by Andy Jones
Rob spent yesterday shooting establishing and incidental shots, and in between set-ups I look at the footage. It’s all excellent. I could use every shot, I tell him, the only problem being it might make my own stuff look bad.
‘Thanks,’ he says bashfully. ‘I appreciate the opportunity.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ I say. ‘We only asked you cos you’re cheap.’
Rob laughs, smiles, opens his mouth, closes it, frowns as if there’s something on his mind but he’s uncertain whether or not to let it out of his mouth. He takes a deep breath, ‘I mean, what with you and . . . Holly . . . and stuff.’
I’d never considered whether or not Rob knew about me and Holly. It hadn’t entered my head that he knew I knew about the two of them. And now that it’s out there, I’m not nearly as embarrassed as I might have imagined I would be. Maybe it’s because Rob is uncomfortable enough for the two of us – for all three of us.
‘Piss off,’ I tell him. ‘And go and see if you can shoot some ravens.’
‘Nice one.’ Rob starts away, hesitates, then turns back and pats me awkwardly on the arm. ‘Yeah, nice one.’
The shoot progresses swiftly and painlessly. Which is perversely annoying. I was looking forward to spending time with my new buddy Albert, but the day is flying past in take after take after perfect take. Ben shoots more variations than we need, changing angles and lighting and direction, but we continue to cross shots off the storyboard with miserable efficiency. I mutter a prayer for rain, but God isn’t listening. It’s a perfect summer day, and the Tower is overrun with happy sightseers and couples and families. And, if you can’t beat ’em . . .
At lunchtime I ask the catering manager to make four packed lunches, and while Ben babysits the grown-ups, Verity and Albert and Bianca and I wander among the crowds, eating ice cream and generally behaving like tourists.
When we return to set ten minutes late, Ben and Ruth and Kaz are sitting all in a row, eyes closed, faces tilted to the sun. If anything, they seem disappointed that we’re back so soon.
And still we can’t seem to avoid lurching ahead of schedule. The shoot is clockwork wound fast, and by four o’clock we’re all but finished. And I know it’s unprofessional and possibly pathetic, but I have a quiet word with Ben and he contrives a camera malfunction that will take roughly the same amount of time to fix as it takes to play one good hand of animal snap. And so, while Rob pretends to fix the imaginary problem, Verity and me and my little buddy growl and bark and schplorbble and laugh ourselves daft one last time. When we wrap for the day and I wave goodbye to Albert, there is a cold pebble of sadness in my belly. Maybe I’ll look him up when he turns eighteen. It’s only eight years and forty-four weeks away.
I’m back at my flat, chopping onions for a chilli.
‘See if you can find some garlic,’ I say to Bianca, pointing my knife at a cupboard. ‘So, did you have a good day?’
‘It was brilliant. I thought everyone’d be wankers, but they’re all really cool.’
‘I’m not entirely sure how to take that. Mushrooms, please. Frigidaire.’
‘Can I have a glass of wine?’
‘With your tea.’
Bianca hands me a tub of mushrooms. ‘I think that old man thought I was your bird.’
‘Doug?’
‘Yeah,’ says Bianca. ‘So have you?’
‘Have I what?’
‘Got a bird.’
‘Nope. Here, put these back in the fridge.’
‘Verity’s nice,’ says Bianca.
‘She is, isn’t she? Chillies, please. Freezer compartment, top drawer.’
‘How many?’
‘How hot can you handle it?’
Bianca hands me two chillies.
‘She’s, like, really pretty, but doesn’t act like she thinks she’s all that. You know what I mean?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Has she got a boyfriend?’ Bianca looks at me, trying to read me.
‘No, I don’t . . . What is this? Twenty questions?’
Bianca claps her hands together. ‘Ha! Busted!’
‘What? Who’s busted?’
She shakes her head. ‘You are so busted.’
‘You,’ I say, advancing on Bianca with a dripping wooden spoon, ‘go and give Dad a ring. Food in thirty minutes. And give him my love.’
