by Andy Jones
George has undermined Alice, been insensitive to Verity, dismissive of me. Rude, stubborn and awkward. Sometimes you’re just right about people. All your first impressions and leaped-to conclusions, they turn out to be bang on the money. The fucker even complained about his lunch. He’s like a little life-Hoover. A droning machine that sucks every speck of fun and joy out of the room.
So here we are, dressed as vampires and witches and ghouls, and all of us with the matching demeanour. Like the world’s most miserable fancy-dress party. And it is with no small sense of relief that we set up for the final shot of the day, in which the zombies revert back to kids, enjoying the sweets and smiling at the camera. Simple.
Alice sits patiently as Laura the make-up artist removes George’s zombie make-up and applies a dusting of natural colour. This is the system we have found causes minimum disruption. Attend to George while Alice reads a few pages of Harry Potter, then get rid of the bugger and sort out Alice. Except now, at the end of a long day, she is sitting with the book closed in her lap and an expression of pure glumness on her undead face. George leaves without saying thank you (as usual) and Alice climbs up onto the stool in front of Laura. We joke with her and she laughs politely, but the day has had the better of her.
Laura has finished Alice’s make-up and is tying pink ribbons into her hair when tears begin to well in the little girl’s eyes.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’
Alice shakes her head. It dislodges the burgeoning tears and two thick streams curve over her fat cheeks.
‘What’s the matter?’
Alice’s breath comes in staccato in-in-outs and she clutches at the front of her jumper, grabbing little fistfuls of material.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You can tell us.’
‘G— G— George. He said Harry dies.’
‘Harry Potter?’ says Verity.
Alice nods her head. ‘He said that Voldemort, he kills Harry and he turns into a zombie wizard.’
‘Which one is this?’ I say, taking the book from Alice. ‘Chamber of Secrets. It’s a scary one, for sure.’
‘Have you read it?’ she asks.
‘See that girl,’ I say, pointing out Bianca, who seems to be flirting with the electrician. ‘That’s my little sister.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. And I read this book to her when she was about the same age as you are now.’
‘Honest?’
‘Yup. It’s the one with Moaning Myrtle, right?’
Alice nods.
‘Well, listen, I don’t want to give anything away, but aren’t there a few more Harry Potter books after this one?’
‘I think there’s four more,’ says Alice.
I show her the fingers and thumb of my splayed hand. ‘Five. Now, do you really think Harry is going to die in book two and drag himself around like a’ – I tickle Alice’s ribs – ‘creaky old zombie for five more books?’
Alice chuckles and shakes her head.
‘No. Me neither. So I wouldn’t necessarily believe everything George says.’
Alice nods, wipes her nose and drags a trail of snot through her make-up.
‘If only we had some Puking Pastilles,’ says Verity. ‘That’d show him.’
And Alice laughs.
‘Right then,’ I say. ‘If we ask Laura to redo your make-up, do you promise not to get any more snot on it?’
Alice sniffs. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Maybe it’s because we’ve shot three out of four commercials and she is now bored, or maybe it’s because we’ve got two kids eating her ‘candy’, but Judith the client is scrutinising every aspect of this final sequence. On the previous scripts, we’ve covered this shot early in the schedule in order to appease her. We have deviated today because I was worried about the George–Alice dynamic, and I wanted Ben to shoot as much zombie as possible before the monsters got tired and cranky. Instead, I’ve got a tired and cranky client. And then Kaz gets involved, and then the creative, and everyone’s got a suggestion about how we should shoot this simple shot. Eat and smile. Smile and eat. Eat and chuckle. Giggle and chew. Take after take after take after take. It’s kids eating sweets, it is what it is, but . . . Take 8, Take 9, Take 10. ‘Maybe if we had just one kid as hero,’ suggests someone. And while the word hero is still ringing in the air, George has shouldered himself forward.
‘Mate,’ says Ben, taking me aside, ‘I’ve got a bastard migraine coming on like a galloping elephant; I’m seeing double, and if I have to look at the little shit’s face for another second I might throw something at it.’
