KATA O’MARA

Good Time Girl

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Copyright © Kate O’Mara 1993

Kate O’Mara asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006472599

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252687

Version: 2017-03-27

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?’

‘Oh do try to be adult, Claire,’ Roger said baldly.

‘What do you mean “adult”? I trust you are not trying to tell me that you have fucked someone else?’

‘Well, of course I have.’

It had been said. There was a long frozen silence. She’d half suspected it for months. It wasn’t much of a shock, but it was numbing nevertheless. She felt icy inside. It explained everything – why he’d been ignoring her phone calls, his behaviour on the infrequent occasions they had been together. His lovemaking had been perfunctory; expert but almost clinical. Claire sat there appalled, not looking at him for ages.

Finally she said, ‘I’d better go.’

Roger had said nothing, but as she rose and picked up her things, he had fished inside his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. She had watched him, mesmerized, as he had written out a cheque for £500.

‘You’d better have it terminated,’ he said. He had not been able to bring himself to say the word ‘abortion’, she remembered. ‘This should take care of it.’

He handed the cheque to her. She’d taken it automatically, folding it and putting it away in her bag, hardly realizing what she was doing. She just wanted to get out of the room, away from him. She turned to go without saying a word.

As she reached the door, he said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Claire.’

She left the flat without looking back at him. She didn’t want his pity. She walked down the stairs and out of the main door in a dream. She never remembered driving away, only the pain in her chest, which was almost unbearable.

Sally re-entered the room bearing a tray.

‘You know, darling, what you need is a job. Here, try this. It’s not half bad.’

‘A job? I’m not fit for work,’ protested Claire feebly, shifting her limbs and hoisting herself up in the bed, to receive the soup.

‘Nonsense! If you were offered a part tomorrow, you’d be off like a shot, you know you would.’

Claire took the tray, before replying, ‘I suppose you’re right. I don’t know where I’d get the strength from, though. I feel as weak as a kitten.’

‘You look a bit like one, too. All sort of fluffy and vulnerable.’

Claire laughed in spite of herself. ‘I look a fright and you know it.’

‘That’s better,’ said Sally, smiling encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to hear you laugh.’ Claire turned away. ‘It will get better you know. It will take time, but it will get better.’ Sally laid her hands gently on top of Claire’s.

‘Yes, I know … I’ve been reading the book you bought yesterday. It’s beautifully written.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Absolutely no sex or violence.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Makes one believe in a better world.’

‘There’s one out there waiting for you.’

Silence.

Finally Claire looked up and said, ‘Sal, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’d never have got through this without you.’

‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Sally breezily. ‘Now what else are we going to watch tonight?’

‘There’s one of those Hollywood biblical epics on later,’ said Claire, glancing at the paper, which was amongst the reading matter strewn across the bed.

‘Oh good, I love those,’ said Sally gleefully. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and, boy, could we do with one. And then there’s all those lovely hunky men wandering around in their little skirts – it’ll do you good to see that there are some other good-looking men around, even if they are all in Hollywood.’

‘As this movie was made in 1954, most of them will be pushing seventy,’ observed Claire.

‘Now, now, no ageist remarks, please. What’s wrong with older men? Come to think of it, it’s what you need, a nice older man to look after you. Might treat you properly.’

‘Do they get any better as they get older?’ asked Claire doubtfully.

‘Not really,’ replied Sally, who prided herself on being an authority on the sex. ‘Usually a bit more reactionary. Oh, and their balls get bigger.’

‘Really?’ Claire giggled. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Sal airily.

‘I might give it a try in that case,’ replied Claire.

Sally smiled her approval. ‘That’s better, you’re sounding a bit more like your old self.’

‘I can’t be my old self, not without Rog,’ said Claire bleakly.

‘I mean your old self,’ Sally emphasized. ‘The one you were before you met Svengali.’

Claire looked up, surprised.

‘Oh yes,’ Sally continued, ‘you’ve no idea how that man dominated your life. What was the big attraction?’

Claire reflected for a moment. ‘Sex – initially. It had never been so good with anyone before.’

That night, after Sally had gone home, Claire lay in the dark, trying to sleep. Her mind unwillingly turned to thoughts of Roger. Whatever his faults, he was a considerate and thoughtful lover. She had been astounded the first time they had been in bed together. It had been at his flat after a photo session. First he had stroked her neck and shoulders gently, and kissed her softly, running his fingers lightly down her throat to her breasts, just brushing the tips of her nipples. He had caressed her, lovingly kissing her body all over, driving her wild with anticipation. The sudden unexpected violence of his entry into her drew from her a gasping scream, which seemed to spur him on. His bottom lip glistened with lust as he thrust into her. She had become frantic, when he had suddenly withdrawn and started licking her clitoris avidly. Then sucking on it. She moaned and begged him to fuck her. His eyes had narrowed and the gleam of white, even teeth showed, an indication that he was amused by her pleading. Then he had slapped her sharply on the face, telling her to shut up. He would fuck her in his own good time.

She came to expect more shows of violence from him. On occasions, he would tie her by the wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then make her wait for the sublime lovemaking she knew was to follow. After a while, he would kneel astride her face and slowly push his cock into her mouth. He would bring himself almost to the point of orgasm before suddenly stopping and masturbating her until she had reached the same point.

Other times, he would be waiting for her, naked. ‘Tie me up,’ he would say, as she started to undress, eyeing her hungrily. She would see that his erection was already huge. He would stand obediently while she tied him with his hands behind his back to the posts at the foot of the bed. She would take her scarf and blindfold him, then spend an intensely pleasurable half-hour tantalizing him. On her knees she would work her way up his legs with small kisses. As she arrived at his balls, she would see his cock jerk in anticipation of her touch. She would then leave him to wait. He would groan and beg her to continue. After a while, watching him writhe in anticipation, she would suddenly take his cock into her mouth, pushing his foreskin back with her lips. She enjoyed the power of being in control of him sexually on these occasions. After these bouts of titillation, their lovemaking would be frenetic and entirely satisfying, leaving them both exhausted.

Claire lay unblinking in the dark. He’d become bored with her. That was all. He had needed new stimulation, which she could no longer give him. She knew he had not wanted to make any sort of commitment, and had not expected any from her. The last thing he had wanted was for her to have a child. Claire wondered for the hundredth time how she had managed to get it all so wrong. She had thought he loved her. She realized how that she had mistaken lust for love. Well, she’d know better next time. Next time? How could there ever be a next time? She only wanted him. She would never be able to do all those things with anyone else. What she could not put from her mind was the thought that Roger was perhaps doing them at this moment with someone else.

Whoever she was, she couldn’t possibly give him all that she, Claire, had given him. Four years was a long time. He’d soon realize his mistake. He’d start to miss her and come back to her. With this reassuring thought, Claire finally drifted off to sleep.

3

‘What did you think of last night’s episode?’ Hugh Travis, the producer of The McMasters, tentatively put the question to his immediate superior, Martin Roberts. They were both seated at either side of Hugh’s desk, reading through the next batch of episodes. There was a considerable pause as Martin mulled it over.

Finally he said, ‘Not bad, not bad – a bit slow in places, perhaps, but on the whole, it was – er – well, it was – er –’

‘Crap!’ announced Larry Matthews from the doorway. Both men looked up startled. Larry swung into the room, clutching some scripts and a pair of spectacles in his hands. He closed the door behind him and flung himself into the nearest available chair. ‘Unmitigated crap!’ he informed the ceiling. ‘Weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,’ he quoted for added effect.

The other two looked at each other. Hugh rolled his eyes heavenwards and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew that Larry was right. His verdict was perhaps a little forceful, but he had a point. The series was becoming stale, predictable and – dare one even think it? – dull. Martin looked dismayed.

‘Oh dear, do you think so? I thought it had moments …’ he faltered. ‘Moments of …’

‘It had moments’, interrupted Larry, ‘of hitherto unplumbed depths of dreariness.’ Here he adopted an attitude of extreme languor. ‘That simply dreadful scene with those two elderly juveniles droning on at each other, boring the pants off me and, I imagine, the rest of the country!’

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Martin genuinely puzzled.

‘I think he’s referring to Geoff and Bella,’ muttered Hugh. ‘Droning were they? It seemed quite a lively little scene to me,’ he added defensively.

‘Lively? Lively?’ Larry emitted a contemptuous snort. ‘It had about as much life as last week’s doughnuts!’

‘Why do you refer to them as “elderly juveniles”?’ persisted Martin.

Larry looked at him pityingly. ‘Because you know as well as I do that they’re both well into their middle years, yet they insist on prancing around like a couple of teenagers, Geoff in particular. Let’s face it, the succession of prepubescent pulchritude that has passed through these portals, over the last few years to enjoy the dubious pleasure of on-screen, and more often than not off-screen, amorous activities with our leading man, simply to pander to his vanity, has completely deballsed the series.’ He now had their undivided attention. ‘As I remember it, you, my venerable old friend,’ Larry was addressing his remarks to Hugh, ‘had a humdinger of an idea back in the dark ages, seven or eight years ago. A saga centred around a family business of fine arts, antiques, and paintings, the infighting, intrigue of the international art world, sibling rivalry, the struggle for power, at the core of which was a crumbling marriage and all the tensions attendant thereon …’

‘It was your idea, actually,’ Hugh interjected mildly.

