The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘Manky?’ asks Charles, horrified. ‘That’s celery salt. Surely you’ve had quails’ eggs before?’

  ‘Oh yes. Millions of times,’ I say, gingerly dipping one in the salt and eating it. It tastes all right. Like a boiled egg, only smaller. I could have boiled my own eggs at home.

  ‘Yes, Chester House,’ Charles says significantly. ‘They find out I stand to inherit, and then … well. You can’t get rid of them.’

  ‘I don’t know what Chester House is,’ I admit.

  ‘It’s the family seat,’ Charles says. ‘Rather special, I suppose. Eighteenth century. Nice little park surrounding it. In Gloucestershire.’

  Light dawns. Charles is like Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice and lives in a huge mansion with servants and deer grazing in his grounds.

  ‘But aren’t these girls pretty?’ I ask.

  ‘Some of them,’ he agrees. ‘But it doesn’t matter. They won’t…’ He looks at me and trails off. ‘Or very rarely, anyway. They seem to want to just when I get up enough courage to kick them out.’

  ‘I see,’ I say.

  I’m feeling a bit sorry for him now. He’s a pompous ass, and all that, but he deserves better than this.

  ‘Not all girls are like that, you know,’ I tell him. ‘Some are very nice.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me out,’ he points out.

  ‘Can’t you find a nice, rich girl with lots of money of her own?’ I ask him.

  ‘D’you have lots of money?’ he asks, interested.

  ‘Not a bean,’ I say cheerfully, and it’s a great weight off my mind. Now I won’t have to pretend I know all about vintage champagne and things.

  He slumps a bit.

  ‘Still I asked you,’ he points out, as though this is a great novelty. ‘And you said yes. Did Vanna tell you about Chester House?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Perhaps if I take you back to my flat, we can…?’ he asks hopefully.

  ‘Charles! I only just met you,’ I say. ‘And I don’t want to move in with you. Honestly.’

  He smiles broadly at me.

  ‘I like you,’ he says. ‘How are you fixed for tomorrow night?’

  * * *

  Janet and Lily had waited up for me. Obviously curiosity had got the better of Lily’s fit of pique. They were sitting on the sofa together, curled up with the telly and steaming mugs of something when I got home.

  ‘Ooh, what’s that? Hot chocolate?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Lily sniffs. ‘It’s boiling water with lemon.’

  ‘Makes your stomach feel full,’ says Janet. ‘It’s great!’ she adds, uncertainly. ‘Anyway, how did it go with Charles Dawson?’

  ‘It was fine,’ I say. ‘He was nice. He wants to go out again.’

  ‘Where did he take you?’

  I shrug. ‘The Savoy.’

  Janet nudges Lily. ‘Told you. Anyway, he’s from a really good family. His grandfather was an earl.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask.

  ‘Made some phone calls,’ Janet says blandly. Of course. Janet makes it her business to know every two-bit aristo in the British Isles and every minor count on the Continent.

  ‘He’s got an enormous country house,’ Janet says enthusiastically. ‘It’s huge. He’s, like, one of the most eligible bachelors.’

  ‘I don’t care about all that sort of thing,’ I say, and it’s mostly true. I mean, obviously I can’t totally ignore the vast mansion and the sacks of money. But I’m going to do my best.

  ‘Bullshit,’ says Lily, tossing her hair. ‘You’re so lucky, Anna,’ she adds, jealously. ‘Does he have any single friends?’

  ‘I expect he has loads.’

  ‘Anyway, Claude called me,’ she says, flicking her blond hair. ‘And Claude’s really loaded.’

  ‘So I gather,’ I say.

  ‘You know you truly can’t see him,’ Janet says to Lily.

  She pouts. ‘You’re both just jealous.’

  ‘Is he really handsome?’ Janet asks me, supportively.

  I think about Charles. ‘Um, no.’

  ‘See?’ Lily demands. ‘You’re no different from – I mean,’ she says, correcting herself, ‘you’re a hypocrite! You tell me I shouldn’t see Claude just because of a little thing like age, but you’re quite happy to go out with an ugly bastard who’s got a country estate worth millions of pounds.’ She sounds quite wistful.

  ‘And a flat in Eaton Square,’ Janet reminds her. Lily scowls.

