‘No, really? How extraordinary, it’s one of my passions too. What camera do you have?’
‘Oh, er, well, I use all sorts really, a Canon, an Olympus, a Brownie –’
‘A Brownie?’ He looked astonished.
‘Yes, you see, I’m a great believer in not getting too attached to one particular camera, I like to think I can get equally good results whichever one I use. It’s much more of a challenge if the art is down to the photographer rather than his tools, don’t you agree?’ Gosh, was that my mouth talking? I quickly popped some smoked salmon into it before it said anything else. Its capacity to perform in public without consulting me first was getting seriously out of hand. I chewed hard.
Sam looked puzzled. ‘Well, it’s an interesting thought, but I must say I’ve always tended to use the camera that gives me the best results.’ He sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘You have a dark room here, I suppose?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You develop them yourself?’
‘Oh, good Lord no, this may be deepest Cornwall but we’re not that backward, no. I take them into Helston, Boots does a very good twenty-four-hour service.’
‘Oh!’
‘More wine?’
‘Er, yes, thanks very much.’ Sam looked amused, obviously enjoying my company.
‘And are these your pictures?’ he asked, indicating the extremely average happy holiday snaps arranged on the cabinet.
‘Oh no, Nick took most of those.’ An awful lot of them featured Nick, but I didn’t let that bother me. ‘No, mine are all upstairs. I’m rather shy about displaying them, actually.’
‘Oh, come now, you mustn’t be shy!’ Sam scraped his chair back a bit and rested his arm on the back of my chair. ‘I’d love to see them.’ He held my gaze for just a little longer than was strictly necessary.
Christ! I took a great gulp of wine and quite a lot went down my chin. Gosh, this was so exciting. He was flirting outrageously with me, wasn’t he? He obviously fancied me something rotten.
‘Oh, they’re frightfully ordinary,’ I warbled, desperate to get off the subject of my fascinating camera technique. ‘You wouldn’t be very interested – but tell me,’ I cupped my chin in my hands and gave him what I hoped was a ravishing smile, ‘what I really want to know is how did you get into directing?’
He smiled. ‘Oh, that’s a long and boring story.’
‘Rubbish, I’m interested, go on.’
Sam sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I worked my way up from the bottom really. It’s the only way in the film world; nobody’s terribly impressed by degrees or exam results. I started off as a runner when I left school – ran my little legs off, in fact – then I got a job as a second assistant, which led to first assistant, then finally someone gave me a chance to direct my first commercial. That led fairly naturally to films, of course, but I tell you it was a hard slog getting there – you have to be prepared to work very long hours. Sally was marvellous about it but it can’t have been much fun for her.’
‘Sally?’
‘My wife. We’d only just got married and the last thing we wanted to do was spend our evenings apart. I missed her like mad, so in the end she used to come and watch me work, sit there reading or sewing or something while I fiddled around with a camera. Then we’d go out and have a late supper. It was the only way to get on in those days: you had to put in the hours and learn how to do things practically, learn how to focus properly, how to get the lighting right, that sort of thing. Of course, being a photographer in my spare time helped enormously. It’s very much a natural progression, as I’m sure you’re aware, Polly.’ He smiled.
I stared at him blankly. I’d been thinking about Sally. What was a natural progression?
‘Oh! Oh yes, of course, it is, isn’t it? Yes, I’m terribly interested in filming myself, always catch the latest directors – Visconti, Coppola, Capoletti – I’ve seen them all, never miss a chance to see something avant-garde.’
‘Capoletti? I’m not sure I know him.’
Heavens, did I mean Capoletti, or was that a kind of pasta? Luckily, there was a slight pause as Mrs Bradshaw, whom I’d enlisted to help for the evening, replaced our empty salmon plates with pheasant. ‘Oh, er, well, he’s a bit of an acquired taste really, does, um, spaghetti westerns, that kind of thing.’
‘Really? Well, you certainly have eclectic tastes. Do they cater for that sort of thing down here?’