Larry glanced at Hugh affectionately. ‘I seem to remember, you dear old thing, that you dreamed up this stunning scenario to provide a suitable showcase for the not inconsiderable talents of the love of your life, the then breathtakingly beautiful Bella – am I right, or am I right?’

There was a pause as the two men regarded each other across the desk.

‘Hot on the alliteration today, aren’t you?’ was all Hugh said.

‘Aren’t I though,’ replied Larry equably.

Martin shuffled his feel uneasily and adjusted his position in his chair. The conversation seemed to have drifted into emotional waters and Martin was feeling like the proverbial fish. He was well aware of Hugh’s abiding passion for Bella. As was Hugh’s wife, Mona. She had learned to live with it. She knew that by comparison with Bella, she was ordinary, the unkind might even say plain. She also knew that Hugh would never leave her. Bella knew it, too. She had been aware from the beginning that the series was a sort of consolation prize. Hugh was giving her all that he was able.

Bella had had a drink problem for some time, ever since she had realized that her career was not going to go the way she had hoped. She had wanted to be up there alongside the greats, among the great classical actresses of her generation. That’s why she had come into the profession. She was not able to put her finger on exactly what had gone wrong. But whatever it was, it had been compounded by seven years as the star of the most popular drama series of the decade, and the alcohol helped to blunt the keenness of the disappointment. She had been twice married and had had innumerable affairs, nearly always with younger men. Hugh had remained the constant element in her life, a sort of father confessor. They had long since ceased to have physical relations. For him, however, she had never ceased to hold an all-consuming fascination. He admired her undeniable talent, her husky beautifully modulated voice, her voluptuous good looks, but he loathed her drinking, not least because he knew he had contributed in part to her reliance on its dubious comfort.

‘We’ve lost the bite this show had at the beginning. The almost unbearable tension between warring husband and wife. The will-they-won’t-they-make-it situation. Everybody knows they won’t because he’s been floating around with a flotilla of fatuous floozies.’ Larry was getting into his stride. ‘And furthermore,’ he continued, ‘I have spent the morning wading my way through Episodes Ten and Eleven and I am now seized with an urgent desire to find a quiet corner somewhere and hang myself!’

The other two regarded him steadfastly and waited. They knew that this histrionic outburst was simply the prelude to an inspired suggestion. Larry would attack the problem in the most extreme terms and then quite casually supply the solution.

Larry Matthews’s position at South Eastern Television was unique. He was ostensibly PA to Hugh Travis, and responsible for the smooth running of the studios during recording days. But he had somehow managed to engineer himself into a position immediately behind Hugh’s right ear, and had a very large say in the casting, story lines and even budget allocation. He had been at drama college with Hugh twenty-five years previously, where they had become fast friends. When Hugh had reached his exalted position as Head of Series at SETV, Larry had suddenly turned up one day demanding a job. Acting, he had said, bored him. He needed a new challenge and it was absolutely certain that he, Hugh, was the man to provide it. It was true that Hugh was at that very moment in need of a personal assistant, a fact that he was quite sure Larry had somehow ferreted out for himself. They had gone off for a long luncheon together, during which Larry had poured out his heart to Hugh. His personal life, he confided, was in disarray. He needed a new start in life. He begged his old friend to give it to him. He was prepared to work his balls off for the chance. Hugh knew, looking at the intelligent good-looking face, now showing signs of age, that Larry would be as good as his word. He also knew he would make an invaluable assistant. As to what personal problems Larry might have, Hugh did not know and didn’t care to enquire. He had never been quite sure as to Larry’s sexual predilections – he had a feeling that he had possibly had a string of attachments of both sexes, but he let that pass. He gave him a job, and after a couple of minor successes together they had thought up and put on The McMasters, which was, and had been from the first episode, a smash hit. Hugh regarded him now with an amused tolerance. Larry had certainly breathed life into South Eastern Television. Things were never dull when he was around.

‘I take it you have a solution?’ Hugh said eventually, aware that Larry was waiting for a cue.

‘Of course,’ replied Larry languidly. ‘I’ve rewritten them,’ and he closed his eyes, as though the exertion of his labours had been too much for him.

‘I thought you might have,’ said Hugh mildly.

‘What’s Colin going to say?’ Martin looked perturbed.

‘Fuck Colin,’ replied Larry blithely. He opened his eyes and looked at them. ‘You’re the producers of the series, you’re the arbiters of taste, for God’s sake, and we all know that what has been served up in Episodes Ten and Eleven is nothing more or less than sentimental drivel!’

There was a longish pause, then Hugh said, ‘Right! Well, we’d better hear your rewrites then.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ observed Larry dryly, as he sat up, put his half-glasses on the end of his nose and opened the first script. ‘That’ll teach me to take holidays,’ he muttered as he found the right page. ‘That load of twaddle that passed for “prime-time drama” last night was perpetrated when I was in San Francisco, of course. Ah, here we are. Now first of all I think I should mention I’ve introduced two new characters –’

‘You’ve done what?’ exploded Hugh, sitting bolt upright. This time Larry had gone too far.

‘Two new characters,’ repeated Larry patiently.

‘Without consulting me?’ Hugh was outraged.

‘I’m consulting you now,’ said Larry, unimpressed by Hugh’s outburst, ‘that’s why I’m here. This is the consultation.’

‘Have you any idea how much two new actors will cost the series? Yes, of course you have,’ said Hugh, answering his own question. ‘We’ve been over the budget together!’

‘I know exactly how much it will cost – and we solve the problem by losing two of the others.’

Throughout this exchange Martin had looked aghast and was incapable of speech.

‘Who do you suggest?’ asked Hugh, scarcely able to believe his ears.

‘Well, the appalling Patsy for one,’ Larry said, looking beadily at Hugh, whom, he noticed, had the grace to blush. ‘Crotch casting never works,’ Larry had stated bluntly at the time. ‘Then, there’s dear old Fred – he’s finding the going a bit rough. We could put him out to pasture – or not have him in the series quite so often,’ he added hurriedly, seeing their horrified faces. ‘Oh come on, girls, we’ve got a hit series on our hands here, which has at least another couple of years’ life in it. We’ve got to keep it up to scratch or, let’s face it, we won’t be asked back again. It’ll go down the pan at the end of the season.’

There was another silence as they considered the prospect.

‘All right,’ said Hugh, finally. ‘What’s your idea? Who are these newcomers?’

Larry looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘I want to put the cat among the pigeons,’ he said quietly. ‘A threat, a rival, a stunning young woman. She tries to steal Paul McMaster’s clients, his business, and, finally, his heart.’ There was another pause.

‘I like it,’ said Hugh simply. Martin nodded in agreement. Larry allowed himself a small smile. ‘And the other character?’ asked Hugh.

‘An American,’ said Larry, watching their faces closely. ‘A rich American playboy with a weakness for fine art, who falls for the new girl and decides to back her financially.’ And he sat back to watch their reactions. They both stared at him unblinking.

‘I like that, too,’ said Hugh sanguinely.

‘What do you think, Marty?’ demanded Larry cheekily.

‘I think you’d better read us your rewrites,’ was the quiet response.

‘Attaboy!’ said Larry enthusiastically, drawing his chair up to the table.

‘And then,’ said Hugh, ‘we’d better draw up a shortlist of possible actresses.’

‘And possible Americans,’ added Martin, determined not to be left out. ‘Quite a few live in this country, I believe.’

Larry delivered his final bombshell. ‘I thought we might import someone from Hollywood,’ he said airily. ‘Shall I start reading?’

4

Geoffrey Armitage stood in the untidy rambling kitchen of his spacious home. The face that featured so effectively in The McMasters, making millions of female hearts beat faster every Sunday evening between 7.45 and 8.40, was at this moment gazing with unseeing eyes at the deep yellow wall in front of him. The intensity of the colour offended him to the depths of his soul.

‘Why yellow?’ he had asked his wife, Sukie, as he stared aghast at the deep yellow ochre walls after they had just moved in.

‘It’s an optimistic colour,’ she had replied firmly. ‘It’ll be like waking up to a glorious sunrise every day.’

‘No it won’t, it’ll be like waking up inside a fried egg every day,’ he had retorted. He had worn sunglasses for a week as a mute protest. It seemed to him that the children’s noise at breakfast was amplified because of the relentlessly cheerful walls. He had stated his objections on numerous occasions, but his wife was unmoved, and the walls had stayed yellow through the ensuing years. Now he was waiting for the toaster to eject its load into the immediate vicinity, which he would deftly field. The toaster was ancient and erratic, and would either emit a sort of dull phut and produce two pieces of warm bread, or, after an interminable wait, suddenly and startlingly give an abrupt click and two scorched brittle objects would catapult ceilingwards. Geoffrey had a recurring daydream. He was sitting in a small ultra-clean, high-tech, white and red kitchen. In front of him, carefully laid out on the shining white and chrome table, were a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large cup of steaming, freshly ground coffee and a plate of crisp bacon rashers, a perfectly poached egg and lashings of deep beige toast sodden with butter. A slim young blonde, wearing only a plastic apron, was ministering to his every need. There were no children present. At this moment, the kitchen door burst open and Nicky, his younger son, hurtled in. At the same time the toaster sprang into life and two blackened pieces of toast sailed through the air.

