The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

Either way, it’s nice.

  ‘So you just introduced yourself,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Amazing. And just gave him the script. Such a brave thing to do.’

  ‘Seemed like I had to,’ I mutter.

  ‘No, it was very brave,’ he pronounces. ‘And you got your just reward, which Kitty finds very annoying, but I wouldn’t let her get to you.’

  I toast him back, well aware I am smiling foolishly, but it’s just so nice to have someone in your corner.

  ‘This has been such a lovely evening,’ I tell him.

  ‘Well, it’s not over yet,’ he says. ‘Port? Cognac? Brandy? Something—’

  ‘I can’t.’ I push the last delicious sliver of bitter chocolate and ginger tart around my plate. ‘I’ve had way too much. Got to go to work tomorrow. Can you imagine what Swan would say if I were late again?’

  ‘At least have coffee,’ he says.

  ‘Sure. Love some coffee.’

  ‘And petits-fours.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say. I should say no but I love petits-fours. Such a fancy name for mini cakes. That’s just what they are, isn’t it? Tiny little cakes. Some part of me wonders why Charles chose such a heavy meal. Didn’t he say to that bony cow back at Vanna’s dinner party how much he admired self-discipline? And he made mean cracks about my weight. Yet now we’re dating and he’s plying me with chocolate tarts and roast potatoes …

  Well, he’s stopped being a bastard, so maybe this is all part of the deal. Accepting people for who they are.

  But something’s still niggling at me, because there’s something wrong with this picture, something subtly wrong, but still wrong.

  ‘I think I’ll just have the coffee.’

  ‘But you must try at least one,’ he says, shoving the silver tray in my direction. All my favourites: brandy snaps, tiny profiteroles, little funny squares of lemon and white chocolate, praline wafers …

  ‘I’m supposed to be watching my weight,’ I say. He looks surprised.

  ‘You are? But what’s the point?’

  I’m not sure I find that totally flattering. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not hugely fat,’ he says, ‘so why not just be who you are?’

  ‘I thought you liked self-discipline,’ I remind him.

  ‘Oh. That. Well, that’s fine for Priscilla,’ he says. ‘But you’re Anna and I don’t need to change anything about you.’

  That response should strike me as truly romantic, and I’m not quite sure why it doesn’t.

  ‘Maybe just one,’ I say, reaching for a brandy snap, because I’ve had quite enough of analysing things today. ‘Thanks,’ and I smile at him again.

  Charles drops me off around eleven, refusing to let me get a taxi home – he says he has to ‘escort’ me. I spend the journey nervously wondering when he’s going to invite himself up for ‘coffee’ in our comparative hovel, and wondering what I should do. But he doesn’t. When he pulls up as close to our building as he can manage he says, ‘May I?’ and then, when I nod, he kisses me chastely on the cheek.

  ‘I had a wonderful time,’ I tell him, giddy with relief. ‘See you Saturday, up at Chester House, OK?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says warmly. ‘Can’t wait.’ He grabs my large hand in his small one and kisses it.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he says. ‘I just think you’re the one for me.’

  I smile back at him because I’m not quite sure what to say, and maybe he senses it, because he shifts gears, calls out, ‘See you Saturday!’ cheerfully, and drives off down Tottenham Court Road.

  I walk in through the narrow corridor next to the unlit feminist bookshop and wonder what on earth that was all about. He sounded keen, didn’t he? Really keen.

  In fact, he sounded as if he wanted to marry me.

  7

  Janet and Lily are lying on the floor when I come in. There’s a huge bottle of champagne empty between them; Cristal, so it must be one of Lily’s many admirers with more money than taste. There are magazines everywhere, pages ripped out of them and scattered across the rug.

  ‘What’s this? Rebelling against the tyranny of the perfect body?’ I ask. ‘Seen the light? No longer willing to force impossible physical standards on the typical British size sixteen woman?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be pathetic, Anna,’ Lily snaps. She raises her head, a cloud of expensively dyed hair in shades of platinum and butter spilling around her bony shoulders. ‘I’m just going through some recent shoots with Janet. Trying to show her where she’s going wrong.’