‘Want me to finish off? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to use it, right?’
‘I owe you one,’ says Ben.
I wave it off. ‘All I have to do is shout “Action” and “Cut”. Any idiot could do it.’
George is not a bad actor, but after each take – partly to convince the client I care and, yes, partly to punish George – I act vaguely dissatisfied and suggest a new direction. Give me yummy, give me happy, ecstatic, enraptured, overjoyed. Chew fast, chew slow, chomp. Sweet after sweet after sweet after sweet. One at a time, two at a time and by the handful.
They say people turn green when they’re going to be sick.
George turns blue. It’s as if the zombie he’s played all day has possessed him. He turns blue and his eyes water. I’m watching this down a camera lens and I zoom in tighter. Sweat bubbles up beneath the make-up on his forehead and top lip. He retches in his throat, blinks, regains some composure.
‘Give me one more, George,’ I say.
Give me something from deep inside.
George stares at the red and green and yellow sweets in his hand, licks his dry lips, his eyes bulge. He gulps, opens his mouth wide enough to swallow his fist. George’s jaw trembles under the strain; half closing, half opening, stuttering a silent O-O-O-O. He puts a hand to his mouth but the pressure forces a geyser of Technicolor vomit from the corners of his mouth and between his fingers. I zoom back to capture the spectacular extent of George’s upchuck as his body spasms and he releases a fist-wide column of semi-digested, E-numbered slurry.
And who needs Puking Pastilles when you’ve got Skittles.
When she’s finished mopping up George’s insides, Bianca skips up to me in a better mood than I would be under the circumstances.
‘Guess what,’ she says.
‘You’ve got spew on your boots,’ I tell her.
‘Ew, dirty little shithead,’ she says, wiping the toe of her boot on the back of her jeans. ‘Verity’s giving me a makeover. If that’s okay.’
‘’course it’s okay. Now?’
‘Well, to be honest, Tom, I’m a bit embarrassed.’
‘What are you up to? Is this some ploy to get your phone back?’
‘If I wanted that, I’d nick it out of your coat pocket. I just don’t want Verity to make me over with all this lot around. They’ll take the piss.’
‘What about the trailer?’
‘It’s a bit pokey. I was wondering if we could do it at your flat? With a glass of wine.’ Bianca shifts her weight from foot to foot in a childishly excited two-step.
‘Oh, you were, were you?’
‘It’s still early.’
‘Verity might want to go home and put her feet up.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Bianca says, still dancing on the spot. ‘I already asked.’
‘Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice, then, does it?’
‘Not really,’ says Bianca. ‘You can cook tea while she does my makeover.’
‘Who said anything about tea? Verity might—’
‘I already checked; she likes everything except aubergines.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘And you’ve still got spew on your boot.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bianca squeezes into the back seat of the Triumph and I drop the girls at my flat (Verity says it’ll take her half an hour just to remove Bianca’s existing
layers of make-up) before driving to the supermarket to gather ingredients for the finest chicken carbonara Verity has ever tasted. Shallots, pancetta, fresh herbs, organic chicken thighs, chestnut mushrooms, a Pinot Grigio for cooking and an expensive Gavi di Gavi for drinking.
The groceries cost over fifty quid, and I cut my thumb chopping the shallots. And what do I get in return for my efforts? I get to sit here like a turnip while Bianca and Verity compile a list of Hollywood’s hunkiest hunks. For all they’re concerned, they might as well be eating a Pot Noodle.
‘Clive Owen,’ says Verity.
‘What about Daniel Craig?’ asks Bianca. Gone is the overdrawn eyeliner, the swathes of mascara, the gaudy lipstick, the blue streak. She looks calmer, fresher, more approachable. More like my sister.
‘Bit too . . .’ Verity barrels her chest, juts her elbows. Today she’s wearing the Supersuckers – a skull over crossed cutlasses – and I find myself wishing I knew more about the bands Verity appears to listen to.
‘Brad Pitt then?’