‘Bad luck, Dad,’ said Nicky, picking one up from the floor. ‘You’ve burned the toast again.’

‘I have not burned the toast again,’ his father emphasized. ‘The fucking toaster has burned the toast again.’

‘You shouldn’t swear, Dad. Mum doesn’t like it, she says you swear too much in front of us.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ muttered Geoff on his hands and knees, looking around for the second piece of toast.

‘It would be incest,’ observed Nicky knowledgeably, helping himself to a packet of Sugar Puffs from a cupboard.

‘What?’ said Geoff, startled, looking up abruptly and hitting his head on the table.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Nicky, examining a plastic container. ‘There’s no sugar!’

‘You don’t need sugar on Sugar Puffs!’ said Geoff, outraged.

‘Daad!’ wailed his son. ‘I always have sugar on them.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t. You’ll have false teeth by the time you’re twelve.’

‘Mum, there’s no sugar!’ said Nicky, with hands outstretched in a dramatic gesture to his mother, who had just come into the kitchen laden with a pile of dirty linen.

‘Yes there is, you just haven’t looked properly. Who gave that cat a piece of toast?’ she asked with interest.

Geoff sighed. The second piece had landed by the Aga. Brambles, the cat, positioned himself next to it every morning to keep warm and observe the family breakfast for any stray scraps of food that might drop to the floor. He was frankly disappointed with today’s offering and, after several attempts to chew his way through the outer crust, gave up, leapt up onto a worktop and settled himself comfortably next to the breadboard.

‘Get off!’ Geoff addressed the cat furiously. ‘Honestly, Sukes, it’s terribly unhygienic. That cat is encouraged to pollute our food.’ The cat in question gave him a look of cold contempt, leaped down to the floor, stalked across the kitchen in high dudgeon, broke wind and made an abrupt exit through the cat flap.

‘Ugh!’ Nicky exclaimed in disgust. ‘Brambles has farted! What a pong!’

‘Nicky,’ protested Sukie feebly.

Geoff decided to be firm. ‘Kindly get on with your breakfast and if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all – and you don’t need that.’ He deftly removed the sugar packet that Sukie had obligingly found and put on the table. He crossed to the kettle, which had just boiled, and poured water onto instant coffee in a cracked mug.

‘Is it a studio day?’ asked Sukie. ‘I’ve lost track.’

‘No, it is not a studio day,’ Geoff said with elaborate politeness. ‘It is a read-through day. We are reading through the next two episodes.’

‘Well, let’s hope to God they’re better than last Sunday’s horror,’ said Sukie calmly.

‘Thank you for those few words of encouragement and support,’ replied Geoff satirically, after a brief pause. ‘I appreciate your keen interest in my work and I’m gratified to learn that you rate my talent as an actor so highly.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your talent as an actor,’ she retorted. ‘I’m just saying that the episode was bloody awful, that’s all.’

Nicky decided he could make a useful contribution to the conversation. ‘Timpson Minor said it was stupid,’ he said, then clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing that ‘stupid’ could hardly be classified as ‘pleasant’ and said hurriedly, ‘His sister loves it. She’s six.’

‘That’s about the age group it’s aimed at,’ Sukie agreed. ‘And as for that bimbo what’s her name, Patsy? Yes, Patsy Hall. Where on earth did they find her?’

Geoff lowered his head to hide the fact that he was blushing furiously. He had been having an intermittent fling with Patsy ever since she’d joined the series. He was aware that she was totally talentless, but she smelt, felt and tasted delightful. He decided to employ double bluff tactics.

‘Oh come on, she’s not that bad.’

‘She’s appalling.’ Sukie poured herself some tea. ‘She can’t act, she can’t move, she can’t speak and, worst of all, she has absolutely no class!’

‘I think she’s one of Hugh’s mistakes,’ Geoff said lamely.

‘I really think you should have a word with Hugh. He may be losing his grip.’

‘Have I met him?’ asked Geoff, abruptly changing the subject and addressing his son – ‘this Timpson turd?’

‘Geoff,’ Sukie remonstrated.

‘No, Dad, his parents are very rich. I’d hardly bring him back here, would I?’ asked Nicky, giving his father a pitying look.

‘Oh that’s nice, isn’t it? Are you suggesting that your home is not good enough for turdfeatures Timpson?’ enquired Geoff icily.

‘Geoffrey, please,’ interposed Sukie.

‘Dad,’ said his son calmly, ‘if you can’t say anything pleasant, don’t say anything at all.’

‘I shall say what I bloody well please,’ said Geoff venomously. ‘You can tell Timpson Minor from me that I think he’s a pain in the arse.’

‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’ panted Ben, as he came in through the back door clad in running gear. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Hello, Ben,’ said his father, surprised. Ben was fifteen and as laid-back as Nicky was energetic. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here, remember?’ replied his son easily.

‘I meant, why aren’t you at school, and what are you doing in your tracksuit?’

‘Marathon practice,’ replied Ben briefly. ‘Who’s a pain in the arse?’

‘Ben,’ said Sukie sternly.

Nicky filled him in. ‘I was telling Dad that Timpson Minor thought Sunday’s episode of The Old Bastards was stupid.’

‘Nicky!’

‘Well yes,’ said Ben, ‘but he only said that because Timpson Major said it.’

‘Who the hell do these Timpsons think they are?’ Geoff asked in a voice rising with sarcasm and disbelief. ‘Are they experts in the field of the television dramatic critique or what?’

‘No, of course not, Dad,’ replied Ben equably, ‘but on this point you must admit it’s a fair assessment.’

‘Did you see Sunday’s episode?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I never watch it, Dad, you know that. They all watch it at school. Unfortunately.’

‘I saw it,’ said Sukie, still thinking of Patsy. ‘It stank!’

Geoff looked stunned for a moment. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he said, ‘Did it? Did it indeed? Well, I should like to point out to you all that this stinking programme pays the mortgage, buys the food, provides for your future, supplies your sports equipment, pays for your holidays …’

‘Feeds the cat,’ Nicky suggested helpfully.

Geoff glared at him. ‘Feeds the cat,’ he conceded. ‘Er, buys, er …’

‘Buys Mum’s clothes,’ prompted Nicky, determined to help his father out.

Sukie glanced down at her fading jeans and sagging tee shirt. ‘What clothes?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, I can manage to quote from this litany of advantages without your assistance,’ Geoff remarked to Nicky. Then, turning to his wife, he said, ‘Are you aware that there is a pile of dirty washing in the middle of the floor?’

Sukie regarded the offending heap with mild interest. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you could add a laundry service to your list of things that that crass TV series makes possible?’

‘Crass?’ enquired Geoff politely.

‘What’s crass?’ asked Nicky.

‘Oh come on, Geoff, you must admit it is pretty dire.’

Geoff rose to his feet without a word and left the kitchen.

‘Nice one, Mum,’ observed Nicky.

‘What are you going to eat, Ben?’ asked his mother.

‘Beans on toast,’ replied Ben immediately, ‘but I’ll get it.’

‘Can I have some?’ chimed in Nicky.

Geoff reappeared carrying a script and a jacket. ‘I am going out now,’ he announced. ‘I may be some time. I am, in fact, about to make the same sort of heroic gesture as that remarkable man Captain Lawrence Oates. I am going to compromise my integrity, jeopardize my career, sacrifice my dignity – it’s a form of suicide, I think you’ll agree – and all for the sake of my family – to whom I am devoted – to ensure their survival. In other words, I am going to attempt a read-through of this crass, stupid, nay dire television series – which stinks and of which I am happy and proud to be the figurehead. You must excuse me – duty calls.’ And so saying he opened the back door and swept out.

There was a brief silence as the little group remaining in the kitchen went about their business. Ben proceeded to heat up some baked beans and cook two perfectly golden brown pieces of toast, one for Nicky, one for himself. Sukie poured herself a second cup of tea. After a moment or two, Brambles thrust a tentative head through the cat flap. Having ascertained that the coast was clear, the rest of him followed and he walked confidently in, made straight for the breadboard and settled himself down comfortably beside it, paws tucked beneath him.

‘I think you could have been a bit more circumspect about the laundry service, Mum,’ Ben said.

‘What’s circumspect?’ asked Nicky.

‘Well, it is a dreadful show,’ said Sukie defensively. ‘It used not to be, but it’s become just dull and improbable, which sounds like a paradox, I suppose …’

‘What’s a paradox?’ asked Nicky.

