Confessions of a Film Extra

Chapter Two

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ says Miss Mealie.

‘I think it made the whole programme very relevant,’ says Dominic soothingly. ‘It was terribly “now”. That’s what tellyvision is all about.’

We are in the saloon bar of the pub opposite the studio having what Dominic calls an ‘unwinding drinkypoo’ and I am wondering if one is going to be enough to get out all the twists.

‘Does your sister often behave like that?’ asks Miss Mealie.

‘You mean like when she threw me through the glass window?’

‘I was thinking of when she tried to strangle you with the microphone lead.’

‘She took evening classes in karate. That’s where she got the technique, she always had the temper.’

‘Remarkable. I sometimes think these programmes bring out the worst in the mothers.’

‘They don’t do a lot for the kiddies either,’ I say, gingerly rubbing the ankle that Jason tried to separate from the rest of my leg.

‘I won’t miss him,’ says Miss Mealie with feeling. ‘I don’t think I offend you too much when I say that?’

‘Oh no,’ I agree, ‘I wouldn’t miss him if I was looking down the sights of a rifle.’

Miss M. takes another hefty swig at her brandy and I signal for the barman to repair it.

‘He has some very nasty habits. He never went to the toilet, you know. When we came to check his locker we found out why.’

‘We had the same trouble with the broom cupboard at home,’ I say. ‘Mum used to think it was the cat. She belted the living daylights out of the poor bleeder.’

‘What have you got on tonight, Timmy?’ says Dominic suddenly, giving me one of those funny looks, as if he means in the underwear line.

‘Well, I – er,’ Miss Mealie is screwing up her eyes in a ‘don’t do it, buster’ grimace, ‘I’m going out with one of my mates,’ I lie. Miss Mealie nods approvingly.

‘I thought of having a few people round for drinks,’ says Dominic expansively. ‘Why don’t you and your friend drop in?’

‘I think he’s got tickets for something,’ I gulp.

‘Well, afterwards then.’

‘If we don’t get out too late. Ta very much.’

Dominic’s eyes narrow. ‘I hope you’ll be able to make it,’ he says firmly. ‘I want to get this situation regarding the new format straightened out as soon as possible. With us having to replace young Noggett it’s a good moment to introduce a new face at the head of the table.’ He looks at Miss Mealie whose smile is about as natural as a set of orange peel gnashers.

‘Jason is definitely out, is he?’ I ask trying to conceal my satisfaction.

‘Definitely. He’s lost the public’s confidence. They can accept what happened but they won’t want to bite their nails down to the quick waiting for a repetition. It’s not fair on the child, either.’

‘Indeed, no,’ I say, shaking my head gravely.

‘I must be off,’ says Dominic giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got to chill the crème de menthe. Do hope you will be able to look in later. It will definitely be worth your while. And – er, do bring your friend, there’ll be lots of people. Forty-seven Carmarthen Mews. You won’t forget it, will you?’ He gives a little wink and practically dances out of the pub.

‘The place is riddled with them,’ says Miss Mealie disapprovingly, before he is out of earshot.

‘U-mm,’ I say. It is occurring to me that I might be on the outskirts of a dicey situation. Dominic Ralph may well have a scrambled hormone balance but he is in a position to turn me into a telly star. As the solution to any sexual hang-ups that I feel in the next few minutes, Miss Mealie has a much bigger future, but she is obviously not sobbing with gratitude about the prospect of sharing the billing with Uncle Timmy. Maybe I had better keep the demon lust under control tonight and slip round for an arm distance chat with Dominic later.

‘I never meet a real man these days,’ says Miss Mealie, running her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Only poofs and snotty little kids.’

‘Don’t you like children?’ I say innocently, sliding her glass towards her.

‘Are you kidding? Hey – did you hear that? Joke.’

‘Fantastic,’ I say.

‘The only thing I hate more than kids is mothers. But then you know that. Do you know what I like?’

’No,’ I lie to her.

She leans forward and whispers in my ear. ‘Does that shock you?’

‘These days, nothing shocks me. It’s funny though, isn’t it? You liking that though you don’t like kids.’

‘It never occurred to me to consider that there might be a connection until you mentioned it. It’s like being told that filling a fountain pen makes babies.’

‘Yes,’ I say. I am coming to the conclusion that Miss Mealie is well on the way to becoming very successfully pissed. This, of course, is sad but not so sad that I am going to lose any sleep about it. In fact I may well be able to use it as the framework of a very pleasant evening. If I take Miss Mealie home and put her to bed – and at a pinch myself – I can then go on to Dominic’s and seal my star status over a pitcher of crème de menthe.

