Good Time Girl

KATA O’MARA

Good Time Girl

DEDICATION

To Ted Rhodes, in happy memory

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

1

The studio was dark, silent and tense. The crew, technicians and production team were shrouded in shadow. Only the actors in their little world of a make-believe art gallery were illuminated in a bright pool of light. They stood poised ready to spring into life at a given cue – a flamboyant wave of a white handkerchief from Larry Matthews, the highly eccentric, camp floor manager/PA/script editor/general right-hand man to Hugh Travis, the producer. Larry always used this rather overt method of cueing, claiming that the actors could see it easily in their peripheral line of vision. He was right, of course; the slightest movement from anyone on the studio floor could be misinterpreted as a cue by an actor already fraught with nerves. Larry was usually right about most things. He ran the studio, and indeed the series, like a tight ship, loved and feared by actors and technicians alike. Now he stood, his head encased by ‘cans’, keeping an ever-vigilant eye on the monitor that was suspended above his head. The cameramen adjusted focus. The boom operators pushed the microphones in and out of the set, paying them out and winding them in again like trout flies, checking and rechecking for shadows. It was the soundmen’s difficult task to position the booms so as to be able to pick up every nuance from the actors. They had to achieve this without getting into shot, yet be near enough to hear even the most inaudible player. There was no difficulty with the experienced performers but the newcomers and those who had not had theatrical experience always posed problems.

Larry, ever watchful, glanced briefly around the studio, then up again at the monitor. Where -

A tall fine figure of a man, with a remarkably even golden tan and deep-set vivid blue eyes was threading his way through the hustle and bustle of Mayfair. His silver hair was a touch too long for a banker or a barrister, and proclaimed him at once a man connected with the arts. Women’s heads turned as he strode confidently along, his gaze firmly fixed ahead, a slightly worried look on his handsome chiselled features.

Back on the studio floor, Larry suddenly yelled, ‘Coming out of telecine in two minutes,’ thereby quelling even the faintest murmur of chatter and quiver of movement. The brightly lit actors braced themselves for the fray. The trick was to look and act perfectly naturally in a completely unnatural situation, the actor having to start exactly on Larry’s cue. In this instance, the responsibility lay with Geoffrey Armitage, an old hand at the game, who played Paul McMaster in the series, and Amy Brindle, a relative newcomer, who played Sophie, his receptionist, and who was learning fast.

Paul arrived at his destination and glanced up briefly with an air of ill-concealed pride at the name displayed above the premises. ‘McMasters’ it announced in discreet gold roman lettering on a very dark green ground. He paused for a moment to glance at the superb seventeenth-century Flemish painting that was the sole exhibit in the window, then pressed the intercom. A distorted voice responded immediately.

‘Good morning, sir.’ A buzzing sound indicated that he was given admittance.

‘Stand by, studio. Coming out of telecine in one minute!’ Larry’s voice was now lower both in volume and pitch, and had the effect of concentrating everyone wonderfully. His eyes were staring at the monitor.

‘Morning, Sophie.’

‘Paul, thank goodness you’re here. Helen has been on the phone. There’s been some sort of mix-up over the German consignment.’

Paul McMaster put a weary hand to his brow. ‘Oh God, can’t she handle it? I’ve got a meeting this morning.’

‘There’s a fax from Mr Van Geldes from Amsterdam, about the exhibition at the Rijksmuseum.’

‘Yes, good. I was expecting that, anything else?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie, looking embarrassed, ‘your brother …’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘I’m afraid he may be responsible for the confusion over the Hamburg shipment,’ she replied, becoming more flustered by the minute.

Paul sighed heavily. ‘All right, I’ll deal with it,’ he said resignedly, and crossed to the back of the shop. Sophie watched him go, then turned back to her desk with a troubled expression on her face.

There was a door leading to an outer office and a further door to an outhouse where restoration work and packing was carried out.

‘Coming out of telecine in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five …’ Five to zero were mimed by Larry using the fingers of one hand followed by the famous flourish of the white handkerchief descending in the manner of one starting a race and Geoffrey Armitage slipped smoothly and expertly through the studio office door, which exactly corresponded with the one in the telecine, and so achieved the transition from film to live studio. He spoke his lines on cue easily and effortlessly, with just the right amount of energy and charm to make him immensely watchable and adored by several thousand female admirers.

‘Who said you could use my office?’ snapped Paul McMaster.

