It’s unspoken between us. This is what’s happening irrespective of whether you like it or not; now, do you want the gig or do you want to leave the show?
A pause. ‘STAR PONDERS DEEPLY’.
‘Right then,’ she eventually says with a tortured expression on her face, as if she’s having an excruciatingly painful bowel movement. ‘But just don’t think for one second that I’ll be caught dead wearing a hairnet.’
She storms out and I barely have time to catch my breath before Rob Richards comes thundering in, all guns blazing.
‘I don’t know what you just said to Cara, but she’s downstairs bawling her eyes out!’ he shouts at me. ‘That’s how you get your kicks, is it? Reducing people to tears?’
It’s intimidating and awful when a man shouts at you and I really have to try my best to stay calm. The minute you get emotional in any argument, I remind myself, you’ve lost. This is going to be dreadful enough without resorting to raising my voice back at him.
‘Sit down, Rob, I have some news for you and I thought it would be better coming from me than from your agent. I feel it’s the least we owe you, after all your years here.’
He grunts and sits down and I find myself vowing never, ever, on pain of death by electrocution, to have a drunken fling with anyone I work with for as long as I live …
I launch into pretty much the same patter I said to Good Grief O’Keefe earlier and he rudely cuts across me.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, show’s going in a new direction, blah blah. I get it; it’s not a subtle point you’re trying to make. Can I please just have the last sentence first?’
Still maintaining the same measured tone, I break it to him, far more gently than he deserves. ‘Both myself and the story team feel that we’ve come to the end of the road with your character, Sebastian. You have a marriage break-up story coming up in the next few weeks, where Glenda leaves him to make her own way in the world.’
‘Then what?’
‘He tries to persuade her to give the marriage another shot, to no avail, so …’
‘So?’
I brace myself. In his shoes, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of this news too, so I try to make it as quick and painless as possible for him. ‘So Sebastian leaves the country. He sells the house and decides to follow his dream. He buys a vineyard in Provence and makes up his mind to spend as much time there as he possibly can, away from his old life and all the constant reminders of happier times with Glenda.’
Rob just glares at me in mute stupefaction.
‘Look, Rob, I know this is hard for you to hear, but the good news is that we’re not killing off your character. Maybe in a year or two Sebastian could come back to the show. I’m not ruling anything out for the future of this character and neither should you.’
There’s an awful silence. I’m studying his face, waiting for the volcano to erupt, when without warning he picks up the cappuccino on my desk and hurls it at me. He misses, but destroys a bundle of scripts I had spread out in front of me. ‘You’re nothing but a bitch!’ he roars. ‘Who do you think you are, firing me?’
It’s a terrifying display but, somehow, I keep cool. ‘Rob, I told you, you’re not being fired, we’re just sidelining your involvement in the show for the foreseeable future and, to be quite honest, if you think behaviour like this is doing you any favours, you’re mistaken.’
It’s getting harder to stay composed as he’s standing right in front of me now, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘You have no show without me, do you realize that, you blow-in? What am I even doing here, listening to you? You’re only a dried-up, frustrated old spinster.’
And he’s gone. I slump back into the chair and really have to fight back the tears. After a few minutes, there’s another, gentler knock on the door. I look up, although I’m still trembling. It’s Suzy.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks me, genuinely concerned. ‘God, that was awful. How dare Rob Richards speak to you like that? You could hear the shouting from the other end of the office. You could have him up for harassment for that, you know.’
‘Oh, Suzy, let’s just be glad he’s gone. God, I really hate my job sometimes. Do you think I might get lucky and that they’d transfer me back to current affairs? Fallujah would be a breeze compared with this. Right now I’d happily welcome any war zone as if it were an all-inclusive stay at the Ritz-Carlton.’
‘I don’t blame you. Do you want anything from the canteen?’
‘Not unless they’ve started serving fun-sized packets of morphine to go.’
I’m just beginning to breathe normally again when the internal phone rings.
Philip Burke. Oh God, what does he want?
‘Amelia,’ he says, gruff as ever. ‘Can you come up to my office, please? Immediately is good for me.’ He doesn’t even wait for me to reply, just hangs up.