‘What it needs,’ continued Sukie, ‘what it really needs, is an injection of new blood, a bit of life – a new character. And to get rid of the ghastly Patsy,’ she added savagely under her breath.

5

‘They are looking for a tall blonde to play a tough business woman, owner of a rival art gallery, bent on poaching the McMasters’ clientele and putting them out of business. The story line being, of course, that the two galleries eventually decide to merge and Sara Harper, that’s the character, takes over joint control of the business with Paul McMaster and he falls for her, which causes all sorts of complications on the work and home front, as you can imagine. It’s a great part and you’re absolutely right for it, except that you’re not tall and you’re not blonde – hang on a minute, there’s someone on the other line.’

Thus spake David Hawkins, Claire’s agent. It was exactly two weeks since her abortion and Claire was at the lowest ebb of her life. She now realized that Roger was basically an egotistical cruel shit. So why, she asked herself, was there this appalling pain where she believed her heart was located. She supposed it was the rejection. Being dumped. Not wanted on voyage. Tears started to well again.

David’s phone call had given her a small ray of hope. Sally had stated unequivocally that what she needed was work. It would change her whole perspective on things. A couple of weeks to recuperate – get her strength back and she’d be ready to take on the world again. Claire secretly doubted this. But right on cue, David had phoned. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks and as ever, the prospect of a new challenge had thrilled her. And now she was not even being considered for a part for which she was eminently suitable because her hair was the wrong colour and her stature too short. In normal circumstances, Claire would simply have shrugged her shoulders and said ‘That’s showbiz’. But somehow, now, it seemed as though she wasn’t good enough for Roger and she wasn’t good enough for South Eastern Television either. She was inadequate on all counts.

David was speaking again. ‘You still there Claire?’

‘Yes. David, why does this character have to be blonde?’

‘Because Bella Shand is dark, I suppose. Oh don’t ask me – I shall never understand how producers’ minds work. Anyway, I did point out to Martin and Hugh that you were perfect for the part in every other respect and that they ought to at least see you and let you read.’

Ah, another spark of hope.

‘And what was their reaction?’

‘They said that they’d think about it.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last week.’

‘You never told me,’ said Claire, thinking how much just a prospect would have helped her get through last week. But David knew nothing of recent events. She wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him.

‘Of course not,’ replied David briskly. ‘There’s no point in raising your hopes until I’ve at least secured you an interview. When did you work with Larry Matthews?’

Claire thought hard. ‘I never have,’ she said eventually. ‘Why?’

‘He seems to know your work, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I remember, he came to see us in The Rivals, well, not me exactly, his boyfriend was in it playing Faulkland.’

‘Ah, that would explain it. Well, anyway, they’re going to see you on Thursday, eleven forty-five at their offices at Holroyd House. Do your best!’

Claire fell a thrill of excitement surge through her. ‘How should I try to look?’ she asked him enthusiastically.

‘Tall,’ David replied dryly, and hung up.

Claire laughed out loud. It was the first time she’d laughed in weeks, she realized. She had an uncanny feeling that things were going to get better. She recognized a familiar steeliness, a sense of resolve and determination coming over her. She was going to get this part. She wanted it. More than that, she needed it. It was going to be her salvation. Thursday. Today was Tuesday. That gave her a whole day to sort out something suitable to wear. She might have to borrow an item from Sally’s wardrobe. She crossed to the large mirror that hung above the sofa. Dear God, she thought, I look a fright. Her face was gaunt, pale, her eyes deep and unfathomable, her hair limp and untidy. She sighed heavily and crossed back to the phone. It suddenly rang. Her heart leaped. Roger, she thought involuntarily. She picked up the receiver with trembling hands.

‘Hello,’ she said timidly, hardly daring to hope.

‘Hi, kid, how you doing?’

It was Sal’s cheery voice. Claire felt an initial shock of disappointment followed by one of relief. Of course it wasn’t Roger, it was never going to be Roger again. And a bloody good thing too!

‘Hi, Sal. I’m okay. No, as a matter of fact I’m more than okay. I’m seeing some producers about a job on Thursday so things are looking up.’

‘Darling, that’s wonderful. Can I come round tonight?’

‘Well, funnily enough, I was going to ask you over. I was just about to dial your number. How did you know?’

‘I’m clairvoyant, and one doesn’t dial any more, one punches.’

‘True. What time will you be here?’

‘In about an hour. I’m bringing some food. You’re looking a bit peaky so I’m going to cook you supper!’

‘You darling.’ Claire was genuinely touched. ‘You couldn’t possibly bring most of your wardrobe with you as well could you? God knows what I’m going to wear for this interview.’

‘What’s the part?’

‘Oh, sort of classy ballbreaker by the sound of it.’

‘I’ve got just the thing! See you later,’ and Sally rang off.

Claire felt better than she’d done for ages. Suddenly there was real hope. She wandered slowly into her bedroom and slid back the cupboard doors. Three long peasant skirts – Roger had liked peasant skirts. A calf-length tweed skirt and matching long jacket – Roger had liked those, too. The high-necked long-sleeved velvet evening dress that Roger had chosen for her, and a cashmere stole – and several pairs of low-heeled pumps. It dawned on her that her entire wardrobe consisted not of her taste but of Roger’s. She had dressed to please him. There was certainly nothing suitable for a tough aggressive business woman here.

She remembered how she used to dress before she met Roger: trousers, sweatshirts, boots; jeans, tee shirts, sneakers; very short skirts with high heels and little nipped in jackets; daringly low-cut evening dresses and anything that was either ethnic or outrageous. Individual clothes for a confident independent woman. She had worn make-up too. Sometimes lots of it. She enjoyed wearing it. Roger had somehow persuaded her that she looked better without it. The only time she got the opportunity to make up was on stage or before the cameras. That’s how she’d first met Roger. In front of the camera. She’d had long hair then, too. A thick wonderful shining mane. And she’d been wearing a lot of makeup. He’d come to take her photo for a magazine article, a glossy in-depth piece featuring young actresses who had been tipped as ‘the girls most likely to succeed’. It had been her only real taste of fame so far. Roger was one of the most successful photographers around, and he’d fallen for her at once, she knew that. She could tell by the way he looked at her. And by the photographs he had taken of her. Yet within a year he had persuaded her to cut off her lovely hair and divest herself of all her make-up. She stood staring at the open cupboard as she remembered. Why had he wanted to change her? It was a mystery.

She walked slowly over to the dressing-table, sat down, and opened the left-hand drawer. Yes, it was all there, her make-up box, false eyelashes, everything. Deliberately she started to apply a golden tinted foundation, not thickly but just enough to give her a tan-like glow. Next, eyeliner, flicked up at the ends to give her eyes an upward slant, her favourite exotic look. Then she outlined her lips with a lipliner, filled in her mouth with a paler lipstick, never a dark one, not for Claire. A smudge of eyeshadow, bronze blusher on the cheekbones and temples, even the chin. And finally, yes, why not? Natural-looking eyelashes, stuck right at the roots of her own, and liberally mascaraed top and bottom.

Her hair had now grown back to almost shoulder length, but was looking decidedly lifeless. She opened the other drawer and pulled out the hairpiece she had bought last year. She had suddenly been asked to play Mary Magdalene in a charity Christmas show. They couldn’t afford to hire a wig for her, so she had gone out and bought one herself from a theatrical wigmakers. She had seen an advertisement announcing that they were selling off old stock. She had been thrilled with it, and had worn it a couple of times since on stage. Now she rifled around and found some hairpins. She wound small sections of her own hair on the crown of her head and secured them with hairgrips. Then she brushed the false hair vigorously and attached it to the pin curls with large hairpins. She teased her own hair back to blend in with the false piece and, hardly bearing to look at herself, sauntered into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Tea. One of her favourite indulgences.

Suddenly she remembered an old holdall in the broom cupboard in the passage. She was sure she had kept some of her old clothes there. She all but ran out of the kitchen, wrenched the cupboard door open and dragged out the case, unzipped it – and yes, it was bulging with garments. Thinking she could use them when she next decorated, she’d never thrown them out. They were mainly jeans, trousers and tops. She exclaimed with delight as she unearthed some much-loved jungle-green army fatigues. She bundled the rest back into the case and carried it lovingly into the bedroom. The kettle was boiling and she ran to make the tea, then hurried back to the bedroom and took out the fatigues. Admittedly they smelt a bit strange, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d give them a good wash that night.

She tore off her blouse and ankle-length skirt, stepped into the all-in-one outfit and zipped up the front. It still fitted well. If anything it was a touch large; of course, she had lost weight recently. It needed a belt – well, at least she still had those. On a shelf in a cupboard she found her favourite. It was very wide, brown shaped leather and she fastened it around her waist with mounting excitement. Shoes – of course, trainers – she used those for rehearsals. She dug them out of the back of the wardrobe and rammed them on her feet. Then, picking up the rest of the clothes from the bed, she strode confidently back into the kitchen, opened the door of the washing machine and chucked them all in. Washing powder and softener followed, then she slammed the door and clicked the controls. She poured a large breakfast cup of tea and wandered into the sitting room. Then, and then only, did she allow herself a good look at her reflection.

