Good Time Girl

9

It was ten o’clock on another blindingly hot day in Bel Air – a misnomer if ever there was one, the only air worth breathing being of the conditioned variety. Somewhere a telephone was ringing. Jim Dutton stirred from the mists of a drug-induced sleep. He moved his head and opened one eye blearily. He became aware that he was not alone. A very young girl with red hair of an impossible hue was sprawled on her stomach across the pillow next to him. Another girl, a blonde of the type known as ‘platinum’, lolled over his loins, her mouth half open near his flaccid cock. They were both sound asleep, the blonde obviously having abandoned her attempt to arouse his flagging ardour mid-operations. The redhead’s breath smelled appalling. The phone continued to ring. Where the fuck was Consuela? The number of phone calls and possible job offers he’d missed through that goddamn broad not answering the goddamn phone … then he remembered he’d had to dismiss Consuela the previous week. Hell! It had come to something when he couldn’t even afford a goddamn housekeeper. Something had to break soon. What the fuck did his goddamn agent think she was doing?

He crawled across the redhead, who moaned and rolled over onto her back, displaying a pair of enormous breasts. This had the effect of giving him an instant hard-on, which almost distracted him from his mission. The phone rang relentlessly; it obviously intended to go on ringing until someone answered it. He glanced hungrily at the huge nipples. ‘Later, later,’ he muttered, and staggered across the room. He always kept the bedroom phone on the table by the window. It was the only way he could be certain of making an early morning call at the studio. He had to be sure of actually getting out of bed.

‘Yeah,’ he said huskily into the mouthpiece of the onyx and gilt turn-of-the-century-type telephone.

‘Hi, sweetie,’ said a cheery voice on the other end. It was Meriel his goddamn agent! ‘I was beginning to think you’d died on me, honeybunch.’ She sounded in high good humour.

‘Likewise,’ growled Jim. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months!’

‘Jimbo, that is such a lie. If you’re alluding to the Universal project, we are pushing as hard as we dare at this point in time. Now, concerning the Golden Globe Awards –’

‘Holy shit!’ intoned Jim. ‘Have you any idea what time I hit the sack?’

But Meriel was questioning him closely on his activities at the awards ceremony. Had he interacted with the right people? Meriel started giving him a list of the casting directors who apparently had been impressed by his appearance. Jim caught sight of his reflection in the huge mirror that served as the bed head.

‘Jeez,’ he muttered to himself as he gazed longingly at the recumbent beauty on the bed, ‘I’m standing here completely nude with an erection like the Empire State Building and my asshole of an agent, who can’t get me an interview much less a screen test, is giving me the third degree on last night’s guest list.’ He started to work his foreskin up and down his penis automatically. If only Meriel would get off the goddamn phone he could get down to the biggest pair of tits he’d seen in a long time. He groaned involuntarily.

‘What was that, honeypie?’ queried Meriel.

‘Uh, nothin’, it’s okay – uh, say Meriel, can any of this wait? I’m kind of busy right now.’

‘Oh sure thing, sugar – oh, just one thing, though, there’s these two British-type guys – want to sign you up for a TV series.’ Was this broad raving or what?

‘A British TV series? They only ever get shown on HBO, Meriel!’

But Meriel was unimpressed by his reaction. ‘Think about it, Jimbo. There’s not a lot of work around right now and there’s a lot of talent chasing what there is.’

Meriel knew how slim the chance was that Jim would get the Universal movie. It would go to Kurt Russell or Patrick Swayze for sure. Unless they got a better offer – and then Jim would be up against the two-dozen others in his own league.

‘You’ll be getting a call from them any time – I gave them your number – they’re flying over to see you in the next couple of days.’

I do not believe I’m having this conversation, Jim thought wildly. One day I’m being tipped as the hottest thing to come out of Hollywood since Kevin Costner and the next I’m on a meteoric ride to obscurity in a British TV series. This cannot be for real.

Jim was good-looking, even by Hollywood standards – but apart from possessing a physique that could have passed muster as a quarter back with the Miami Dolphins, Jim’s main asset was a gentle, sensitive, little-boy-lost expression that seemed constantly to assail his features. Women were bowled over by it. So were female casting directors (who, although technically women, were in fact a breed apart). Producers, on the other hand, seemed strangely resistant. Once it had dawned on Jim that his boyish charm and devastating good looks could be used to get what he wanted, he used them mercilessly. He had been discovered by his agent, Meriel Brooks, playing Chance Wayne in a production of Tennessee Williams’s Sweet Bird of Youth at the Pasadena Playhouse. She had got him a small but regular part in a daytime soap series and he had bedded her out of gratitude. This in fact had not been necessary so far as Meriel was concerned. Her job was the motivating factor in her life, that and the antiques that graced her lovely West Hollywood apartment, and her plastic surgeon’s bills that were extortionate. But she had accepted Jim’s offer without any fuss. It had only happened once and they had been firm friends ever since.

She had introduced him to the Hollywood social scene. They had breakfasted at the Beverly Hills Hotel, lunched at Le Dôme, dined at the Ivy, been to countless premieres, awards ceremonies and charity galas and benefits. The Hollywood élite had welcomed them. The champagne had flowed and the cocaine had drifted. Jim had launched himself into a full and varied sex life. Women flung themselves at him and he had lost count of the number of girls he had bedded.

