The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  ‘ … and the winner is … ’

  Edwina was suddenly aware that she was holding her breath. She’d taken it for granted that she’d win the Gold but now, this instant, she realised how much she wanted it. She wanted it desperately.

  ‘ … Edwina Dawling!’

  As Edwina rose to her feet, so did the entire audience. The standing ovation gave her time to regain her composure. As she started walking slowly towards the stage, applause thundering in her ears, she glanced around the tables. This third walk to the podium seemed to take forever and she could distinguish every face at every table she passed, despite the spotlight that followed her every move.

  She’d been wrong, of course. There were some who did bear her ill will, and from the sea of smiling faces she could single out the four who most certainly had reason to. She could feel their hatred as she passed. Jane, her brittle smile frozen. Alain, trying to dredge up the enthusiastic bonhomie that always clinched his deals but with eyes as dead as a shark’s. Paul, not even attempting to hide his loathing. And Liza, waiting beside the stage with an expression that was strangely gloating. Edwina experienced a chill of fear. Something about the woman unsettled her.

  Too late to worry about that now. The stage lights hit her and she turned to face the sea of people. Flashbulbs popped and the moment was hers.

  Little did she or anyone else know that the night would spell disaster … that in a matter of hours the industry would never be the same again.

  Narelle was born in a dingy little house in a dingy little street in a dingy little suburb with a pretty name. Strawberry Hills. No vestige of its rural colonial days remained, no picturesque historical farmhouses — even the pocket-sized playground, dwarfed by four blocks of council flats and laughingly referred to as ‘the park’, had been bituminised by a council with an antipathy to anything green.

  Strawberry Hills was an inner-city suburb of Sydney. Strawberry Hills was a disgrace. But Narelle didn’t mind. Narelle was happy. Narelle would have been happy anywhere.

  There had always been something about Narelle. The nurses at the hospital where she was born thought so. Her mother, Charmane, thought so, as she accepted the blue ribbon for Narelle’s first baby show. Her father, Norman, thought so too — at first. Four years later, when every penny he’d earned had been spent on interstate trips to baby shows, he wasn’t so happy. A further four years later when he was up to his ears in debt for ballet classes, acting lessons and child modelling courses, he left, swearing if there hadn’t been ‘something’ about Narelle this would never have happened.

  Charmane barely noticed that Norman had gone. If she did, it was only to comment on how peaceful things were without him. Besides, he really wasn’t necessary any more. The courses were paying off and Narelle’s modelling jobs were bringing in enough to cover the classes and the constant need for a new wardrobe.

  So what was the ‘something’ Narelle had? She was beautiful, certainly. Naturally blonde, fluffy hair, huge blue eyes, porcelain skin — but there were hundreds of beautiful little girls in the modelling game. No, everyone agreed that there was an added something in Narelle. Besides the natural innocence of the child, there was a sort of … loving glow. Many other children who were products of ‘stage mothers’ were either irritatingly precocious or painfully shy. Not Narelle. She remained unaffected, even when Charmane was at her pushy best.

  Narelle retained her childlike innocence throughout adolescence. So much so that Charmane began to worry just a little. Was Narelle perhaps simple? Her school marks were a little below average but the only criticism that came from the teachers was that perhaps Narelle could pay a little more attention in class. Even they had fallen under her spell.

  She matured early and at fifteen was indeed a great beauty, with a body just a little too full and sensual for a successful haute couture model. A horrified Charmane tried to put Narelle on a crash diet but she declined very gently.

  ‘I’d much rather act and do photographic work, Mum. Really. And I can probably earn us more money that way.’

  She was right. A series of television commercials for mineral water made her a household body and her face had already adorned the covers of several magazines when her agent rang and told her she was to test for a new daytime soap.

  ‘Flash trash it is, sweetheart. Tons of nudity.’ Narelle liked the sound of that. She was fond of her body and the thought of sharing it with others appealed to her. ‘Do you think your mother would agree?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Narelle nodded happily. ‘She won’t mind.’