‘Oh yes, we have a marvellous cinema in Helston’ – the fact that it showed The Jungle Book pretty much continuously was neither here nor there – ‘marvellous, but you know what really interests me, Sam, is the actual technique of film-making. That’s why I was so keen for you all to come down here. I want to immerse myself in the finer nuances, get the smell of greasepaint up my nose.’
Sam smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid it’s only a commercial, Polly.’
‘Oh, I know, but I’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t I? And it’s such a shame you’re shooting the final day in London! I only found that out from Pippa earlier on today. I would have loved to have seen it through to the end, appreciated it as a whole entity and –’
I jumped as an arm went round my shoulders and a head came between me and Sam.
‘I don’t know what she’s telling you but I wouldn’t believe it if I were you. It’s bound to be lies, every word of it!’
‘Tim! You made it at last!’ I blushed, wishing he hadn’t hit the nail quite so firmly on the head. ‘Sam, this is my brother-in-law Tim Penhalligan; Tim, this is Sam Weston, the director.’
Tim smiled and held out his hand. He was a smaller, softer version of Nick, nice-looking but with none of Nick’s stature and presence.
‘I can’t believe you got my brother to agree to this commercial,’ he said to Sam incredulously. ‘You must have asked him at a very weak moment.’
‘Well, you’ll have to ask Polly about that – she engineered the whole thing.’
‘I bet she did!’ Tim grinned widely. ‘Exactly how devious and Machiavellian did you have to be, Polly?’
‘Now, Tim, don’t be like that, go and sit down next to Pippa, there’s a good boy. Your wife’s made the most delicious pheasanty thing and it’s getting cold.’ I shooed him away before he had a chance to elaborate on my engineering skills.
I turned back to Sam and smiled winningly, wondering what we could talk about next. Would he be interested in the organization of the village fête, I wondered?
‘So, why don’t you then?’ he asked with a smile.
I jumped. ‘Sorry? What?’
‘The commercial, you said you’d like to see it through to the end. Why don’t you come up to London for the studio shoot? Frankly, there’s a lot of waiting around and not much action, but, if you’re interested, by all means come and watch – you’d be more than welcome.’
‘Oh! Oh, well, I don’t know, I mean it’s quite a long way to go just to watch a commercial being shot, isn’t it?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’ He nodded. ‘I just thought I’d offer, but you’re right – it’s a hell of a drive just to stand around in a draughty studio.’ He smiled and cupped his ear at Bruce, who was shouting something at him across the table. ‘What? Missed that, Bruce.’
I stared at his profile, then down at my pheasant. Well done, Polly, you handled that beautifully, you moron. I watched him chatting and laughing with Bruce, so easy, so self-assured, so urbane, so … London. Suddenly I wanted to stand around in a draughty studio more than anything else in the world. I tried to catch his eye but he was deep in discussion. Bruce was waxing lyrical about the porcelain.
‘You really should see it, Sam, it’s out of this world!’
‘So you said earlier, Brucey, but to be honest it’s not really my scene.’
‘Don’t you like antiques?’ I asked, trying to crowbar my way back into the conversation.
He turned and looked at me for a moment. ‘In the right setting, yes, I do, and they look perfect here, but personally I’m
more at home with the minimalist look. I’m not very keen on clutter – I like very clean lines.’ He laughed. ‘I’m probably a bit of a philistine but if truth be told I like everything to be bang up to date. I’m not a great one for living in the past and being surrounded by relics.’
‘Oh, but these Meissen figurines are different,’ gushed Bruce. ‘They’re mind-blowing, they belong in a museum. They must be worth a fortune, Polly!’
‘Probably,’ I said ruefully, ‘and don’t get me wrong, I love them too, but sometimes I think I’d love the money more. We need it so badly at the moment but Nick won’t hear of selling anything; they’ve been in the family for generations, you see.’
‘Oh, you couldn’t sell them!’ said Bruce, shocked.
Mrs Bradshaw momentarily obscured Bruce from view as she leaned in to serve some vegetables. I seized my chance.
