The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘Thanks, Kitty,’ I say, basking in her praise. Maybe I’ve misjudged her, all this time. After all, she did win an Oscar.

  ‘I want you to be intimately involved in developing this with me,’ she continues. ‘Do you have ideas for casting, other than Greta?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ I say, fairly stunned. ‘I’ve got loads of ideas. Masses.’

  ‘You watch quite a lot of these sort of movies, don’t you?’ she says, consideringly. By ‘these sort’ I take it she means ‘successful and popular’.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. Has she only just noticed this?

  ‘So get me some suggestion lists,’ she says. ‘Directors, actors, cinematographers – you know the score.’

  I’m glowing with happiness. I can’t believe she’s actually going to trust me with this. This is real producer stuff!

  ‘No problem,’ I say confidently.

  ‘Get me everything by tomorrow morning. First thing,’ she instructs, then picks up the phone, dismissing me.

  ‘You got it.’ I open the door to her office to withdraw.

  Kitty covers the receiver with one hand. ‘You can take the rest of the afternoon off,’ she hisses. ‘Well done.’

  Bloody hell. It’s a miracle!

  * * *

  I open the door to the flat to find Lily sitting on the floor cross-legged, doing her Tantric yoga thing. I hate Lily’s Tantric yoga. It means she gets to sit there in one position chanting loudly and we can’t watch any TV. Or make coffee or toast or anything.

  ‘Om om om om om om,’ says Lily loudly, pretending she hasn’t noticed me come in.

  ‘So you’re back,’ I say.

  Lily opens one eye. ‘Really, Anna, I’m trying to concentrate here. It’s very important I clear my mind.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ I remark. ‘Not much in there to begin with.’

  ‘All that spite stems from the fact your body isn’t cleansed,’ says Lily. ‘You should try yoga. I use it to control my appetite.’

  ‘Funny, I thought you used cocaine,’ I say.

  Lily’s eyes widen. And honestly, I don’t know what’s got into me today.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snaps. ‘I never ingest harmful substances.’

  ‘Tobacco?’

  Lily waves a hand. ‘All that nonsense is overrated. In France everybody smokes. It’s practically compulsory. And they’re very healthy.’

  ‘Don’t you have a party to go to or something?’ I ask. ‘I’m going to watch EastEnders, I warn you.’

  ‘Well, my concentration’s shot now anyway,’ Lily says, standing up and stretching. ‘And yes, I have tons of invitations, but I’m actually going to stay home and relax too.’ She glances at the phone.

  ‘Expecting a call?’

  ‘No!’ she snaps. ‘Of course not. I don’t wait by the phone.’

  ‘Who from?’

  The door opens and Janet comes in, looking a bit down.

  ‘What’s the prob?’ says Lily, a look of fake concern on her face. ‘Work-related?’ She obviously can’t wait to hear Janet’s tale of modelling woe so she can feel all superior.

  ‘My bloody agent,’ Janet complains. ‘Told me the shoot was for Heat but when I got there it was for Good Housekeeping. They made me wear these horrible shirts. And there were three other girls there, and when they did the close-up shots they told me they didn’t need me, only for the group work.’

  ‘Oh my,’ says Lily, pressing her hand to her mouth and widening her eyes. ‘Not needed for close-ups. That is bad.’

  I really would like to slap Lily sometimes. Janet’s eyes redden as though she might be about to cry again.

  ‘Especially after Gino dumped you,’ Lily says. ‘That’s awful. How humiliating.’

  ‘Hey, Janet,’ I say. ‘Lily has to stay in and wait for the phone to ring.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Lily sharply.

  ‘Is it?’ I ask innocently. ‘Then I’ll just jump on the internet, OK? I may be a couple of hours.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that,’ Lily says at once. ‘I’m not waiting in, but I do have a friend who may be calling.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks Janet.

  Lily losses her blond hair, plaited down her back in sexy sixth-former fashion.

  ‘Actually, he’s a very important man,’ she says. ‘Claude Ranier.’

  Janet’s mouth drops open. ‘Not Claude Ranier, the financier? Not Claude Ranier, the one with the huge private yacht?’

  ‘The Trixabelle, yes.’

