The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Catalyst?’ Jane prompted.

  ‘Sure. Catalyst, that’s it. He’s been the catalyst.’

  ‘So why do you have to give up acting?’ Jane vaguely knew the answer but she asked anyway.

  ‘Because the third eye’s too easy for me, Jane. I’ve been acting all my life, only I never knew it. I want to quit before I see myself through a camera lens all the time. I want to quit before this analysing business takes over and I can’t think of anyone but me and who I am and … oh, all that shit, you know?’

  Jane knew only too well and she felt a sudden rush of envy. Yes, Vicky was getting out in time. Too late for me, Jane thought, knowing full well that she was no longer able to be subjective. Everything was observed, noted and filed for possible use in a future performance. It took Jane only a few seconds to shrug off such negative feelings though. So what? She and Vicky were different people, after all. Vicky obviously didn’t have the commitment to be an actress, she didn’t want to risk paying the price. Well, Jane did. Each to their own.

  ‘I wish you luck, Vicky,’ she said and meant it.

  Following on the heels of the death of Simon’s character and the news of Narelle’s pregnancy, Jane’s and Vicky’s announcements that they were quitting the show meant that the ranks of ‘The Glitter Game’ regulars would be sadly depleted and of course Alain couldn’t have liked it more. There was only one continuous thorn in his side. Robert Bryce.

  After the irritation of being overruled several times in production decisions that should have been totally his domain, Alain had to face the humiliation of the bad press about Simon and Bryce’s reaction to it. Then to top it all off, there was Bryce’s peremptory order for Alain to make all arrangements for Edwina Dawling’s promotional trip. Good God, Alain thought yet again, the man’s treating me like a lackey.

  And so Alain had found himself barking, ‘Fuck the budget, do it,’ at Tim Arnold. This time, though, it didn’t take Alain long to get over the insult. He only had to remind himself that Robert Bryce would be regretting his actions in a very short time. ‘The Glitter Game’ would be a dead horse, which no amount of whipping would be able to resurrect unless perhaps the whip was wielded by the Midas of soaps, the King himself. And the King himself would be happily ensconced at Channel 8.

  Yes, what was the point of allowing Robert Bryce to upset him? This was the most peaceful, relaxing time Alain could remember in his entire life of fighting, scratching and clawing to get to the top and stay there. He had only one week left with Network Three, having officially handed in his notice a month ago, informing Bryce Holdings that he was departing on the very day his contract expired.

  Robert had not announced Alain’s successor. Indeed, he’d requested that Alain himself keep his departure a secret. Alain understood. The press would not be kind about Channel 3’s chances in the local drama stakes, and ‘The Glitter Game’ ratings would be bound to plummet when it was announced that the King was leaving. It was the least Alain could do, and one never knew when one might need Robert Bryce again. Alain agreed to keep the secret.

  Although he’d been adamant about his decision, Alain had been a little disappointed that Robert Bryce hadn’t fought harder to keep him. Maybe their recent conflict had irritated Bryce to the point where the man was willing to cut his own throat. Because cut his own throat he certainly had, Alain thought with satisfaction, by not coming up with an offer too good to refuse. On the other hand maybe Bryce was losing interest in his television assets. After all Bryce Holdings had acquired two more mining leases in the year of ‘The Glitter Game’.

  Whatever the reason, Alain decided he couldn’t care less. And his indifference to anything pertaining to the network gave him the most precious gift he’d ever known. Time. Time for himself. Time that didn’t belong to the media, the network, the ratings war. Time to indulge. Time to concentrate on the home front. And indulgence and the home front meant the same thing now. Tran.

  Tran had become an integral part of Alain’s life, as necessary to him as his favourite armchair or his home computer. Their relationship was still highly sensual, but the sex itself had become more of a daily ritual, one which Alain was only too happy to take for granted, to lie back and let Tran do all the work. It was far less exhausting than the obsession he’d had for her body in the first few weeks.