  ‘I can’t afford to be fussy about looks,’ I say defensively. ‘I didn’t know he had all that money, not really. I just think he’s a bit vulnerable.’

  And, obviously, I want to be with someone, and I know the top totty is probably out of my reach. That’s the brutal truth, isn’t it? You’ve got to date in your own attractiveness range. Which is fine for all the pretty girls, they get to date men like Eli Roth. Girls like me have to grin and bear it. Charles is pretentious and obnoxious, but I think it’s mostly because he’s sad and lonely. A defence mechanism. Anyway, why not give him a try? He’s the only thing on offer and he’s better than nothing.

  A lot of good marriages have been built that way.

  Does that sound cynical? Think about it. You can wait forever for Prince Charming to come along with the white horse, or you can get out there and try to find yourself someone. Mostly, that seems to mean not being too fussy. If you fuss over every single bloke, you’re liable to wind up fifty-five and alone forever, consoling yourself with some form of small domesticated animal.

  No thanks. I’m a practical girl, I tell myself. I want a man. I can’t get too many, so I’ll take what comes along.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Lily. ‘Vulnerable, but fortunately also rolling in it. I can’t understand it,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘He could have had anybody.’

  I flush. ‘Thanks a lot, Lily.’

  ‘I’m only being honest,’ she says, for the millionth time. ‘As a friend.’

  ‘Well, as a friend,’ I say, ‘he wouldn’t pick a girl like you. He’s dated loads of modelly types and they’re all after him for his money. You know, men aren’t as stupid as you think. They know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Lily snaps. ‘You’ve been acting very strangely lately, Anna, with all these silly ideas.’

  ‘I think it’s great,’ says Janet. ‘Anyway, Lil, wouldn’t you rather be introduced to one of Charles’s friends than hang out with Claude Ranier?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Lily, with a long-suffering air.

  ‘I would,’ says Janet eagerly.

  ‘Um, I’ll ask him,’ I say, and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  5

  The next morning, when I wake up, I still feel jazzed. It’s wonderful; I emerge from sleep with that great feeling that something wonderful has happened, if only I could remember what it is.

  The script. The movie.

  I jump out of bed – well, it takes me less than five minutes to push the duvet off, and that’s the same thing – and head to the shower. I’m thinking about actors and directors while I’m brushing my hair. Rachel Weisz, would she be interested? Or Sadie Frost, maybe, for the bride. And unknowns for the male leads, the whole point about this is that we should do it cheaply …

  It’s so exciting. Kitty actually valuing my opinion. Letting me suggest talent, be part of this. I nuke my hair dry, brush my teeth, stealing some of Lily’s Rembrandt, so much better than my Aquafresh, and carefully pick out an outfit. Flats (course), black low-rise H&M jeans, and one of those little Bon Jovi style T-shirts from ’86 with the three-quarter length sleeves in a different colour. I even make myself up, this time stealing some of Lily’s Shu Umera. Well, she’s got so much make-up she’ll never notice the difference, and I really want to look good today.

  Not ‘good’, obviously. More like … acceptable.

  I grab my bag and head out the door, stopping only to drop a two-pound coin into the Nose
Job box.

  Perhaps I’ll get a huge bonus when Mother of the Bride gets made, and instead of frittering it away on buying my own flat or paying off my credit cards, I’ll wisely invest it in a tiny, Michelle Pfeiffer-like protuberance. Unfortunately, they haven’t yet invented the surgery that can make tall, strapping girls slim-boned and petite. But I’ll be waiting!

  John is already hovering by my desk when I step out of the lifts.

  ‘Kitty wants to see you,’ he says, importantly.

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘She needs those casting suggestions from you right away,’ he says, threateningly. I don’t know why John feels he has to be Kitty’s personal bouncer. ‘I hope you’ve been working on them.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ I say shortly. ‘And I hope you’ve been working on finding Kitty a project, too.’

  ‘Nothing worth making so far,’ says John, and sniffs. ‘I have rather higher standards for the projects I show her. She is an Oscar-winner, you know, Anna.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ As if any of us could forget.

  ‘And she’s none too happy about the flowers,’ John adds, spitefully.

  ‘Flowers?’

  He indicates my desk. ‘You should try to keep your personal life out of the office. It can get very distracting.’

