For the next three hours Jamie and I get a flavour of what it feels like to be a professional actor - and it’s one career that I wouldn't want for all the tea in China. By the time lunchtime rolls around I'm exhausted. We've had to repeatedly drive up to our house and walk in through the front door 'to establish geography', as Pete puts it. We've had to sit at our computer and write nonsense over and over again so they can get some good shots of us working. Jamie and I are never in the room at the same time when we're actually writing, but Lightfoot has my husband stand over me with a studious look on his face as I type whatever gibberish comes into my head. It's a load of old bollocks, but Lightfoot assures us it'll look good.
Never, ever believe what you see on the TV. That's one lesson I'm learning here today.
If that felt fake, then walking along the street with shit-eating grins on our faces, while we merrily swing Poppy between us is a thousand times worse. I have to cringe every time a car goes past. It wouldn't be so bad if we only had to do it once, but the two BBC men have us walk down the same bit of pavement at least twenty times, just to get the shot absolutely right. By the time we're done, my arm feels like it's going to come out of its socket, and Poppy has gone a bit green from being swung around so much.
'My jaw hurts from all the smiling,' Jamie says as we go back into the house.
'I know what you mean,' I reply. 'I've never felt so miserable having to look so happy.'
'Let's not become movie stars any time in the near future, eh?'
'Pfft. Some chance of that happening. Lionel Moncrieff has probably told every director in the world not to come within a mile of us.'
'Thank heavens for that.'
Dad pops up to Asda to buy us all sandwiches for lunch. This I am very grateful for, as if I try to butter any bread right now, my arm will fall off. Lightfoot pays for them, which is a bonus. Even he can see how tired we're getting from all the happy walking to and fro, and probably buys lunch as some kind of peace offering.
At least the rest of the filming will just be the interview. All the extraneous stuff has been done. We can sit with a nice cup of tea and talk bollocks for a couple of hours.
Pete sets up the camera so the garden can be seen through the patio doors. Given that it's a crisp autumn day, and the fact that Jamie spent most of yesterday picking up fallen leaves, it's a very pleasant backdrop to have behind your head as someone grills you about how hard it is to write comedy.
Lightfoot sits Jamie and I behind the dining table, and tells us to look casual. This is not easy when someone is pointing a camera lens directly at your face. It's not quite as bad as a gun, but it's not far off. I am suddenly aware of all the pits and cracks in my face. The cavernous crow's feet extending from my eyes will look terrific in glorious HD, I'm sure.
'Er, can I just pop to the loo?' I ask the BBC men.
'Didn't you just go?' Jamie says, earning himself a dig in the ribs.
'Of course, we're still checking light levels, so please do,' Lightfoot replies.
I get up and make my way upstairs to the bathroom, where I spend the next ten minutes applying a month's worth of foundation and a year's worth of eye liner. This means that in my BBC debut I will look like a whore. But I will be a whore that isn't covered in wrinkles, so I have no problem with it whatsoever.
A horrid thought then springs into my head. I have now been up here quite a while. Everyone downstairs will naturally assume that I am having a poo. It's a testament to my desire not to look old and haggard that I find I really don't care that much. I will just be a whore with irritable bowel syndrome.
By the time I get back to the dining room Pete has set up a couple of small lights that brighten the room like it's a summer's day outside. I consider turning on my heels to go back and apply even more foundation, but common sense gets the better of me. Looking like a whore is one thing, looking like Barbara Cartland is entirely another.
Lightfoot sits himself down opposite us, to one side of the camera. 'Now then, folks. This should be quite easy. All I want to do is interview the two of you on your own for a while, and then we can do a bit with Poppy and Terry together as well at the end.'
I look round to see Poppy pouting from the kitchen doorway. She obviously thought she was going to get in on her mother and father's interview, and is not happy about being relegated to 'a bit at the end'. Jonathan Lightfoot had assured her that she was the star of the show, but this is not proving to be the case. My daughter is learning a valuable lesson about show business here: people will lie to your face just to shut you up. It will hold her in very good stead, I'm sure.
