Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Act One
Sunset Boulevard
Meet Number 12
The Nearly CV
The Man in the Black Wool/Lycra-Mix Unitard
Kitchen-Sink Drama
Cary Grant
“Fasten Your Seat Belts. It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Night”
Two Cigarettes at Once
Errol Flynn on Antibiotics
Act Two
The King of the World
Harrison Ford and the Breakfast Room of Doom
A Madcap Life Force
If I Only Had the Nerve
Performance Anxiety
The Love Interest
Act Three
New York, New York
The Man of the Year Awards
Coffee and Cigarettes
Romantic-Comedy Behavior
The Fine Art of the Double Take
The Phantom of the Opera
The Reluctant Bodyguard
The Be-Good Voice
An Offer You Can’t Refuse
Act Four
There’s No Business Like Show Business
The F-Word
Charisma Lessons
My Dinner with Sophie
Lauren Bacall
The Big White Bed
Superman vs. Sammy the Squirrel
Kryptonite
Skin Work
The Awful Truth
Brief Encounter
The Invisible Man
Diazepam
Witness
Unresolved Sexual Tension
The Big Speech
Gunfight at the Idaho Fried Chicken
Act Five
A Star Is Born
The Great Escape
White Christmas
The Long Good-bye
The First Good Luck
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by David Nicholls
Copyright
To Roanna Benn, Matthew
Warcus and Hannah Weaver,
for The Breaks
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be:
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool…
T. S. Eliot
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Learn your lines and don’t bump into the furniture.
Spencer Tracy
Sunset Boulevard
Summers and Snow ep.3 draft 4
CHIEF INSPECTOR GARRETT (CONT.)
…or I’ll have you back directing traffic faster than you can say disciplinary action.
INSPECTOR SUMMERS
But he’s just toying with us, sir, like a cat with a—
CHIEF INSPECTOR GARRETT
I repeat—Don’t. Make It. Personal. I want a result, and I want it yesterday, or you’re off this case, Summers.
(SNOW goes to speak)
I mean it. Now get out of here—the both of you.
INT. MORTUARY. DAY
BOB “BONES” THOMPSON, the forensic pathologist, sickly complexion, ghoulish sense of humor, stands over the seminaked body of a YOUNG MAN, early thirties, his bloated body lying cold and dead on the mortuary slab, in the early stages of decomposition—CONSTABLE SNOW is clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.
INSPECTOR SUMMERS
So—fill me in, Thompson. How long d’you think he’s been dead for?
THOMPSON
Hard to say. From the stink on him, I think it’s fair to say he’s not the freshest fish on the slab…
INSPECTOR SUMMERS
(not smiling)
Clock’s ticking, Bones…
THOMPSON
Okay, well, judging from the decay, the bloating and the skin discoloration, I’d say…he’s been in the water a week or so, give or take a day. Initial examination suggests strangulation. By the ligature marks round the neck, I’d say the killer used a thick, coarse rope, or a chain maybe…
DI SUMMERS
A chain? Christ, the poor bastard…
CONSTABLE SNOW
Who found the body?
(SUMMERS shoots her a look—“I ask the questions round here…”)
THOMPSON
Some old dear out walking the dog. Nice lady, eighty-two years old. I think it’s safe to assume you should be looking elsewhere for your serial ki—
“Hang on a second…Nope—nope, sorry, everyone, we’re going to have to stop.”
“Why, what’s up?” snapped Detective Inspector Summers.
“We’ve got flaring.”
“On the lens?”
“Dead guy’s nostrils. You can see him breathing. We’re going to have to go again.”
“Oh, for crying out loud…”
“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, everyone,” said the DEADYOUNGMAN, sitting up and folding his arms self-consciously across his blue-painted chest.
While the crew reset, the director, a long-faced, troubled man with an unconvincing baseball cap pushed far back on a reflective forehead, dragged both hands down his face and sighed. Hauling himself from his canvas chair, he strode over to the DEADYOUNGMAN and knelt matily next to the mortuary slab.
“Right, so, Lazarus, tell me—is there a problem?”
“No, Chris, it’s all good for me…”
“Because—how can I say this—at present, you’re doing a little too much.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
The director peered at his watch, and rubbed the red indentations left by his baseball cap. “Because it’s getting on for two-thirty and…what’s your name, again?”
“Stephen, Stephen McQueen. With a P-H.”
“No relation?”
“No relation.”
“Well, Stephen with a P-H, it’s getting on for two-thirty, and we haven’t even started on the autopsy…”
“Yes, of course. It’s just, you know, with the lights and nerves and everything…”
“It’s not as if you have to perform, all you have to do is bloody lie there.”
“I realize that, Chris, it’s just it’s tricky, you know, not to visibly breathe, for that long.”
“No one’s asking you not to breathe…”
“No, I realize that,” said Stephen, contriving a chummy laugh.