Verity eats a mouthful of carbonara and makes a noise of appreciation. Whether it’s aimed at the food or Brad, I don’t know.
‘Okay,’ says Bianca. ‘Brad in Fight Club, or Brad in Ocean’s Eleven?’
Verity sips her wine and takes a moment to savour it. ‘Thelma and Louise,’ she says.
‘Never seen it,’ says Bianca.
Again Verity makes that noise of appreciation. ‘You should. This really is amazing, Tom,’ she says, showing me a forkful of pasta.
‘The trick,’ I say, ‘is to get the balance right between the wine and the cream.’
‘Have you ever been out with anybody famous?’ Bianca says to Verity.
‘I dated an actor from Casualty for a few months. Not exactly famous, though.’
‘Casualty!’ says Bianca. ‘Cool. Which one?’
‘He was only in a few episodes.’
Bianca turns to me. ‘What about you?’
‘Market trader from EastEnders. Two dates.’
‘So cool,’ says Bianca, without any irony.
‘The problem with actors,’ says Verity, ‘is they’re terminally needy. Jason – the Casualty guy – was constantly asking me if he was handsome, how was his hair, how was his skin, was he talented, should he work on his pecs, get his chest waxed.’
‘They do that?’ asks Bianca.
Verity nods, ‘Oh yes.’
‘Hattie the market girl,’ I say, ‘couldn’t walk past a window without checking her reflection.’
‘I know,’ says Verity. ‘It’s like, you don’t need me, you need a mirror with a recorded message: You’re gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.’
‘A vanity mirror,’ I say. ‘You should patent that.’
‘I’d buy one,’ says Bianca.
‘You don’t need one,’ says Verity, and Bianca blushes.
After blueberries with crème fraîche and poppy seeds, Bianca offers to clear the table and load the dishwasher, so Verity and I take our drinks through to the living room.
‘Nice flat.’
‘Thanks, I’m selling it,’ I say, and a shudder runs through me as I recall the note Yvette left on the coffee table – in the exact same spot where Verity’s wine glass is now standing. I jab my thumb in the direction of the kitchen, where it sounds as if my sister is systematically smashing my crockery. ‘Thanks, by the way, for sorting Bea out.’
‘Not at all,’ says Verity. ‘She’s lovely.’
‘Her dad might disagree with you on that one.’
‘You’re a good brother; she’s lucky. Must have been strange. I mean, her being so young.’
‘Thank you. It was nice,’ I say. ‘I’m sort of a hybrid brother, uncle, stepmum, I suppose. Keeps it interesting.’
Verity laughs. ‘This Perx character sounds like a complete loser, though.’
‘Total tosser,’ I say. ‘Definitely a frog, that one.’
The reference to dating seems to make Verity uncomfortable, and she takes a sip of her wine before saying, ‘Good idea, taking her phone off her, though. Could have done with someone taking mine off me a few times.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ I say.
‘Do you think it was easier before phones, the Internet, all that . . . stuff?’
‘Well, you’d have to talk to each other, which is . . .’
‘. . . not always a good thing.’
‘It’s why the cinema’s such a big draw.’
She picks up her wine again, ‘And anywhere with alcohol.’
‘Dating sucks,’ I say, clinking my glass against Verity’s.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ She indicates my glass of sparkling water. ‘You’re making me look unprofessional.’
Bianca walks into the room and yawns theatrically. ‘Who’s unprofessional?’
‘More importantly,’ I say. ‘Who are you? And what have you done with my goth sister?’
‘Ho ho,’ says Bianca. ‘So funny. And it’s not goth, it’s emo.’
‘Like the . . .’ I hold my hand up to mime an Emu puppet.
Verity grabs my wrist, lowers my arm. ‘Don’t do it,’ she says sotto voce. ‘Dad joke.’
‘Bad joke,’ says Bianca. She yawns again and stretches her arms. ‘Think I’ll go to bed; I’m knackered. Thanks for this,’ she says, circling her face with a finger.
‘Pleasure,’ says Verity. ‘I’ll leave you a few bits and bobs.’