‘Sam, actually,’ I murmured, leaning towards him and blushing slightly, ‘I’d love to come. You’re right, it would be a tremendous opportunity.’
‘Really?’ He grinned. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘Oh, I don’t know …’ I faltered, wishing he wouldn’t look at me like that. ‘I – I would have said yes in the first place but I suppose I’m not used to having things sprung on me like that.’
‘It’s always as well to say yes to things, rather than no,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a bit of a philosophy with me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ I said quickly, thinking I’d say yes to absolutely everything from now on.
‘Good, well, I’m delighted you’re coming. The last day’s really quite fun. We usually go out for a few drinks after the shoot, have something to eat.’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘A wrap party! I’ve heard about those!’
‘Well, not quite, we’re making a Doggy Chocs commercial, not Ben Hur, but budget permitting we should have a few laughs.’ He took a sip of wine, smiled at me over his glass, then turned to talk to Sarah, who was momentarily on her own.
I drank my wine thoughtfully and wondered what his wife was like. Stunningly beautiful, I suspected, but perhaps in a rather hard way. Sharp little power suits, a dark geometric bob and bright-red Paloma Picasso lips, no doubt. Really high-powered and successful, another media whiz kid or something big in PR. I wondered what she did while her man was away shooting? Did she pine, or was she even now twinkling away in a similar vein at an elegant dinner party in London, besotting a barrister or mesmerizing a management consultant – it certainly seemed to be the way the chattering classes behaved these days, and why not? It was obviously totally harmless, and great fun. Gosh, I was so out of touch. But I wondered if I’d mind if Nick chatted up the birds quite so vociferously. I watched him at the other end of the table laughing and joking with Pippa. Now, that really was harmless. He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back, relieved that we were at least on smiling terms again.
‘Nick can spare you for a couple of days, can he?’ asked Sam with a grin, clearly witnessing this touching exchange of teeth.
‘A – couple of days?’
He saw my face. ‘Well, it’s not really worth driving there and back in one day, you’ll be whacked, but of course if you’d rather just come up for the morning or –’
‘No, no! No, I wouldn’t! I mean, you’re absolutely right, I’ll stay with Pippa. Yes, of course he can spare me; I don’t have to ask permission, you know!’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’
‘And, um, where shall I meet you?’ I asked, leaning back and rummaging in the sideboard drawer behind me for paper and a pencil. ‘Where do I have to go? What time?’ I flipped open a pad.
Sam laughed. ‘You’re so efficient, Polly. I could do with a secretary like you! To be honest, I’m not absolutely sure. I haven’t actually used the studio before, but I think it’s somewhere in Chalk Farm. I’m sure Pippa will fill you in on the details.’
‘Oh sure, I’ll ask her later,’ I said, nonchalantly flinging the pad and paper over my shoulder on to the floor, as if I couldn’t be more relaxed about where and when I was next going to see him. I tucked into my supper and turned to chat to Bruce for a while.
After a bit, Mrs Bradshaw appeared to take more plates away. It was too much for her to carry in one go so I got to my feet and held out my hands. ‘Here, let me help you.’
She stared incredulously at me and stalked past, holding on firmly to the dirty dishes. I flushed unattractively and sat down in confusion. Sam gave her a winning smile as she collected his and, to my surprise, she smiled back.
‘God, that was blood out of a stone,’ he muttered. ‘Where did you find her, Central Casting?’
I sighed ruefully, ‘Unfortunately I inherited her with the house.’
‘Well, I should disinherit her if I were you. Life’s too short to be bossed around in your own home.’
I stared at him. He didn’t care what he said, did he? For all he knew she might be a faithful and valued old retainer. But he was right, and it was about time I said what I thought for a change too, instead of pussyfooting around people’s feelings and getting my own crushed in the process. It was about time I stood up for myself. I watched as he chatted to Sarah, not quite as flirtatiously as he had with me, I was pleased to see, but still charm itself, asking questions and listening attentively to the answers as if she were the only person in the room with anything worthwhile to say.
