Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  He loped off across the studio. ‘He’s awesome,’ said Claire appreciatively. ‘Ah – here comes Luce.’

  Lucy was a neat, brown-haired 30-year old, wearing a white coat like a lab technician. ‘Let’s go,’ she said briskly. ‘We’ve got all your ingredients ready – now talk me through your recipe …’

  Recipe was going a bit far. Basically you took a packet of shop-bought meringues, a Snickers bar, some tinned or frozen raspberries and a tub of ice-cream. (I imagined Emily Twig’s face as she calculated how many calories that little lot came to.) You chopped up the chocolate bar and heated it in a saucepan until it was all melted with the nuts floating, then you crushed up the meringue and added that, and then you put a great wedge of ice-cream in there too and pulverised the lot.

  The result was a great melting, crunchy, chocolaty mass which you piled into a bowel, decorated with raspberries so at least there was the odd vitamin in evidence, and devoured as quickly as you could before the ice-cream had totally liquefied.

  Stanley loved it – it was standard fare for birthdays and celebrations. Lucy nodded. ‘We need to give it a name,’ she said dubiously.

  ‘At home we call it Snickers Car Crash. Or Mum’s Mess.’ I laughed. ‘A bit like Eton Mess, but …

  ‘We’ll go for Laura’s Raspberry Crush,’ said Lucy firmly.

  I was introduced to various other people who were doing various other things with cameras and lights, and was miked up with another of those black boxes attached to my waistband. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be turned off till you come on set – you can go to the loo without fear,’ said the grinning boy who fitted it. And then I was taken back to wait in the green room.

  There were plates of sandwiches and cheese and biscuits laid out now, but I was too twitchy to eat. I went to the loo down the corridor and then went again. Bob and Carol were on the monitor. The sound was turned down but I could see Bob was still guffawing and waving a wooden spoon around while Carol was gazing at her chef in terror and gripping the edge of the work surface for dear life.

  Tracy, my minder, sat down opposite me. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ she asked.

  I shook my head, sipping some water and realising my hand was shaking. ‘I’m quite nervous now,’ I said.

  Tina smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ll be fine once you’re on – everyone says it goes really quickly.’ The radio thingy on her belt crackled and she pulled it out and listened. ‘Got it.’ She nodded at me. ‘Five minutes,’ she said brightly.

  After that it was a bit of a blur. I recalled following her to the doors into the studio and coming down the steps to applause, keeping my eyes fixed manically on the spot where I had to end up and my hands trembling so much that I thought I was going to chop one of my fingers off. But afterwards I could hardly remember anything else except the crunch of gristle on bone as Bruno went to kiss me and our noses collided.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Back in the green room, Cal kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Time for a drink now!’ He turned as Bob and Carol came through the door and collected their coats. Cal shook hands with them both warmly. ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘Capital,’ said Bob, while Carol, who looked as though she might be suffering from post-traumatic stress, smiled weakly.

  ‘Has Tracy told you your car’s waiting?’ Cal disappeared out of the room with them. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ I could hear him saying as they went off down the corridor. ‘We’ll send you an email to let you know when it’s been scheduled …’

  A skinny bloke came in and got a bottle of mineral water out of the glass-fronted mini-bar. I remembered someone introducing us earlier – Lenny, was it? He was lighting or sound or something. He had long, brown hair pushed back into a pony tail and a tight black T shirt and combat pants. ‘Hi again,’ he drawled, flopping down opposite me. ‘Have a good time?’

  ‘Yes, it was great.’

  He nodded. ‘You looked good on screen – came across really well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, self-consciously. ‘That make-up girl – Debby, I mean – was marvellous.’

  Lenny gave a strange laugh. ‘It’s not the make-up you have to thank, darlin’.’

  I looked at him quizzically.

  Lenny sat up straighter. ‘It’s all in the lighting. Whatever they put on your face, it’s yours truly who decides whether you look good or not.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You bet. Why do you think the really old pros carry their own uplighters?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what an uplighter is.’