  Narelle was seventeen by this time and Charmane had been nagging her for several years about the youths who constantly dogged her trail. ‘You’ve got a wonderful career ahead of you, Narelle. Don’t you dare go throwing it away on some horny little no-hoper.’

  She’d even taken the girl to the family planning clinic and had her put on the pill just in case. She needn’t have worried. Narelle always did as she was told. Her only disobedience was in not taking the pill. She’d heard it could put weight on and she knew that would really worry her mother.

  Charmane’s bid to have the compulsory nudity clause withdrawn from Narelle’s contract was really only a token gesture. It was what every good mother would do. But when the series producer, the director, the network spokesman and the agent all pointed out that any nudity scenes would be very tastefully handled and that the nudity clause was mandatory anyway, she was quick to see their point.

  Narelle became a daytime soap sex symbol. Her many and varied nude scenes were not handled in any particularly tasteful manner but it didn’t seem to matter. Sensual and at times erotic they may have been, but they were never offensive. It was the ‘something’ Narelle had that saved them. In fact the only complaint the network received was from a representative of the Sound and Light Committee who accused them of corrupting innocence by exposing a trusting young girl to the masses in such a way. It was this same representative who waited outside the staff entrance of the studios each taping day and presented Narelle with a red rose.

  What no one realised was that Narelle enjoyed her sex scenes. She revelled in them. Surely they were the next best thing to making love. Charmane had told her not to jeopardise her career. No sex. It had never occurred to Narelle to disobey. This way she was keeping everyone happy.

  She did experience one jarring moment with a new young leading man. He was a male model, a woeful actor, and it was his first sex scene. Narelle ascribed his obvious tension to this fact, and tried especially hard to take his mind off things.

  ‘Tell her to leave my dick alone, will you!’ Marcus snapped as he jumped out of bed and bumped into Camera Two.

  Narelle was stunned. Usually the actors loved it. So much so that they stayed in bed for five minutes after the scene so nobody would notice how much. To the delight of the crew, she hopped out of bed and stood naked and tearful before Marcus.

  ‘But I thought you’d like … ’

  ‘Well I don’t! I don’t like you touching me at all. And certainly not on the dick!’ And he flounced off. The new director, a kindly middle-aged man who’d just left the ABC and wasn’t yet used to daytime soap, gestured to the first assistant for a dressing gown.

  ‘Don’t worry, Narelle. Get dressed before you catch cold.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. All right.’

  From that moment, every actor cast opposite Narelle had a thorough check run on his sexual proclivities, and homosexuals were barred.

  ‘Passionate Possession’ ran for two years before the network decided to kill it. Not that it was unsuccessful. To the contrary, it was rating extremely well but it was much cheaper to run an American soap, purchased as part of a package deal, and make up the mandatory Australian content with sports programmes to which all Australians were addicted.

  This was the first of life’s bitter blows to be dealt to Narelle. The second happened concurrently. During the final week of taping Charmane died.

  It was an ignob
le death but it made the headlines and Charmane would have loved that. Bereaved Soap Sex Goddess: Mother Dead. Charmane’s life had not been in vain.

  It was touching really. Charmane had had a headache that day and had been trying to lift the television upstairs so that she could watch ‘Passionate Possession’ in bed. She’d never missed an episode. When Narelle heard her mother had broken her neck falling down the stairs of their new harbourside home, she was distraught. She finished the show like a true professional, but refused to go to the wrap party.

  It was only a matter of a few weeks before a strange thing happened to Narelle. Deprived of her mother, she sought parental influence elsewhere. Particularly from men. And with gentle guidance, she found that sex needn’t interfere with her career at all. In fact, channelled discreetly and in the right direction, it could even enhance her career.

  It was during one of her fortnightly afternoons with her agent that the subject of ‘The Glitter Game’ came up.

  She’d perched on his office desk, legs apart the way he liked it, swivelled his chair around and given him the customary neck massage. Then it was just a case of pretending to take him by surprise. She quietly knelt down in front of him, unzipped his trousers, eased his swollen penis out and gently engulfed it in her mouth. It didn’t take long. It never did.