Meriel had finally got him the lead in a fairly awful but enormously popular life guard series, which required him to do little more than sprint across the sand of Malibu plunging at least once an episode into the pounding surf to rescue a damsel in distress or preferably a small boy or dog. Sometimes all three. The distressed damsels were invariably of a curvaceous and pneumatic build and inevitably found their way into Jim’s super kingsize bed. After two seasons, the series had been dropped and so had the monthly pay cheques. Jim had lived well beyond his means and funds were now seriously low. He knew he would shortly have to give up his rented villa and move to something smaller and cheaper in downtown Hollywood. He couldn’t bear to contemplate the thought. He revelled in this life style. True, Meriel had managed to get him a couple of guest roles in other popular TV programmes, but with success as a TV star went the usual trappings – the personal manager, the publicist, the accountant, the attorney, the Armani suits, the Gucci accessories, the status car, the housekeeper, the pool attendant, the gardener, the coke snorting … the coke snorting, that along with Consuela would have to go – unless, of course, he could get the Universal picture – that would solve everything. He was in with a chance, of that there was no doubt. He would have to clean up his act, of course. The girls would have to go, so would the booze and the coke – while he was making the picture – but, boy, what a time he would have afterwards.

‘Okay, okay, Meriel, don’t worry, doll, I can handle it.’ He stalled trying to get rid of her. His cock was getting bigger all the time and he felt ready to explode.

He finally put down the phone and hurled himself onto the bed. In no time he was ensconced in a sort of demi-paradise, happily sucking on the glorious breasts, his cock in turn being sucked by the soft lips of the platinum blonde. He was only dimly aware of an impending phone call, which might transform his whole life.

10

It was very early and bitterly cold. Claire shivered involuntarily as she dressed for her first day’s location filming in her tiny hotel room. She had driven down the previous night, arriving outside Maidstone around nine. The small hotel boasted only three stars and seemed deserted.

‘They’ve all gone out to eat,’ confided the receptionist. Then, seeing Claire’s slightly forlorn look, she added, ‘They asked for you when they got in from the day’s shoot,’ airing her recently acquired knowledge of TV terminology.

‘That was nice of them,’ said Claire, considerably cheered. She had hoped to break the ice before the morning’s work by briefly socializing with her fellow actors. An exchange of pleasantries over a night cap with Geoffrey Armitage would have calmed her nerves before having to play her first scene opposite him on the morrow. She had developed quite a crush on him after seeing him as Berowne in Love’s Labour’s Lost at Stratford when she was a schoolgirl. And now here she was – playing his rival and new romantic interest. It seemed extraordinary that she was to play opposite him. She was apprehensive yet exhilarated by the prospect.

‘And Mr Dudley was with them,’ volunteered the girl as an afterthought.

‘Oh yes, he’s the director. Well, thanks. I think I’ll go to bed now, I have an early start in the morning.’

‘The others are in the bar if you want to join them,’ the girl volunteered.

‘What others?’ asked Claire doubtfully.

‘I don’t know who they are. I didn’t recognize any of them’.

‘They’ll be the technicians – you know, the film crew.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the girl, losing all interest. ‘Would you like an alarm call?’

‘Yes please, five forty-five, and could I have some tea as well?’

‘Certainly, madam, and a morning paper?’

‘No thanks, I’ve got quite enough to worry about with the script.’

‘You’re the new romantic interest, aren’t you?’ queried the receptionist, who had kept a close eye on the free publicity in the tabloids.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ replied Claire, pleased to be recognized.

‘I hope it goes well for you.’

‘Thanks. I need a good night’s sleep to cope with it!’

She had, in fact, slept fitfully; she put it down to nerves. She was, she now realized, very nervous. She was shivering with apprehension as well as cold. After she had dressed in trousers, polo-neck sweater and boots, she scraped her hair back and fastened it with an elastic band. She looked at herself in the mirror. Pale, too pale. Never mind, the make-up would soon put that right.

There was a tap at the door – the chambermaid, a very young girl, with a tray of tea. Claire thanked her and poured herself some tea, warming her hands around the cup between sips. She listened to the news on the radio and went through the lines in her script over and over again. She had several scenes to film, all set in and around an auction room. There was quite a lot of dialogue and she was determined to be word-perfect on every occasion.

At 6.35, she put on her quilted waterproof coat, assembled her handbag, script and small holdall and, donning a pair of huge sunglasses, grabbed her room key and went downstairs. In the lobby she found Sonia waiting smilingly for her. They exchanged greetings and were shortly joined by Terri, the very pretty dark floor assistant. It was her job to make sure that everyone was in the right place at the right time, whether on location or in the studio. She greeted Claire with a cheery, ‘Hi, I’m Terri. Everything okay?’

‘Yes thanks, I’m fine,’ replied Claire, feeling anything but. The lobby was beginning to fill with people.

‘Glad to see you’ve got something warm on – you’re going to need it!’ Terri added. She herself was clad in ski wear. ‘I’ve got thermals on underneath,’ she confided. ‘Don’t worry, wardrobe will provide you with some.’

‘I’m very glad,’ smiled Claire with feeling.

‘Bus is here,’ called out someone.

Claire gradually began to realize as several other people, men and women of all ages, climbed into the minibus with her, that her companions were extras, crowd artistes who had been requisitioned to supply the background action in the day’s filming. She smiled at them in a friendly fashion and greeted them shyly. They responded in like manner. She wondered if they knew that this was her first day. Terri stood by the driver and counted the heads of her charges.

‘Are we all here?’ she called out anxiously.

Claire was about to tell her that Sonia and the rest of the make-up girls were not present, when she saw them getting into a car that had drawn up alongside and was being driven by the dreaded Glynis. Claire thought it strange that she had been bundled in with the extras – not that she was in any way snobbish, she had simply hoped for a car to take her and her fellow actors to the location. She studied her call sheet more closely. She appeared to be the only actor called early. The men were not called until 8.30. Terri came and plonked herself in the vacant seat next to Claire.

‘You could have followed us in your own car if you’d wanted to,’ she said, as if reading Claire’s thoughts. ‘It means you can get away quickly when we’ve finished. The others like to dash straight back to London on the motorway.’