‘You were lucky you managed to talk your way out of going to Dominic’s place,’ says Miss Mealie, colliding with my thoughts. ‘It’s a very kinky set-up. I don’t know who he’s living with at the moment but it’s quite awful, the things that go on there. I know that what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own affair – or affairs – hey, did you hear that? I made another joke.’

‘Great.’

‘Well, laugh when I make a joke. Haven’t you got a sense of humour?’

‘I laugh a lot inside.’

‘You should let it bubble to the surface a little more often. Anyway, where was I?’

‘You were saying I should laugh more.’

‘No! Stupid. I was telling you about Dominic’s flat. I was saying how awful it is. You’re – er, not like that, are you?’

‘As a clockwork orange. Why do you think I’ve got this far with Dominic? There’s a kind of chemistry between us.’

‘Don’t be stupid! I can tell them a mile off. There’s nothing queer about you.’

‘I don’t think you should say that without proof.’

‘Are you serious? You’re having me on, aren’t you? You think you can talk me into taking you into my bed so that I can prove that you’re not queer.’

‘I’m confused already. Let’s just go to bed.’

‘You’re cool, aren’t you?’

‘You told me what you liked.’

‘I didn’t say anything about you.’

‘That would have been forward.’

Miss Mealie is now walking up the buttons of my shirt with her fingers. She gets to the collar, clambers over my chin, tramples on my lips and ends up on my nose. ‘Bite off your nose!’ she says gaily.

‘Let me take you home,’ I husk.

Five minutes later she has made a tellyphone call and I have poured – and pawed – her into a taxi. This evening had better come to something because it is costing me a fortune. There was a time when a bird could reckon she was in for a good time if I ordered a Babycham and two straws.

‘Oh, I’m feeling a sleepy girl,’ murmurs Miss M, snuggling up to me in the back of the taxi. Not long before I can say the same, I think to myself and try not to watch the meter ticking up. By the cringe, but it seems to move faster than the last column on a posh mileometer. At this rate I am going to have to thumb a lift home.

Home. The word makes me feel nervous. Even as I sit here Mum and Rosie are probably propping a vat of boiling oil above the front door. Jason’s golden future in ruins and all because Uncle Timmy slipped him a phial of Micky Phinns. That is what they are going to believe anyway, and little rat fink Jason is not going to come to nunky’s aid. Maybe it would be a good idea to steer clear of the ancestral pile for a few days. Until I am an established star in my own right. Once my mug appears on the screen, Mum at least will forgive all.

‘Here we are, mate,’ says the taxi driver.

‘It’s right next to the tube!’ I say, aggrieved.

‘Yeah. You want me to move it into the middle of Hyde Park for you?’

‘It would have been just as quick by tube.’

‘Yeah, well you’re here now, Rockefeller. There’s a pie stall round the corner if you want to take the lady out to dinner.’

‘Are we there?’ says Miss Mealie, waking up.

‘’Ere! I know you don’t I?’ says the cabby, registering Miss Mealie’s face. ‘You’re on the telly, aren’t you? My kiddies all watch your programme.’

‘How nice,’ says Miss M.

‘Yeah. And my little Trampas has got a birthday next week. Do you reckon you could read out his name?’

‘Drop me a postcard at the studio and I’ll see what I can do.’ Miss Mealie delivers a royal smile and sweeps into the block of flats. The taxi driver is so bowled over that he does not even examine the miserably small tip I have given him.

‘She’s a lady, that one,’ he says, looking me up and down as if I am not fit to dust her microphone lead.

‘A real pro.’ I agree with him and follow Miss M. into the flat. This kind of reverence could become habit-forming. I cannot think why I have never considered show-biz before.

‘ “Trampas”! Did you hear that?’ sniffs Miss M. when I join her in the lift. ‘We had one mother write in whose brat was called Ajax.’

‘He might have been named after the football team.’

‘I don’t think so. We got a letter about his sister next week. She was called Vimia.’ Miss Mealie shudders. ‘God, but I need a drink. You’re coming in, are you?’

Try and stop me, I think. The investment I have made this evening should entitle me to a season ticket.