  ‘The secret of all lighting is the source. Think of someone photographed in the harsh sun. It hits the angles and makes deep shadows that accentuate all the wrinkles. Same if you use a small, pop-up flash – makes all the lines on the face sharp and unflattering. That’s because the light is hard.’ Lenny was leaning forward, quite animated now. ‘It’s coming from a small source, see?’

  He looked at me intently. ‘Now,’ he said, as if imparting something of great importance, ‘compare that with when you bounce the flash off the ceiling– it’s all diffused and soft, isn’t it?’

  I nodded, trying to look intelligent, although I had little idea what he was talking about. ‘That sort of light, from a wide source, softens the angles, so lines on your face are smoothed out,’

  ‘Very handy!’ I put in encouragingly. ‘Could save a fortune on face cream.’

  ‘In a studio photographic shoot,’ continued Lenny, undeterred, ‘the photographer will shoot the flash into an umbrella, which is basically a reflector. It’s the same principle in the studios here. We need the right amount of light to bring your face alive – but not to show every flaw.’ He paused and appeared to scrutinise my chins.

  ‘And of course, as you age, the lighting becomes ever more important. That’s why the older actresses will always come across and be dead nice to me.’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘They know I’m the one who can make or break how they look. The war paint helps, of course, but it’s much more about that –’

  He pointed at the monitor where the camera in the now-empty studio was trained on a sofa – with various lights grouped around it. ‘I was on a shoot the other day. Young girl in her teens – not a line on her face – but the way they wanted to light the guy she was with, it put decades on her.’

  ‘Why did they want the lighting like that, then?’ I asked with interest.

  ‘Trying to make him look dodgy,’ said Lenny easily. ‘You see, you get your angles of light too. Shoot a hard light straight up from the bottom of the face, you’ll end up looking like something out of a Hitchcock film; that’s how to make things look spooky. Yet with a nice soft light coming from 45 degrees, the modelling effect on your face will be lovely.’

  He grinned wolfishly. ‘Sometimes they change the light from one to the other. If, for example, you’ve got a pretty young thing with some randy old goat, you might light her to make her look 15, while you show up every crack and crevice on his face till he looks like her granddad, never mind her father. Seen it done the other way too,’ he added with relish.

  ‘There was an actress who’d married a bloke 30 years younger. In fact, she looked great for her age but by the time they’d finished with her on breakfast TV, he only needed a pair of short trousers and she looked ready for her bath chair.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I said indignantly. ‘If she didn’t look like that really.’

  Lenny winked. ‘It’s the way it is. Always remember to be good to your lighting guy. If some old cow’s rude to me she’ll soon know about it when she sees herself later …’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ My fingers went instinctively to my scraggy neck.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Laura,’ said Cal from the doorway. ‘On this show, we do our best to make everyone look lovely and you looked fabulous.’ Cal was carrying a bottle of champagne. Behind him, an unsmiling Tanya had a couple of flutes in each hand.

  Cal poured champagne into one of
them and handed it to me. ‘Want one, Len?’

  ‘Yeah, go on …’

  I watched him fill three more glasses, a little warm glow inside me. I could get used to this, I thought, drinking champagne while people told me how fab I was. I looked at Cal’s dark lashes as he bent over the bottle. He was gorgeous and nice with it, with a glamorous job in television. He must have girls falling all over him.

  He glanced up and caught me gazing at him. ‘You’re not in a hurry, are you, Laura?’ He gave me a smile and I felt my face colour. I looked at my watch.

  ‘Well – I was wanting to catch the 18.03. I need to be home before eight …’ I had managed to organise Daniel to meet Stanley after school and take him bowling and out to eat by pretending I had an important meeting about work, but I couldn’t stay out too late as he’d be wanting to get back to The Twig.

  Cal looked at his watch too. ‘If we get the car round in half an hour? I just really want to tell you about this project of mine – and Tanya’s,’ he added, looking toward her. She was sitting close to Lenny, glass in hand, a bored expression on her face.

