by Celia Imrie
As all of her scenes today were with Eggy, Sally had to accept his apology on behalf of his wife. Sally certainly could easily imagine that Phoo couldn’t cope with seeing Sally back in the saddle.
When they first met, Phoo had been a major force in the business. Then Sally’s star rose. Sally had given it all up to be a wife and mother and totally disappeared off the scene. Now, in Phoo’s mind, to have Sally lording it over her and playing opposite her husband must have come as a horrible shock.
But Sally also understood that the fires of Phoo’s anger had been seriously stoked up by having too much to drink during the lunch break.
‘Really, Eggy, it’s not important,’ Sally said, trying to appease him as well as change the subject. ‘We just need to concentrate on today. We have some hard stuff to do.’ She was seriously worried about her lines and wanted to use this time to get as much learned as she could, as last night she had barely had a moment to glance at the script.
Make-up finished, Eggy sheepishly shuffled off to his tiny hutch of a dressing room in a three-way trailer, to put his costume on.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Judy bent low and whispered in Sally’s ear.
‘She wanted your part, you know, that wife of his. She’s been nagging the casting director for days. But she was given strict words from above that it was to be you, you and no one else but you.’
This came as a shock to Sally. But of course if Phoo had wanted and begged for her part, well . . . That confirmed so many more suspicions.
‘Not only that, Sally, but I gather from the Second Assistant that Edgar Markham himself spoke against having his wife in the part.’
‘He what?’ Sally turned round in the chair so that she could see Judy’s actual face, not just her reflection. Was this some deal that Eggy had made with the casting director?
‘He didn’t want her in the film. He phoned Daniel. Made it a hundred per cent clear.’ Judy gave a knowing nod, twisted Sally round to face the mirror again and went back to soft-brushing blusher on her cheeks. ‘The Second Assistant said that the wife has been phoning both himself and Daniel, non-stop. She obviously got hold of Eggy’s call sheet and made full use of all the contact numbers and went on nagging. She was even calling him while you were standing there on the set!’
Sally was dumbfounded. When Judy leaned over to choose an eyeliner, she spun the make-up chair to scrutinise Judy’s face, which told everything. The whole episode was clearly the hot gossip of the set.
‘I think Edgar Markham wanted a little peace and quiet,’ said Judy. ‘That Phoebe is quite a handful. I’ve heard it from other girls in London.’
‘But I thought everyone loved her.’
‘The public loves her. National Treasure and all that.’ Judy gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘But in the business, it’s quite another story. She’s always rather been known for being cruel and catty to the wardrobe and make-up departments. Always complaining, throwing tantrums. She threw a hairbrush across the room on the last one. Smashed a mirror.’
‘Good grief!’
Sally thought back to her own time as an assistant stage manager, the theatre’s equivalent to make-up and wardrobe. Of course she herself had had similar treatment at the hands of Phoo.
Sally was rather sorry for poor old Eggy, who must by now be feeling pretty embarrassed at his wife’s antics. To know that he himself had not wanted Phoo to have a role in this film spoke volumes. And it can’t have helped his home life, either, especially if Phoo had the tiniest inkling of the truth. And then again . . . if Sally hadn’t misinterpreted what she’d overheard in the car yesterday and Eggy was off getting young casting directors pregnant, perhaps Phoo had good reason for behaving badly.
‘Mind you,’ said Judy, clearly not wanting to seem to be bad-mouthing someone who was going to be around the set, ‘I did love her in that sitcom she did with Dermott Presley.’
‘Paddy and Pat?’
‘Dermott was such a lovely man. A real charmer. And had such a lovely family too. We all adored him.’
Sally remembered seeing photo shoots of Dermott Presley riding horses with his wife and five children, or taking picnics with them on remote Irish beaches. He was the very picture of wholesomeness and family values. Always seemed to be smiling, and wearing those cream-coloured Aran sweaters and corduroy trousers. Sally wondered how on earth he had coped, working all those years with Phoo. Paddy and Pat had run for about eight series, with a couple of Christmas specials thrown in.
