by A. J. Crofts
‘They’ve sent over the contracts,’ she told me when I phoned, ‘which I’ll go through for you, although I’m sure it’s all standard stuff. You start with a three-month contract, with an option for the following three months. And they’ve sent some scripts too, which you had better come and get.’
She sounded so excited for me it brought tears to my eyes. She was usually such a cynical old bag, but I’d always suspected she’d been putting it on to hide her disappointment, or maybe to deal with the boredom of teaching class after class of talentless tossers. No offence meant.
I went straight over to her flat and she said I could stay there to read the scripts – a relief, because Pete’s place was a bit crowded and there was often no electricity, which made everything difficult, and there was no way I could go back home just at the moment unless I was going to grovel to Dad and promise to give up any ideas of becoming an actress. Fat chance of that now! Mum said there was no way he was willing to back down yet, so we had a stalemate and I was going to be on Pete’s skanky old mattress for a while yet. I curled up on an old sofa in the corner of Dora’s sitting room, which was covered in shawls and cats, and started to read, while she sat at the kitchen table on the other side of the arch reading the contracts and chain-smoking.
My character was called Nikki and, to be honest, she was a bit of a slag. This was not going to be a great stretch for my acting talents. Nikki was on the game, disappearing up the West End the whole time, all glammed up, and then coming home to the family and slopping around the house looking like shit. They wanted this dramatic difference between the two sides of her life. She liked to think of herself as a ‘high-class escort’, but actually she was just a slapper willing to turn tricks in return for a few quid. She was a ‘good-time girl’, enjoying her work and sometimes even bringing it home with her. I’d met a few like her over the years on the estate. They were often the most interesting types to us when we were little because they were the ones with the nice clothes and jewellery; at least it seemed nice to us then, although as I grew up and started reading the decent fashion magazines I realised it was all pretty tacky stuff. What I liked about those women was that they didn’t care what anyone thought of their morals or anything like that, they just cared about what people thought of their bodies, their nail or hair extensions and their fake tans. They were completely honest about their ambitions and their determination not to get stuck in dead-end jobs until they had to and not to get weighed down with kids and useless husbands who treated them like skivvies and knocked them about whenever they’d had a few too many. If I hadn’t had my silly dream about being an actress I probably would have gone much the same route. (Actually, I probably wouldn’t, because Dad would have knocked seven bells out of me the first time I tried to go out in fishnets and hair extensions.)
Dora said the buzz around the studio was that they were wanting to stir up a bit of controversy with Nikki, get the media tutting over the declining standards of behaviour among young people and ‘the shocking things that get shown on telly these days’. Normally I would have been all for that. I like a bit of shocking behaviour myself, but I could just imagine what Dad’s reaction was going to be. This was exactly what he was worried about, me tainting our ‘respectable’ family name. I felt a tiny stirring of nausea deep inside my stomach, partly because I knew there was no way I wasn’t going to play this one to the hilt. If they wanted a slapper, a slapper was what they were going to get, with all the necessary bells and whistles. I would be the sluttiest fucking slapper to hit the small screen since … well, since forever. But how long would it take for my father to talk to me again? Although I didn’t know the details, I knew there had been feuds in his family before that had gone on forever, with people refusing to speak to one another all the way to the grave. I’d never even met his mum and dad and he absolutely refused to talk about them. I only knew they were alive because Mum told me one day when he was out, and then made me promise not to mention them to him.
‘But why have they fallen out?’ I wanted to know.
‘Oh,’ she muttered, ‘we don’t need to know the details. I dare say he has his reasons. Just don’t make him angry with your questions.’
I couldn’t bear the thought of him and me ending up like that; but, on the other hand, I couldn’t bear the thought of turning down this opportunity either. He was the one who was being unreasonable, not me; he just had to be won over.
The contracts were duly signed and, because they had taken so long to find the right person to play Nikki, I was able to start work almost immediately. Going in the first day was like starting at a new school, not knowing where to go or what to do. The dressing rooms were really tatty and rundown, like all the money had been spent on the set and nothing backstage. There was a couch in mine, which took up nearly the whole room, a tiny dressing table and a light with a bare bulb, a bit like a prison cell. My name had been typed on a piece of paper and stuck to the door. I noticed that the more established cast members had their names on little brass plaques and screwed on properly, which made me feel like I wasn’t likely to be there for long.
Everyone seemed to be rushing from one set to another and they always seemed to understand what was expected of them next. I’d learned every line of the script religiously, but I still didn’t know when to go for something to eat or when I needed to report to Make-Up. The technicians and cameramen were a godsend. I noticed that lots of the other actors didn’t talk to them at all, but that made me feel uncomfortable. I discovered that, when a director didn’t make it clear what he or she wanted me to do, I could usually find a technician who would point me in the right direction, making sure I was visible to the camera and not blocking anyone else, things like that. If you didn’t get things right first time they had to re-shoot, which took time, and everyone always seemed to be in a desperate hurry to move on to the next scene. It was the rush and urgency that made the days exciting, but it was nerve-racking too when you were terrified of letting the others down. There was a definite pecking order among the cast, with the old hands ruling the roost and newcomers like me scratching around at the bottom. I got the feeling that I needed to watch everything I said and not give anyone the idea that I fancied myself; a bit like being back at school in that way too.