An extremely good-looking man in his middle thirties was lounging nonchalantly in the leather captain’s chair with his feet up on the desk in front of him.

Paul’s errant younger brother, Tom, was played by Simon Lavell, a dark and rather arrogant young man who seemed to find difficulty in separating his screen persona from that of his own. Used to acting opposite each other, Simon and Geoff played to the end of the scene expertly.

‘And we have a recording break there. Reposition cameras three and four in the McMaster apartment – as quickly as you can and no talking, PLEASE.’ Larry’s stentorian tones produced an immediate effect and there was absolute silence. He was tall, blond, good-looking, in his early forties, an exactor who possessed those magical qualities so necessary in the aspiring thespian, confidence, authority and charisma. The whole studio, actors and crew alike, recognized it and respected it. The change-over to the McMaster flat was effected very quickly and quietly. Helen McMaster, Paul’s estranged wife, played by Bella Shand, an extremely glamorous brunette in her middle forties, was reclining on a chaise longue, sumptuously clad in coral-pink chiffon and feathers. The McMasters was originally created for her by Hugh seven years ago and she revelled in her position as star of the show.

‘Ready treasure?’ asked Larry affectionately. Bella was an old trouper and they enjoyed a mutual respect.

Bella, who was entangled in a telephone flex, whilst attempting to look sultry and poised, said, ‘I look and feel extremely awkward and uncomfortable, but apart from that, I’m raring to go.’

‘You don’t actually, darling. You look lovely as always,’ replied Larry soothingly. ‘Ready everyone?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘And standby in the office set, we’re coming straight over to you after this – no pause take your cue from Terri,’ Larry had raised his voice so as to be heard by the actors on the nearby set, where the cameras were all ready for the opening shot. ‘You look gorgeous, darling,’ repeated Larry, as he observed Bella still wriggling surreptitiously.

‘I look like a fucking flamingo, and you know it,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Agreed, but a very lovely one.’

Larry’s hand swept dramatically down. Bella glided effortlessly into the telephone conversation, any problem with the offending wire completely forgotten.

‘Paul?’ Her voice was a deep rich contralto, the voice of a woman who was either a chain smoker or imbibed heavily in gin, vodka or possibly both. ‘Paul? Thank God – no listen. Trouble … Yes. Big trouble … Yes, yes …’ She sighed dramatically. ‘Of course, what else? Just keep quiet and listen. De La Tour … Yes, the one that went to Hamburg. Yes. Are you sitting down? Well, you’d better. It’s a fake.’

As Bella finished the sentence, Terri, the assistant floor manager on the adjoining set, cued Geoff, who, as Paul McMaster, had been perched on the edge of the desk and now rose like a pheasant rocketing from a hedgerow.

‘What!’

Tom, who was wandering aimlessly around the office with his hands in his pockets, stopped in his tracks at his brother’s outburst. At this moment, the outer office door opened and a petite blonde entered. She was gorgeously pretty, like a Barbie doll. Paul cupped his hand over the phone.

‘Yes, Gemma. What is it?’

‘Sorry to interrupt you s-sir,’ lisped Gemma breathlessly, ‘but there’s been an accident in the workroom. Young Billy’s cut his hand on the gilly – guillotine.’

Patsy Hall, playing Gemma, was regarded by the rest of the cast as a nonactress. She had been cast by Hugh in a weak moment, having been totally bowled over by her undeniably gorgeous looks and figure. He had felt, rightly, as it transpired, that she would boost the series’ ratings. Unfortunately, she was virtually talentless. As soon as she made her entrance it became apparent that she was ill at ease – and she had fluffed her first line.

Larry, watching like a hawk, but all the while listening on his head-cans to the candid comments coming from the gallery, waited to be told to suspend operations. The gallery was the enclosed glass sanctum high above the studio floor from which the production team directed the show. The director, in this instance, Scott Dudley, quite literally called the shots. Larry rolled his eyes with a ‘Gawd help us’ expression as Patsy then bumped into the filing cabinet, and the scene jerked awkwardly on, the other actors attempting to rescue it, but the rhythm and flow had been disturbed and much to everyone’s relief the sound boom appeared in shot.

‘Okay, hold it everyone,’ intoned Larry, listening to the string of expletives from his earphones. ‘Yes – yes – uh-huh … Yes, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself … Patsy, dear,’ said Larry loudly, turning his attention to the miscreant, ‘the director says we’re going again, and can you possibly manage even an approximation of the text – it’s vital, dear, as we’re using one of your lines to cut to another shot. Oh, never mind,’ he amended as he saw Patsy’s look of total bewilderment. ‘Just remember the lines and don’t bump into the furniture.’