  ‘Not Claude Ranier … the one who’s ninety years old?’ I ask.

  I mean, I can’t believe it. You know Claude Ranier. He’s the one who’s always in Hello! and Nigel Dempster. Franco-Greek shipping millionaire, switched all his money into real estate when shipping started to slide. Has a vast yacht, a house in Cannes, a palazzo in Venice, and a walled-off estate in Notting Hill. Plus, a reputation as a real old goat. You always see vile pictures of the old fat bastard, looking like a leathery wrinkled prune, sitting on the deck of his bloody yacht with a bevy of bikini-clad twenty year olds. Claude’s man-boobs are often bigger than theirs, too.

  ‘He’s no such thing,’ snaps Lily.

  ‘How old is he then? Sixty?’ asks Janet.

  ‘At least,’ I tell her.

  ‘You two are so superficial,’ Lily says. ‘Claude is a fascinating man. All that—’

  ‘Money?’ I ask.

  ‘Wisdom,’ she retorts. ‘Age is nothing but a number, you know. Anyway, I think he’s going to invite me to head down to Cannes for the film festival.’

  ‘No way,’ says Janet, enviously.

  ‘We’re going to sail around the Côte d’Azur on the Trixabelle,’ says Lily happily, ‘and we might pop into Monte Carlo for a spot of gambling and the Grand Prix. Of course he has a box. And then the film festival mingling with the stars, I mean actors. I may give my CV to a few agents myself. It might be time for me to consider a career change,’ she muses. ‘Claude says I have a lot of potential. He says he can help me find the right project. Of course, he’s got plenty of money to bankroll a film, you know,’ she says, looking at me. ‘All the indie producers want to be in bed with him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but do you want to be in bed with him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks, aggrieved. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘The hell it’s not,’ I say. ‘He wants you on his boat as arm-candy, Lily. Trophy girl.’

  ‘Well,’ Lily admits, loosening her plait and shaking out her fountain of blond hair. ‘Gentlemen do like to look at attractive women, but that’s just nature, isn’t it? It’s not like I’m going to do anything.’

  ‘You think he invited you along just to be decorative?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Lily snaps. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to discuss it with you any more. He’s just a friend. An admirer, actually. Something you wouldn’t know anything about!’

  The phone rings and Lily snatches it up. ‘Yes?’

  Her face falls. ‘It’s for you,’ she says, with a disbelieving air.

  I take the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Anna,’ says a cheery voice. Oh hell. I’d forgotten. ‘It’s Charles. All ready for the big date?’

  I think fast. I’ve forgotten to call him and cry off!

  ‘I’ll be round there in five minutes,’ he says. ‘Top buzzer, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I agree. There’s nothing I can do, is there? ‘I’ll come down when you buzz.’

  So much for EastEnders and pizza.

  ‘Who was that?’ Lily demands. ‘Somebody from work, I suppose.’

  ‘It was a date, actually,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ooh. Who is it?’ asks Janet, encouragingly. ‘Somebody special?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ snaps Lily, still cross. ‘You know the kind of person Anna dates. Poor as a mouse with no personality, probably a social worker who lives with his mother.’

  ‘He doesn’t work at all,’ I tell her.
/>   ‘There you go. Unemployed. Anna will probably have to pay for dinner,’ says Lily viciously.

  ‘Actually, Charles has a private income,’ I tell her. ‘He owns a flat in Eaton Square. And his sister has a title,’ I add, watching Lily sulk.

  ‘Really,’ says Janet eagerly. ‘Anna, that’s wonderful! Is he very upper-class?’

  ‘Went to Eton with Vanna’s husband.’ I shrug.

  Lily says, ‘Well, he must be mad.’

  ‘At least he isn’t senile,’ I respond.

  ‘Well!’ she says huffily, and storms into her room, banging the door.

  ‘Don’t mind Lily,’ Janet says supportively. ‘She just can’t believe you could get a man like that … I mean, no offence…’ She’s floundering. ‘Anyway, well done!’