To her delight and surprise Claire saw a girl she had once known smiling back at her. She all but whooped with joy. Could it be that she actually felt happy? That the awful weight of misery that she had been dragging around with her for months was beginning to lighten? The anguish of the last two weeks had been insupportable and she knew it would be a long time before that diminished. But this was the start. She surveyed herself from all angles, then sat down on the sofa to sip her tea. Perhaps some music? No, no, not music, not yet. Music stirred the emotions. No, she mustn’t overreach herself. One step at a time. Practical progress first. The door bell rang. Again her heart leapt. This was ridiculous. She must learn to control herself. She put the cup down on the glass coffee table and went to the front door.

‘Hello, darling. I’m a bit early. Does it matter?’ Sally stood in the doorway laden with carrier bags and clothes slung over her arm. ‘My God! Have I come to the wrong flat?’ she exclaimed in amazement as she took in Claire’s appearance.

Claire laughed. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it?’ cried Sally, dropping her burdens and hugging her. ‘Oh, darling, welcome back!’

‘Have I really changed that much?’ asked Claire, extricating herself.

Sally stood back and surveyed her. ‘This is the girl I knew four years ago. You look stunning!’

Claire smiled back at her. ‘I think I’m going to get better, Sal,’ she said evenly.

‘I know you are,’ Sally replied with conviction. ‘You look heaps better already, though admittedly you smell a little funny, sort of mildewy! Nothing that a drop of scent won’t put right.’

Claire giggled. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

Sally stopped her. ‘No, darling, new man, new scent,’ she said firmly.

‘But I haven’t got a new man,’ protested Claire laughingly.

‘Looking like that, you soon will have,’ said Sally. ‘Yep, new job, new man, I’m absolutely convinced of it.’

‘Yes,’ said Claire doubtfully, ‘but I’ve got to get the job first.’

‘And so you shall!’ said her friend with determination. ‘See what I’ve brought you!’ And she rescued the clothes from the floor where they had fallen.

‘But, Sal,’ protested Claire, as Sally held up a superb-looking garment, ‘this is your new Italian suit!’

‘That’s right,’ responded Sally gaily. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ And she held it up against Claire. ‘This’ll get you the job!’

6

She had class. Of that there was no doubt. She looked good, was in fact stunning. High cheekbones, slanting grey eyes, dark reddish brown hair and a flawless complexion. Hugh noted it all. The impeccably cut slate-grey suit. The moss agate earrings and matching ring, the dark green of which was picked up in a long narrow silk scarf hung loosely around her neck. The shoes and handbag of matching grey suede. The hair piled on top of her head. Hugh felt a surge of excitement. He had found Sara Harper.

‘Excuse me a moment will you, Ms Jenner?’ He rose from his seat. ‘Oh, would you care to take a look at the script?’ he added. ‘I’m just popping down the corridor.’

‘Thank you, yes, I’d love to.’

He seemed to be in a hurry, Claire thought. As soon as he had gone, she picked up the wodge of type-covered paper that he had placed in front of her. The pages were held together at the top with a single clip. ‘The McMasters. Episode 10’, it said on the front page, followed by a list of the producers, assistants and various other administrative personnel. She flicked through the pages, trying to find her character. She already thought of it as ‘hers’. She had an idea that Hugh was impressed. He had seemed agitated. She noticed that she often had this effect on men. Ah, here it was.

Int. Sara’s office.

A tall blonde woman is perched on the edge of a desk. She is speaking on the telephone. She swings a shapely leg as she talks.

SARA: | I don’t think I will have any difficulty in obtaining the Rembrandt sketch for you, Contessa. What are you prepared to go to – (She breaks off abruptly as her office door opens quietly.) Who the hell are you? Get out of here! (She glares at the intruder.)
PAUL: | Good afternoon. Ms Harper, I presume?
SARA: | Who are you and what the hell do you think you are doing in my office?
PAUL: | My apologies, Ms Harper. I came to pay my respects. Well no, to be truthful, I came to size up the opposition. (He smiles charmingly.)
SARA: | (Unimpressed.) Who let you in?
PAUL: | I let myself in. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. (He gives her the benefit of another dazzling smile.)
SARA: | Well, I do mind. Get out!
PAUL: | (Taken aback.) I beg your pardon. I had no idea you’d take it so –
SARA: | I said get out! (She picks a nearby ledger and flings it at him. He ducks and exits hurriedly.)

Claire smiled to herself. This was right up her street. She had to have this part. The door opened and Hugh reappeared with another man in tow, older, bald, benign-looking.

‘Ah, Ms Jenner, you’re still here,’ he sounded relieved.

As if I’d think of going anywhere with a part like this hanging in the balance, thought Claire.

‘This is Claire Jenner, Martin,’ said Hugh. ‘Ms Jenner, this is our producer, Martin Roberts.’

‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ said Claire, rising to shake hands. Martin nodded and smiled shyly, shook her hand vigorously but did not speak. They both seemed uncertain of what to say next.

Then, seeing the script, Hugh had an inspiration. ‘So, what did you think of Episode – er – Ten – is it? Yes, Episode Ten.’

‘I’ve only just glanced at it,’ replied Claire, wondering how on earth he supposed she’d had time to read it in the few minutes it had taken him to fetch Martin.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Hugh replied. ‘Did you manage to find our Sara?’ He spoke of the character as though she were a personal friend.

‘Yes, I found her first entrance. I think it’s brilliant.’ Both men looked at her eagerly.

‘Good, good, splendid,’ said Hugh. ‘And how do you feel about her?’

‘I can handle her,’ she replied, fingering the script for a moment, then tossing it across the desk.

‘You can?’ said Hugh. They were both looking at her intently.

‘Oh yes, she’s right up my street. Would you like me to read for you?’

‘Oh no, no, good Lord, no, that won’t be necessary, we know of your reputation.’

Do you? thought Claire in amazement. What reputation? She’d hardly done any television. Then she remembered. Of course, Larry Matthews – he’d obviously said nice things about her Lydia Languish. ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ she laughed. ‘That’s all right then.’

Martin had still not said a word, but was looking at her as though he wanted to drink her in. Claire didn’t quite know what was expected of her. Hugh finally wound up the meeting.

‘Well, thank you, Ms Jenner, for coming in to see us. We’ll be speaking to your agent this afternoon.’ He held out his hand. Martin followed suit. Claire, relieved that it was over, gathered her things together and took Hugh’s outstretched hand.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said charmingly. And then offered her hand to Martin. She had turned to go when the door burst open to reveal a tall blond good-looking man.

‘Claire Jenner!’ he proclaimed dramatically. ‘What a lovely surprise. Are you leaving us?’

Claire crossed to the door, recognizing Larry Matthews at once. ‘How good to see you again,’ she said and meant it. ‘Yes, I’m just off.’

‘Then allow me to escort you to the lift.’ And he took her arm and steered her out of the room and down the corridor.

‘You look stunning,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.’

‘I do hope so,’ replied Claire fervently.

He propelled her into the lift, waving goodbye as the doors started to close. ‘Have no fear,’ he called out, as they shut and the lift started with a slight jolt to descend.

I think I’ve got it, Claire thought excitedly to herself. I think I’ve got it! She had driven herself to the offices and had been allowed to park briefly at the back of the building. She rescued her car, and smiled and waved cheerily at the man on the gate as she drove off. It took her some time to negotiate the London traffic. It was raining heavily and conditions were bad. She hardly noticed. All the way back, she kept saying to herself, I think I’ve got it, I think I’ve got it, hardly daring to believe it. When she finally got home an hour later, she tore up the front steps, flung herself into her flat and made straight for the telephone.

‘David, David, it’s me. I think I’ve got it!’ she cried excitedly.

‘Yes, they want you,’ replied her agent mildly.

‘How do you know?’ she asked astounded.

‘They rang the moment you left and offered you the part.’

‘Oh God,’ breathed Claire in a sort of ecstasy. ‘It’s a wonderful part, David, it really is.’

‘Good,’ said David briefly, ‘then let’s hope they offer you some wonderful money to go with it, which I very much doubt.’

‘I don’t care what they pay me,’ said Claire recklessly.

‘Well I do, I need the money even if you don’t,’ replied David tartly. Then relenting he said, ‘No, seriously, Claire, I’m very pleased, you deserve it, well done!’

‘Thank you,’ said Claire happily. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘I know that,’ replied David. ‘You never do.’ It was the nearest to a compliment she’d ever received from David, and she felt a warm glow of contentment.

He then instructed her to get pencil and paper and jot down filming dates. He told her that wardrobe and make-up would be contacting her, and to make herself available to them. And she was to present herself at the studios at the next recording a week from the day, for a make-up test.

She left an excited message on Sally’s answering machine, thanking her profusely for the loan of the suit, which she was convinced got her the part.

She then phoned her mother in Wiltshire. She hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Claire had deliberately not contacted her during her recent unhappiness, not wanting to burden her and add to her own distress. Beatrice Jenner was over the moon. Inordinately proud of her beautiful daughter, she had known it would only be a matter of time before she got the break she deserved.