  ‘Janet’s not going wrong,’ I protest.

  ‘I am,’ says Janet, gloomily. ‘My bookings are really drying up.’

  ‘She’s getting calls for catalogue work,’ Lily says scornfully.

  ‘Whatever pays the bills, right?’ I suggest.

  ‘Wrong,’ says Lily. ‘If you get pigeonholed into that kind of thing you’re done for. Photographers know it, agents know it, designers know it. You think that Versace or Dolce are going to want some girl strutting down their catwalk when her last job was for UKfashions!’ She clicks her fingers. ‘You’re over. Done. Toast.’

  ‘I turned them down,’ Janet says nervously.

  ‘Darling, of course you did,’ says Lily. ‘I should think so too.’

  ‘Oh, this is so stupid,’ I burst out. ‘Janet, you’re not going to make it onto the Paris catwalks anyway and I bet a few catalogue jobs wouldn’t stop you finding work in the glossies. I saw Helena Christensen in a catalogue once.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t,’ Lily says.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Which one?’

  I can’t remember. ‘BHS,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, even if you did, Helena’s been done for years,’ Lily says witheringly. I would be prepared to bet Helena Christensen makes more in a month than Lily does in a year, but I keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Maybe Anna has a point,’ Janet says timidly.

  ‘Oh really?’ says Lily, eyes narrowing. ‘She does, does she? You’re going to take modelling advice from someone who looks like that?’ She gestures at me, standing there in my neat navy dress and fake pearls. Hey! This is one of my better outfits, actually.

  ‘I could make Anna look all right,’ says Janet, protectively.

  ‘No you couldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lily says. ‘No offence, Anna.’

  I swallow. This is a bit beyond a joke. ‘But it is offensive.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she demands, looking up at me. ‘I said, no offence.’

  ‘I know you say that. Usually after you’ve said something really horrible and mean-spirited,’ I reply. I know I’ve gone bright red, but I don’t care.

  ‘Actually you do do that a lot,’ Janet mutters.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You just said, “Janet, you’re twenty-eight, you have to work like a slave to get anybody to book you.” And then you said, “No offence.’”

  Lily flicks her golden hair. ‘You two are so thin-skinned. For heaven’s sake, I’m only saying, Janet, how many covers has Anna booked recently? Who’s the professional here, me or her?’

  ‘You are,’ says Janet, meekly. She looks at me apologetically. ‘Sorry about what I said about making you over, you look great how you are.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say, because Janet just seems so miserable. ‘You’re going to get me some new clothes before the dance at Chester House, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she says, perking up. ‘I can do wonders for you. You just wait and see.’

  ‘Janet,’ Lily says severely. ‘Am I wasting my time here?’

  ‘No. No. I’m listening,’ says Janet, placatingly.

  ‘Now take Shalom’s look in this shoot,’ says Lily with a long-suffering air.

  ‘I’m off to bed,’ I say. Nobody notices, so I go to my closet cum bedroom, peel off my clothes, and I’m asleep in less than five minutes.

  * * *

  I’m getting ready to head out of the door when my mobile trill
s.

  ‘Anna, where the hell are you?’

  It’s Kitty. I jump nervously.

  ‘I was just heading down to Swan Lake.’ That’s his company.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kitty hisses ominously. ‘You must come into the office every morning before you go gallivanting off with Mr Swan. You need to get your instructions and make your report.’

  Wow. I sound like 007 or something.

  ‘Um, OK,’ I say, placatingly. I can’t get Kitty angry. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘I should think so,’ she snaps, hanging up on me. Oh bugger. I race down the stairs, doing little sums in my head. What’s the quickest way to the office? I look around for a taxi, then think better of it, the traffic’s crawling. And there was a bomb scare at Covent Garden so the tube’s out. I feel the panic rising. First I have to go and kiss Kitty’s arse, and then get to Swan’s, but that means I’ll be late to him. Twice.

  There’s nothing else for it. I start to run. I make it in fifteen minutes, red-faced and sweating, and race up the stairs to our floor, where Claire’s waiting for me, resplendent in a tiny red leather mini skirt and stack mules.