We leave the lift and walk down a corridor long enough to house a rifle range before stopping outside a door with two hundred and forty-seven on it. I am feeling the excitement I feel before the start of a football match. I know what to do, it is just a question of manoeuvring myself into a position to do it. Miss Mealie inserts her key and pushes open the door. Very nice too. Lots of polished wood furniture and spotlights, and a thick white carpet.

‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, ‘and here – and here.’

‘Down, tiger.’ Miss M. disentangles herself from my probing fingers. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’

‘I like the ‘first’. That must be a good sign.

‘What would you like?’ she says.

‘Scotch would be fine.’

‘Ice, water?’

‘Just water, thanks.’

She wanders into the kitchen and I take a look round the flat. The bedroom particularly catches my eye. A low double bed in the centre of the room with a multicoloured patchwork counterpane. In the ceiling above is a circular mirror.

‘Do you like my bedroom?’ says Miss M., appearing beside me with my drink.

‘Fantastic. I didn’t imagine you in a place like this.’

‘I suppose you thought I lived in a bed-sit with a tabby cat and a pile of Beatrix Potters.’

‘Umm,’ I say, not quite certain what a Beatrix Potter is.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ says Miss M., lounging gracefully across a low divan. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Nothing at the moment.’

‘Resting? How very theatrical.’

‘I was working with my brother-in-law flogging cleaners, but we’ve packed that in now. I’ve done a number of things on and off. I worked in a hotel and at a holiday camp. And I was a driving instructor at one time. The first real job I ever had was cleaning windows.’

‘Cleaning windows! That must have been interesting.’ Miss Mealie’s eyes contain more promises than a Turkish Delight commercial.

‘Yes. It did have its moments.’

‘It’s funny you should have been a window cleaner because I have a friend who is looking for one at the moment. Justin Tymely. Maybe you’ve heard of him?’ I shake my head. ‘No? Well there’s no reason why you should have, I suppose. He’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the art-film world and he’s making a little epic which has some window-cleaning episodes in it. Maybe I can put you in touch?’

‘Yes please.’

Miss Mealie delves in her bag and draws out a crumpled card. ‘Yes, here we are. Tell him I suggested you got in touch.’

I look at the card which says ‘Justin Tymely–Managing Director, Trion Productions’, with an address and two tellyphone numbers. Very impressive. At last my luck is changing. Not only a famous telly personality but a star of the silver screen as well. I wonder if she knows anyone in radio? I just hope that success does not spoil me. Anyhow I must not think of myself all the time. This Lea-crazy bird is obviously waiting for me to make love to her so she can boast about it to all her friends.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ I say, leaning forward and gently removing the glass from her unresisting fingers. I spill a bit on the carpet, but I don’t think she notices.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have to say that,’ I murmur.

‘You knew already, didn’t you?’

‘Kiss me,’ I say hurriedly and dive onto her lips, carefully tucking the glass away under the divan. Her lips are soft as rose petals and she kisses in a continuous nibbling motion, like half a dozen minnows attacking a piece of bread paste.

‘You smell nice,’ she says, when we come up for air. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom.’

‘I smell even nicer in bedrooms,’ I murmur, kissing her on the ear and thinking that it is no wonder that Cary Grant has given up making pictures. Poor old sod, what chance does he have with blokes like me around?

Miss Mealie takes me by the hand like I am one of her tiny charges and leads me to the bedroom. We stop by the patchwork counterpane and her fingers slide round to the small of my back. She eases out my black, Captain Whiplash, tapered, slim-fit, see-through, pure silk shirt and purrs contentedly as her fingers make contact with my bare flesh. I cannot blame her. I would probably react in the same way if I was touching myself for the first time.

There are thirty-eight buttons on the front of her long gingham dress. I know because I count them one by one as I unpop down from neck to navel while we trade kisses like they pay five pounds a hundred. She is wearing one of those half-cup bras which is so shallow it looks more like a saucer and her breasts swell over the top like the heads of a couple of glasses of stout.

‘Hello, Uncle Timmy,’ she breathes, ruffling the hair at the back of my neck and driving against my lips like she is trying to find a permanent anchorage. ‘Here’s to a mutually stimulating relationship.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I murmur, ‘and what better vessel than your own beautiful mouth?’ I kiss her tenderly and gently tug the dress off her shoulders so that it starts its long descent towards floor level. My God, but it is beautiful! If they gave Oscars for this kind of thing, I would need a fork-lift truck to carry mine away. Miss Mealie obviously thinks so too because she is quick to brush away the hands that fumble for my own shirt buttons.

