The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  Just before his sixteenth birthday, Greg stole off and tested for a television series with a schoolmate who’d done two Coca-Cola commercials and knew all there was to know about television. Greg got the part and it was the birth of a successful acting career. The friend made a series of Hungry Jack Hamburger ads and became an insurance salesman.

  It was hard telling his father that he wanted to be an actor. Not because he thought Pat would forbid him or try to prevent it, but because of the disappointment Greg knew it would cause. It did, of course. Pat was bitterly disappointed but tried desperately to hide it. What the lad wanted the lad must have and a year later he even put up the deposit for the flat Greg was to share with a fellow actor in the series.

  ‘It’s close to the channel, Dad. Saves that bugger of a drive. I’ll come home most weekends.’

  His father’s parting words were, ‘Watch out for those poofters, son, there’s a lot of them in your business,’ and Greg moved in with his first lover just before his seventeenth birthday.

  Over ten years later the facade was the same. At least twice a month Greg would go home to Pat and Jill for the weekend, leaving his flamboyance and gay colloquialisms back at the studios. He no longer found it awkward. After all, it was the same butch front he presented to the camera and to the public. He even enjoyed the training sessions at the gym now. As a matter of fact, when the younger, prettier boxers were working out, he enjoyed them very much.

  In the meantime, his career flourished — several feature films, a number of award-winning miniseries and now the big, new, internationally sold deal for The King. Greg’s future was very secure. He was a little doubtful about the network’s decision to find an unknown young actress to work opposite him and had tried to negotiate casting approval in his contract but it was a useless exercise. The King never allowed actors such power. He’d just have to rely on Jim’s judgement. It was Jim who’d been assigned to the hunt and only the select few would get through to Alain. Thank God for that, Greg thought. He’d never worked with Jim but his casting judgement was known to be excellent. Brilliant marketing man as Alain was, he tended to cast with his groin when it came to women.

  Jim was not having an easy job of it. He agreed with Alain that now they had their commercial stars contracted they should look for a ‘real’ one. A piece of freak off-the-street casting. A sixteen-year-old star that, a year from now, the network could legitimately claim it had ‘made’. But where to look? The character of Jodie was a young rebel, a tough, streetwise kid, and the model and extra agencies didn’t have that kind of look on their books. He bumped into one possible, a girl called Sam, who was singing country and western in a Surry Hills coffee basement, but she wasn’t really right. True, she was sixteen and there was a rebellious quality about her but she lacked sexuality. She probably led student political rallies and demonstrated for women’s rights, Jim thought gloomily. Jodie wasn’t that sort of rebel. Nevertheless he lined Sam up for a test and resumed the hunt.

  He’d virtually given up when he met Vicky — in the least expected place, of course.

  One Saturday afternoon he agreed to go shopping with his flatmate, Sharon, and, after spending a fortune on compact discs at Folkways, she insisted on going for a drink at the pub down the road. The pub down the road was a gay pub and Jim tried to get out of it but Sharon just laughed. She never allowed Jim to take himself too seriously. Theirs was a happy relationship and her sisterly affection was good for him.

  He gave a reluctant sigh and followed her into the pub, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that every gay in the bar would recognise him as one of them. He concentrated very hard on his drink and Sharon to avoid eye contact with anyone else and it was only the unexpected female voice from behind the bar that made him look up.

  ‘Same again, two middies? Fosters, was it?’

  What was a female bartender doing in a gay pub? Then his eyes met hers. Here was Jodie. How on earth had she conned herself a bar job at all? She couldn’t be older than sixteen. And those eyes! Large, framed in jet black lashes, they were the lightest blue. Not icy though — definitely not icy. The sparkle in them was defiant and challenging and held the promise of great sexuality.

  ‘I said, same again!?’ Sharon had been so busy talking that she hadn’t noticed the girl. Now she paused for a second. ‘Oh. Yes, thanks.’