  Tran’s role as a release factor was just as important to Alain on an emotional level as it was on a sexual one — in fact, possibly more so. He would pour out all the pent-up frustrations and angers of a day at the studio while she stroked his brow or massaged his feet. She rarely answered but made sympathetic clucking sounds with the back of her tongue or small popping noises with her lips or simply hummed in a soothing tone. She seemed to have a language completely her own, designed solely to calm him.

  And it did — to the point where Alain found himself talking to her endlessly. Even when he wasn’t stressed, he’d chronicle the day’s events as if he were writing in a diary, merely to hear the crooning noises in return.

  Apart from simple board and lodging, Tran seemed to require nothing in return for her endless attention. She never asked for money or gifts or for outings to expensive restaurants. The same selflessness eradicated Alain’s fear of public exposure as, apart from stealing out via the service entrance once a week to do the shopping, Tran was quite happy to stay at home. These trips were always conducted midweek during working hours and the shopping was delivered later that afternoon when Alain could arrange to be home to accept delivery. It was Tran’s idea to organise things that way and Alain was grateful for her discretion.

  After all, he had more to fear than mere public ridicule. Cohabiting with Tran would carry a hefty charge. She still wouldn’t tell him how old she was. Every time he badgered her she would giggle shyly, look away and whisper, ‘No matter’. Indeed, her reluctance to admit her age was such that Alain thought maybe he’d be better off not knowing. Despite her sexual knowledge, Alain’s assessment of her age remained at around fifteen. But what if she really were younger? A lot younger? He thrilled at the thought, but he also worried. What if he were found out? No. It was better not to think about that — better not to know.

  In the meantime, with the exception of incoming phone calls which were attended to either by Alain or the answering machine, Tran handled all household affairs from cleaning, cooking and washing, to accounts and maintenance. Alain had no secrets from Tran. He didn’t feel it necessary to teach her the combination of the safe, of course, but he no longer locked the study door or banned her from looking through desk drawers for any papers she might need for maintenance records or the like. He even taught her how to load and cock the gun he kept in his bedside cabinet should she need it for her own protection when she was alone. All in all it was a perfect domestic situation.

  It was fitting that the first day of Alain’s final week at Channel 3 should be a sparkling blue glorious day. Fitting because it matched his mood. Alain and the day were both happy.

  He kissed Tran goodbye and she too glowed with happiness. He didn’t kiss her very often.

  And everything ran to schedule at the station — no particular dramas, no phone calls from Robert Bryce, no rantings and ravings from overreacting queens. Tim Arnold obviously had Edwina’s trip all under control.

  Alain picked up the pile of trade magazines and papers his secretary had left on his desk and leaned back contentedly in his plush leather chair. Every Monday Wendy left the magazines and every Monday Alain had time for no more than the quickest flick through the most important business articles on figures and projected ratings surveys. Today he intended to luxuriate. Today he intended to read about his favourite comedy team and catch up on media gossip and trivia. Today he had time.

  He tossed the Financial Review to one side and Jane’s face stared up at him from the cover of TV Week. Good looking girl, he thought. And that touch of defiance. Could have been a star. Oh well, he’d given her the chance — it wasn’t his fault if the stupid b
itch had knocked it back. He tossed the magazine on top of the Financial Review, not bothering to look at the article. The Bulletin was next. And who was that on the cover? Shit! More star quality — and how! Who the hell was she? Alain read the leader: ‘Is this the face of the first Australian actress ever to win an Academy Award?’ Of course. It was that new girl, what was her name? ‘Anna Bowrey’, he read. ‘Anna Bowrey, Academy Award Winner?’ Well, good luck to her, Alain thought. Nice to see Aussies do so well in the international market. He’d helped put so many there himself, it made him feel very proud.

  Jane also had both magazines in front of her. She was sitting in the canteen having arrived early to go through some lines.

  When she’d called in at a newsagency en route to the channel specifically to pick up the TV Times and read her article, she’d caught sight of the Bulletin. The words on the cover of the top magazine leapt out at her: ANNA BOWREY, ACADEMY AWARD WINNER? There was a sick feeling in her stomach.