  Cal’s brown eyes looked seriously into mine. ‘As I explained before, it’s about women in their 40s and how these days that’s a really great place to be. But we’ll be looking at the different ways in which different women approach this time in their lives – emotionally, spiritually, sexually … A holistic approach if you like …’

  Beside him, Lenny put down his empty glass. ‘I’ve gotta split.’ Lenny got up and nodded at me. ‘See ya.’

  Tanya sighed and got up with him. I wondered if they were an item. ‘I’ve got loads to do too. You don’t need me, do you, Cal?’ It was a statement, not a question. Cal shook his head. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said flatly, not looking at either of us. ‘Come on, Len.’

  Cal poured more champagne. ‘We’re going to be looking at beauty treatments, alternative therapies, fitness regimes, that sort of thing. It’s not entirely decided yet – they’re still working on the script – but we’re probably going to be using three or four women, who have all approached going into their 40s in a different way.’ He sat back and sipped at his drink.

  ‘One might have lots of kids and has let herself go a bit. Perhaps she thinks she’s too old for any of this beauty and fashion stuff any more –the sort of person perhaps your mum used to be when she was 40.’

  ‘My mum was like that when she was 20, believe me!’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps she’d like to be in it too, then. We’ll have bits of footage showing women a few decades ago in headscarfs and slippers etc.’

  He put the glass down and leant forward, his face animated. ‘Then we’ll be having another subject who’s really fighting the ageing process all the way but with desperation. ‘Plastic surgery, short skirts, chasing after younger men …’ He gave me a conspiratorial smile. Had I imagined it or had he moved a little closer to me? The distance between our knees seemed to have shortened. ‘And then there’d be you, illustrating the balanced approach – showing how you can be fit and attractive at 40 –’

  ‘Actually I’m 42.’

  ‘Perfect! That was exactly the sort of age we were hoping for. Into your 40s but still plenty of them left to go.’

  I took another gulp of champagne even though it was some hours now since I’d eaten and it was rather going to my head. He was definitely sitting very near to me. I was aware of his breathing.

  ‘So what exactly would I have to do, then?’

  ‘We’d want you to be filmed having some beauty treatments and exercising. Though obviously you’re in really good shape already. Would you be prepared to be filmed in a bikini?’

  ‘No, definitely not,’ I said, recoiling and nearly choking on my bubbles. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I mean, I may look OK to you in these clothes but I assure you I’m not up to that close an inspection …’

  Cal laughed. ‘I bet you are – Marie was most impressed.’

  ‘No, really, I’d be mortified.’ I looked at him, embarrassed. Had they all had a summit meeting on the state of my cellulite?

  He stopped laughing and put a hand on my arm. ‘Please don’t worry – it was just a thought. You wouldn’t have to do anything you were uncomfortable with. I was just trying to get a feel for how you viewed yourself.’

  He gave my forearm a little squeeze. ‘Personally I hate the whole business of women being judged by their bodies and looks – it’s what’s inside that counts for me. The idea is to make that point.’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘We’re going to show the lengths some women are prepared to go to, with you there to illustrate how you just don’t need all that stuff. You’ll be showing how you will always be beautiful, vibrant and sexy, however old you are.’

  ‘Well I don’t know about that, ‘I said, pleased but self-conscious now under his intense gaze. I was also aware of my heart beating. Don’t be ridiculous.

  He leant forward again, our knees almost touching now. ‘I do. I really think you’d be good at what I’ve got in mind …’

  ‘The thing is,’ I said a bit later, trying to sound business-like although I was now feeling quite tipsy. ‘It sounds as if it would take up quite a lot of time. And there’s my son to think of. And I have to work, of course …’

  ‘We can fit in around you – we can film in the evenings and weekends – and we can try and do as much as possible at the same time so there’s minimum disruption to your routine. You can get a lot done in two or three longish days – if that suits you best. There’d be gaps in filming but from start to finish I should think we could wrap the whole thing up in three to four weeks.’