I regard her thunderous expression for a moment. 'Poppy? Do you promise to be quiet while we do the interview, or should Grandad take you to the park?'
'I'll be quiet Mum, I promise,' she replies in a grump, and gives Jonathan Lightfoot a cold look. Yep, she's already learning a deep seated mistrust of anyone behind a camera. I look forward to attending court proceedings in fifteen years after she kicks Steven Spielberg in the testicles.
'Excellent,' Lightfoot says as Dad takes Poppy over to the couch. 'Shall we get started?'
It comes as something of a surprise when the first question out of the producer's mouth is 'What makes you both laugh?' I was expecting a question about the actual job of writing comedy, but it seems Lightfoot is more interested in the emotional response that comedy has on people, rather than the mechanics of how it's created. It's rather a refreshing change, to be honest.
'Two answers for me,' Jamie replies. 'The intelligent, adult answer is the juxtaposition of the commonplace with the absurd, but in reality I just like it when people fall over and hurt themselves on YouTube. Hilarious.'
I roll my eyes. Jamie is obviously in one of those moods today. 'I'm a sucker for a bit of slapstick,' I add. 'That, and when people misunderstand one another. There's a lot of mileage in that.'
'That happens quite a lot in your books,' Lightfoot points out.
'Yeah, it's not quite so funny then!' I tell him.
And that sets the tone for the next hour. Lightfoot continues to ask us a lot of ephemeral questions about the nature of humour, the effect it has on us as writers, and the effect it also has on our readers. I find myself actually having to think about my answers before I give them. Not once does he ask us how many words we write per day, or what it felt like to get our first publishing deal. Instead, he's only interested in getting to the bottom of what Jamie and I believe is the deeper meaning of good comedy, and how we translate it into our work. By the time Lightfoot has finished, I feel like I've been grilled by the Spanish Inquisition - which I really wasn't expecting.
'Phew,' Jamie mutters. 'That was intense!'
Lightfoot looks apologetic. 'Sorry about that. I just don't want to bore you or the audience with the same old, same old.'
'No, that's fine,' I tell him. 'That's the best workout our brains have had in years.'
Lightfoot laughs. 'Well, you were both very good. Why don't you go make yourselves a nice drink while I have a chat with Poppy and Terry?'
'Okay. But I warn you, if you ask Poppy what she thinks the meaning of comedy is she's likely to give you the sweetest look you've ever seen and then answer 'farts'.'
'Mum! No I wouldn't!' Poppy objects from the couch, but there's a look in her eyes that tells me she knows I've got her pegged.
Jamie and I make ourselves a cup of tea while Pete rearranges the camera and lights so that they get the best shot of Dad and Poppy. Pops sits on her grandfather's lap, and gets tickled for her troubles. I can't believe how natural these two look together.
As I sip my tea, I can't help but feel an intense curiosity come over me as I wonder what my father is about to say. I'm assuming Lightfoot will want to know how he feels about his daughter's work as a writer. I'm also fascinated to find out what kind of thing actually makes him laugh. We've never really discussed our books. I know he's read them, but I've never thought to ask him whether he found them all that funny. I
guess I haven't wanted to know, just in case he didn’t.
I blink a couple of times in surprise. Can it be true? Can I really be worried about my father's opinion of me? That must mean something surely?
'Stop it,' Jamie says, looking at me.
'Stop what?'
'I can hear the cogs turning, Laura. You're going into over analysis mode, I can see it in your eyes. Just let the man speak, and don't read too much into it.'
I smile ruefully. Jamie can read me like a book. I may be worried about Dad's opinion of my writing, but ultimately, the only person in this world whose opinion I really care about is sitting next to me. Right where he's been without fail for almost ten years.
Oh dear, I've come over all soppy. Best not let Lightfoot see, otherwise he'll want to ask me questions about it.
'So then Terry,' Lightfoot begins. 'I know what makes your daughter laugh. What about you?'
For a second, Dad looks a bit stunned, and I'm worried he's going to freeze, but then he smiles and tickles Poppy again. 'This little monster. She always makes me laugh.'
Oh, that's a great answer. And one I should have thought of. I am a terrible parent.