Five minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of his office, which is the penthouse, three floors above mine.
‘Get in here,’ he says, so in I troop.
It’s a fabulous, spacious room, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides and a panoramic view of, well, the car park mainly. I’ve only ever been here once before, when the station first gave me a contract, all of ten years ago. People only ever come in here to be either hired or fired and I’m just wondering what Philip has in store for me when I notice that he’s watching an episode of Celtic Tigers on the monitor beside his desk. It’s the episode which was broadcast last night, which is the first one I had a hand in. He’s analysing it so closely that he doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m actually standing right in front of his desk.
I, however, have dealt with quite enough rudeness for one morning, so I do a loud ‘ahem, ahem?’
He motions at me to sit down, but doesn’t lift his eyes from the screen.
‘Wow, Philip, the Zapruder film wasn’t studied that closely.’
He laughs, puts the show on freeze-frame and looks up. ‘Great, Amelia, there you are. I’m just watching the show and I have to say there is a marked improvement.’
‘Thanks. That’s good to hear.’
‘Are you OK then? You’re not going to flood the floor with tears on me, I hope?’
I look at him quizzically, wondering how he knew I was shaken. I thought I was putting on such a good act of ‘I’m a producer, I get shouted at and abused every day of the week, I’m well used to it; in fact, in a warped way, I kind of enjoy it.’
‘I just had Rob Richards in here telling me what happened, or rather his side of what happened.’
I stand tall, determined not to let someone like Rob Richards and his bully-boy tactics get to me. ‘It got ugly, Philip, I’ll be honest. He didn’t quite throw furniture at me, but wasn’t far off it.’
‘I see, I see,’ he says, his full focus on me. ‘He came the heavy with me too. Said that no one in the show was more popular than him and that he had a following.’
‘Well, I’m sure both of them can visit him at home.’
He snorts. ‘In fact, I’m half expecting Cara O’Keefe to come barging in any second, hot on his heels, to see if she can flirt her way out of this one.’
‘And long may she rave.’
‘As long as you’re all right,’ he says, giving me the final once-over, then swivelling back to the TV and switching the ‘Play’ button on the remote. It’s a very dismissive gesture so I take the not-so-subtle hint and head for the door.
He doesn’t even bother saying goodbye so I don’t either. Philip Burke’s people skills – or lack of them – are no concern of mine, thankfully.
I’m almost gone when he stops me.
‘So, don’t you want to know what I said to Rob Richards?’
I turn around, but he’s still engrossed in the TV. ‘What?’
‘I may not be as witty as you, but I am proud of this one.’
‘Dead Man Walking?’ It’s lame, but it’s the best I can come up with …
‘No, I told him to go home and wait for
a phone call from the Royal Shakespeare Company. That’s the best performance I’ve seen him give in years.’
Chapter Nineteen
Mr Intense
I’m still so shaken by the day’s events that I’m only too delighted to accept Caroline’s sweet suggestion to leave work early and pop in to her for a glass of vino on the way home. I really need to be around happy, normal, non-actor-type people right now. She opens the door and wordlessly hands me a lovely, chilled glass of Sancerre.
‘Angel from on high,’ I say, taking it gratefully.
‘Thought you could use a bit of alcoholic fortification,’ she says, leading me upstairs to the drawing room. ‘If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d join you. My darling babies have a sixth sense and start acting the maggot in direct proportion to how exhausted I am.’ Just then, murderous screams can clearly be heard from the playroom. ‘See what I mean?’
Then Ulrika, the Norwegian nanny, shouts upstairs to us, ‘I so sorry, Caroline. I tell Joshua it velly rude for him to pick his nose and he smack me on the head.’
Caroline looks at me in weary exasperation. ‘You don’t ever need to have kids, you know. You can just have one of mine. If my son persists in picking his nose, he’ll end up with nostrils bigger than the port tunnel. Please give me news about life in the outside world. Anything to distract me from the fact that I’ll shortly have to go downstairs and cut chewing gum out of Emma’s hair. Hubba Bubba too, the stickiest kind. Believe me, I know these things.’