‘Roger must be pleased,’ she said happily.

The remark took Claire completely unawares. Finally she said falteringly, ‘Oh, er, Roger and I are not seeing one another any more, Mum.’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry, darling,’ was the sympathetic response. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Oh, months ago. I didn’t bother you with it at the time, because – well – it really wasn’t important enough – we’d been building up to it for ages.’ Claire was awfully afraid that she was going to cry. The sound of her mother’s caring, understanding voice had brought a lump to her throat and she suddenly realized how much she had missed her.

Beatrice had heard a note of distress in her daughter’s quavering voice, but kept her own counsel. She said, ‘Well, darling, it’s marvellous about this part. Your father will be thrilled.’

‘How is he?’ asked Claire, concerned.

‘Not very well, darling, but this news will do him a power of good!’

After Claire had finished speaking to her mother, she felt guilty. She had not asked after her father for ages and her mother had borne the worry all alone.

It also occurred to her that she had not thought about Roger once the whole day.

7

Patsy carefully drew a dark red line around her pouting lips, then filled it in with deep pink shiny lipstick. A coat of clear lip gloss was applied and she stood back to survey the result. She was well pleased with what she saw – a startlingly pretty girl with a peaches and cream complexion, large dewy blue eyes and faintly pink blonde hair like candy floss. A voluptuous figure completed the perfection. She was perfection and she knew it. She could tell by the glances of wide-eyed disbelief she drew from males wherever she went. She was ‘The McMasters’ own little bit of Hollywood glitz’. That’s what the Globe had said about her when she had first appeared in the series. She had been thrilled. It’s what she wanted more than anything, to make it to Hollywood; they really appreciated her type of looks out there. So her Auntie Thelma had told her. Unfortunately, the Globe had followed up this eulogy the next week by dubbing her the programme’s token brainless blonde bimbo with the big boobs and tiny talent. Patsy had been mortally wounded. She had a lot to learn when it came to acting, she would be the first to admit it. But then she had had no formal training, what did they expect?

Patsy had been a photographic model for nearly all her life. Her father had deserted her mother when Patsy was only four. She had not seen him since. There had been Christmas and birthday cards to begin with, but they had become sporadic and finally stopped altogether. Patsy hadn’t minded a bit – she could hardly remember her father and there had been plenty of uncles to take his place. They had all spoiled her – she was, after all, such a pretty little girl. Her mother, suddenly realizing just how pretty her little girl was, enrolled her with a modelling agency. Patsy never looked back. She featured in commercials, knitting patterns, magazines and had even had a bit part in a children’s TV series. Both Patsy and her mother had made a comfortable living, but her education had been sorely neglected. Patsy had no recollection of ever having read a book right through in her life.

When she was seventeen, her mother took up with someone called Bruce, who was keen for them all to go and live with him in his native Australia. But Patsy was unwilling to sacrifice what she considered to be a promising career, and to her mother’s relief declined to join them. Patsy’s mother was not entirely sure that Bruce’s interest in Patsy’s welfare was purely avuncular. Besides, Patsy was really much too pretty and only served to remind her of her own fading good looks. So Patsy was left to the mercies of Thelma, her mother’s sister-in-law, who felt that her brother had neglected his own child and that she should try to make amends.

Auntie Thelma actively encouraged Patsy in her career and no one was happier than she when Patsy landed the part of Gemma, secretary to Paul McMaster in the most popular series. Admittedly, Patsy had little more to do than appear once or twice an episode with trays of coffee, or to announce the arrival of important clients, but Thelma gloried vicariously in Patsy’s fame. She told her that the producers were bound to build up her part when they saw how popular she was. She was going to be a big star. Already Patsy was recognized wherever she went. She often caused quite a sensation in her local supermarket. She revelled in it. Then there was the attention she got from Geoff, who played Paul, the leading man, the star of the series. She had felt really important. He’d taken her out to dinner on a couple of occasions when they’d been on location. The affair that followed had been intermittent due to the fact that Geoff was married. Patsy didn’t mind. She accepted love how and where she could find it.

She was never short of boyfriends. One of them, Stephen, had been one of the ‘uncles’ that had visited her mother on occasions. Now he visited Patsy and always brought presents: glamorous lingerie, expensive costume jewellery, perfume and on one glorious visit, a fox fur jacket, which she still persisted in wearing, oblivious to the critical looks of other women. His best present ever had been the little white Peugeot he’d given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. She always looked forward to his visits with breathless anticipation. Sadly, since her new-found fame, they’d become less frequent. As he patiently explained to her, if his wife found out, his visitations would have to stop altogether, and then no more treats for his baby.

Patsy resigned herself to Geoff’s attentions, which paled by comparison. Somehow boxes of chocolates and bunches of flowers didn’t compare favourably. Anyway she was nearly always on a diet, and the flowers died so quickly and smelt horrid. Instead, she’d asked him to persuade the scriptwriters to build up her part in the series. If he couldn’t afford expensive gifts this was the least he could do for her. She wanted to be a star, she’d had a taste of fame and liked it. Now she wanted to be accepted as an actress as well, and what better way than to play opposite Geoff, a respected classical actor in his younger days? But Geoff was strangely evasive on the issue and she noticed that his attentions seemed to be less enthusiastic than before. Auntie Thelma said that publicity was the secret. Exposure. She needed to become a household word, to be in demand. Then the producers of the programme would realize what they’d got and would build her up. This was all very well, but how was it to be achieved?

Patsy surveyed herself in the long mirror in her bedroom. She smoothed her hands over her curvaceous frame. She couldn’t fathom it. She’d got everything. Why couldn’t they see it?

She was startled by the sound of the phone ringing. Who could that be? Maybe the studio had changed her call. She felt important as she moved slowly to the white phone by the bed. Let them wait. She picked up the telephone and put on her best telephone voice. ‘Patsy Hall speaking.’

‘Oh, hello, Pat. Snellor here, Tony Snellor. I’m a features writer for the Globe.’

‘Oh yes.’ Patsy was thrilled.

‘We’d like to do a double-page spread on you, Miss Hall, your career, interests, boyfriend, et cetera, bit about the series – you know the sort of thing.’

‘Oh yes,’ she agreed eagerly, ‘I do.’ Patsy had had bits and pieces in the press before, but never a double-page spread. That’d make the cast sit up and take notice. ‘When did you want to do it?’ she asked, slightly flustered. ‘I’m working all this week.’

‘As soon as possible. We’d like the piece to go in on Saturday.’

‘What, this Saturday?’ she asked breathlessly. Her triumph was to be sooner than she thought. Their faces at the read-through on Saturday morning – thank goodness they rehearsed Saturdays. She couldn’t wait!

‘This could do you a lot of good, Patsy,’ said Snellor, mistaking her silence for hesitation, not realizing that it took a few minutes for Patsy’s brain to engage in gear.

‘Oh yes, it could,’ she agreed readily.

‘Tomorrow looks good for me, how is it for you, Pat?’

‘Patsy,’ she corrected him primly. Tomorrow! Patsy was genuinely appalled. Tomorrow she was in the studio. It was impossible. Oh no, she couldn’t miss this chance. It occurred to her that no one in the cast actually bought the Globe. Well, that didn’t matter, she’d buy a copy and leave it lying around.

‘Oh dear, I’m in the studio!’ she wailed. ‘It’s the first day of Episode Nine!’

Snellor thought quickly. He was on to something here. This was a heaven-sent opportunity. This bimbo was thick as two short planks. She’d spill the beans all right. He only had to promise her blanket coverage, front-page picture, anything. And he could get the lowdown on everything that was going on behind the scenes on The McMasters. They’d finally get the dirt on Geoffrey Armitage. Trevor would be very pleased with him. This was going to sell a lot of papers! He kept his cool.

‘What, all day?’

‘Oh yes, it’s my big episode! I’ve got quite a lot to do. They’re building up my part,’ she said proudly.

‘How about lunch?’

‘Lunch?’

‘Yes, lunch. You break for lunch, don’t you?’ asked Snellor irritably. This girl was going to try his patience, he could tell that.

‘Oh yes, I have a lunch break.’

‘Good. I’ll meet you for lunch in the club. Shall we say one o’clock?’

‘What, tomorrow?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Snellor patiently. ‘Tomorrow, in the club, one o’clock.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ said Patsy, with gratification, thinking of all the envious glances she would attract.

‘Yes,’ agreed Snellor. ‘We can have a nice little chat about things over a drink and a sandwich.’

‘The food’s not very good up there,’ protested Patsy, thinking how much better it would be to have lunch in the canteen where everyone could see them. Most people went to the canteen on studio days. Only hardened drinkers like Bella popped up to the club for a drink at lunchtimes, and even she eschewed the smoky atmosphere on studio days. ‘Couldn’t we go to the canteen?’

‘Can we get a drink there?’ asked Snellor anxiously. He could never face an interview without a drink. Come to that, he couldn’t face anything without a drink. Trevor was always nagging him about it. It was all very well for Trev. He didn’t have to do the dirty work.