Bianca backs towards her room. ‘I’ll tell him how busted you are.’
I leave the chilli to simmer, put on a pan of rice and go to my room to change into a clean set of clothes. On the return trip, I notice a square of folded-up paper on the living room coffee table. My name is handwritten on the top.
Inside: I know you don’t owe me anything, but courtesy costs nothing. I suppose I overestimated you.
Yvette answers her phone on the first ring.
‘Yes?’
‘Yvette, hi, how are you?’
‘Been better.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I tell her.
‘Can you make it quick,’ says Yvette, ‘I’m watching EastEnders.’
‘Okay. I take it we had a viewing today?’
‘That’s generally how we sell our properties, yes. I did text you this morning.’
Did she? Phones are turned off on set and messages are dealt with in batches in between set-ups. This morning I had a message from Dad, checking on Bianca. Something from my phone company, offering an upgrade. And . . . yes, a text from Yvette.
‘And you didn’t reply,’ Yvette goes on, ‘so I assumed it was all right to go ahead.’
‘And did you also assume it was all right to leave an abusive note?’
Silence.
‘Yvette, listen, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.’
‘Really? So your girlfriend hasn’t moved back in, then? Does she know about m—’
‘Hold on a second, Yvette. She’s my sister. She’s helping out with the shoot, and . . .’
And it’s none of your fucking business!
‘Oh my God. I feel so stupid.’
‘Yes, well.’
‘Tom, I’m so sorry. I just . . . it was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘Clearly.’
‘I know it’s silly but’ – Yvette takes a deep breath – ‘well . . . I thought we connected.’
I say nothing. What would I say? ‘Yes, we did’? ‘No, we didn’t’?
‘Well, didn’t we?’ Yvette prompts. ‘Connect?’
‘Well . . . I, er . . . I suppose.’
‘I knew we did. And I know you’re busy and everything, but I got the idea you were avoiding me. And then I saw her clothes everywhere—’
‘Yvette, her clothes are in the spare room.’
‘I know, but I . . . I like you, Tom.’
I know danger signs when I see them. And this one is red and flashing and comes with a klaxon. It’s simple: I need to find a new estate agent, sell up quickly, get the hell out of here and don’t leave a forwarding address. Now, though, isn’t the time to get into it. Bianca’s in the next room and the rice is about to boil over.
‘I’ve got to go. I’m cooking supper for Bianca – my sister.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tom, I feel like . . . like . . .’ Brilliant, now she’s crying. ‘Like such an . . . idiot.’
‘I finish shooting on Thursday,’ I say, shouldering the phone as I take the rice off the heat. ‘We can talk about it after that. In the meantime, will you do me a favour?’
Bianca comes out of the bedroom and mimes a glass of wine.
‘Of course,’ says Yvette. ‘What?’
I nod to Bianca, indicate a small one, and walk through to my bedroom to wrap up the conversation.
‘I think it would be a good idea if we put the viewings on hold for the time being.’
‘You don’t need to . . . I mean, now that I know what’s going on. It was just a misunderstanding.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But the flat’s a mess, my head’s all over the place. We can talk about it after the sho
ot. After my sister has gone.’
‘Are you pissed off with me?’
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘So how is the shoot?’
‘It’s fine, thank you.’
‘And you finish on Thursday?’
‘Yes. Listen, Yvette, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk soon, okay?’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
This is what it must be like being a parent. You cook the meal, watch it gulped down without the slightest appreciation of the effort that went into making it, and then clean the dishes while the ungrateful bugger goes to her room to call her bloody boyfriend. No wonder Dad’s uptight.
While Bea calls Perx, I pop downstairs to see Doug. Ostensibly to borrow a cup of salt, but in reality, to see if I can casually hand him a box of prescription drugs for erectile dysfunction.
‘I’ve made a pot of tea,’ says Doug. ‘You got time for a cuppa?’
‘A quick one; I’ve left my sister upstairs.’
‘Sister?’
‘She’s here doing some work experience.’
Doug pours two cups of reddish-brown tea. The box of blue pills in my back pocket feels as big as a hardback book.
