those bottles.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then lead on,’ she said.
‘Places please,’ came the call from the assistant director. ‘And…quiet.’
Vanessa clamped a hand over her mouth, and wished she could stop hiccupping. It really was too bad. Perhaps another drink might help. She slurped into her glass, and the bubbles shot up her nose, causing her to sneeze.
‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, blinking like an owl as the marquee was suddenly illuminated with powerful lighting.
Hilary Frampton, waiting nervously by the buffet table, decided that Vanessa was one person to be avoided, and pointedly took three steps away from her.
‘Ready everyone…’
‘Speed.’
‘And…Action!’
Simon strode purposefully into the room, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. He was immaculately dressed in his dark suit and tie. His hair had been brushed back from his face, and the crisp whiteness of the shirt set off his tanned skin.
Vanessa was instantly and hopelessly in love. She was also more than a little bit tipsy. Grinning like a buffoon, she lurched to her feet, her sole intention being to get near the object of her affection.
‘Cut! Cut! Sit down, woman,’ bellowed Miles Davison. Can someone get her to sit…Thank-you,’ he said, nodding at an elderly man in knee length breeches and a tweed shooting jacket, who had clamped his hands on Vanessa’s shoulders and forced her back down into her seat.
‘No wait…wait,’ Vanessa protested, vaguely trying to wave her arms at her captor. ‘See, I only wanted to...’
‘Quiet please,’ called the sound recordist.
‘…I am allowed, you know. I wash…waz…in the final.’
‘Shut up!’
Vanessa chewed on her lower lip.
‘Places everyone – and, Action.’
Simon re-entered the room at a slightly brisker pace, with the confident, self-assured stride of a man who knows what he’s doing.
‘Ladies?’ he said, offering the tray of drinks to Hilary and her companions. They were supposed to smile at him and remove a couple of champagne flutes. And they possible would have done, if Vanessa hadn’t called out ‘Waiter? I say, waiter. Over here.’
‘Cut!’
‘For pity’s sake,’ Miles muttered, through gritted teeth. ‘Who is that bloody female? Can’t we have her gagged, or something?’
‘A couple more glasses of bubbly and she won’t need gagging,’ Matthew said wryly.
‘Lewis – can we have her removed?’
‘I think it’s advisable,’ he said, stepping forwards. Since no one else had volunteered, it looked as if he was on his own. ‘Come on, Vanessa,’ he muttered, placing an arm around her waist and hoisting her to her feet. ‘Let’s go and get a little fresh air, shall we?’
‘But I want to shee Shimon,’ she slurred.
‘Yes, but I don’t think he wants to see you,’ Lewis said. ‘Or at least, not right now,’ he added hastily. Vanessa’s face had crumpled at his words. Oh Lord – don’t let her blubber on me now.
But crying was the least of his worries. It would have been preferable to the projectile vomiting, anyway. Vanessa’s lunch came back to visit her in glorious technicolour.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Lewis swore, as he held the unfortunate girl over the nearest litter bin – sadly a little too late, since his feet and trousers, plus a wide surrounding area, had been splattered rather unpleasantly with what seemed to be mainly regurgitated champagne and canapés.
‘I’m so shorry,’ Vanessa snivelled. Huge fat tears were trickling down her cheeks.
‘It’s okay,’ Lewis said, patting her reassuringly on the shoulders.
It was the precursor to another retching session.
‘Matthew – get over here!’ he yelled.
‘Not bloody likely,’ his friend said, from his safe vantage point at the entrance to the marquee.
‘Well get her mother – or sister – or how about a real nurse from the first aid post,’ he suggested. ‘It’s okay Vanessa. Yes, well, better out than in,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what I always say.’
The blinding flash of a camera bulb caught him off guard. Peter Marchant was watching the debacle with interest, and capturing the moment for posterity with his photographer.
‘Very nice,’ he murmured, jotting down a few notes. ‘A couple of “Hooray Henry’s” if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Get lost!’ Lewis snapped.
‘Yeah, push off,’ Matthew said. ‘Give the girl a break.’
‘I’m only doing my job.’
Lewis glared. ‘Get rid of him, Matt.’
‘Consider it done.’ Matthew hopped down a couple of steps and squared up in front of the older man. At six foot four, and an ex rugby player, he looked a force to be reckoned with. ‘Mr Marchant? ’
‘Yes, okay, I’m coming,’ he said. He glanced back at Lewis, who was still struggling to support the hapless Vanessa. ‘Good luck, mate,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I think you’ll need it.’
What Lewis actually needed was some help. Vanessa weighed a ton. Where was everybody?
He peered back towards the marquee. The filming was in full swing and no one was coming in or out. Matt was pre-occupied trying to get rid of the journalist, and God only knows where the rest of the team were. The stream of visitors wandering past had absolutely no intention of getting involved either. Most of them gave Vanessa a wide berth and a disgusted stare, or paused to gawp for a few seconds, before shaking their heads and walking on.
Lewis resigned himself to being stuck with her until she stopped throwing up, or passed out, whichever came first. He certainly couldn’t leave her in the condition she was in.
‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it’
Lewis seethed inwardly. Not another ogling spectator. Yes, come on, roll up, and see the sideshow. He straightened up, ready to make some cutting remark, and found he was rendered speechless by the sight of Ella’s horrified and panic-stricken face.
‘What’s happened?’ she cried, dashing to Vanessa’s side. ‘Oh my God. How long has she been like this?’
‘Since she drank about a magnum of champagne,’ Lewis sighed. He had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life.
‘Vanessa? Vanessa!’ Ella slapped her lightly on both cheeks.
‘Oh. Hel-lo Ella,’ she mumbled, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Can you stand up?’
Vanessa gave a loud hiccup. ‘No. No, I don’t think I can.’ She giggled. ‘I’m a bit tipsy you know.’
‘More like ruddy plastered,’ Lewis muttered.
Ella shot him a warning look.
‘Well it was me she puked over,’ he complained.
‘Yes, okay. I’m sorry. Look, I’d better take her home.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ella hooked her arm under Vanessa’s armpit. ‘Perhaps if you took the other side we could get her to walk. Oh but that’s no good,’ she realised. ‘Oh blast.’
‘What?’
‘Heather’s gone,’ she said. ‘She’s taken Majesty back to the farm. And Thomas dropped me off here in Kate’s car, so I’ve got no transport. I was planning to get a lift back with Ursula.’
Lewis looked at the state Vanessa was in, thought of Urs
ula, and shook his head. ‘Not a good idea,’ he said.
‘No.’
He sighed. What the heck. He was in no fit state to go back on the set – not with his trousers and shoes stinking to high heaven. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘But if she so much as coughs in the back of my car…’
‘She won’t,’ Ella said, wrinkling her nose. ‘There can’t be anything left inside her.’
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