Bianca kisses Verity, and then she kisses me.
As if she’s connecting us.
‘Night, bruv. Don’t stay up too late.’
Bianca disappears into her bedroom, leaving a subtle hum of tension behind her.
‘She must be tired,’ says Verity, smiling.
I laugh. ‘So it seems.’
Verity yawns and arches her back left and right in a single fluid movement. ‘Sorry. Bianca’s got me at it now. I suppose I should call a cab.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ I say, holding up my glass of sparkling water.
‘No, it’s late. You’ve got an early.’
‘It’s not even eleven. I won’t sleep for at least an hour.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. It’s drive you home or watch crap telly for an hour.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t wish that on you.’
I’m nervous and happy and there’s something in the air – anticipation, maybe – as we drive though the night-time streets of south London.
We talk about tomorrow’s shoot with Elijah. We talk about Verity’s brother, my sister, my dad, my mum. Verity tells me about a two-day shoot she is working on, starting next Wednesday. What I’m going to do next, I don’t know. As we travel west, cut through empty back streets and quiet green spaces, the conversation fades, giving way to a prosaic sequence of lefts, rights, and straight-aheads as Verity directs me towards her flat. We’ll be there soon, and I’m kind of dreading it in a kind of looking-forward-to-it kind of way. While we’re driving, the pressure’s off – there’s nothing we can do but sit, talk and look at the lights. But when we stop, something has to happen. Either I kiss Verity or I don’t kiss Verity. Both deliberate, definite courses of action.
This is the first time I’ve had Verity to myself, and I don’t want it to be the last. We talk easily, without having to think about what to say next. And when it’s quiet it’s comfortable. The last thing I want to do now is misread the signals and mess it all up.
‘Second on the right,’ Verity says. ‘See that one street light that’s more orange than the others? That’s me.’
My stomach clenches as I take the right onto Verity’s street. True to her description, one of the street lamps glows a different colour, flickering slightly as if this will be its last summer. I could stop in the middle of the road, let Verity jump out, wave goodbye. Or I could pull into the parking space on the wrong side of the road and find out what happens next. Verity too, I sense, is aware of these options.
I pull into the spa
ce on the opposite side of the road.
Verity unbuckles her seat belt. ‘Thanks for the meal.’
‘Thank you. For sorting Bianca out.’
Verity shifts around in her seat, so that she’s facing me. ‘I suppose it’s a little late for coffee,’ she says, and sort of laughs. Or maybe she just clears her throat.
In the faint orange glow, Verity’s face is in partial shadow.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to be up all night.’
I’m replaying how that might be interpreted when Verity leans forward and . . .
She is going to kiss me.
. . . Verity kisses me. And her lips are warm. Verity kisses me and her lips are gently wet as they slide across my own. I push into the kiss and her lips are soft and deep. I don’t remember my first kiss. I know who, when, where . . . but the details of the kiss itself are lost.
Kissing Verity now . . . in the flickering lamplight, the only sound the clicks and ticks of the cooling engine . . . this I will remember.
Verity’s hand is on the back of my neck, she isolates my top lip, takes it between hers, runs her tongue across its surface. I put my hand against the side of her face, my fingers sliding into her hair, my thumb tracing the shape of her cheekbone.
I only want to think about this kiss, but my mind has made a connection it’s determined to pursue. The night of my first kiss was the same night I lost my virginity to Trudi Roberts. And after Trudi there was Lisa; after Lisa, Samantha; then Jennifer, Debbie, Joanne, Kelly, and so on and on and on.
Verity’s lips surround my bottom lip, and maybe she senses my distraction. She breaks off the kiss, slowly, says, ‘I’m looking forward to finding out all about you, Tom Ferguson.’
And after Sadie there was Holly, and Yvette, and Kaz, and 98 . . . and . . .
Verity smiles, broad and true, but I send the wrong smile back – a smile distorted out of shape with doubt and hesitation. Verity reads it instantly, her embarrassment fills the space between us and there is nowhere for her to hide in this tiny car.