Sarah caught my eye when he’d turned back to Bruce and did a mock swoon. ‘Divine,’ she mouthed, rolling her eyes.
I grinned, but felt ridiculously proprietorial. He was my film director, making a commercial in my house, so I got to be chatted up, OK? My turn came again soon enough and I made the most of it, laughing uproariously at all his jokes, twinkling merrily into his eyes and doing a great deal of crossing and uncrossing of legs, even once – in a very daring moment and hoping to God Nick hadn’t seen – retrieving a deliberately dropped napkin from the floor. It was the best fun I’d had in ages.
Later that evening when everyone had gone, I took the coffee cups through to the kitchen where Mrs Bradshaw was washing up. I closed the door behind me.
‘That’s OK, Mrs Bradshaw, I’ll do the rest, you get off home.’
She didn’t budge from her position at the sink, neither did she acknowledge my remark. She simply took the cups from my hands without even looking at me and carried on washing up. I bit my lip and moved to the side of the sink where she could see me.
‘I said leave it, really, I’ll finish up here.’
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ she growled.
‘Look, I don’t think you understand. I don’t want you to do any more. In fact I don’t want you to do anything for me ever again.’
She looked up sharply. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean I’m letting you go, Mrs Bradshaw.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Of course I can. I’ll give you a month’s wages, of course, but I honestly think it’s best for all concerned if you leave now. You obviously don’t enjoy working here and, to be perfectly honest, I don’t enjoy having you. Goodnight, Mrs Bradshaw.’ I turned and left her staring open-mouthed into the soap suds.
I closed the kitchen door softly behind me and went upstairs to the bedroom. I smiled. Yes, I was sorting my life out. It was really beginning to take shape. Nick was already in bed. I climbed in beside him.
‘I’ve fired Mrs Bradshaw,’ I whispered.
‘’Bout time too,’ he murmured back.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Course not. I said you should do it. What made you suddenly decide?’
‘Oh, just something Sam said. It’s such a relief, I must say.’
There was a pause. ‘Good,’ he said gruffly. ‘Anything else? Or can I go to sleep now, I’ve got to be up in a few hours.’
‘Well … there is, actually. D’you mind if I go to London for a couple of days?’
‘Of course not, why?’
; ‘Well, I thought it would be fun to see the rest of the commercial being made. Sam suggested it and I’d really quite like to.’ This last bit came out in a bit of a rush. There was another pause.
‘Fine,’ said Nick slowly, ‘although I’m surprised, Polly. I thought you would have had enough of commercials from your advertising days.’
‘Oh, well, yes, I certainly typed a few, but I never actually made it to a shoot, did I?’
‘My fault, I’m sure,’ he said drily. ‘When are you off?’
‘On Thursday.’
‘Right. Anything else?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Good.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said a few moments later, ‘I thought I might buy a camera.’
Nick made no response.
Chapter Nine
I was awoken the following morning by a scrunch of wheels on the gravel, followed by a terrific barking. I sat up in bed with a jolt. For some extraordinary reason I’d been having an erotic dream about Val Doonican, and we’d ended up in a precarious position in his rocking chair with one of his woolly cardies thrown over us, rocking for England, as it were. Understandably, I was in something of a fluster when I flew out of bed and ran to the window, not least because it had been strangely pleasurable … Perhaps Pippa was right about older men?
I peered out, loins still twanging perceptibly, to see a large green van parked outside on the drive. The deafening barking was coming from within and the van itself looked possessed, jumping up and down of its own accord as its canine occupants hurled themselves against the sides, howling their heads off, desperate for their liberty. I shivered and grabbed Val’s cardie – I mean my dressing gown – and watched as a little pixie of a man with a green cap on jumped down from the cab and ran round to open the door at the back.
The moment he’d turned the handle the door flew open and out leaped ten or twelve dogs of various shapes and sizes, all thoroughly overexcited and barking their heads off furiously. I was relieved to see that they were all on leads and attached to two or three formidable Barbara Woodhouse-type minders who were fairly dragged out of the van after them, yelling at them in foghorn, county voices.
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