  ‘Eli Roth around today?’ I ask, nodding at the skirt, which is more of a belt with pretensions.

  She shakes her head, disappointedly. ‘But you better get in there,’ she whispers. ‘She’s on the warpath.’

  Great. I square my shoulders and knock on the door of Kitty’s office.

  ‘Come,’ she barks.

  I enter. Kitty’s sitting behind her desk, stilettos tapping impatiently. She’s wearing a scarlet Dolce & Gabbana suit with huge black buttons with the logo on them, enormous diamond studs, and a thick gold cuff bracelet. Obviously she’s in a really bad mood. The more Dynasty the outfit, the angrier she is.

  ‘I don’t know why you would think you can go directly to Mark,’ she says.

  ‘But he doesn’t like me to be late,’ I say tremulously.

  ‘Give me your report from the last meeting,’ she snaps, ignoring this.

  ‘Um, OK. Well, it was a story meeting. He gave Trish some notes and discussed the part with Greta.’

  ‘And what else?’ she demands, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you holding out on me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why does he want you,’ she asks, bitterly. ‘You! Of all people!’

  ‘I think he thinks somebody senior would be wasted in those meetings, all I do is take notes,’ I say, tactfully.

  She nods. ‘Yes, possibly. Well, anyway, that isn’t enough work. I want you to continue with your reading. And I also want you to be Greta’s assistant.’

  I blink. ‘What?’

  ‘I brought Greta to this project,’ Kitty says importantly. ‘I cultivated Greta.’ This is true. ‘And I want Greta to be made to feel special by Red Crest Productions and especially by Kitty Simpson.’

  I want to argue but I’ve got no time. It’s already ten thirty. I shudder to think what Mark Swan will say when I show up.

  ‘OK,’ I say desperately, ‘sure. Whatever you want. I’ll be Greta’s assistant.’ This is just perfect, of course. Greta has a reputation as one of the most spoiled actresses in Hollywood. She may not dare to act up in front of Swan but I’m sure that’ll be no problem with me.

  ‘I’ve already told her that I’ve instructed you to attend to her every need.’

  This is not my job, but I don’t dare say so. ‘OK.’ Ten thirty-two.

  ‘I better not hear any complaints,’ Kitty says viciously. ‘And each day as soon as Mark is done with you I want you back here in the office. You work for us,’ she adds again.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Um – thanks, Kitty.’

  Why? Why am I thanking her for making me be this ageing diva’s dogsbody? I’m supposed to be a reader, up for promotion.

  ‘You may go,’ Kitty says graciously. I rush out of the door again, pulling out my mobile, tapping in the number as soon as I reach the street.

  ‘Swan Lake. This is Michelle.’

  ‘Oh, Michelle, hi, this is Anna Brown.’

  ‘From the producers,’ says Michelle. There’s an ominous touch of triumph in her tone. ‘He says you needn’t bother to come in today.’

  I look at my watch. ‘But I was unavoidably delayed.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says. ‘He said to say if you called not to bother to come in.’

  ‘I’m coming anyway,’ I say.

  ‘Nobody gets in this building unless Mark’s expecting you,’ she says meanly. ‘So just accept it and maybe he’ll let you back next meeting. Or maybe not.’

  ‘I’ve got a good explanation.’

  ‘They all say that,’ Michelle says curtly. ‘I have to go, goodbye now.’ And she hangs up on me.

  I’m only a few minutes away from Swan Lake anyhow, so I keep walking. What else am I going to do? Although I don’t know what I’m going to say, how I’m going to explain to him … OK, here we are. Dean Street. And there it is.

  And there they are. Swan. Greta. Trish, who sees me and shoots me a sympathetic look. A couple of other people I don’t recognize, a pneumatic blonde and an andoyne young media type with a goatee. They’re all piling into a couple of taxis. I rush forward.

  ‘Mark,’ I say. ‘Sorry I’m late, but—’

  He gives Trish a little push in the small of her back.

  ‘I don’t want you around today,’ he says flatly. ‘If you can’t respect other people’s time, Anna, then I’ve no use for you.’

  Why do people only use other people’s first names when they’re cross with them or it’s bad news? First Kitty, now him.