‘Oh yes, they do wine by the glass,’ Patsy assured him.

Wine! Snellor shuddered. No, it had to be vodka or this scoop would not have the impact that he knew would make Trevor’s heart sing and bring his own impending promotion a little bit nearer. The truth of the matter was that Snellor was a common or garden hack and his whole ambition in life was to become a features editor. A raise in salary, a guaranteed by-line and a photograph. Respect from the boys in the Wine Press.

‘The club is better, not so much noise.’ Snellor decided not to give her the opportunity to argue. ‘See you there then. One o’clock,’ he repeated to make sure she’d got it straight.

But Patsy was not to be put off. ‘I have to have my lunch,’ she said truculently. ‘It’s my big episode.’ Patsy was very fond of her food and the nervous tension of the studio day was the only legitimate excuse she had to indulge. Snellor sighed. He could never understand this preoccupation with food. His idea of lunch was a double vodka washed down with several of the same. One ate at night. Hugely. But lunchtime was drinking time.

‘Look, Pat –’ Snellor began.

‘Patsy,’ she corrected him again.

‘Patsy. I want this piece to do you justice.’ This was absolutely the very last thing that Snellor wanted. ‘It’s not easy to be creative when both of us are stuffing our faces.’ On reflection Snellor wished he’d phrased it more delicately, but he pressed on. ‘It’s going to be an in-depth interview – and we’ve got to set up a photo session this week, too,’ he added to distract her attention.

‘Oh right. Of course. I could manage Thursday. I’ve got a day off. Is that all right?’ asked Patsy anxiously. She couldn’t bear it if anything went wrong now.

‘S’cutting it fine, but if we do them in the morning we’ll probably just manage it.’

‘Oh good,’ Patsy breathed with relief.

‘I’ll get Phil onto it,’ said Snellor, determined now to finish the conversation. ‘Expect his call later on. See you in the club at one.’ And he put down the phone.

Patsy was ecstatic. She went straight to her wardrobe, decided at one glance that she had nothing suitable to wear and spent a blissful afternoon shopping in her local boutique.

At the lunch break the next day, she could hardly contain herself.

‘Aren’t you coming to the canteen, love?’ called out Meg, who played the wife of the McMasters’ picture restorer, George, when she noticed Patsy rushing off in the opposite direction.

‘No, I’m meeting a journalist in the club,’ replied Patsy importantly.

‘Fame at last!’ muttered Simon Lavell, who played Tom McMaster, dryly under his breath as he watched the retreating figure disappear down the corridor.

Tony Snellor was ensconced at a corner table in the club, and on his third double vodka when Patsy arrived. He waved to her in an expansive manner.

‘Could you sign the gentleman in, please, miss?’ said the commissionaire on the door in a sepulchral voice. ‘He said he was with you.’

‘Oh, yes, of course – it’s Mr Snellor, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t ask me, miss, he’s your friend, not mine.’ He sounded relieved.

Patsy carefully wrote in ‘Mr Snellor’, his first name completely eluding her. Then she sashayed over to his table, in a manner calculated to alert the attention of every susceptible male in the room. As indeed it did. Well satisfied with her entrance, Patsy seated herself and crossed her legs provocatively, exhibiting a considerable amount of thigh. Snellor was suitably impressed and mentally congratulated himself on persuading Trevor that Patsy Hall was the business.

‘Did Phil ring you?’ enquired Snellor, after he’d ordered a Martini and lemonade for Patsy at her request. She was so excited, she’d completely forgotten she had a big scene with Bella in the afternoon and alcohol was not conducive to concentration in a stressful situation in the studio. Patsy’s mind was apt to wander at the best of times.

‘Oh yes, thanks,’ she said eagerly. ‘He wants to do pictures of me relaxing at home.’ She had been delighted with Phil’s phone call, which had been fulsome to say the least. Phil had been well primed by Snellor.

‘So how are you enjoying the series, Patsy?’

‘It’s lovely. I get to wear some really great clothes, and I love working with famous people like Bella and Geoff.’ Patsy had wit enough to realize that it would be wise to keep on the right side of Bella, especially in print.

‘Good, good,’ said Snellor. ‘Got any romance going in your life at the moment?’ He tried to twinkle at her, but it manifested itself as a leer.

Patsy giggled coyly and pretended to blush. ‘Ooh no, I’m a career girl, Mr Snellor. I don’t have time for romance.’

‘Tony, please,’ said Tony Snellor, with as much charm as he could muster. ‘I find that difficult to believe, a stunning-looking girl like you – all the other ladies in the cast must have been furious when you joined the series.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Patsy, overcome.

‘Of course. What did Bella have to say?’

Patsy giggled again. ‘You’d have to ask her. She’s usually up here,’ she added looking around the room. ‘She likes a drink or three.’

‘Does she?’ Tony Snellor took out his miniature tape recorder, placed it on the table between them and switched it on. Patsy turned back, disappointed that there was no sign of Bella. Snellor took a large swig of vodka. ‘Tell me, Patsy, how do you get on with other members of the cast?’

Patsy pondered this for some time. She was longing to air her grievances to someone, and maybe if she said she was unhappy in public they would realize and be nicer to her.

‘I wish they were nicer to me,’ she whispered.

Snellor sat up. ‘I can’t believe they’re nasty to you,’ he said hopefully.

‘They are sometimes. Well, not nasty, exactly. Perhaps they’re just jealous, like you said.’

‘I’m sure I’m right,’ said Snellor. ‘I bet you have trouble with that Bella, don’t you? I mean, she must be worried by a younger, beautiful rival, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Patsy, nodding her head sagely.

‘You know, Patsy, I could do you a bit of good here,’ said Snellor, looking at her with interest. He’d just had one of his brainwaves. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they were humdingers. ‘I’ve been watching this series and, I must say, since you’ve come into it, it’s perked up no end. I think you’ve got what it takes. But producers aren’t always so quick off the mark. But if an artist is seen to be getting a lot of publicity, that means something to them. The ratings go up and they start to build up that artist’s part. Soon she’s taken over and become the star of the series. Do you follow me?’ Snellor glanced at Patsy. Had he gone too far? No. She was gazing at him with shining eyes. He pressed home his point. ‘What I’m saying here, Pat, is, you give me the stories and I’ll guarantee to give you the publicity. It needn’t be too obvious. Just little snippets about what’s happening behind the cameras from time to time. We angle it to include a nice big picture of you. We might even put you on the cover of the colour supplement on Sunday if you come up with the right story. What do you say?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea, Tony!’

8

Full of trepidation, Claire started to get ready for her visit to the studio. It was the day of her make-up test and she was apprehensive to say the least. Her previous encounters with make-up artists had not been happy. She had only done a couple of small parts in television, and had not had the nerve to stand up for what she wanted.

‘After all, Sal,’ she had complained to her friend after an earlier disaster, ‘I know my face better than anyone else. I know what suits me. I know how to make the best of my features. I mean, I realize I’m no beauty …’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re gorgeous! Everyone knows that. You’ve just got to be firm; you’re too nice, that’s your trouble. Diana Barry throws brushes and things around if she doesn’t get what she wants.’

Claire looked appalled. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, it’s just not professional,’ she said primly.

‘Well then, you’ll just have to go on looking like the back of a number nine bus.’

‘I know, I know. I just don’t know how to handle those make-up girls. They’re all harridans,’ said Claire feelingly.

‘They’re just bullies,’ retorted Sally, ‘and like all bullies, if you stand up to them, they’ll crumble.’

‘I know you’re right, I just don’t have the guts,’ Claire had replied miserably.

That was a couple of years ago, however. She had the guts now, she was tougher now – Roger had at least done that for her. She was determined not to be bullied this time into having a face that was, in her opinion, totally characterless – no eyes nor cheekbones, just lips and eyebrows. She had looked dreadful. It had destroyed her confidence and she had cried bitterly afterwards. When she had seen herself on the television, she had been enraged. Never again, she thought savagely. This was the biggest break of her career and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of her success. She drove to the studio, nervous but determined to win. The more she thought of her previous humiliations, the more furious and the more resolute she became. She was determined to win the forthcoming battle. For battle there would surely be, she felt certain. By the time she arrived at the studio gates, she was trembling, whether from fear or anger she wasn’t sure, but she managed a tremulous smile for the official residing on the gate.

‘I am here for a make-up test for The McMasters,’ she said, suddenly feeling a sense of belonging to something rather special.

He seemed delighted and allowed her to park in the area in the middle right outside the main building, an honour usually the preserve of the top brass of South Eastern Television. Even famous stars had been known to have been turned away from this car park. The gate attendant’s power was absolute. Every visiting actor was at the mercy of his whims and moods. This unexpected favour put Claire in a buoyant mood. She parked and strode confidently into the building. There were several women officiating in the vast reception area. She approached one and was steadfastly ignored. As she turned to another, a phone rang and the receptionist picked it up and became engaged in an animated discussion. Claire addressed a third.