I fill her in on the day’s events, sparing no detail. Caroline is suitably shocked, particularly at Rob Richards’s shouting-roaring, bully-boy carry-on.
‘Can you believe him? Yes, it’s awful for him to be written out of the show, of course it is, but there’s absolutely no need to take it out on you. If he was here now, I’d tear strips off him. And this is not what you needed, you know, not after the shock of Tony Irwin at the weekend …’
She chats on and I’m thinking how she’s just so fab, like a mother tiger protecting her cubs, whenever any of her friends are being got at. Which is quite a lot, if I’m being honest.
‘Let’s just say I’m glad it’s all over and I’d trade places with you any day,’ I say, sinking into the deep, cushiony-soft armchair and taking a big relaxing gulp of vino.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she says with a wry smile. ‘May I just remind you that while you were all having fun and games in Dromoland Castle, I was stuck here trying to scrape jam out of the inside of the DVD player. Joshua’s latest trick.’
Suddenly I feel guilty. ‘Hon, were you OK on your own over the weekend?’
‘Oh, you know, I missed you guys. I was exhausted. I missed Mike. But then he goes off on these conferences and plays eighteen holes a day, so at least one of us is having a whale of a time. Besides, would you blame him for needing a break from this house? Rachel says I should have a sign on the door saying “Twinned with Beirut”.’
More screeches from downstairs.
‘You’ll notice I’m choosing to ignore that,’ she goes on, visibly wincing. ‘I need the adult chat too badly. Ulrika is great, though, she even stayed over Saturday, so at least I managed to have a lie-in. You have to understand that to a parent, that’s the equivalent of winning six numbers on the national lottery. Oh, and guess who came to see me yesterday? Asking for you very fondly?’
‘I’m too punch-drunk with tiredness to guess … Oh, wait a sec, it has to be Damien Delaney.’
‘Got it in one. I think he really likes you, Amelia. He says he’s going to call you this week to arrange the tea date so you can meet his mum.Do not roll your eyes up to heaven,’ she goes on, suddenly switching to her cross Mummy voice, the way only parents can. ‘I thought we agreed you were going to give this guy a whirl. A proper whirl.’
‘I know. I will. I promise.’
‘That’s the girl. Oh, and I have more news. In fact, this should have been the first item of news. Wow, I’m starting to feel like the latest edition of something, which is a new experience for me. Normally I’m so dependent on you guys to keep me in the know.’
‘Oh, I love news. Especially if it’s about other people.’
‘Two words for you. Mr Intense.’
‘What!’
‘I know exactly what he’s been doing all these years. Even better, I think I know how you can contact him!’
‘How did you … ? What do you … ? But I thought … ?’
Just then, we hear Joshua bawling from the playroom downstairs, followed by Emma screaming at Ulrika, ‘I never even touched him, hardly at all. That’s tomato sauce, not blood on his face.’
In a trice, Caroline’s up and gone off to troubleshoot. ‘Do not move from that armchair. I’ll be right back and I’ll fill you in. Don’t suppose you’d care to adopt one of my children, by any chance? I’ll pay you cash.’
Oh dear. I really am going to have to go on rhinoceros tranquillizers or some other max-strength medication to stop all these flashbacks …
THE TIME: December 1987.
THE PLACE: Dramsoc, the UCD drama society’s rehearsal space.
THE OCCASION: The annual college fashion show, which we’re all out in force for, because this year, Caroline is modelling in it, along with my boyfriend, who I call Simon, but who everyone else calls Mr Intense.
Jamie and I get there early, which turns out to be not such a good idea as we end up sitting beside Mrs Egan, Caroline’s mother. Did I tell you about Mrs Egan? She’s like a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Lady Bracknell, with shades of Edwina Currie thrown in for good measure. Scary, scary lady, ferociously proud of her beautiful daughter and basically of the opinion that no man is good enough for her. Not even the lovely Mike, who’s sitting further down the row from us.
‘Another few minutes and you’d have been late,’ she sniffs as we take our seats beside her.