  ‘But I’ve got a good excuse.’

  ‘I’m not interested in excuses,’ he says. ‘I take this stuff seriously and I expect my colleagues to as well.’

  He starts to climb into the taxi. I grab his arm.

  ‘You’ve got to listen to me!’ I protest.

  ‘No I don’t,’ he says. ‘See you.’

  ‘Oh fine,’ I snap, losing it. ‘That’s just perfect. You’re absolutely right, don’t bother giving Anna ten seconds to see if she’s got a reasonable explanation. Ohhh no, just abuse your power totally and make other people feel terrible when it isn’t even their fault.’

  And I turn on my heel and walk away, heart pounding. I want to cry. That’s it, then. That is the sum total of my Mark Swan adventure. Because he’ll call Kitty and she’ll be only too delighted to sack me so she can go and hang out with him herself.

  ‘Anna.’

  I turn. It’s Swan.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I said that, OK?’ I tell him tearfully. ‘I’ve – I’ve had a really bad morning. Just please don’t get me sacked because I need the money for rent and things.’

  His face softens. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I was on my way to your offices and Kitty rang me,’ I said, ‘and she made me go into work and I had to leg it because of the tube, you know it was shut down, and she talked to me for a bit and then I had to run to your place … I would have got here in ages of time.’

  Swan just stands there for a second. Then he holds open the taxi door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You were right. I should have given you a chance to explain.’

  I open my bag and fish out a tissue and blow my nose loudly, which isn’t very sophisticated but unfortunately necessary.

  ‘Please hop in,’ Swan says. ‘We’re going over to the production designers to do some storyboarding, talk about sets.’

  Gratefully I run to the taxi and clamber in the back. Trish and Greta scoot over, Greta scowling, while Swan gets in the front seat. He turns round, looks at me.

  ‘We’ll have a talk later. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I mumble.

  Greta looks disapprovingly at my red eyes. ‘Stop making a scene,’ she stage whispers. ‘We don’t need the Maestro distracted.’

  Swan leads everybody into the production design offices, a nondescript building
off Oxford Street.

  ‘You guys go on up, I’ll be right with you,’ he says.

  ‘You follow me, Anna,’ Greta says majestically. ‘I have some requirements.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, obediently.

  ‘Actually, I need to speak to Anna a second,’ Swan says. ‘She’ll be right with you.’

  Greta nods. ‘Whatever you say,’ she says, adoringly, but she narrows her eyes at me. I swallow a sigh. Greta is obviously Kitty’s spiritual twin and this isn’t going to be fun.

  ‘Look,’ Swan says, when the lift doors have hissed shut on the rest of them. ‘I’m sorry about before. I acted like a total idiot.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. I’m not really used to important people admitting they were wrong. Or saying sorry.

  ‘I thought, you know, we had a good talk last night. And,’ he says, passing his hand over his hair, ‘for some reason it really, really angered me when you were late again. I don’t know why I took it like that. So personally.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I just don’t think of you the same way I do the rest of them,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why. You’re different. Not so plastic. I think that’s why I got so pissed off. I didn’t want you to take it for granted.’

  ‘My boss wants me to report to her every morning before I come to you,’ I tell him.

  He shakes his head. ‘Unacceptable. I’ll tell her, don’t worry.’

  I smile gratefully at him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Forgive me?’ he asks.

  I nod. I can’t help smiling at him. He’s so nice.

  ‘OK. I promise not to be a slavedriver any more,’ he says. ‘Well, not to you, anyway. Still have to keep the actors in line.’ And he winks at me.

  Oh my goodness, he is so attractive. I look away.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going upstairs,’ I say, in a rather high-pitched voice.

  ‘I’m just going to call my office, you can tell them I’ll be right up.’

  ‘You got it,’ I say briskly.

  Greta pats the empty seat at the table next to her as soon as I arrive.

  ‘Sit here, Anna dear,’ she purrs. ‘Kitty’s told me all about you.’

  I can imagine. I grit my teeth. Kitty won’t like it when Swan calls and tells her I have to go to him first, so I have to be very careful with Greta.