  The girl leaned forward, nearly touching noses with Jim. ‘And was I right? Was it Fosters?’ Now the sparkle was humorous. Maybe she thought his fascination was an instant infatuation, or maybe she’d picked that he was a closet gay hoping to go unrecognised, or maybe it was neither of these. Maybe she was merely amused by his apparent discomfort.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t threatening and Jim smiled back. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  A quick conspiratorial wink and she left. As Jim watched her, he knew how she’d got the job. The self-confidence, the efficiency, the style — she could have been thirty. But no, she was no older than sixteen, Jim was certain. He stood up.

  ‘Excuse me, Sharon.’

  ‘Have you listened to a word I said?’

  ‘No.’

  Jim’s eyes were upon the girl behind the bar.

  Sharon laughed loudly. ‘Oh no, love, you’ve got to be joking!’

  She knew he was on a casting crusade, but the little street kid behind the bar! Come on! Sharon took a closer look. Mind you, those eyes … She downed the dregs of her beer as she watched him approach the girl.

  ‘I’m producing a new drama series for Channel 3.’ Jim proffered his card to the girl who was drawing beer for four glasses and didn’t lift her eyes for a second.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ There was a perfect half-inch head on each beer as she flicked the handle back.

  ‘Yes. Jim Avalon’s the name. I was wondering if I could meet you after work? There’s something I’d like to discuss.’

  ‘You wanna make me a star, right?’

  Jim was aware of the sarcasm but chose to ignore it and continued in earnest. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m really not trying to —’

  But the humour in the steel blue eyes was gone and now they were icy, very icy. And the voice was very loud. ‘Trying won’t get you anywhere, mister, you’ve got to make a definite offer. Short time? Long time? All night? Then there’s any special —’

  ‘OK, OK, shut up.’ He thrust a twenty dollar bill across the bar to her. The girl obligingly shut up and pocketed the note. She served two of the beers to a couple at the end of the bar and returned to shove the other two across the counter to Jim.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘That’ll cost you.’

  ‘It just did. What’s your name?’

  ‘Vicky.’

  ‘What’s happened to the beers?’ Sharon had joined them.

  Jim handed one to her and continued. ‘I’m serious, Vicky. I’m casting a television series and I’d like to see you.’

  Vicky had been looking intently from Jim to Sharon and then back again. ‘OK, I believe you. When do you want to see me?’

  ‘You believe me? Why?’

  ‘Well, why would you be doing a line? You’re gay, aren’t you?’

  Sharon didn’t laugh this time but flicked a look of concern at Jim as he studied his beer unnecessarily closely. That one would have hurt, Sharon thought. No one ever guessed that Jim was gay. She glanced back at the girl. Certainly no hurt had been intended. It had simply been a statement of fact as far as the girl was concerned. But how the hell had she known?

  ‘Would three o’clock Monday afternoon be all right?’ Jim took a slug of his beer and looked back at Vicky.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Channel 3. The address is on the card. Go to the front reception and they’ll direct you to Studio A.’

  The girl picked up the card and looked at it. ‘OK, Jim.’ She grinned back at him.

  Jim downed his beer and got to his feet. ‘I’ll see you Monday.’ He left the pub and Sharon had to hurry out after him, leavin
g her half-finished beer on the bar. That was unlike Jim, she thought.

  On Monday, Jim left Vicky alone in the studio for half an hour to study some selected scenes of Jodie’s. When he tested her, it was exactly as he’d thought. The kid was a natural. He took her to his office.

  ‘Sit down, Vicky. Tell me a bit about yourself.’

  ‘Which bit do you want to know?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘How old do you want me to be?’

  ‘Jodie’s sixteen.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Jim congratulated himself. Spot on. He’d always been good at guessing ages. ‘So how come you got the barmaid job?’

  ‘She shrugged. ‘They wanted me to be eighteen.’

  Touché, Jim thought. The kid was quick, defiant and on her guard. But he had a feeling that the tough exterior was purely for protection. The kid was sensual, vulnerable and very young. The kid was Jodie.