  It was Narelle who’d initiated the oral sex. It meant she didn’t have to kiss him. Barry always smelt of cigarettes and Narelle hated cigarettes. She was very fastidious. Anyway, she didn’t mind. Barry was a nice man and he liked her doing it. Sometimes she fantasised and played with herself. Barry liked that even more.

  He let out a strangled moan and slumped back in the chair. When Narelle returned from the bathroom, he was zipped up and leafing through a mass of files as if nothing had happened. He always did that.

  ‘Take that home.’ Barry handed her three pages of script. ‘And study it backwards. You’re testing next week.’

  ‘ “The Glitter Game”. What is it, Barry? Another soap?’

  ‘Not another soap, sweetheart, the soap. In fact it’s probably a dirty word to even call it a soap. It’s prime time, they’re not making a pilot and they think they’ve already got a presale to the UK on the strength of Edwina Dawling’s album.’

  ‘Edwina Dawling!’

  Barry nodded. ‘She’s all signed up. This is the big one, kid. And The King’s producing so you’re half way there already.’

  Alain King had produced ‘Passionate Possession’ for Channel 10 and had recently been signed up as Head of Drama for Network Three. His appointment had been considered quite a coup. He knew his television market and had never had a series flop on him yet — his Midas touch had earned him the title of ‘The King’.

  Narelle remembered Alain, all right. He’d put the hard word on her very early in the piece during ‘Passionate Possession’.

  ‘You have your first lovemaking scene coming up, Narelle,’ she remembered him saying after he’d told her to strip in the privacy of his office. (‘We want to make sure the director knows your best angles, don’t we dear?’) Then the gentle persuasion that she should rehearse with him (‘We’ll call it research, shall we?’), so that she wouldn’t feel shy during the actual taping. It had taken all of Narelle’s considerable diplomacy to dissuade him without offending. Of course, this had been in Charmane’s time when Narelle obeyed her mother’s ban on sex.

  Things were different now and Barry didn’t know how right he was. She was far more than halfway there. For a plum role in a prime time big budget series starring Edwina Dawling Narelle would allow Alain King all the research he wanted.

  And she did. The following week, during her test at the Channel 3 studios, Narelle lingered over Alain’s welcoming embrace, wriggling her breasts against his shirt front and thrusting her groin as close as possible to his without drawing too much attention from the others present.

  ‘Narelle, you know Jim Avalon.’ Alain’s lust was palpable as he broke the clinch and turned towards the pleasant-looking man beside him. ‘And, of course, Chris Natteros, who’ll be directing.’ Alain sat down and crossed his legs while Jim and Chris kissed Narelle warmly on the cheek. She was glad to see them. Jim had been on-line producer on ‘Passionate Possession’ and Chris had directed the pilot episode. She liked them both.

  Narelle tested well. Each of the three men was well aware that she was not a great talent, but she had ‘something’ that could not be ignored. What was it about Narelle? As they watched her, Chris, a happily married father of three, denied himself a sexual desire but found himself wanting to cuddle and protect her nevertheless. Alain, fighting to keep his erection under control, was bemused by the fact that she still had this effect on him. After all she was twenty now and he normally set his sights at around sixteen, younger if possible. Even Jim, a successfully closet homosexual who lived with a woman for appearances only, found himself wanting to stroke her hair and touch her skin. But then Narelle had always had that effect on him.

  Narelle was blissfully aware of the attraction in the air, particularly the effect she was having on Alain. And she responded to it. She didn’t gloat over the power she had, she delighted in it.

  After the test, Alain asked her to stay and talk over the role with him while the others took their lunch break. Chris and Jim exchanged looks. Alain wasn’t usually quite as obvious as this. But they left discreetly.

  Narelle was not a devious person. Anything other than the direct approach never occurred to her and she had the top three buttons of her blouse undone by the time the studio door closed.