  I hesitated, feeling awkward again. ‘Would I be paid?’

  ‘Well, not as such, because it’s a matter of ethics again. This is a documentary looking at real women’s lives – but you’d get all your expenses and a few extra perks too – some clothes and beauty products maybe. And certainly there’d be treatments and hair appointments; gym membership, maybe a day at a spa. That sort of thing.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘If it’s important, I’ll see what I can do – I might be able to work you a small fee …’

  He shone the full force of that brilliant, knee-weakening smile on me once more. ‘Perhaps you’d like some more time to think about it.’

  I thought. Free facials, new clothes and my hair done. Three weeks of being whizzed about by car and followed round by a film crew as if I were a star. All of it in Cal’s undeniably gorgeous company. What was it Sarah had said about looking after oneself after the trauma of a marriage break up? Give yourself a few treats?

  I smiled back at him. ‘Not really,’ I said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Again?’ Stanley said belligerently. ‘You’re always going away.’

  ‘It’s only for one night. And after that they’ll be filming round here. I’m sorry, darling, but it’s really important. Just think, I’m going to be in a documentary!’ I beamed at him. ‘I’ll come and get you early on Saturday and Charlotte’s going to make you toad in the hole.’

  I could see this had scored a couple of points so I swept on. ‘And Becky won’t even be there – she’s on a sleepover with Lauren. So it will just be you and Joe and wall-to-wall PlayStation. Good hey?’

  ‘Why can’t Grandma come again?’ he said in a half-hearted fashion.

  ‘It’s her night for going to the cinema with Betty.’ And I haven’t got over last time yet. I kept smiling. ‘And you know you have a good time at Charlotte’s – you always say you love her food best of everyone’s.’

  ‘I’m on a diet.’

  ‘Stanley, you are not. Don’t be so silly – you’re growing.

  ‘I’m fat.’ He turned away from me and poked his foot into his school rucksack still lying on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Has somebody said something to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Emily again?’

  ‘No . Leave me alone.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I moved round so I was fa
cing him but he turned away once more.

  ‘You are!’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t go,’ I said miserably to Charlotte as I sat in her kitchen watching her expertly pipe black icing into spider webs on a rack of cupcakes. ‘And look at me, I’m such a shit mother – I hadn’t even realised it was Halloween.’

  Charlotte straightened up and pointed at the fridge. ‘Give yourself a break, for God’s sake. And pour me one while you’re at it. You know what kids are like – Stanley will be fine.’

  She pushed the hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve got loads of trick and treat stuff – masks and all sorts – I’ll take him and Joe out and there’ll have a great time.’

  She made a face at the bowl of icing. ‘Though why I have to do this lot I don’t know – can’t any of the other mothers knock up a sponge? I spend my life supplying cakes to that damn PTA.’ She wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned to me.

  ‘Look – he’s bound to be up and down. Hormones, new school, dad moving out, but he’ll survive. You have fun and I’ll make sure he’s OK. You deserve a few nice things to happen – go and have your crow’s feet rubbed or whatever they’re going to do and I’ll look after Stanley.’

  I got up, walked round the table, and put my arms round her. ‘I do love you,’ I said, emotionally. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘I love you too, love. And it’s a pleasure. Now, where’s that bloody drink?’

  * * *

  I sat on the train and stared unseeingly at the flat Kent fields, still feeling guilty. Stanley had seemed OK when I’d dropped him off at school that morning and had even let me hug him in the car. But he still hadn’t been any more forthcoming about what was wrong. Surely he was too young to be hormonal already? He didn’t seem to be displaying any other signs of puberty.

  I’d phoned the school before I left for the station, hoping for a chat with Andrew Lazlett, but he was away on a training day. The secretary said she’d leave a message. I didn’t know what I expected him to do. If it was the other boys’ teasing that was getting to Stanley there wasn’t much to be done about that, except to hope they’d stop or he’d get used to it.