‘Sorry, Mrs Egan,’ we both mumble, instantly regressing back to a pair of ten-year-olds. I don’t know what it is; she just has that effect on people. Jamie says that I should console myself, smug in the knowledge that I once peed into the water feature in her immaculate garden when I was seven.
‘Oh, there’s Mike.’ I nudge Jamie, waving down to him. ‘Hi! Isn’t this just so exciting?’
Mike nods and smiles back at us, but looks a bit put off by Mrs Egan’s frostiness too. In fairness, you couldn’t really blame him.
‘A dentistry student,’ she mutters sotto voce, but clearly intended for Mike to overhear. ‘If I’ve told Caroline once, I’ve told her a thousand times. A dentist will always be one down from a doctor.’
We’re all far too scared of her to answer back, but the sting is fully felt, especially by poor Mike, who visibly reddens, but stays furiously focused on the catwalk ahead.
‘Bonsoir, mes amis,’ says Rachel, breezing in and looking breathtakingly amazing in a fanny-pelmet leather mini and an oversized black leather jacket, a black beret, fishnet tights and stilettos.
‘Everyone, this is Christian; Christian, this is everyone,’ she says, carelessly introducing us to the guy she has in tow. He’s utterly gorgeous, handsome in a Mediterranean way, with black eyes, olive skin and a Kevin Costner haircut. Very, very sexy. We all shake hands, unable to take our eyes off him, particularly Jamie.
‘Where are you from?’ Mrs Egan asks him imperiously, with this killer glance she has that can kill at ten paces.
‘He’s Parisian, but you’re wasting your time talking to him,’ Rachel answers on his behalf. ‘He doesn’t speak a word of English. Well, hardly any.’
‘Then how on earth do you communicate with him?’
‘Oh, I don’t. We just have fantastic sex and I can assure you, Mrs Egan, his vocabulary when he’s shagging me is surprisingly adequate.’
Rachel, I should point out, is the only one of us who was ever remotely able to handle Mrs Egan, who just stares right back at her, with a face that would stop a clock.
‘I didn’t know she was bringing a date
,’ Jamie hisses at me, really pissed off. ‘Did you know she was bringing a date? Great. Now I’m the only one here with no date. Jamie heaven.’
‘She never told me she was bringing anyone either. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’
‘He’s all right. Look at the state of her though. All she’s short of is a bike, a stripy T-shirt and a string of onions around her neck singing “Frère Jacques”. And he doesn’t speak English, gimme a break. Does he come with subtitles?’
‘Don’t get narky, you can hang out with me and Simon afterwards if you want.’
‘Mr Intense? Thanks but I’d rather chew tinfoil.’
‘Stop having a go. What is wrong with him anyway? He’s about to model in a fashion show, don’t you think that’s really cool?’
‘You have to stop using the word cool when you’re talking about Mr Intense. He is, without a doubt, the uncoolest person in the whole of UCD and that’s really saying something.’
‘Jamie, emm … Let me see, how can I put this … SHUT UP.’
On cue, the house lights are dimmed and the show starts. Kraftwerk’s song ‘The Model’ is played and out comes Caroline, striding down the catwalk as to the manner born. She’s modelling a tartan suit with big shoulder pads and a micro-mini, with her hair all backcombed and a black Alice band holding it in place. The lyrics of the song really seem to suit her too; certainly the line about her being a model and she’s looking good. I glance back at Mike, who’s beaming up at her, transfixed.
‘Isn’t she stunning?’ I say to no one in particular.
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Amelia,’ snaps Mrs Egan, patting her helmet-hair. ‘She looks like a Ukrainian prostitute. I would blush to be seen with her in public dressed in that outrageous get-up.’
Then the lads come on, led by Mr Intense … sorry, I mean, Simon, my fella of, oh, going on for two months now. We met after an L and H debate (the Literary and Historical Society) that I was speaking in. He came up to me afterwards and started giving me tips on how I could improve my debating skills, right down to some vocal exercises he recommended for me, which I thought was just so … sweet of him. You know, considerate and thoughtful.
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 17