A lot of the cast were untrained people like me (sorry, Dora, but it’s true really), just able to be themselves. Others were really serious actors who had been to proper drama schools and acted in Shakespeare and at the National and all the serious stuff. They were the ones I really loved to watch at work. They would come into work looking completely different and talking in posh actorish voices; then, as they went through Make-Up and Wardrobe, they would gradually become their characters, their voices and personalities changing so that by the time they were on the set they were unrecognisable. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be able to transform myself and live in different skins.
Once I’d settled in there wasn’t anything about my new job that I didn’t love. I loved the rehearsals, the banter in the canteen, the parties at the other cast members’ houses or at clubs in the West End, the hours in Make-Up and Costume and even the hours and hours of sitting around on the set waiting for the moment to say a couple of lines. Even though we would be there from seven in the morning till seven or eight at night, six days a week, I never wanted to leave. Some days I didn’t even have a scene to do, I just had to be there in case something came up, and to sit in the background in pub scenes or street scenes. The old hands would grumble a bit on those days, but I didn’t care. I was happy watching and learning from them. But what I really liked were the big dramatic scenes that were being written in for Nikki. Audrey told me that they’d known I was right for the part when they saw me crying and snotting and telling the story about Mum and Dad fighting. Nikki had lots of scenes like that, although I tried to keep the snot to a minimum, and I loved every minute of them, losing myself completely while the cameras were turning and Nikki was doing her thing.
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br /> What I liked most was that I knew they were going down well. Everything would be silent in the studios when I finished and everyone would be watching, even the technicians who usually spent most of their time looking bored, eating sandwiches or scratching themselves. I knew that I could hold people’s attention and I couldn’t wait for the episodes I was filming to be aired. I was sure that Dad would be so proud of my acting abilities that he would be willing to overlook the fact that I was playing the sort of woman he had so much contempt for, and might actually start talking to me again.
It was going to be six weeks from my first day’s filming to the first showing of Nikki on the nation’s screens, so by the time the day came it felt like I’d been working there forever. The publicity people had been hard at work as well, getting me interviews in magazines, talking about my favourite night out and ‘what I liked most about boys’ and other stuff, which was so stupid I could hardly stop myself from laughing out loud. Then there was the fashion shoot, which was something else altogether.
It all came about because I was chatting to one of the women in Make-Up. The women who do those sorts of jobs are so nice. I guess they’re pretty good jobs to get if you’re into that sort of thing and don’t mind mucking about with other people’s greasy skins and hair. This woman was working away on doing me up for one of Nikki’s nights out on the town and she was telling me about her life. She must have been really old because she had actually made up Twiggy once, and I remembered doing Twiggy in history at school (it’s about the only thing I can remember from history lessons). She’d had an amazing time, going all over the world on Vogue shoots and the whole bit, and I was pretty impressed.
‘Have you ever done any modelling?’ she asked.
‘Me?’ I was genuinely shocked for a second. I mean, I had always been the scuzzy-looking one in our family. Then I realised it was probably something she said to everyone, just polite small talk. ‘Nah.’
‘You should. You’ve got great bones. The camera loves you, ask anyone in Production. You should arrange something, Claire.’ She had turned her head to talk to another girl sitting on the other side of the room, who I knew was from Publicity.
‘Arrange what?’ Claire asked.
‘Get Steffi a fashion shoot with one of the big magazines. She would be a natural. I’ll do the make-up for you. If you get someone to run off some pictures and show a few editors, I bet you’ll get interest.’
Claire said, ‘Great idea,’ and made a note on her clipboard, which I thought was just her being polite, because she was one of those incredibly polite upper-class types. To be honest, I then forgot all about the conversation, because I had a big scene that afternoon which took all my concentration. Everyone was very nice afterwards, the crew even gave me a round of applause – which made one of the older cast members grumble a bit, because I don’t think it was really the done thing for someone as new as me. I was actually beginning to get a bit embarrassed by all the praise. I didn’t want to make any enemies with the others and I could tell one or two of them were getting tired of being told how brilliant I was. I was still just getting away with it because most of them had realised I was as surprised as they were by the whole thing, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I slipped up and accidentally upset someone by seeming up myself. I was still very aware I was the new girl around the place and I was making a real effort to think before I spoke.
Anyway, a few days later, posh Claire came looking for me and told me she had set up a fashion shoot with Elle, one of the glossy magazines. I was a bit taken aback, but didn’t say anything, not wanting to seem like I was being unprofessional or anything, and duly turned up at the photographer’s studio in Charlotte Street at about five in the morning with a bloody great zit on the end of my nose. The nice woman from Make-Up was already there and assured me she could make the zit disappear. ‘And they’ll airbrush you to death anyway,’ she assured me.