‘How was the weekend?’ Doug asks.
‘Fine,’ I say, and Doug knows all about Mum’s anniversary so he leaves it at that. ‘Jesus, Doug! What sort of tea is . . . Sorry, but that tastes like . . . I don’t know what it tastes like, but it isn’t PG Tips.’
‘Bit bitter, aye.’
‘Bitter? It tastes like twigs.’
‘Hawthorn,’ he says. ‘Good for the circulation, apparently.’
And you have to wonder what would drive a man to drink tea that tastes like something collected from the floor of a stable. I shift in my seat, taking some of my weight off the three diamonds of sildenafil citrate.
‘And how is your . . . circulation?’
‘I’m seventy-one, lad. How d’you think it is?’
‘Fair enough. Maybe you should get a . . . I dunno’ – as if it’s just this second occurred to me – ‘a check-up.’
‘Why would I guddle about with all o’that, lad?’
I slide my teacup to the centre of the table. ‘Save you drinking this muck, for one thing.’
And if I’m going to cut to the chase tonight, then now’s the time to cut. The question is: how?
Eileen suggested pretending they were mine, but even if they were, why in the hell would I offer them to Doug? And what of honesty? So, Doug, I was talking to Eileen the other day, and she said you’d had a wee bit of bother getting the old caber up.
No. Just no.
A door bangs upstairs, footsteps stomp from one room to another. A fridge door opening and closing. Feet stamping back to the living room. The muffled thud of a body dropping onto the sofa.
‘The sound really travels,’ I say.
‘Aye,’ says Doug. ‘Every squeak.’
‘Right, well, thanks for the salt and the swamp water.’
Doug raises his cup, takes a sip, tries and fails to disguise a wince of horror.
Bianca is sprawled across the sofa, ignoring something on the TV, fiddling with her phone, a face like a very long and rainy day.
‘Any more wine?’ she asks.
I squeeze onto the end of the sofa and mute the TV. ‘Nuh-uh. Early start tomorrow.’
‘Can’t wait till I’m eighteen,’ Bianca says. ‘Do what I like.’
Bianca’s eyes are puffy, and it looks as if she’s been crying. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
She wipes her nose on the back of her wrist. ‘Nothing.’
‘Perx?’
Bianca nods.
‘Come on, what’s going on?’
Bianca inspects her chipped nail varnish. ‘It’s just that some of them, Perx and Vince and Grozzer and that lot th—’
‘Sorry, did you say Grozzer?’
Bianca rolls her eyes, but otherwise ignores my interruption. ‘They’re all going down the White Horse—’
‘In Chester?’
Bianca nods. ‘The barmaid gives them free drinks. She’s such a slag.’
‘Right. But that doesn’t make her a slag.’
‘No, but I know for a fact three different blokes she’s shagged. At least.’
And what would you think of your big brother if you knew how many people he’d slept with? What would you think if you knew about his bet with El?
On the TV, a superimposed weatherman looms over a British Isles dotted with sunny icons.
‘So she is a slag, see?’ says Bianca.
‘Did she and Perx . . . ?’
Bianca nods.
‘So you’re worried he might cheat on you?’
Bianca loops her little finger into the wedding ring – our mother’s wedding ring – that hangs from the chain around her neck. She tugs on the gold band, pulling the chain tight so that it digs a shallow furrow into the flesh of her neck.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I was eighteen,’ she says.
‘But you go to the pub anyway, right?’
‘Yeah, but last time, Slag-features grassed me up to the manager for being underage.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘She is a slag. So what did’ – I drum-roll my fingers on the tabletop – ‘Perx do?’
‘Gave me his van keys.’
‘He what?!’
‘So I could wait for him.’
‘He stayed in the pub?’
Bianca’s chin dimples as she tries not to cry. The TV weatherman beckons to a group of concentric blobs sitting over France and they float towards him.
‘Come here,’ I say, sliding up the settee and putting my arm around Bianca’s shoulders. ‘Can I ask you a question? Just between you and me.’