Judy gave Sally’s face the final brush-down with powder and sent her back to her hutch, where she had to change into her all-black burglary costume, complete with hood.
Sally sat in her tiny trailer cubicle for a short time, studying her lines. She was shattered. The big scene wasn’t till after lunch, which, after last night’s surprise visitor, was just as well.
Marianne had talked solidly for hours and prevented Sally going to bed, with accusations that she, as a mother, ought to be interested in her daughter’s life. Well, of course she was interested, but at that moment she had other things on her mind as well, like learning her lines for today. But she knew her daughter certainly wouldn’t have understood that necessary task.
Marianne was a funny girl. They were so unalike that sometimes Sally couldn’t believe she was her own flesh and blood. Marianne appeared to be utterly fascinated with money – percentages, deals, stocks and shares, financial indexes and all kinds of things about which Sally couldn’t give a toss. In fact, the entire subject of money was something Sally would much rather avoid discussing. So while her daughter recounted, in minuscule detail, figures, share prices and statistics about the scandal she had seemingly caused back in London, Sally’s mind glazed over. Marianne had apparently not noticed her mother’s lack of interest and gone on talking till well after one in the morning.
Marianne did not understand either that, regardless of how late you might stay up while filming, your car still arrives at 5.30 a.m., and the driver expects you to be up and dressed, ready to go. Also that lines don’t magically jump into your head.
Thus, having had less than four hours’ sleep, now, slouched in the quiet warmth of her tiny roomette dressed in a black Lycra jumpsuit, it was not at all surprising that Sally fell into a deep slumber. Even though bits of script lay open on her lap, some pages had spilt on to the rough bit of matting.
She only woke to the sound of the Third Assistant knocking and opening up the caravan door, asking her to go straight to the set for a walk-through for camera. Bleary-eyed and groggy, Sally grabbed the pages of script to take with her. She still didn’t know it.
But, as time was up, she followed the Third into the house, walking along carpeted hallways lined with canvas, on to the set: a very fancy room with gold-panelled walls and a beautifully painted ceiling. The ornate salon was crammed with antique furniture, which was roped off so that no one would sit on it. As this scene was set at night, all the windows were blacked out. The only light came from the warm spotlights.
‘Morning!’ Daniel grinned inanely. ‘Let’s keep it moving today, Sally. Okey-dokey, folks! Quick rehearsal, blocking it all. Then we’ll get the cameras set up. Let’s get the crew in to watch.’
This was terrifying. Sally only had the sketchiest idea of her lines in this scene.
Eggy was waiting, wearing his burglary attire. His was also a black Lycra suit, but it really was skintight and on him it was rather comical.
‘OK, Sally, luv!’ Daniel stepped into the acting area, while camera and lighting crew gathered behind him. ‘Let’s run through. Perhaps you could start crouched down behind that armchair.’
Sally got into position. Hiding the pages, she hastily got the first line into her head. She wished she’d had time to scribble some hints on to her wrists and palms.
‘And action!’ called Daniel.
Sally spat out her first line, and, as the scene demanded, bobbed up.
‘Come on!’ replied Eggy, in character. ‘They’ve
gone.’
Sally needed to glance down at the page she was gripping, hidden in her other hand behind the chair-back.
Eggy moved nearer, ready to grab her arm and make a dash for it. He murmured Sally’s line under his breath.
Sally repeated it.
Eggy then spoke his line, and half-turned in order to whisper Sally’s, which she duplicated.
‘What’s going on?’ Daniel stepped into the scene. ‘Miss Doyle? Don’t you know your lines?’
‘I got the scene number wrong. Sorry, Daniel, I’ll be on it by the time we’re actually shooting.’