  And you know, the sick thing is I do feel a bit of pride. Not that I fancy Charles. Or find him even remotely interesting. But Lily and Janet, the pretty girls, are forever comparing the men they’re dating starting with the bank balance, then moving on to social position. Everything else is a long way down the list. Charles may be a bit of a dandy and a midget, but he’s better looking than Claude Ranier any day. And he’s loaded. This is the kind of boyfriend that can secure a woman’s future, or so they think. And Lily is thoroughly rattled, while Janet is looking at me with admiration for once instead of pity.

  And … it’s nice.

  It’s much nicer than when Brian was my so-called boyfriend. Because Brian was a loser. Charles is rich. In their world, that means he counts. And I’m feeling just a tiny bit pleased that I have a rich date. I feel all glowy and well disposed towards Charles.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get ready?’ Janet asks.

  ‘He’ll be here any second,’ I say airily. ‘He can take me as he finds me.’

  ‘That won’t do!’ Janet says. ‘You’re not going to hook him like that.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to “hook” him,’ I protest.

  ‘Come here.’ She leans over me and fusses with my hair, then dives in her make-up bag and starts to brush something on my cheekbones.

  ‘Get off,’ I say.

  ‘No –’ the buzzer goes. ‘Too late.’ She sighs. ‘Oh well,’ and reaches for her scent, spraying it all over me, asphyxiating me.

  I press the buzzer, coughing. ‘Coming right down,’ I say. Then to Janet, ‘I smell like a tart’s knickers now!’

  ‘It wears off,’ she says knowingly. ‘Leaves a woody under-note. I had it custom-blended for me in Paris. It was a present from Gino,’ and her face falls. ‘Oh well,’ she says bravely. ‘Get out there and have a great time!’

  I grab my bag and head downstairs. It doesn’t feel quite like marching to the guillotine the way I’d expected. Maybe this will be fun!

  ‘Hi,’ says Charles expansively to me as I emerge from the building. ‘Got a parking spot right in front.’

  We walk to his car. It’s a sleek black Rolls-Royce. Of course, what else would he drive? I wonder.

  ‘Blimey,’ Charles says, gesturing at the feminist bookshop. ‘Rather you than me. Get harassed by all those lesbians and feminists, do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘All those lesbians asking you for dates,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t get asked out by lesbians,’ I tell him, or anyone else come to that, I don’t add.

  Charles hurries to the car and opens the door for me to get in. ‘I expect they’ll come out and picket me now,’ he says, ‘holding open a door for a lady. Ha ha ha.’

  I try for a dutiful titter as he slides into the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a dark suit but has spoiled it a bit with a pink shirt. At first I thought he’d grown, but looking down discreetly I see it’s just stack heels. I still tower over him, but doesn’t everybody?

  I feel the familiar clutch of shame in my belly. I’m so bloody huge Charles actually decided to wear stack heels. Oh well. I give myself a little shake to make the feeling go away. Let’s get stuck in to this date. The sooner I start it, the sooner it’s over with.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I ask. Trying for enthusiasm. He was nice to me in the office today, the poor sod.

  ‘I thought we’d try Mock Turtle,’ Charles suggests. ‘Fabulous new place off Kensington High Street. Dreadful waiting list, but I got right in,’ he adds smugly. ‘I know a few people.’

  ‘Sounds great. What does it serve?’

  ‘All fish,’ he says.

  Fish. Ugh. I hate fish. Unless it’s battered and comes with chips in newspaper. I find it bland and clammy and it reminds me of dead people.

  ‘Great,’ I say again uncertainly.

  ‘They do the most wonderful lobsters,’ he tells me, steering smoothly through the London traffic. ‘Not only can you pick your own, but you can watch as they cook them! They have this big glass wall and you can watch them trying to climb out of the pots. It’s awfully funny.’

  He catches sight of my face.

  ‘You’re not one of those liberal loonies, are you, Anna?’ he demands.

  ‘I’m not a vegetarian or anything, but … cooking them alive…’

  ‘They’re only bloody lobsters,’ he says crossly. ‘Not like they know what’s going on.’

  ‘I can’t watch that,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll be sick.’

  He looks over at me, exasperated. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘I pulled strings to get that reservation.’

  ‘I know a nice Chinese place,’ I suggest. ‘Very reasonable prices.’