  She felt even worse when she’d finished reading both articles. The probing questions in the Bowrey interview were well-fielded and left the girl looking good, particularly supported by the beautifully framed and lit stills from the movie.

  By contrast, the stills of Jane and Edwina glowering at each other looked harshly-lit and posed, and as for the article itself … Jane cringed. ‘Jane’s star sign is Aries with Pisces rising … No, there is no particular man in her life at the moment but if there were she would love him for his mind rather than his body … Her favourite colour is bright yellow’ … Jane dumped both magazines in the rubbish bin and left the canteen.

  The rest of the day was a battle for Jane. A battle to keep her venom at bay. There was a war raging inside her and she knew she mustn’t let it show. She reasoned with herself until she had successfully persuaded herself that it wasn’t Alain’s fault. He was a deadshit, sure, but he’d been doing his job when he’d talked her around to ‘The Glitter Game’ in preference to the Wainwright offer. He was a clever man. Good luck to him. It was Edwina who’d killed Jane’s chances. Jane would still be starring upfront, impressing the international market, but for Edwina. And no amount of reasoning could persuade her to forgive Edwina.

  At midday when Edwina arrived on set for her first scene of the day, she knew immediately what was going through Jane’s mind. She’d read both articles herself and had fully expected a violent reaction. The fact that she was met with seething hatred was a measure of Jane’s self-control and Edwina respected the girl for that. But even as she thought ‘Good for you, dear, you’re showing great style’, Edwina didn’t regret a thing. She’d done what she had to do. The name of the game, dear, the name of the game.

  Nevertheless, it made working conditions most uncomfortable, Edwina thought. She could see and feel venom all about her, Paul on one side, Jane on the other. Oh well, she sighed, only two more days and she’d be out of the country. Thank God!

  The day had held no such tension for Alain. At six o’clock he left the channel in as buoyant a mood as he’d been in that morning. One day down and only four to go, he told himself.

  ‘Good night, Alain,’ Brian Hopgood called as he raised the boom gate and Alain drove through. But even the audacity of a security guard calling him by his first name failed to irritate.

  ‘Good night, Brian,’ Alain called back.

  It was two o’clock in the morning when gunshots rang out and alarm bells screamed at Channel 3.

  Brian Hopgood whirled about, dropped to one knee, and pointed his gun at the sound he’d heard behind him. It was Frank, the young security assistant who was also on patrol that night.

  ‘He got away,’ Brian said, rising to his feet and holstering his gun. ‘The bastard got away.’

  Frank looked around at the offices of the drama unit. Everywhere was chaos. Paperwork spilled out of dozens of open filing cabinets, drawers were upended, their contents strewn over the floor, and tables and chairs were covered with open files and computer discs.

  ‘Shit!’ he said.

  The press heralded the news of the Channel 3 burglary in the early editions the following day.

  ‘… valuable discs containing top-secret guidelines for future television series, detailed storylines for the next twelve months of “The Glitter Game”, intricate marketing plans and merchandising deals … ’ the list went on. All stolen. The whole industry was guessing. Had a rival network had the audacity to stage such a burglary? If so, it must have been purely an act of sabotage. Apart from destroying it, what could they do with the stolen material? To use it, even in disguised form, would court discovery. The entertainment world and the media in general buzzed with excitement at the boldness of such strong-arm tactics.

  The drama unit was closed that morning while Brian Hopgood and two police officers sifted through the carnage and examined the bullet holes in the walls, one of which came from the assailant’s gun, and one from Brian’s return of fire.

  Nevertheless, it was business as usual at Channel 3.

  ‘I don’t know how the hell they’re still hanging in there,’ Alain barked. He’d called a meeting with Jim and Evan and they were discussing Mandy and Sidney. ‘They haven’t had key storylines and there hasn’t been any press on them for a month. So how come their popularity points have picked up another fifteen per cent? That’s twenty-five per cent over the last two surveys, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, as I mentioned before, Alain, the writers like writing for them — they’re warm, humorous characters.’ Evan tried hard to keep the smug edge out of his voice but he wasn’t entirely successful. ‘This is obviously conveying itself to the viewers.’

