Good Time Girl

‘Oh yes, of course. Well, I’ll probably do that next time. I need to find my way around first,’ said Claire.

‘You’ll be all right,’ said Terri reassuringly. ‘They’re not a bad bunch.’

The bus rumbled away in the first light of day and, twenty minutes later, pulled up in the car park of the grounds of a large country house. The doors swung open and it disgorged its passengers.

‘I’ll take you straight to make-up,’ announced Terri, giving Claire no choice in the matter.

They picked their way across the potholes in the car park to one of several caravans whose interiors were aglow. There were other vehicles, the wardrobe department and the caterers were housed in caravans, whilst the sound and elecs had smaller vehicles. Several members of the crew had already arrived in their cars. All had converged on the catering van, which was dispensing hot bacon and egg rolls and porridge. There were trestle tables where people could help themselves to cereal and toast and coffee or tea.

Claire mounted the steps of the make-up caravan and blinked in the fluorescent-lit interior. Sonia was already there, busy laying out her equipment. She smiled when she saw Claire and gestured for her to seat herself. The make-up caravan was especially equipped for the purpose. It was a smaller replica of the make-up room at the television studios, but with only three mirrors and three dentist’s chairs. Sonia’s place was in the middle and Claire was soon swathed in a make-up cape and had given herself over to Sonia’s ministrations. Less than an hour later, she was transformed. Her hair had been curled. Her skin glowed in spite of the make-up, and her eyes were luminous. She was looking the way she knew suited her best and she felt happy and confident.

She was next conducted by Terri to the wardrobe caravan, where she shivered in spite of the electric blow heater that was blasting through its interior. She donned the thermal underwear, and then put on a pale pink suit and fedora. She had exchanged her thick socks for glossy tights and her sneakers for a classy neutral three-quarter-heel Italian pump. She had only just managed to get herself ready when Terri appeared at the door. ‘You’re wanted on set,’ she said peremptorily. ‘Now,’ she added with a shrug, raising her eyebrows in a don’t-ask-me-I’m-just-the-office-boy sort of look. Claire sat gingerly in a waiting car, which Terri herself drove up the winding drive to the house. Glances of admiration and approval from the film crew followed her as she was led by Terri around technical equipment and into a small reception hall where a camera had been set up. The director, Scott Dudley, a diminutive but attractive middle-aged man with a lively expression and a shock of iron-grey hair, was sipping coffee and deep in conversation with a pretty, plump blonde girl. Terri brought her charge into Scott’s eyeline. They both turned to view the newcomer.

‘Good morning,’ said Scott, in what Claire could only describe later to Sally as a provocative way. ‘Well, you’re an improvement on the general standard of pulchritude in this god-forsaken series!’

Claire blushed under her make-up. She noticed that it was mainly men of a certain age and older that treated her as a sex object.

‘How do you do, Mr Dudley?’ she countered politely.

‘Know your lines, do you?’ asked Scott bluntly, ignoring her solicitude.

‘Of course,’ replied Claire hotly. It was one thing to be subjected to mild sexist chat, she was used to that, but to impugn her professionalism as an actress was not to be tolerated.

‘Okay, okay,’ he said easily, ‘keep your hair on. It looks very nice by the way – doesn’t it, Pam?’ He threw the observation in the direction of the blonde.

‘Yes, lovely,’ said she.

‘Pam’s my number one – can’t move an inch without her,’ he said, giving Pam’s bottom a playful squeeze. Pam seemed to have no objection to being treated so familiarly, merely giggling.

‘Had breakfast?’ asked Scott.

‘Er – no,’ said Claire.

‘Should do – we’ve got a tough day ahead.’ And so saying, he turned abruptly away to address a remark to a large burly man whom Claire soon realized was the lighting cameraman. She turned around to discover that Terri had disappeared and left her to her own devices. To cover her confusion, she started to devote her attention to the script, which she was clutching. Scott’s remarks had rattled her.

‘Care to go over some lines?’ said a deep, smooth, charming voice. Claire’s heart fluttered and she looked up into the quizzically smiling face of Geoffrey Armitage. His look of amusement turned to one of intense admiration as their eyes met. ‘I am enchanted to meet you, Miss Jenner. Please forgive the casual approach, I’ve tried to attract your attention for some time. You seemed to be engrossed in the script so I thought I’d try that avenue.’