‘My name is Claire Jenner. I am in The McMasters and I am here for a make-up session. Where do I go?’

‘Red assembly – lower ground,’ said the woman, without looking up. She seemed unimpressed, if not disinterested, by Claire’s announcement.

‘Thank you,’ said Claire politely. She made her way to the escalator that went down to the basement, glancing as she went at the huge colour photographs that were arranged around the walls of the reception hall. There was one featuring the current cast of The McMasters. She would be amongst them soon, she thought to herself happily. Soon, she too would be as famous as they were. She would not be ignored by the receptionists but welcomed and made much of. At the bottom of the escalator she came to a corridor with another off it at right angles. Illuminated signs indicated ‘Red Assembly’ and ‘Make-up Department’.

Claire could hear sounds of chatter and laughter coming from within. Her heart started to beat a little faster. She approached the door clutching her handbag and script to her, and entered. She stood there for a few moments before anyone noticed her. The make-up room was long and narrow, and the walls were hung with mirrors surrounded by fluorescent lights. The long uninterrupted worktop that went the full length of the room was covered in powder puffs, make-up brushes, jars, bottles, little round pots of pencils, sponges, combs, heated rollers and every known aid to beauty. In front of the mirrors, at regular intervals, were six chairs of the type used by dentists. Actors and actresses were sitting in these, being tended by make-up artists – Claire’s harridans – who were clad in crisp pale blue overalls and seemed to be on very good terms with their victims.

A young man, nearest to the door, observed Claire’s entrance through the mirror.

‘Well, hello!’ he said cheerily. ‘Look what’s just walked in, everyone.’

Claire stood uncomfortably. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to overcome her shyness.

The make-up girl nearest her, who was tending the young man, turned around with no hint of welcome in her face.

‘Yes?’ she enquired imperiously. ‘Can we help you?’

Claire took a deep breath. She knew she had to start as she meant to go on.

‘I’m Claire Jenner,’ she announced loudly. ‘I’m playing Sara Harper – I’ve come for a make-up test.’

The entire room came to a stop. The rest of the make-up girls were arrested in mid-operations to stare at the interloper, whilst the cast members turned as one to eye her with ill-concealed curiosity.

‘Hello, dear – very pleased to meet you,’ said Meg immediately, with great warmth.

‘Hello,’ replied Claire gratefully. ‘And I you,’ and she smiled back at her.

‘And a very attractive addition to the cast, if I may say so,’ said the young man suavely, swivelling round in his chair to face her, stretching out his hand. ‘I’m Simon Lavell, welcome aboard.’ Claire took the proffered hand.

‘Thank you. I’m really glad to be here,’ she said trying to believe it.

‘And we’re very glad to have you, love,’ called Reg from the far end in his homely Northern accent. He played George, the restorer in the series, and husband of the character played by Meg. ‘You’ll liven things up, I shouldn’t wonder. Could do with a new bit of blood.’

Claire laughed, and coloured slightly.

‘Hello, Claire, I’m Amy,’ said a rather pretty brunette with gamine looks, laughing eyes, and hair cut in a bob with a heavy fringe. Claire remembered that Amy played Sophie Longthorn, the receptionist for the McMasters’ rather grand premises.

Also sitting being made up, but too shy to speak, were Frederick Derby, an older actor in his late seventies, who supplied the aristocratic element in this very British television series, and Jason Wright. He played Billy, the boy in the workshop who was responsible for the packing of valuable items. These two turned to smile at Claire. She smiled happily back. At least they all seemed pleased enough to see her. Particularly Simon Lavell. He was still eyeing her in a critical way. The make-up girl who had greeted her so coldly now took charge of the situation.

‘We’re not ready for you yet – we’re in the middle of a recording, you know.’

Claire blushed in spite of herself. ‘I was told to be here at four thirty,’ she said with as much courage as she could muster.

‘By whom?’ asked the termagant.

‘Sonia, Sonia asked me to be here at four thirty,’ insisted Claire, anger starting to rise at this public humiliation.

‘She’s on the floor doing Patsy’s retake, wouldn’t you know,’ said Simon, jerking a thumb in the direction of a large monitor that was affixed to the wall about a couple of feet down from the ceiling. Everyone glanced up at the monitor. The sound had been turned off and there was indeed evidence of a retake of a scene in progress. The screen was filled with huge close-ups of Patsy Hall. Claire looked at her curiously. She had a low opinion of Patsy’s acting ability, although she conceded that she was a lovely-looking girl. She seemed to be looking vacant at the moment, as though unsure of what to do next.

‘Look at her,’ said Simon contemptuously. ‘She hasn’t a bloody clue.’

Claire was astonished at this blunt dismissal of a fellow actor, but said nothing.

‘Get it right, love!’ he jeered at the screen, as it became apparent that the scene was being shot yet again. ‘We all want to go home tonight!’ The rest of the room laughed uproariously, even kind Meg and Reg. Plainly, Patsy was the company joke. Someone turned the sound up and after another attempt, Patsy got it right and the whole make-up room cheered. Except Claire, who was genuinely appalled by the goings-on.

The camera that had been trained on Patsy swerved off her and came to rest on an out-of-focus picture of the set doorway as Larry Matthews listened to instructions on his headphones from the director.

‘Yes, yes, oh thank Christ,’ said Larry in a relieved tone to the empty doorway. ‘It’s a clear everyone.’

Another cheer went up from the make-up room. Suddenly the door burst open and Bella erupted into the room.

‘God give me strength!’ she exclaimed, making for the nearest chair. Simon hurriedly vacated it. Bella collapsed noisily into its leather cushions.

‘Where did they find her?’ she said dramatically. ‘They never told us about this at the Academy.’

‘Of course they did. Didn’t you ever do improvisation classes – where you had to make love to a lamppost?’ asked Simon. ‘I know we did.’

‘I must have been away that day,’ muttered Bella, picking up a brush and tapping furiously with it on the table. It was obvious that she was in a foul mood, the result of trying to act opposite Patsy. Simon decided to create a diversion.

‘What am I thinking of? Bella, my love, you haven’t met the latest addition to this remarkable series, Claire Jenner!’

Bella swivelled round in astonishment, seeing Claire for the first time. She wreathed her face in smiles.

‘My dear,’ she said graciously, ‘how lovely. We’ve been so looking forward to your arrival. Welcome!’ And she rose majestically from her seat to meet Claire who had moved towards her. Bella embraced her warmly, then held her at arm’s length to view her the better.

‘Well, this is an improvement. I’m glad to see that Hugh hasn’t completely taken leave of his senses. You’re much more what The McMasters is about – class! You are extremely welcome!’ And she gave Claire’s upper arm an encouraging grip, then released her, turned abruptly to the chair again and flung herself into it.

‘Now, Glynis dear, what the fuck are we going to do about my face? Trying to act opposite that ghastly little tramp has completely ruined my make-up!’

The door opened again and the object of her ire wandered in disconsolately. She was followed by an attractive brunette, who was looking anxious.

‘Sonia, my pet, you’re late for our new member – what will she think of us?’ said Simon teasingly to the late arrival.

‘Oh, I’m sooo sorry,’ said Sonia breathlessly to Claire.

‘Please, it’s all right, I think I was early,’ replied Claire hurriedly, anxious to establish good relations with the woman who held her future success in her hands.

‘It’s just – that we got held up,’ continued Sonia in a confidential undertone so that Patsy could not hear. ‘But I’m ready for you now,’ she added with a winning smile, guiding Claire to the chair where Jason was seated. He sprang at once to his feet.

‘Hi, I’m Jason. Nice to meet you – I hope we get to do scenes together,’ he said with a shy grin.

‘Hello,’ replied Claire, warmed by his friendly manner. ‘I hope so, too.’ Jason edged out of the way and Claire sat tentatively in his place and braced herself for the next encounter. Sonia stood behind her.

‘I expect you do your own, don’t you?’ she said quietly.

‘What?’ said Claire, startled.

‘Make-up,’ replied Sonia. ‘I can see you’re good at it – you look lovely.’

‘Oh – thank you,’ said Claire, unable to believe her ears. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’

‘You’ll need a bit more base, Claire. Would you like me to do that?’ enquired Sonia, smiling gently. ‘Then you can do your eyes and things.’

‘Yes, of course.’ My luck’s in, thought Claire as she gave herself over to Sonia’s ministration.

‘Now, what are we going to do with your hair?’ running her fingers through Claire’s soft reddish brown curls. ‘It looks quite good tied back in the nape.’

Claire suddenly became aware that she was under scrutiny. She turned and met Patsy’s hostile gaze. Sonia followed her look.

‘Patsy,’ she said, ‘have you met Claire yet?’

‘No,’ said Patsy solemnly. ‘Hi,’ she added casually, before turning away without waiting for Claire’s response.

‘Take no notice of her,’ whispered Sonia in her ear. ‘She thinks she’s the star of the show.’ Claire was rattled by Patsy’s evident dislike of her and thought privately that if she had made an ally in Sonia then Patsy was decidedly an enemy.

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.’

‘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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