  Apart from a derisive snort, Alain didn’t deign to reply to him, but turned to Jim. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘There’s something in what Evan says,’ Jim agreed, ignoring Alain’s glare. ‘They’re certainly providing the bulk of the show’s humour.’ He shook his head. ‘But, to be quite honest, I’ve no idea why they’re reaching the public the way they are.’

  ‘All right,’ Alain barked, ‘renew their contracts — another six months. But only the basic increase.’

  ‘Ten per cent it is.’ Jim glanced at Evan. ‘We’ll ask for a six-month option on top if that’s OK. The writers might want them for a full year.’ Evan nodded vigorously.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Alain gave a dismissive wave, ‘so long as the option’s our way only. But make it clear, no negotiation. If they don’t like it they can piss off.’

  Jim paused. Should he say anything? The Jim of old certainly wouldn’t have. But something had happened to him lately that had given Jim a backbone he never knew he had. And that something was Greg. Greg’s humour and laid-back attitude were having an undeniable effect on Jim. ‘Tell them to get rooted, it’s only television,’ Greg would say. Or ‘They need you, sport, stick it up them. Go for what you want.’ If Jim were to diagnose Greg’s contribution more seriously it could be read as ‘love and support’.

  ‘I’d rather allow them a small area of negotiation, Alain,’ Jim said.

  Alain didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stared back in a state of shock. The man was a producer, for Christ’s sake. What was he saying?

  ‘You see, they’ve been with the show for a full twelve months on pretty basic money. I think the goodwill we’ll create in allowing them a minor area —’

  ‘Fuck goodwill!’ Alain exploded. ‘They’re actors! They’re lucky we’re giving them a job! What’s happened to you?’

  Jim smiled. Alain was so readable there were times when he even liked him. ‘If we get them for ten per cent for the first six months, then allow them to negotiate a small increase for the second … ’ Jim spelled it out carefully, ‘… bearing in mind that the option for that six months is on our side only and that they have to negotiate that increase now, then we’ll end up with goodwill for the latter half of the year just when tempers are getting frayed. And it’ll have cost us peanuts. It’s not a bad policy. What do you think?’r />
  ‘Oh, do it, do it.’ Alain waved him away. Of course he could see the sense in it, that was why he’d employed Jim, after all. Jim was one of those line producers who always managed to get on with his actors. But it was all so petty! Alain couldn’t be bothered.

  Jim smiled and left. Alain looked at Evan and wondered why he wasn’t leaving too.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you, Alain.’ Alain raised an eyebrow. ‘About the burglary,’ Evan continued. Alain raised the other eyebrow. Evan cleared his throat. ‘A heck of a lot of stuff was stolen.’

  ‘I know.’ Alain nodded sympathetically. My God, he asked himself, how much more disaster can ‘The Glitter Game’ take and survive? Very little, he answered himself with pleasure.

  ‘You’ll have your work cut out, won’t you, Evan?’

  Evan nodded. ‘I’m not too bad with “The Glitter Game” storylines, I’ve got a lot of those on old discs at home.’

  Pity, Alain thought.

  ‘But all the breakdowns and treatments for the new season’s series were in the Drama Unit, including the family sit-com pilot.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Alain feigned anxiety.

  ‘Exactly. We were due to start preproduction on the pilot next week.’

  ‘I know,’ Alain feigned worry.

  ‘So I wondered if we should give “Lolly’s” a go. I know you said we should shelve it because the family sit-com would cost less but we’ve got the first three episodes written plus the complete —’

  ‘We haven’t.’ Alain feigned utter defeat. ‘Wendy erased the disc last week.’

  ‘My God!’ Evan’s face was ashen. ‘Why?’

  ‘A mistake. I told her we were shelving “Lolly’s” indefinitely. She misunderstood me and wiped the disc.’ It would always be his word against Wendy’s should Evan pursue it and as Wendy cleared discs daily, it wouldn’t be difficult to convince her that she’d inadvertently made a mistake.