Claire hardly heard what he said. The rest of the room seemed to have floated away and she had the absurd notion that she believed in love at first sight. Or was it lust. Certainly, the way Geoffrey was looking at her was lustful and yet she thought she detected a softness in that look, a sort of yearning, regret. She couldn’t fathom it, yet she felt utterly bewitched.

‘We’re ready for you, children. Ah, I see you’ve met.’ Scott’s cheery voice broke the spell. ‘Walk this way, please,’ and he guided them to a doorway that had lights trained on it.

‘Right, now, Geoff, you enter on action across to the table here.’

‘What table?’

‘We’ll put one there.’

‘Table coming in!’ yelled someone.

‘Not now, not now,’ said Scott impatiently, ‘we don’t need it on this shot. So, in you come, Geoff.’

Geoff obliged. He crossed to the centre of the room and mimed putting his auction programme on the imaginary table.

‘All right, darling!’ called out Scott. Claire, waiting behind the door, was too nervous to bridle at the familiarity. ‘And – cue,’ said Scott. Claire entered. ‘And pause by the door, look at him intently, then as he starts to go – start to go Geoff’ – Geoffrey obliged – ‘then you, darling, you say your first line from the doorway, then come to him – and cue.’

Claire did as she was bid. She played the dialogue that followed well and she knew it. She had energy and intelligence and the scene, short though it was, worked beautifully.

‘Good stuff,’ said Scott in a surprised voice, when the rehearsal was over. ‘We’ll go for one.’

‘Make-up checks!’ called out one of the floor assistants, Brian.

‘What for?’ demanded Scott. ‘They haven’t done anything yet.’

‘Forget it,’ amended Brian, as Sonia and Glynis were about to dart in. But Glynis was not to be deterred.

‘Do you mind?’ she said with heavy irony to Scott. ‘I need to check my artiste.’

‘Funny how you’re never around when we need you,’ muttered Scott to the camera crew, ‘usually around tea break.’

Claire was relieved that Glynis, who as make-up supervisor deemed it beneath her to attend to anyone but the stars of the show, was not her make-up artist. She was disappointed that Larry was not part of this team for her debut, but he was on the next episode and she would probably have got her confidence by then. They did the take.

‘Print it,’ said Scott with satisfaction.

Geoff took advantage of the situation. ‘I’m going to enjoy our scenes together,’ he murmured quietly, looking deep into Claire’s eyes as he spoke.

Claire felt herself go weak at the knees.

There followed close-ups of each of them. Then a shot of Claire leaving the building amongst a crowd of milling extras, and getting into her car. Then a shot of her arriving. Then a shot of Geoff watching her departure from the door. Then Claire driving away. By the time this sequence was completed, it was almost lunchtime.

‘Everyone back at one forty-five to do the auction scene,’ called out Brian loudly. ‘And that means everyone,’ he yelled to the crowd of extras who were making a beeline for the catering van.

‘Can I get you something?’ said Geoff, clasping Claire by the elbow and steering her away from the crowd. ‘Let’s go to the caravan – oh yes, they’ve actually provided the actors with a sort of green room,’ he said, seeing Claire’s look of surprise. ‘It was Bella’s doing – she insisted – went to Hugh and beat him up, verbally, until he gave in. Have you met Bella, by the way?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then I’m sure you get the picture.’ He settled her in the actors’ caravan and then set off in search of food.

Over lunch he chatted to her easily. He had a fund of amusing stories from his days at Stratford, and told them with relish. Claire found herself giggling continuously and at one point was actually convulsed with laughter. Afterwards, they walked together to the make-up caravan, to be made presentable for the next shot. Claire felt she’d known him all her life.

The whole of the afternoon was taken up with shooting the scene in the auction room. They were separated then, being rivals in the bidding for a rare painting by a minor Italian master. But Claire was acutely aware of Geoff’s unabashed gaze of admiration and he was attentive and solicitous of her wellbeing whenever they were allowed to relax off-set between setups.