Bianca nods.
‘Do you think Perx is trying to pressure you into having sex?’
Bianca laughs and wipes her nose on my clean T-shirt.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on?’
‘Just between you and me?’ she says.
‘You’re already sleeping with him, aren’t you?’
‘You won’t say anything to Dad?’
‘Not if you make me a promise,’ I say.
Bianca chews her bottom lip.
‘You’ll be careful,’ I say.
‘Duh. I’m not stupid.’
‘No.’ I laugh. ‘Far far from it.’
Bianca glances at her mobile. But it doesn’t beep or ring or offer any other comfort.
‘It sounds to me,’ I say, ‘like Perx is buggering you around. Actually, he sounds like a fucking dick, but that’s your call. Either way, you don’t have to play his silly games.’
‘Don’t really have a lot of choice, do I?’
‘Do you trust me?’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ I say. ‘But you have to trust me. You have to do exactly what I say, okay? Or it won’t work.’
Bianca regards me uncertainly.
‘Guaranteed results,’ I tell her.
Bianca nods, but as I reach for her phone, her expression turns to panic and she tries to snatch it away from me.
‘Be calm,’ I say, holding her at arm’s length. ‘It’s a magic trick.’
Bianca groans. ‘Do you have to?’
‘You used to like them.’
‘I used to like rusks.’
‘Touché. Now shut up and watch.’
‘Yeah, but how—’
‘Shhhh.’ I take the back off Bianca’s phone, hand it to her. ‘Inspect that,’ I say. And as she does, I remove the phone battery and slip it into my jeans pocket.
‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’
‘Power,’ I say, quite pleased with my accidental quip, and I hand the rest of the phone to Bianca. ‘Now replace the back.’
She starts to clip the phone together then stops, ho
lds out her hand. ‘Okay, where’s the battery?’
‘Magic,’ I say, with what I’m sure is an annoying flourish.
Bianca slaps me hard on the thigh. ‘Give.’
‘Ouch.’
She raises her hand threateningly.
‘Don’t hit your brother, Bianca. Anyway, you can’t have it; it’s vani . . . shed.’
‘All right, I’m not kidding now,’ Bianca says, clenching her fist. ‘What if he tries to—’
‘That’s the point. When Perx phones and you don’t answer, he’ll go nuts imagining what you’re up to in the big city on a film set with loads of cool guys and sexy actors. It’ll do his little head in.’
‘But what if he thinks I’m cheating on him and then he cheats on me?’
‘Then you cut his cock off.’
Bianca laughs. ‘Seriously. What if he does?’
‘Do you think he might?’
Bianca pouts and shrugs.
‘Him being able to get you on the phone won’t stop him cheating on you, Bea. If he’s going to do it, he’s going to do it.’
‘What if he needs to speak to me?’
‘He can wait. Like you had to in his van.’
Bianca thinks about this.
On the TV, a commercial for something baffles me, and it probably would even with the benefit of a soundtrack and a voice-over. It reminds me that tomorrow I’m working with George the zombie brat and I hit the off button.
‘What will I say when I see him?’ Bianca asks.
‘Say you forgot to pack a charger.’
‘What if Dad needs to phone?’
‘He’ll call me.’
‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’
I hold out my hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Bianca slaps me a low five. ‘Can I have a glass of wine now?’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We’re shooting zombies. It’s raining outside, but we’re dry on Stage 4 of Pinewood Studios. Today I am the evil doctor – pointy beard, monocle, hillbilly teeth. Verity and Bianca have elfin ears and orange streaks in their hair. Kaz is part werewolf, Ben is Frankenstein’s monster, the creative is an alien, Judith is mummified, Rob bewarted, Holly has a hunchback, the cameraman is a zipperhead. Plus, of course, our two zombies, Alice and George. It’s like all hell is shooting a commercial. Which is pretty consistent with the prevailing mood. In one sense the day has been relatively straightforward – there’s plenty of film in the can, we’re marching through the storyboard and keeping to schedule. In another sense, it’s been a bloody grind.