Poppy giggles. 'Stop it Grandad!'
'Anything else?' Lightfoot probes.
'I laugh when other people laugh,' Dad says.
'So it makes you happy to see other people smiling?'
'Exactly.' Dad looks briefly over at me. 'That's why I'm so proud of what Laura's doing. She makes so many people laugh that I just can't keep a straight face.'
Oh dear. The soppiness is increasing. I may have to spend another ten minutes in the bathroom on my mascara at this rate.
Lightfoot asks Dad another few questions, before turning his attention to Poppy. 'And what about you, sweetheart? Do you like what your mum and dad do for a living?'
'Yeah! All the kids at school are dead jealous. Their mums and dads have to go out, but mine are home, so I get to see them all the time.'
Yep. Here come the tears.
'Would you like to be a writer too?'
My daughter crinkles her brow in deep thought for a moment. 'No,' she replies matter of factly.
'And why's that?' Lightfoot asks in surprise at Poppy's answer.
'I don't like it. Mrs Carmoody makes me write lots in English class and my hand hurts.' Poppy leans forward and fixes Lightfoot with a look of wisdom beyond the ages. 'Mrs Carmoody is a poo head.'
'Is she now?' the producer replies, trying not to laugh.
'Sorry about that,' I say to him. 'Poppy has some definite opinions when it comes to her teachers.'
Lightfoot gives Poppy a conspiratorial wink. 'Don't worry Poppy. I agree with you. All of my teachers were poo heads as well.'
And with that profound assessment of the British educational system, the interviews come to a close.
I make us all another round of drinks while Pete starts to pack the equipment up. The rest of us sit round the dining table and watch him work. This probably goes on a lot at the BBC.
'Well, that was fantastic, all of you,' Jonathan Lightfoot tells us. 'We've got plenty of great material.'
'How long do you think we'll be on for?' Jamie asks him.
'Oh, about two or three minutes.'
'Is that all?' I say, amazed. 'We've been at this for hours!'
Lightfoot shrugs his shoulders. 'That's the nature of making a TV show I'm afraid.'
'I think we'll stick to writing.'
He gives me a tired smile. 'I would.'
'When will it be on the telly?' Poppy asks.
'Early next year. Probably March,' Lightfoot says. 'That's the UK broadcast anyway. We'll send the documentary to other countries, so you'll be famous all over the world Poppy!'
Never mind the animatronic version of Simba. Lightfoot has now pretty much produced the real thing and started singing The Circle Of Life. Poppy's eyes light up - and I start saving for counselling sessions.
'All over the world?' Dad says to Lightfoot. There's a note of worry in his voice.
'Yes!'
'America?'
'Oh my yes. That's our main audience outside the UK. I'd imagine it'll get picked up by one of the major broadcasters.'
Dad's face has suddenly gone very, very pale.
'What's wrong Terry?' Jamie asks, seeing the instant change that came over my father the second the prospect of the show being aired in the USA came across the table.
Dad looks from Jamie to me, and back to Lightfoot. There looks to be actual terror in his eyes now.
'Dad? What is it?' I ask.
He licks his lips and stands up quickly. 'Er. I don't want to be in the show anymore. I don't... Can you cut my bits please?'
'But what about my stuff Grandad?' Poppy demands.
Lightfoot looks shocked. 'We can certainly edit you out if you feel that strongly about it Terry.'
I stand up too. 'What's wrong? Why don't you want to be in it anymore?'
'Not if it's broadcast in America,' he says, voice cracking.
I'm completely confused. 'Why Dad?'
He backs away from me into the living room. 'Don't... Don't... '
My heart rate has rocketed. Something is going on here. I've never seen my father act like this. 'Dad! Tell me what the hell is wrong with you!'
He stops backing away, and gives me an anguished look. 'I just don't want to be on a TV programme that gets shown in America.'
'Why?!'
'Someone... someone might recognise me. And I don't want that if I'm with you... ' A hand goes to his mouth, as if realising he's said too much.
'If you're with me? What's that supposed to mean?'
'If you're on the TV with me, as my daughter, I mean. He might see it, recognise my face, see yours... and put two and two together.'