By the end of the day, Claire knew without a doubt that unless she was very careful there was a very great danger of her falling for Geoffrey Armitage. He had a reputation as a charming seducer and she now knew why. She also knew that he intended her for his next victim.

11

It was in fact Larry who had suggested Jim Dutton. Far from being immune to ‘crap TV’ as he had so contemptuously labelled it, Larry made a point of watching just about everything that was shown on television. It was his contribution to his job. He saw it as his duty to be informed on what the public wanted, who and what was popular, and to try to analyse that tantalizingly elusive quality that makes a person or a programme irresistibly watchable. In America it was known as the ‘Q’ factor. American TV researchers devoted hours of every day and days of every year to unravelling this mystery. A cross section of the citizens of the United States of America would be closeted in small viewing rooms with screens upon which were flashed mug shots of actors and actresses – some well known – some famous – some completely unknown. The captive audience was then instructed to press buttons to indicate its preference – and hey presto, another TV star would be born! Larry preferred to call it the ‘Ikon’ factor – the deliberate manufacture of a popular idol. It was the job he coveted most – Warwick the King Maker, the power behind the throne.

It was he who had put Claire’s name on the list of potential recruits for The McMasters. She and the glamorous American import would boost the ratings, so ensuring Martin’s, Hugh’s and his own tenure at the studios for at least a further two terms.

He had been idly flicking through innumerable channels on American TV whilst visiting some old friends in San Francisco, when his gaze had alighted on the undeniably attractive form of Jim Dutton. All his life a connoisseur of male pulchritude, Larry was impressed. Jim was almost impossibly good-looking and possessed a fine physique. Larry had happened to catch an episode in which Jim had been given a couple of emotional scenes, which he had handled well, not indulging in the usual Hollywood sentimentality. And he brought a wry humour to the part, which lifted the dialogue out of the prosaic and mundane.

After seeing the episode, Larry had contacted Meriel Brooks and requested photos of Jim. Her office had obliged, sending a selection, plus a curriculum vitae. Larry had returned home triumphantly after his vacation and had awaited his chance. At precisely the right moment, he had burst into Hugh’s office brandishing the pictures aloft.

‘There’s our new leading man!’ he had cried dramatically as he slung them onto Hugh’s desk.

Hugh had been startled but impressed. ‘What makes you think we can afford him?’ he had asked after surveying the array of male loveliness in silence.

‘He needs a job,’ replied Larry promptly. ‘He can’t afford to haggle.’

‘He certainly looks good,’ murmured Hugh doubtfully. ‘Can he act?’

‘Well, admittedly, I haven’t seen his King Lear, but he’s certainly up to the standard of this series,’ retorted Larry waspishly.

Hugh ignored this – he was used to Larry’s jibes. In any case, he had no illusions about the quality of programme he was producing. Of its own genre, as a drama series, it was top of the league, but it wasn’t exactly Shakespeare.

After a few further moments spent sifting through the pictures in silence, Hugh picked up a phone and said, ‘Deirdre, has Martin gone to lunch yet? … Good. Ask him to pop in here for a moment, will you?’

‘I knew you’d go for him,’ smiled Larry smugly. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Oh, and Deirdre, could you pop up to the canteen? … There’s a dear … Yes, sandwiches and coffee for three.’

‘A working lunch? I like your style,’ said Larry happily.

A few seconds later, Martin’s head appeared around the door. ‘What am I missing? And why am I being denied my lunch break, not to mention my lunch?’ he demanded cheerfully.

‘Here’s metal more attractive,’ said Larry enigmatically. He liked to quote at will from plays, just to make sure that no one forgot his theatrical pedigree. Martin had an idea that this was from Hamlet but as his only previous encounter with the play had been as one of The Watch at his prep school, he could not think immediately of a suitable response. Instead, he contented himself with, ‘Well, it had better be good – I’m starving.’

‘Then feast your eyes on this!’ said Larry, with a grand gesture towards the photographs strewn over the desk.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Martin in amazement. ‘Who on earth is this?’

Larry sighed dramatically. ‘Is that really all you can say?’ he asked despairingly. ‘This, my dear Martin, is none other than our new leading man – and, you must admit, he’s got what it takes.’

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