‘Buggeration!’ Daniel threw his copy of the script down. ‘This is all we need. Some bloody amateur who’s lost her memory. You do know that you took the part from under the nose of a very well-known professional?’
All Sally could do was say again that she was sorry.
‘I suppose you were out on the town last night, drinking rosé till the early hours with that hairy sailor friend of yours.’
Sally started to explain about her daughter’s surprise arrival, but her voice faded out.
There was simply no excuse.
‘Just for now, do it with the script.’ Daniel let out a long theatrical sigh. ‘But there’s a lot of action in this scene, and I must point out, once more, that we are running behind and that we need everyone to be up to speed. Comprendez?’
Once they had blocked the scene, the crew moved into the acting space to set up the cameras and lights.
Eggy and Sally walked back to the trailers.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Eggy. ‘It’s the very least I can do after yesterday. I really owe you one.’
Eggy came into Sally’s cubicle.
‘It’s very sweet of you.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Eggy squeezed down on the tiny seat next to Sally. ‘You’ll probably have to do the same for me, day after tomorrow. I’m going out on a rather exciting rendezvous with a very exotic creature who’s bound to lead me heaven knows where.’
Sally laughed.
‘Right.’ Eggy leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I’ll give you a minute or two to look through,’ he said, ‘while I get a wee bit of shut-eye.’
‘Lucky you. You can catnap?’
‘In this business it’s always worth having a few strange talents up your sleeve.’
While Eggy dozed, Sally started murmuring her lines to herself, covering up the script with a blank page.
While Theresa washed and chopped vegetables, Carol had spent the last fifteen minutes sitting on a stool near the dining-room door, burbling on about some bloke with whom she had fixed a luncheon date, and Theresa was bored. Not only bored but anxious and uneasy.
First, she felt whacked out from the back and forth over the last few days, with Chloe’s disappearance and the ensuing trail of finding her. It was almost as though the relief of knowing that Chloe was back with her mother, and safe, had allowed Theresa to let go. Now she felt drained through to the bone. She wished nothing more than to go home, curl up and sleep.
On top of all this, she was feeling increasingly troubled about the string of bizarre events, gifts and photos. The whole thing was constantly niggling away at the back of her mind. She didn’t want to talk about it because nothing about it was really that horrible, just disturbing.
There had been roses left for her, her answering machine was acting up, she’d lost her photo album and someone was returning the photos one by one, she’d been invited for a coffee and no one showed up, she had heard whispering – perhaps it had been her name – during the night. If she told anyone about these things, they would probably dismiss them as an unusual series of coincidences. But somewhere deep in her soul, Theresa was frightened that this chain of unimportant events was more sinister than the sum of its parts.
She opened the cupboard, principally to have a door to hide behind while Carol raved on about this man of hers who had a sexy voice.
On the eye-level shelf was a blue Tupperware box. It wasn’t usually there, but with so many people working in the kitchen this week, it might simply be Benjamin putting something back in a different place.
‘Well, Theresa, I can see I’m boring you, so I’ll be off.’ Carol jumped down and draped her coat around her shoulders. ‘I can always sit in the van while waiting for the delivery orders to dribble in . . . or not.’
Theresa pulled out the box and looked. On the top a handwritten name was stuck down with a Sellotaped label: ‘Theresa’.
‘Ta-ta!’ Carol turned on her heels.
‘Carol?’ Now she thanked heaven that Carol was still there with her.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘What do you think this is?’ Theresa gingerly took the box, holding it before herself on outstretched arms as if it was a sacred totem. ‘I’m too scared to open it.’
‘Why would you be frightened to open a box from one of your own kitchen cabinets? It’s cheese or butter or cookies or something, isn’t it? Didn’t you put it there?’
‘That’s the thing, Carol. I have no idea what it is. And why has it got my name on it?’