Okay, now this is getting ridiculous.
'He? Who is he?'
My heart rate speeds even faster when I see tears coming from Dad's eyes. 'We’re getting on so well,' he says. 'I don't want anything to ruin it.' He looks to the ceiling as if searching for divine assistance. 'Oh God! I'm such an idiot! I've said too much!'
Jamie comes to stand beside me. 'You're not making any sense Terry.'
'Dad! Just stand still and tell us what you're talking about!'
His knees give out from under him and he slumps onto the couch. 'You shouldn't call me that,' he says, looking up into my eyes with an imploring look. 'Please don't.'
'Call you what?'
'Dad.'
'Why the hell not?! You're my father, aren't you?'
He shakes his head back and forth slowly, the tears flowing stronger now. 'No, sweetheart. I'm not your real dad. I'm so, so sorry.'
When the fuck did I step into an episode of Eastenders?
'You're not my Dad? Of course you're my bloody Dad! You may have been gone for most of my life, but that doesn't stop you being my father!'
Dad shakes his head back and forth. 'No, that's not what I mean, Laura.'
Jamie steps forward. 'For God's sakes Terry, start making some sense. We do have a BBC film crew here!'
Dad stands on shaky legs and takes my hand. He gulps loudly and licks his lips. 'You see, your mum needed me, Laura. Because he... he went back home, and she didn't have anyone else. He didn't know she was pregnant, of course. Helen never told him. Your Mum didn't want to ruin his life back in the States, that was why. He had a family there.'
Someone has thrown a cold blanket across my shoulders. 'Who is he?' I say from about seven galaxies away.
'Your real Dad. He was American. In the army. He was based here in the seventies. They met and fell in love... that's what your mum told me. He was supposed to be getting a divorce from his wife back home, but they managed to patch things up, apparently. He didn't want to leave Helen, but she made him go. Made him go back for the sake of his kids. Never told him she was carrying his child as well, because she knew he'd never have left her then.'
Now I feel like I've been dropped into an icebox. I s
tart to shiver from my feet all the way to the top of my head.
'I only met him a couple of times,' Dad continues. 'In passing, you know. He knew me and your mum had been an item before he came along. It was all... very complicated. Then he was gone, you see. But me and your mum, we went way back, you know? Started seeing each other in our teens, before we split up the first time. And then when she was left alone, after he'd gone back to the States, I stepped in. Tried to be a dad to you, the way he wasn't. The way he couldn't.'
'You left, Terry,' Jamie says, rage in his voice. 'You fucking left them both!'
Dad looks distraught. 'I know! I couldn't take it! Your mum never really stopped loving him. Never looked at me the way I wanted her to... because of him. I had to go!'
I try to speak, but have to swallow the nausea boiling in my stomach before I can get the words out. 'Mum never told me any of this.' My voice is weak, faint, horrible.
'She didn't want to hurt you any more, sweetheart. You had one father leave you already. You didn't need to know about another one!'
'Why didn't you say anything when you came back this year?' I ask. 'Why didn't you tell me the truth then?'
Dad's face crumples even more. 'I was going to! Really I was! But then I saw Poppy... saw the life you all had together, and I wanted to be part of it. Besides, if Helen didn't tell you, what right did I have?'
'Excuse me?' Jonathan Lightfoot pipes up awkwardly from behind us. 'Should we, er, leave?'
'Shut up!' Jamie and I both snap at him in unison.
I look back at my father. 'You're not my dad?' I feel Jamie's hand grasp mine tightly.
'No, sweetheart. Your real dad is an American guy. That's why I didn't want to be on TV in the States with you. Just in case he saw it and recognised me. He might have seen you too, and realised who you were.'
'That's a bit of a fucking stretch, Terry. I doubt the guy is Sherlock Holmes,' Jamie argues, quite rightly.
'I know! I'm an idiot! I should have just kept quiet. Everything would have been fine!'
I feel a small hand take mine, so both of my family are standing either side of me. 'Mum? What's going on?' Poppy asks. 'Why are you talking about America?'
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 23