  ‘How would you like to be in a television series?’

  ‘I’d give it a go. Something new, anyway.’

  Jim decided to leave it at that. She obviously didn’t want to talk about herself.

  ‘Right. Well, the executive producer will want to see another test. His name’s Alain King. Will tomorrow be all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock, then — same studio. Greg MacNeil will be reading opposite you. He’s playing Billy.’

  ‘Greg MacNeil!’ The magnificent eyes shone with excitement. God, the camera was going to love her. ‘You’re kidding! Greg MacNeil?’

  ‘You’re a fan of his, are you?’

  ‘Who isn’t! Wow! Unreal!’

  Jim couldn’t help grinning back. Sixteen? Hell, she could be twelve. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Vicky. And good luck.’

  Vicky turned at the door. ‘Hey.’ Jim waited expectantly as she hesitated. ‘I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing the other day. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Forget it.’ He busied himself with a pile of scripts.

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’ He looked up sharply but the returning grin, although cheeky, was sincere. ‘I really mean that.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Jim.’ And she was gone.

  Hyde Park was a mass of spring blossom. The sky was blue and the first bite of a scorching Sydney summer was in the air as Vicky got off the bus and walked back towards East Sydney, but she didn’t notice it. Unusual for her. She loved Hyde Park. But now there were too many exciting things to think about. She’d played it cool the whole time with Jim except for the one lapse when he’d mentioned Greg MacNeil. She could kick herself for that. If they wanted a tough street kid, they’d get one — she wouldn’t drop the act again. Funnily enough she’d sensed an understanding in Jim. She knew if she ever dropped her guard with him he wouldn’t take advantage of her. The others were bound to be sharks though. Don’t relax yet, Vicky, she warned herself — not yet, whatever you do.

  It was easy for Vicky to play the street kid. She’d been doing it for four years now. After running away from her foster home five times when she was twelve years old, they’d given up looking for her. Never having known her real parents, she’d been fostered out since she was five and, nice as her foster parents were, Vicky had nothing in common with them, just as she had nothing in common with the four other children the couple had fostered. Who the hell wanted to live in Bankstown, anyway? Kings Cross — the seedy centre of the city — beckoned and Vicky ran.

  She eventually managed to hide herself away in an East Sydney bedsit, supporting herself with waitressing jobs and learning to avoid the crisis centres, dero hangouts and hookers’ beats where the authorities were always on the lookout for runaway kids. She’d managed to scrounge a legitimate living for herself, she’d avoided the drug scene with the exception of the odd marijuana and booze bout, and she had never prostituted herself. Not through any highly moral code but because that was the quickest way to be picked up by the authorities and who the hell wanted to risk AIDS anyway? At thirteen Vicky had figured that prostitution and drugs were for losers.

  Not that she was a virgin. She was only fourteen when she discovered that the only way out of a tight corner was to give in.

  The Hungarian owner of the coffee lounge around the corner from the old Metro had been the first one. She’d been waitressing there for a week when he asked her to work overtime on Saturday night. He had a group of Hungarian friends coming around for a birthday party and he’d pay double time. Sure, why not? So she closed up at eleven o’clock and waited for the special guests. No such luck. The only Hungarian in sight was the boss waddling towards her, his trousers around his ankles, his huge penis sticking out from under his T-shirt, leading him like a divining rod.

  Vicky was frightened. If she managed to push him over it would take him several seconds to untangle the trousers, true, but the door was locked. She’d never get out in time and if he got mad …

  She tried to brazen it out. ‘So where’s the birthday party?’

  ‘Here, baby, here.’ He put his hand to his groin and waved his penis from side to side. ‘You wish me happy birthday, yes?’

  What could she do? It didn’t take long but it hurt like hell, which pleased the boss even more. She refused to scream, vomit or pass out.

  Afterwards, she managed to keep her voice steady as she held her hand out. ‘My double time.’