‘It’ll be William.’ Carol grabbed the box. ‘He’s so finicky about everything. Just the type of fusspot to start putting ownership labels on kitchen ingredients.’ She ripped the top off, and looked inside. ‘Yes. I was right. File under “cakes or cookies”.’ She pulled out a square of brown cake and inspected it. ‘Chocolate brownies. Yum!’ She put it back, popped the lid on and handed the box to Theresa. ‘Mustn’t tempt me, though. I have to watch my figure, you know. Especially as I’m going on a—’
‘Hot date. Yes. I know.’ Theresa felt silly now. Of course she didn’t recognise the cakes. William and Benjamin must have made them and left them for her as a peace offering.
Carol gathered the collar of her coat and leaned back against the countertop. ‘There’s one thing puzzles me, though, Theresa. Why would a perfectly sane woman like you be hopping around like a cat on a hot tin roof about a Tupperware box? You’re so jumpy. It can’t be only the runaway child. And anyway, she’s back, isn’t she? So what’s the beef?’
Theresa weighed up the situation and felt glad that Carol herself was asking her to talk about it.
She started with roses and the CD.
‘Daphnis et Chloé, eh?’ Carol gave a knowing grimace.
‘I suppose that’s because of my missing granddaughter.’
‘Whad’ya mean?’ Carol stood open-mouthed. ‘That piece of music, my darling woman, is quite the most romantic bit of schmaltz ever written in the history of the world. Well, I suppose The Firebird might pip it to the post, but that’s Stravinsky, so you have to wade through so much clink, clank, clonk before you get to the fabulous swooshingly dramatic bit. What else?’
‘I got a knife through the post.’
‘What kind of knife?’
Theresa grabbed her bag and took out the huge Sabatier.
‘Whoo! Don’t point that thing at me, as the girl said to the soldier.’ Carol laughed and waved a hand. ‘But then you are a cook. For you to get a knife isn’t so much. It’s a bit like a painter getting paintbrushes or a rally driver getting, well, whatever rally drivers use every day. Though if you weren’t a cook, I’d be very worried. Let’s leave that as a potential wrong ’un.’
Theresa explained about the rose petals, the answering machine and the voice whispering her name in the deep of night. She then mentioned the missing photo album and, before Carol could interrupt and offer to search the place one more time on her behalf, went on to say that, one by one, someone was sending photos from the album back to her. She dug into her pocket and presented the photo she had received last night.
‘Oh my!’ Carol gazed down at the picture of Theresa on her wedding day, beaming happily, arm in arm with a man who had been sharply scored out. ‘No. No.’ She passed the photo back and instinctively wiped her hand down her side as though it was contaminated. ‘No. No. That’s not good at all.’
NINETEEN
For Sally this was excellent news as it gave her more time to bang the lines into her head.
Eggy turned out to be a most solicitous screen partner. He ran the lines over and over with her, until they both felt confident and easy with the scene.
As a result, when the whole team finally got on to the set in the late afternoon, they were able to sail through, and even to add some sparkling moments. A little game of catch with a prop ‘valuable’ vase got a round of applause from the crew. It also caused a minor episode when the owner of the house mistook it for the real thing and, thinking it was another of his precious antiques about to be smashed, threw a tantrum and was only calmed down when the underside of the prop vase was displayed to him with its ‘Made in Taiwan’ stamp.
Once the scene was complete, both Sally and Eggy returned to the make-up department for the camouflage paint to be thoroughly removed by a series of very comforting hot towels dispensed from Judy’s work microwave oven. They then quickly had to be made up again into their everyday look. After that, they were straight on to the set for a party scene, replete with extras. In this scene they were supposedly casing the joint.
Sally felt so grateful to Eggy for today. It really compensated for yesterday.
At 9 p.m., when the crew wrapped at the end of the day’s work, Eggy popped his head into Sally’s cubicle.
‘Look, darling, I know the day’s over, but we’ve got a late call tomorrow morning . . .’
‘How late?’
‘Would you believe – eleven a.m., pick-up nine!’