  I follow his gesture and my mouth drops open. What on earth is that on my desk? There’s the hugest, almost obscenely large bunch of roses perched on the corner of my desk, filling my entire cubicle. There must be at least three dozen of them. Yellow and pink roses, twined round with ivy and twigs with berries on them, very designer florist. Everybody walking past is looking at them, and no wonder. You can smell the heavenly scent from here.

  I can’t quite believe it. This has never happened to me before. Girls like Lily and Janet and Vanna get flowers, not girls like me. I think the sum total of my previous flowers were some Shell station, dyed-red carnations Brian got me at the last minute when he forgot Valentine’s Day this year.

  Sharon spies me from across the floor and saunters over.

  ‘Got an admirer, Anna?’ she asks. ‘Better check the card. I suppose you’ll find it’s printed in Braille.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I say, and go over to my desk, fishing around in the huge swathe of blooms for the little envelope. Here it is, very thick and creamy, with the name of a Chelsea florist embossed on the cover.

  ‘Lila Sturgeon,’ says Sharon sneeringly, but you can tell she’s unwillingly impressed. I know she’s doing exactly the same calculation I am, namely what these flowers cost. I’m saying, trendy London prices, at least two hundred quid. Maybe more. I scan the card.

  Thank you for a wonderful evening. Call you tonight. Love, Charles.

  Well. That’s certainly very nice of him. He’s not so bad, really.

  Kitty sticks her head out the door. ‘Sharon,’ she snaps. ‘Don’t you have to fetch Mike some coffee? And Anna. Are those flowers for me? You can bring them in.’

  ‘Actually, they’re for me,’ I say, blushing slightly.

  ‘For you?’ Kitty demands, rounding her eyes. ‘Well, do tell your boyfriend not to do it again. It’s hardly suitable for an office, some of us have allergies,’ she adds waspishly, though she didn’t seem to mind when she thought they were for her, did she?

  ‘Charles?’ asks Sharon, peering over my shoulder. I instantly shield the card from her.

  ‘None of your business,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘Oh, that’s too funny,’ Sharon says meanly. ‘Little and Large! Of course, he’s the book guy. Probably just trying to bribe you,’ she adds.

  ‘No he’s not,’ I say, feeling protective. ‘He’s very nice, and you’re just jealous.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m green with envy,’ Sharon says. ‘I really wish I could get roses from a midget.’

  ‘He’s not a midget,’ I say. ‘He’s a millionaire.’

  Sharon laughs scornfully. ‘Anna, you have to stop fantasizing! You’re not going to bag a millionaire, get over it!’

  ‘And why not?’ I ask her. Although I know the answer, don’t I? Sharon shrugs, as though she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.

  ‘Well,’ she says, after a pause. ‘If you can’t figure that out for yourself…’

  ‘Well, Charles fancies me,’ I say defiantly. And I look at my roses and know that it’s true, and it feels good, it really does. He’s certainly a step up from Brian. Or nothing. Which were my two previous choices.

  ‘Anna,’ Kitty says, sticking her bony neck out of her office door again. ‘Stop mooning over those ridiculous roses and bring your lists in here.’

  I nod and gather my papers together, shuffling them loudly. ‘Sorry, Sharon,’ I say. ‘Got to go. Some of us have work to do.’

  She tosses her curls and walks off, nodding at the roses.

  ‘It won’t last, you know,’ she says.

  She’s probably right. But I don’t care if it lasts, I just want to have it for a little bit. Being courted, being made a fuss of, just like a normal-height girl with a small nose. Because flowers at the office is a lot of fun. I make a note to myself. I’ll call Charles later, he definitely deserves another date.

  Kitty sticks her head out for the third time. ‘Anna. I don’t have all day. And bring some coffee with you, I’m dying of thirst.’

  I sigh and head towards the kitchen. Another fabulous day in the glamorous world of films!

  * * *

  ‘Yes … yes,’ Kitty says, approvingly, making notes by the names of various actresses I’ve suggested for the bride. ‘Get on it. Call their agents – no, wait. I’ll call the agents. I’ve got the magic touch with talent, after all,’ she says, smugly. ‘Greta agreed to do it.’

  ‘Really? That’s fantastic news. Oh, well done,’ I tell her.

  Kitty drums her diamond-encrusted fingers on her desk, sending light sparkling around the room. ‘It was, rather,’ she agrees. ‘Now, directors.’