  ‘Sure, baby, sure.’ He staggered, still panting, to the till, counted out her wages and added a further twenty dollars. ‘We have another party next Saturday, yes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  When she got home to her bedsit she threw up copiously and spent an hour in the bathroom down the hall showering and washing out her bloodied panties.

  It had happened to her twice since then. Once with another employer and once in the back of a car when she’d hitched a lift to Bondi Beach to have a swim. Now she always made sure she had the train fare.

  It had certainly put her off sex, and from then on she sought jobs in establishments catering to gays. Male gays that is — she had a feeling that rape by some of the hefty bull dykes she’d met around the Cross might be even worse than her previous experiences. Nevertheless it was all grist to the mill and, although it toughened her up, Vicky never thought of herself as a ‘street kid’. She was employed, she supported herself, she paid her room rent in advance and, although she never planned too far ahead, she knew that one day things would happen for her. It was just a case of being in the right place at the right time.

  And this was obviously it. All she had to do was impress this Alain King bloke. Well, she’d impress him all right.

  Alain was bored. Irritated and bored. He watched the anaemic young girl trying desperately to be Jodie.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he hissed to Jim.

  ‘Sam. Samantha.’

  ‘She stinks. I hope you’ve got something better than this up your sleeve.’

  ‘I have. Just wanted to give you some grounds for comparison.’ Jim felt a little guilty at allowing Sam to get her hopes up when she didn’t stand a chance in hell. But he was so desperate for Alain to see Vicky in the best possible light that he allowed himself a rare devious action.

  Greg MacNeil was generously giving his all to Samantha, not only in the reading, but in the preliminary chat and introduction. The full-on masculine approach with not a hint of his off-screen theatricality.

  Alain brusquely called an end to the test and motioned for the next girl to be brought in. Then he buried his face in some papers and didn’t even look up as Jim introduced Vicky to Greg.

  ‘G’day, Vicky. Good luck with the test — I know you’ll do well. Jim thinks you’re great.’ Greg’s handshake was firm and reassuring but he hadn’t reckoned on the riveting blue eyes that met his and held them seconds longer than most young girls would dare. He flashed her one of his best grins and turned away for his script.

  Vicky looked back to Jim. There was a humorous mock-disapp
ointment in her eyes and she gave a barely discernible shake of the head. My God, Jim thought, she’s guessed. She knows he’s gay. Jim couldn’t help it, he grinned back at her, feeling strangely vindicated. If she could guess Greg MacNeil was gay when he was in full butch mode, it was certainly no crime that she’d picked Jim as well. And he knew that was why Vicky was signalling him. It was to make amends and he liked her for it.

  ‘Alain, this is Vicky. Vicky, Alain King.’

  ‘Hello, Mr King.’

  Vicky held her hand out. Normally if a young actor had the audacity to proffer a handshake, Alain pointedly ignored it, but he too was not prepared for the eyes. They locked with his and he found himself automatically shaking her hand. He felt an instant stirring in his groin and knew he’d have to sit down soon. Good God, the sexuality of the girl! And she was so young! Just the age he liked them. He released her hand, started to quiver slightly, sat down and crossed his legs.

  ‘All right, Jim. Line it up, let’s go.’

  As Vicky joined Greg in front of the camera she experienced a slight sinking feeling. She’d recognised Alain’s lust immediately. Here we go again, she thought, here we go again. Despite his sophisticated image, Alain reminded her very much of the Hungarian.

  She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. Jim felt his jaw clench as he watched Alain feign indifference. Oh, no you don’t, Alain, he seethed, not this one.

  ‘Off you go, dear, let’s see what you can do.’ Alain leaned back in his chair.

  Vicky read well as Jim had known she would and he felt doubly rewarded by Greg’s delight at his new discovery.

  But it wouldn’t have made any difference. The role was Vicky’s in any event.

  Oh yes, Alain thought to himself, we’ll see what you can do, all right …

  ‘We need a couple of old has-beens to play a couple of old has-beens.’