  ‘Reasonable prices?’ Charles repeats, as though he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. ‘Good Lord, no. I know, we’ll just pop down to the Savoy. They know me there. We’ll get a table.’

  And, when we get to the hotel and the car is valet-parked, they do. Charles is welcomed in by discreetly bowing, perfectly dressed staff.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Dawson.’

  ‘How nice to see you again, sir.’

  ‘Good evening, madam,’ to me.

  Ooh. It’s all very flash. I’m a bit nervous, I wonder if it’ll cost me to breathe the air in here.

  ‘I’m afraid your usual table is taken,’ says the maître d’, ‘but we’ll make one up for you, of course.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ says Charles, with the air of one suffering indignity patiently. He turns to me while we wait. ‘Have you come here before?’

  The Savoy? I’m lucky my budget can stretch to Bella Pasta.

  ‘Not as such,’ I admit.

  ‘I lunch here every day,’ he says. ‘Wonderful food, and very obliging staff. Ah, they’re ready.’

  He leads me through the throng of well-dressed people making polite conversation in a quiet murmur, and the waiters sit us at a table for two and leave us menus.

  ‘Mine’s wrong,’ I say.

  Charles looks at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t have any prices on it,’ I say.

  Charles blinks. ‘My dear girl, of course a lady’s menu has no prices. Where have you been eating?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling small.

  ‘Shall I order for both of us?’ he says, and a waiter instantly materializes. ‘My guest will start with the quails’ eggs – they’re not on the menu, Anna, but they’re divine – and then…’

  He rattles off a list he obviously knows by heart and I don’t say a word. I wouldn’t dare.

  ‘There!’ Charles finishes proudly. ‘That’s you all taken care of. Now tell me, Anna, have you been reading my book?’

  Oh fuckity fuck. What am I supposed to say? I can’t just tell him it sucks like a vacuum cleaner, can I?

  ‘Ahm,’ I begin, going bright red.

  ‘Ah, say no more,’ says Charles, seeing my reaction. ‘Dreadful manners. Excuse me. I should never discuss work with … a beautiful young woman,’ he adds after a pause. ‘And I don’t want you to think I’m only asking you out for professional reasons.’

  I smile weakly at him.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that with
me,’ he says. ‘I can see that it might have occurred to you, given…’ His voice trails off.

  ‘Given what?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he says hastily, looking at his napkin.

  Given that I have a nose that would do credit to Gonzo from the Muppet show and a bottom with its own post code? And that the only woman taller than me is the Statue of Liberty?

  ‘Why did you ask me out?’ I ask him, hoping vainly for a confidence boost.

  ‘Well … you were such a good listener,’ he says. ‘And, you know, you didn’t ask me out.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I don’t trust the ones who ask me out,’ he says, suddenly, bitterly.

  I look at him. He’s only five six even in the stacked heels, and the goatee is so neatly trimmed, and the shirt’s pink, and he’s a bit balding …

  ‘Does that happen a lot?’ I ask, taking a sip of wine to mask my disbelief.

  ‘All the time,’ he says. ‘Girls get introduced to me at parties, you know. And then they take my card, and then they suggest we get together over a meal. And they want to go out with me.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, mystified. Maybe it’s pheromones. Those things they advertise in the back of dodgy magazines and Private Eye – you spray them on yourself and you suddenly become a chick magnet. I sniff the air. Nothing, except the lingering scent of Janet’s perfume.

  ‘They want to go to the best restaurants,’ he says. ‘And they all love the flat. Of course it is a marvellous flat. And then they stay overnight without being asked. Just turn up with overnight cases!’ he splutters. ‘And they stay…’

  ‘Maybe some of them are just keen,’ I suggest.

  He’s twirling his wine glass now, his fingers all tight on the stem. ‘They aren’t keen until somebody tells them about Chester House.’

  ‘Chester House,’ I repeat, but the waiter is serving us and he clams up until he’s gone. Charles is eating something heavenly smelling and there are a pile of tiny boiled eggs with grey salt by my plate.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Goat’s cheese and caramelized onion tart,’ he says, without offering me any. ‘Try your quails’ eggs.’

  I pick one up gingerly and lower my voice. ‘I think their salt’s a bit manky.’