Well, hats off to models. I always thought that whole game was a bit of a doss, but they had me working like a dog right through the day. They had me in positions that were so painful I thought I might never walk straight again and some of the clothes they pinned me into were like medieval torture machines. But I kept up the whole professional, ‘don’t complain, do whatever you’re asked’ thing, which I know from reading interviews with models in magazines is what you’re supposed to do.
At the end of the day, they showed me some of the pictures, and even before the airbrushing I have to say I was quite shocked. If I had come across them in a magazine I would not have known they were me. I’m not even sure I would have recognised the outfits, which looked like shit in real life but came across in the pictures like sex with stitching. They were incredible pictures – I mean, really incredible. I actually fancied myself in them. I could understand why other girls might dash out to the shops to try to re-create the look, even though I knew the look was hideous in reality, because I would have done that. Once I’d got over the shock I actually felt pretty proud of myself. Even though I knew I didn’t really look like the girl in the pictures, it was cool to think that I had managed to achieve ‘the look’, even if only for a few hours. It had been a bit like another acting assignment.
‘We’re going to have to get a bit of a grip on this publicity thing soon,’ Dora said when I told her about the magazine shoot. ‘You should really be getting paid for some of this stuff.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ I interrupted, terrified that she might make a fuss and make them think I was a prima donna. ‘I quite enjoy it really, and it’s good for promoting the show.’
‘Sweet of you to have their interests at heart,’ she growled, ‘but we mustn’t let them exploit you. We won’t say anything until you’ve started appearing on the screens and have built a fan base, then we can start making a few demands.’
‘The public may absolutely hate Nikki,’ I said, ‘in which case I may be looking for another job in a few months.’
‘That’s not the buzz at the company. They’ve been making noises about tying you in to a longer contract, although I’m not agreeing to anything like that yet.’
‘Why do they want to do that?’
‘They think you’re going to be a star.’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say to that. It was like she’d punched me in the stomach and knocked all the air out of me.
Commuting to work from Pete’s grotty squat had proved pretty impossible, and Mum warned me that it still wasn’t safe for me to go home just yet, so I’d had to look around for somewhere a bit closer to the studios. There was a cameraman, called Gerry, who I’d got to know quite well in the canteen and from sitting around on set. Cameramen are funny blokes. Sometimes it seems like actors don’t exist for them. I suppose they get used to just staring at us through their lenses, thinking of us in terms of light and shade and filling the frame; they forget we’re people too. He was good looking in a rugged sort of way, never seemed to take much notice of his clothes or grooming, but I kind of liked that. He didn’t even try to hit on me and it was me who struck up our first conversation. There’s something about the ‘strong silent’ types that makes me want to find out what makes them tick. The more enigmatic they are the more I want to get to the bottom of them. He was around thirty and had spent the last few years travelling around the world making documentaries but had moved back home with his parents since getting the job on The Towers. They lived just a short walk from the studios.
‘We’ve got a spare room you could rent, if you like,’ he offered, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘That would be great.’ I jumped at the offer. ‘I wouldn’t be in the way at weekends, it would just be somewhere to sleep during the week so I can get in and out of work easily.’
Gerry’s family were just so sweet, like something out of a commercial but thirty years out of date. The house was one of those semi-detached places and they gave me a thing that was like a combined alarm clock, kettle and teapot,
which woke me up each morning with a lot of hissing and clanking as it came to the boil and automatically made a cup of tea. How cool is that? Gerry’s mum was always up and dressed by the time I came downstairs, happy to cook me breakfast, and his dad would read bits out of the Daily Mail, which they would discuss and ask my opinion on. They were just the cutest people and what I really liked was Gerry didn’t make any apologies for how they were, didn’t try to show that he was cooler than they were. He accepted them for what they were, just as he had accepted me. Some people always seem to want to change other people rather than just accepting them for who they are, but Gerry wasn’t one of them. Maybe that was why he was a good cameraman, just watching what went on and recording it rather than trying to influence it like a director might. The whole family were just so peaceful together that when Gerry slipped into my bed in the middle of the night the first time I didn’t have the heart to turf him out. He was actually wearing pyjamas, with a cord and flies and everything! It just seemed so easy and natural and comfortable. He made me feel safe and I was grateful to him for being such a good friend.
The night that my first episode was being aired I didn’t have the nerve to stay in and watch it with Gerry’s family, which I think disappointed them a bit, but I just couldn’t have stood the embarrassment. I couldn’t go to Pete’s either, because the electricity supply was so unreliable and I doubted if any of the others there would want to sit through a soap opera even if the telly was working. So I took up Dora’s offer of watching it round at her place. Mum rang to tell me that Dad had banned them all from watching it at home, but she and the girls were going to go round to Auntie Pat’s. ‘Sod him,’ she said, ‘he can sit in on his own for a few hours and contemplate his sins. I’m not missing this, girl.’ Part of me would have liked to have gone round there with them, but there would have been too much noise and I would have wanted to concentrate. And I wouldn’t have been able to say anything without sounding like I was really up myself.