“…just don’t lie there taking bloody great gulps like you’ve just run the two hundred meters, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t grimace. Just give me something…neutral.”
“Okay. Neutral. But apart from that…?”
“Apart from that, you’re doing terrific work, really.”
“And d’you think we’ll be done by six? It’s just I’ve got to be—”
“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it, Steve?” said the director, resettling the cap, stalking back to his canvas chair. “Oh, and, Steve?” he shouted across the set. “Please don’t hold your belly in—you’re meant to be bloated.”
“Bloated. Okay, bloated.”
“Right, places, everyone,” shouted the first AD and Stephen settled once again on his marble slab, adjusted the damp underwear, closed his eyes, and did his best to pretend to be dead.
The secret of truly great screen acting is to do as little as possible, and this is never more important than when playing an inanimate object.
In a professional career lasting eleven years, Stephen C. McQueen had p
layed six corpses now, each of them carefully thought through and subtly delineated, each of them skillfully conveying the pathos of being other than alive. Keen not to get typecast, he had downplayed this on his CV, allocating the various corpses intriguing, charismatic leading-man names like MAX or OLIVER rather than the more accurate, less evocative BODY or VICTIM. But word had obviously got round the industry—no one did nothing at all quite like Stephen C. McQueen. If you wanted someone to be pulled from the Grand Union Canal at dawn, or lie slack, broken and uncomplaining across the bonnet of a car, or slump prone at the bottom of a muddy First World War trench, then this was the man. His very first job after leaving drama school had been RENT BOY 2 in Vice City, a hard-hitting prime-time crime show. One line—
RENT BOY 2
(Geordie accent)
Why-ay, ya lookin’ fah a good time, mista?
—then a long, hot afternoon spent with his arm dangling out of a black trash bag. Of course, at thirty-two, his Rent Boy days were some way behind him now, but Stephen C. McQueen could still usually pass muster as most other remains.
But for some reason, today his technique was letting him down. This was a shame, because Summers and Snow was a TV institution, and in a few months upwards of nine million people would settle down in front of the telly on a Sunday night, to see him swiftly strangled, then lying here, inert, in a stranger’s underwear. You’d be hard-pushed to call it a break as such, but if the director liked what he did, or didn’t do, if he got on with his costars, they might use him again, to play someone who walked about, moved his face, spoke aloud. First Rule of Showbiz—it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Stay professional. Be positive. Be committed. Always have a motivation. The trick is to impress. Always ensure that people like you, at least until you’re famous enough for it not to matter anymore.
Waiting for the next take, Stephen sat up straight on the cold slab, and stretched his arms behind his back till he felt his shoulders crack—important not to stiffen up, important to keep limber. He glanced round the set, in the hope of striking up a conversation with his fellow actors. Craggy, Stern, Ex-Alcoholic Loner Detective Inspector Tony Summers and Perky, Independent-Minded Constable Sally Snow were in a tight little huddle some way off, sipping tea from plastic cups and confidently eating all the best biscuits. Stephen had always nursed a bit of a crush on Abigail Edwards, the actress playing Constable Snow, and had even worked out a throwaway little joke he could use in conversation, about his role. “It’s a living, Abi!” he would quip self-deprecatingly out of the side of his mouth in between takes, then raise a moldy eyebrow, and she’d laugh, eyes sparkling, and perhaps they’d swap numbers at the end of filming, go for a drink or something. But the opportunity had never arisen. In between takes she’d barely acknowledged him, and clearly in Abigail Edwards’s eyes, he might as well be, well…dead.
A cheery makeup artist appeared by Stephen’s side, spritzed him with water and dabbed his face and lips with Vaseline. Was her name Deborah? Another Rule of Showbiz—always, always call everyone by their name…
“So how do I look, Deborah?” he asked.
“It’s Janet. You look gorgeous! Funny old job this, isn’t it?”
“Still—it’s a living!” he quipped, but Janet was already back in her canvas chair.
“Quick as you can, please, people,” barked the first AD, and Stephen lay back down on the mortuary slab, like a large, wet fish.
Keep still.
Don’t let them see you breathe.
Remember—you are dead.
My motivation is not to be alive.
Acting is not re-acting.
The C in Stephen C. McQueen, incidentally, was there at the insistence of his agent, to prevent any confusion with the international movie star.
It was not a mistake that anyone had yet made.
Meet Number 12
The New Romantic
Lucky Lucy Chatterton makes eyes at the hot young actor who’s setting London’s glittering West End—and Hollywood—on fire.
There was only one response when I told female friends I was about to interview Josh Harper—Sheer, Unadulterated Envy. “Lucky old you,” they sighed. “Any chance of getting his phone number?” Sitting opposite him in an exclusive West End members’ club, it’s easy to see why.