This last was delivered in the clipped tones of Noël Coward. The whole studio chuckled quietly and there was a shout of raucous laughter from Bella, still on her chaise longue, waiting to do another very brief cutaway scene.

‘Standby to go again, studio,’ said Larry in a long-suffering voice. The boom operator shrugged his apologies to Larry. ‘Don’t mention it, dear,’ was the swift reply. ‘It was as welcome as the relief of Mafeking.’

The next time Patsy got it right, but her performance was dull and wooden. Up in the gallery, Scott Dudley was making his opinions known.

‘She’s appalling! She can’t move, she can’t speak, she can’t act – what the fuck can she do?’ he asked, clutching his forehead in disbelief. ‘I mean apart from that,’ he added, seeing the expressions of his colleagues. ‘Look at her, it’s pathetic. Oh God, I can’t bear it. Cut to camera one,’ he said curtly to his assistant, Pam.

‘It’s not his shot yet,’ replied Pam instantly.

‘I can’t help it. Punch up one,’ he insisted.

The remainder of Patsy’s speech was heard out of vision over a close-reaction shot on Tom.

Pam was Scott’s girlfriend. He was heavily married with teenage children, but his affair with Pam had been progressing steadily now for three years. She was devoted to him and was also very good at her job.

‘And cut to Paul,’ barked Scott, switching to a reaction shot on Geoff earlier than was planned.

Geoff noted the red light on the camera that was trained on him come on and reacted accordingly. He was secretly pleased; he was having a very intermittent affair with Patsy, but knew she was totally untalented.

The scene finally finished.

‘Thank you, studio, that’s a clear!’ Larry bellowed. Then: ‘God, what a load of bullshit!’ he muttered to himself as he removed the head-cans. ‘I hope this looks better than it plays.’

2

‘Yes, that’s right, McMasters, Cork Street, as soon as you can.’ A shot of an ambulance tearing across London from McMasters as the theme music surged accompanied the closing credit titles. Claire Jenner switched off the TV with the remote control unit and sank back against the pillows. The McMasters had deteriorated over the years, she thought. There was a time when she had wanted to be in it. It had been a terrific series when it had first started, full of drive, with punchy and original dialogue. Now the actors were still doing their best with the scripts they were given, but it was becoming decidedly cosy. It needed a kick up the arse, an injection of new life, a sparkling new character perhaps, or story line.

Claire gazed listlessly around the room. Why the hell was she worrying about a TV series? She was quite convinced she would never work again. Anyway, how could she? She was unattractive, undesirable – unnecessary. No one wanted her. Well, Roger didn’t at any rate. The tears started to well up inside her. She heard the clatter of her friend Sal in the kitchen making soup. Dear Sal. Claire would never have come through this without her. The tears coursed unbidden down her cheeks at the thought of her friend’s cheerfulness and kind understanding. The door of the bedroom burst open.

‘Have I missed the end? Damn. What happened?’ Sal demanded, entering and plonking herself down on the end of the bed. ‘Soup won’t be a moment.’

‘Nothing much,’ replied Claire, trying to sound normal, ‘Billy cut his hand and was carted off to hospital. The preceding forty-five minutes were so dull I nodded off.’

‘Dear God, it’s getting more like The Archers every week – what’s the matter with you?’ Sally interrupted herself to look at her friend suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been blubbing again, I hope?’ There was a painful pause as Claire tried to regain control of her feelings to no avail.

‘I miss him,’ she whispered miserably. ‘Oh, Sal, I loved him so much,’ and she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

Sally was apparently unmoved by this spectacle. ‘Really?’ she said dryly, ‘I suppose it’s possible to love a turdfaced piece of shit –’

‘Don’t speak about him like that,’ protested Claire between sobs. ‘He’s beautiful …’

‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ observed Sally sagely, relenting and putting her arms round her friend’s shoulders. ‘What he did wasn’t very pretty, though, was it?’ she asked gently.

‘No,’ agreed Claire, brokenly trying to overcome her sobbing. Eventually she said, ‘Sal …’

‘I’m here.’

‘Sal, I wish I could have had the baby.’

Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Claire’s childhood had been almost idyllic. Generous, strong, loving parents had given her a splendid education. She had responded to her happy upbringing in kind. A hardworking, lively intelligent girl, she had done well at school, always coming among the top of her class. She was well-mannered, considerate and charming, and, being an only child, learned to amuse herself. She was an avid reader and loved good music – in every way the perfect child. Until she reached her teens. Still hardworking and ambitious, but now moody, temperamental and a rebel, she flouted her parents’ authority on every occasion, slamming doors, screaming at the top of her voice for no apparent reason and disappearing for days on end. On her return, she would refuse to inform them where she had been. Indeed, she hardly communicated with them at all. Her mother bore this transformation in her adored daughter with true Anglo-Saxon stoicism, was patient, kind and tried to understand. Claire’s father, however, retreated, literally and metaphorically. He withdrew into a hurt silence and increasingly shut himself away in his study. Communication became a problem between all three. Claire conversed with her mother only in monosyllables, and when on rare occasions, Beatrice Jenner tried to elicit from her daughter what was troubling her, she became totally silent and would then disappear again for several days. Her mother would fret and then pretend that nothing had happened when Claire returned.

Her parents were not surprised when Claire announced that she would not be sitting her A levels, but instead was joining a group of friends on a trip to Turkey. Her mother was horrified, her father outraged, that their daughter should throw away her education and chance of university for a whim. Claire argued that a trip in a Land Rover exploring new lands would be an education in itself. But unchaperoned? There would be other girls, well, one other. And three men. But why not sit her exams and go in the summer? Because they were going now, and in any case, she didn’t want to go to university. She had no desire to teach, for God’s sake! Well, what did she want to do then? Beatrice made every effort to get through to her daughter. Her husband sat silently staring at the arrangement of dried flowers that occupied the hearth during the summer months.

‘I want to be an actress,’ Claire announced.

Both her parents were stunned. It was the first intimation they had ever had of it.

‘But you know nothing about acting or the theatre, dear,’ her mother had protested.

‘I don’t care. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’m going to do.’

A strained argument followed, which continued through the evening. Eventually a compromise was reached. Claire would forgo Turkey. She would sit her exams, and her parents would pay for her to go to drama school. If she could get in, of course. Claire was jubilant. Her ruse had worked. Did they really think she would not sit her exams? She’d worked so damned hard for them. She was not about to be thwarted of the brilliant results she knew she would surely get. And she was going to drama school, a closely kept dream come true.

She had never told anyone about it, even her best friend, Debbie. Claire knew that her parents imagined that she was indulging in every vice known to man or woman when she disappeared for days on end. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She would go off into the country and hide away in a caravan belonging to Debbie’s aunt. They would go for long walks, revelling in the freedom, and work quietly at their A levels. Admittedly, Claire did feel the odd pang of guilt knowing that her mother would be worried about her, but she would quell it hurriedly. She half confided her dream of being an actress to Debbie, but didn’t reveal the whole truth. She casually mentioned that she might like to become a photographic model. Debbie was thrilled and lost in admiration. It sounded so glamorous and so unattainable. Claire shrugged it off as though it were unimportant, and decided not to tell anyone of her secret longing, not until it became a reality.

Claire’s mother, although initially shocked by her daughter’s revelation, comforted herself with the hope that perhaps all the pent-up emotion that seemed to be locked in Claire’s bosom would now find an outlet. And so it proved. Claire had sailed through her auditions and been accepted at one of the leading drama colleges. And she had done well there, too, winning the Shakespeare prize at the end of her three years. It had not been easy to get work when she left, but she had managed to attract the attention of an up-and-coming young director in a workshop she’d done for schools and filmed for television. It had been just the break she needed, getting into TV and innovative theatre work simultaneously. There followed a season with one of the more prestigious repertory companies. A critic whose opinion was respected tipped her as a young actress to watch. She was on her way. And then she met Roger.

It was three days since Claire had had her abortion. She had known at the time that it was probably the only sensible course. Roger no longer loved her – if indeed he had ever loved her. She had wanted the baby for his sake. A small thought had crept into the back of her mind. She had tried to brush it away, but it kept coming back. Had she wanted the baby just to keep Roger, to make Roger love her again? If so, his reaction could hardly have been worse.

‘Well, I hope you don’t think it’s mine,’ he had said furiously when she had broken the news to him.

Claire had looked at him stunned. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone else,’ she had cried. ‘I love you. Why should I want to fuck anyone else?’