  ‘Research, Alain?’

  Alain was breathing too heavily to reply. The role was hers.

  Jane couldn’t remember much about her childhood. Oh, she supposed she could if she tried but she never bothered. It had been comfortable enough — middle class, pleasant parents, an innocuous younger brother.

  Her mother still rang her from Brisbane every November. ‘Are you coming home for Christmas, dear?’ And every second or third year Jane would agree. But it was a perfunctory offer to keep up parental appearances and a perfunctory acceptance to maintain the status quo. Neither Jane nor her family had anything left in common. In fact they’d had very little in common since Jane’s tenth birthday when she’d realised that all she wanted in life was to be an actress. Her father had agreed to send her to drama school, but very reluctantly. He couldn’t understand the theatre.

  So, Jane had left for Sydney, aged seventeen. Three years later she had graduated from drama school with above-average passes and managed to find herself an above-average agent who helped her land her first understudy job in an above-average theatre. It all looked very promising. But life in the theatre proved to be not quite that simple. One good job didn’t necessarily lead to another.

  Perhaps now, though, four years down the track, perhaps now was the time for her breakthrough. Stardom was just around the corner. Jane nibbled at a piece of smoked salmon on rye bread. Quite a step up from sardines on toast. Sardines and baked beans. She must have eaten out several supermarkets over the years. Then there was the weekly treat when she got the lust for meat. Lamb spare ribs. Well, that’s what she called them. To other people they were lamb flaps chopped up and baked to a crisp. Other people bought them for their dogs.

  And her dressing room. Jane looked around her at the leather sofa, the walk-in wardrobe and the en suite bathroom. My God, she could fit three of the succession of bedsits that she had lived in into this space. And carpet! She wriggled her bare toes in the plush pile and grinned to herself. No looking back now, kid, this is definitely the big time!

  But she did look back. She looked back at the succession of auditions and rejections. She looked back at the thrill of landing her first understudy job. She looked back at her first role in the theatre. What was it? A maid? No, that was the second role. Somebody’s little sister. And she could still feel the surge of jubilation when her agent had rung and said, ‘Good news! You got the job at the Royal. St
art rehearsals on … ’. She couldn’t remember the rest.

  Of course it hadn’t continued. There had been more auditions, more screen tests, more unfulfilled promises. What about that test for Marching Song? A big-budget telemovie, and she was perfect for the role of ‘Dido’ — but her agent hadn’t put her up for it. (‘You’re too inexperienced, Jane, they only want people with a track record.’)

  Bugger that, she thought. She’d crashed the audition anyway. It was a cattle call. There were fifty actresses, and they hadn’t even had the grace to read them separately. Herded together in one big studio, they’d had to get up and spout the words in front of each other. Half the girls only got a dozen words out before, ‘Thank you, that’s fine. Next.’ Pigs. But she’d got through. They cut the numbers down to ten and they made them go through it all over again. Six girls, including Jane, were called back two days later. This time the director worked with each of them individually before they were called on to perform before the producer.

  A week later, there was another call-up. It was down to three. After two hours’ solid work one girl burst into tears when she was told she was out. Down to two. ‘Report back next Tuesday for screen testing.’

  As Jane was about to leave, the director took her aside. ‘Cut your hair,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cut your hair. I want you for the part but Merv (producer) reckons Dido should look boyish and he’s so goddamn thick he won’t be able to visualise it from the test.’

  ‘But … ’

  ‘Do it and the part’s yours.’ A conspiratorial wink and she was ushered out the door.

  Jane had refused to have her hair cut since she was twelve years old. Her proud boast was that she could sit on it even when it was plaited. And it had taken her nearly eight years to get it that long.

  Off it had come and the test went brilliantly. Another private wink from the director when the two girls were informed they’d know next week. Jane had felt triumphant when she told the agent that she was the director’s choice. (‘See, you wouldn’t put me up for it, you silly bitch, and look what’s happened. Me, out of fifty!’ But she didn’t say that, of course.)