Still only twenty-eight, Josh Harper is Britain’s hottest, and prettiest, young actor. Recently voted the Twelfth Sexiest Man in the World by readers of a well-known women’s magazine, he shot to fame four years ago when he became the youngest actor ever to win a BAFTA for his heartbreaking performance as Clarence, the mentally handicapped young man waging a battle with terminal disease, in acclaimed TV drama Seize the Day. Since then he’s had huge success on stage as a sexually charged Romeo, and on the silver screen as a psychotic, cross-dressing gangster in ultraviolent Brit-Crime flick Stiletto, while still finding time to save the world in futuristic thriller TomorrowCrime. Christmas sees the release of his biggest movie yet, big-budget Hollywood sci-fi adventure Mercury Rain, but at present he’s resisting the siren call of Hollywood, to play another dashing rake, Lord Byron, in the critically acclaimed West End show Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know.
“It’s Byron’s life, told through his own words—his letters, poems and journals,” he says, sipping his double espresso, and looking at me with those unnervingly clear blue eyes. “It’s an amazing story. In a way, Byron was the first rock star—international fame, women throwing themselves at him—but he was really radical too, and really into politics, just like me. All of that, plus he was bisexual, had an incestuous relationship with his sister, and a club foot. A wild and crazy guy!”
Does he identify with the character in any way? I ask.
“What, apart from the club foot?” He laughs. “Well, we’re both passionate, I suppose. And I’m really into politics, especially the environment. I’m a happily married man, of course. And my sister’s great, but, you know—there are limits!” Josh Harper throws his head back and laughs again, a warm, bighearted guffaw. At the next table, two women look across at us. Is that envy I see in their eyes?
He goes on to tell me about how he likes to mix theater with bigger-budget, commercial work. Hollywood still holds a fascination for Josh, though he’s not about to move there full time just yet. “Mercury Rain was great fun—running about in space suits, waving guns around—but with those big sci-fi things, most of the time you’re acting to thin air, so they can stick the special effects in later. Still, I hope it’s a bit more sophisticated and intelligent than most of those kinds of movies. It’s basically the old Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, but set in deep space. Also, what’s great about those big event films is that financially they allow me to do the stuff I really love—live theater, like Mad, Bad…or small, independent films. Fame and celebrity, they’re great if you want a restaurant table, but they’re not the reason I got into this. I love the sweat and smell of real acting.”
So will he be doing any more big Hollywood movies?
“Of course! What can I say—I just love blowing stuff up!!! And, yes, there have been offers, but nothing I can talk about. And I don’t think I could ever live in LA full time—I love my beer, fags and football too much!”
So was it true about the James Bond rumors? Josh looks bashful.
“Only a rumor, I’m afraid. My people have talked to their people, but it’s still just a pipe dream. And, anyway, I’m way too young. But one day maybe. Of course I’d love to play Bond—there isn’t an actor in the world who wouldn’t want to play Bond.”
The publicist is tapping her watch now, and there’s only time for a few quick-fire questions. Who or what is the greatest love of your life? I ask.
“My wife, of course,” he replies unhesitatingly, his eyes lighting up. Josh has been married to Nora Harper, an ex-singer, for two years now. Sorry, ladies!
“And how often do you have sex?” I ask, pushing my luck a little. Thankfully, Josh just laughs.
“If it’s not a
personal question?!? As often as we possibly can.”
“How do you relax?”
“See above!”
“When and where were you happiest?”
“See above!!”
“Favorite smell?”
He ponders for a moment. “Either new-mown grass or the top of a newborn baby’s head…”
“Favorite movie?”
“The Empire Strikes Back.”
“And what’s your favorite word?”
He thinks for a moment. “One my wife taught me—uxorious.”
…and Stephen C. McQueen thought this might perhaps be a good time to stop reading. He tossed the newspaper back onto the train seat opposite. What was it with the smell of a newborn baby’s head anyway? Josh wasn’t even a father. Whose head had he been smelling? From the seat opposite, the photo of Josh grinned up at him, immaculately stubbled, hands running through his hair, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. Stephen turned the photo facedown, and went back to looking out of the train window, at the tower blocks and terraces of Stock-well and Vauxhall sliding by.
Stephen caught sight of his reflection in the window, and thought about how he might interpret the role of James Bond. True, he had yet to be approached about the part, but by way of a private audition, he raised one eyebrow, gave himself a suave little James Bond smile and tried, very hard, to picture himself in a white tuxedo, standing at a roulette wheel surrounded by beautiful, dangerous women.
He had a momentary vision of himself as CONTROL ROOM TECHNICIAN 4, stumbling backward through a sugar-glass window into the submarine dock below, his lab coat on fire.
The Nearly CV
Stephen C. McQueen had two CVs.
Alongside the real-life résumé of all the things he had actually achieved, there was the Nearly CV. This was the good-luck version of his life, the one where the close shaves and the near misses and the second choices had all worked out; the version where he hadn’t been knocked off his bike on the way to that audition, or come down with shingles during the first week of rehearsal; the one where they hadn’t decided to give the role to that bastard off the telly.
The Understudy Page 1