  I hand her my next list. It’s a short one: Roger Michell, who did Notting Hill and Changing Lanes; Mike Newell, who did Four Weddings and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire; Peter Cattaneo, The Full Monty; and the Weitz brothers, American Wedding and About a Boy.

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ she drawls. ‘Very nice, but mostly unavailable. Who else?’

  What does she mean who else? That’s it, that’s my list!

  ‘There is one other name,’ I tell her. ‘Though I suppose there’s no way…’

  ‘Who?’ Kitty demands.

  ‘Well, Mark Swan.’

  Kitty stares at me. ‘Mark Swan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gives a short, barking laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Anna! We can’t get Mark Swan. What are you thinking?’

  I don’t really know. What am I thinking? Mark Swan is known for gritty drama movies. Why would he agree to direct a romantic comedy? Just because I met him in the cloakroom and he was nice. OK, very nice. But it still doesn’t mean I can get him attached to a comedy. I must be losing it.

  ‘At least let me call his agent,’ I hear myself plead.

  Kitty shrugs. ‘Knock yourself out, darling. Just don’t expect anything. OK?’

  She’s right, of course. Swan’s agent, a terribly busy terrier of a woman called Carly Smith, gives me ten seconds before hanging up on me (‘Not his sort of thing. Thanks for thinking of us. Bye’). I should have known, really.

  Only I can’t stop thinking about Mark Swan.

  I so want to get this movie made. Eli Roth will want to do it, with Greta on board, but I don’t think she’ll be enough for financing, not by herself. Roth likes to have studios put up at least half the money, and a studio will want more of a package. A name like Mark Swan would tip it over the edge. For the first time in what you might laughingly call my ‘career’, I feel I’m close to something.

  I check out Kitty’s office. She’s in there, blinds drawn. Probably talking to Greta. She won’t miss me if I go out for an hour or two. I pick up my bag from the desk.
r />   ‘Early lunch?’

  It’s John. Standing there hovering by my desk, eyes narrowed. John just loves to sneak on people to Kitty. It used to be all Sharon, but as Mike’s stolen her, he only has me now.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m just going out.’

  ‘Going out?’ he asks, with fake shock, rounding his eyes. ‘You can’t do that, Anna. I think Kitty’s made it very clear that she needs us in the office right now. Finding projects. It’s all hands on deck.’

  ‘This is to do with a project,’ I say.

  ‘Oh really?’ he asks, folding his arms. ‘How so?’

  I sigh. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Mark Swan about Mother of the Bride,’ I tell him. ‘Be right back!’ and I walk towards the elevators, leaving John standing there with his mouth open, gaping after me.

  By the time the lift doors have closed I’m sweating bullets, of course, but it had to be done. I can’t have John running to Kitty. Of course, now I have to actually get to talk to Mark Swan. Which is where I’m headed.

  It probably won’t be as bad as all that. What are they going to do, throw me off his set? He’s only a bloody director, in the end. I’m sure he’ll be perfectly reasonable.

  * * *

  ‘Step back please.’

  A beefy man in a nylon windbreaker throws one muscled arm against my chest, crushing my boobs under their cotton shirt.

  ‘But if I could just—’

  ‘You’re not on the list.’

  This is maddening. I can see the shoot going on up the heath. And I can’t get anywhere near it. I’ve been standing in the rain in bloody Hampstead for forty minutes. A perfect English summer’s day.

  ‘Just ten seconds,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not on the list.’ He looks bored.

  ‘But I’m from Carly Smith’s office,’ I say, in a burst of inspiration.

  He looks at me with pity. ‘No you ain’t,’ he says, flatly.

  No. I ain’t.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, dejectedly. ‘I’m going.’

  I look at him to see if this has softened him up and made him want to let me on set, after all. But it hasn’t.

  I turn away and walk slowly up the street. He doesn’t call me back. That’s OK, I wasn’t really expecting it. I turn the corner and head into the newsagent’s for a quick fix of something. Maybe a Bounty Bar. The taste of Paradise. Refined sugar is obviously going to be as close as I’ll come to it today. The shop is full of all sorts of tempting things. I grab a Sun, a Mail, a copy of Heat, a family-size pack of Quavers, a Bounty, a Snowflake, a Creme Egg and a Diet Coke and march up to the counter, where a very tall bloke is buying a packet of cigarettes.