‘Cool it, stud,’ she breathes. ‘I hate to see a man doing a woman’s job. Just relax and let Auntie Mealie take the strain.’

One of the old school, obviously, I think as I allow myself to be pushed back onto the bed. I gaze up at the circular mirror and enjoy the sight of my new friend spilling kisses down my chest as she swiftly unbuttons my nifty dicky dirt.

‘You have a magnificent body,’ she breathes.

‘U-um,’ I murmur. Well! It sounds conceited to agree with her, doesn’t it? Yet on the other hand there is no reason why I should perjure myself for the sake of modesty. ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ I say, trying to be kind, but she is too busy dismantling the front of my trousers to pay much attention. The way she grabs hold of the zip on my flies, you would think she was going to wrench it straight down to the turn-ups. I try to grab a handful of knockers that happen to be swinging in my direction but again she brushes me aside. ‘Relax baby,’ she coos, ‘this is my party.’

‘Tell me when there’s a game we can both play.’

‘I’ll call you when it’s time to blow out the candles.’

I lie back to think about that one and feel relieved that I have put on a clean pair of socks as they join my shoes on the floor by the bed.

Gazing up into the mirror, I can see what Miss Mealie was on about. It is amazing that I can walk down the street without being savaged by Lea-hungry bints. The frustration some of those poor birds must have to endure when they turn their mince pies loose on my six foot one and a half inches of man-mountain grandeur, does not bear thinking about.

‘And now –’ Biting her lip in honest ecstasy, Miss Mealie seizes the top of my jockey briefs and proceeds to steer them over the not inconsiderable obstacle that my own passionate nature has placed in her way. I can excuse her clumsiness because I realise that this is probably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her.

Seconds later I am spread out upon the bed like a patient anaesthetised upon a table, naked and waiting for the action.

‘Oh baby, start operating,’ I grunt.

But, to my amazement, Miss Mealie starts doing up the buttons on her dress. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, raising myself onto an elbow. ‘Are you cold, or something?’

Miss Mealie shakes her head mockingly. ‘ “Or something”,’ she says. ‘Don’t move, I always want to remember you like that.’ And then, she tears her dress open so that buttons explode all over the floor, slaps her face a couple of times and starts screaming.

‘Rape! Help! Murder! Rape! Rape! Rape!’

I find this very interesting. I mean, it is a bit strange, isn’t it? One minute she is all over me and the next it is me all over. Maybe it turns her on to feel that she is being raped. Yes, that must be it. She seems a very passionate girl. I do not mind playing along with her little fantasy if it makes her – and me – happy.

‘Help! Help! Rape!’

If she is going to be like this before I have even touched her, God knows what she will be like in the sack. The prospect launches me from the bed and I close with her fast.

‘Don’t touch me!’

She starts running through the living room and I follow. I hope the walls are thick because her language would make a Billingsgate porter switch off his deaf aid. I catch up with her by the door but before I can deter her she has flung it open.

‘Rape! Help!’ she screams and runs out into the corridor. I get as far as the doorway and then stop. I mean! There is a limit. I don’t mind a quick frisk round the apartment but chasing her round the block in the altogether could lead to trouble. People are not as liberated as you read in the papers.

Just as I am making up my mind what to do next, Miss Mealie returns. But she is not alone. She is sobbing hysterically on the arm of a tall fellow with a flashlight camera in his hand. Another guy follows on behind with a notepad in his mitt.

‘Thank God you came!’ sobs Miss M., hysterically. ‘It was horrible. Horrible!’

‘What are you rabbiting on about?’ I say angrily.

‘How did he get in?’ says the fellow with the notepad, pencil poised.

‘I invited him up to discuss the show and then – and then –’ Miss M. starts sobbing convulsively.

‘He is in the show, is he?’

Miss M.’s sobs stop immediately. ‘He was going to be. That’s what I wanted to discuss.’

‘I’ve never heard such a load of cobblers in my life!’ I say indignantly. ‘She invited me up to her flat and into her bedroom, and then she took all my clothes off.’

‘I can see you put up a fight,’ says the bloke with the camera, taking a shot of me.

‘Was he naked like that when he came into the flat?’ says the one with the notepad.

‘No. He said he wanted to use the toilet and then – and then –’ More sobs soak the carpet.

‘Tore your dress, did he?’

‘She tore her dress!’ I yelp.

All the time the fellow with the camera is snapping away like it was some kind of still-life class he has blundered across.