The Glitter Game

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I take it you’ve locked in Mandy and Sidney,’ Alain demanded the minute Jim’s head appeared around the door.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A couple of placatory minors like better dressing room allocation and hire cars instead of cabs but basically we’re looking at a fifty per cent increase.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alain looked pleased. ‘Could have been worse — they could have wanted double.’

  ‘They did. The dressing rooms and hire cars talked them down fifty per cent.’

  Alain also caught the whiff of cognac. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Jim nodded. ‘I took them to lunch. And I tell you, you need a drink when you’re jointly wooing the Burgess, Meredith agents.’ Jim gave a hoot of laughter.

  Alain looked irritated. ‘It isn’t like you, Jim —’

  But Jim interrupted. He was irritated back. Bugger Alain, not a word of congratulations on a deal well done, and now he was being reprimanded like a schoolboy. ‘Oh leave it Alain, alone.’ He gave another hoot as he realised what he’d said.

  Alain watched him leave and wished yet again that Jim had remained in the closet.

  ‘Miss Nelson is waiting to see you,’ Wendy announced through the intercom. ‘Shall I send her in?’

  Alain flung the door open, beaming, his hand extended.

  ‘Barbie! Come in, come in. Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee, thank you.’

  His handshake was warm and effusive and he flashed the smile of the perfect boss at Wendy as he ushered Barbie in.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely if you have a moment, Wendy.’ He closed the door and gestured to one of the comfortable armchairs beside the coffee table. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ He pulled the other armchair up beside her, casting a sideways glance as she crossed the elegant legs and smoothed down the tailored skirt. Good looking woman, he thought. Easy prey, too. Oh, she was playing the poised figure of fashion to perfection but he knew that it was a cover-up. He could sense the tiny heart racing beneath the smart linen George Gross jacket.

  It was true that Barbie was nervous. When she’d kicked Paul out of her life, the anger and the hurt that remained had lent fire to her confidence. Enough fire for her to forge a new career. But there were times lately when she was painfully aware that the career was no more than a distraction from the ache for Paul. There were times when she felt the tough exterior crumble and then the desire to run back to the comfort of being a housewife and mother would return with a vengeance. This was one of those times.

  She’d felt nervous even walking through the foyer of Channel 3. What if she bumped into Paul? The prospect of meeting Alain King had made her feel even worse. The stories she’d heard over the years of The King and his dealings were intimidating to say the least. And now, seated beside him, she was intimidated by the man himself as she felt him see through her composed facade. Hang in there, Barbie Doll, she thought. Whenever she was in a tight corner these days she unconsciously talked to herself as Paul used to. It helped.

  They exchanged pleasantries. The coffee arrived. Alain talked about the fashion segment in broad terms. He’d discuss the specifics with her agent, he said, the main purpose of their present meeting was to ascertain her own interest and commitment.

  Barbie’s instinctive reaction was the same as it had been when her agent had phoned her yesterday. She didn’t want the job. The thought of working under the same roof as Paul, even if she could continually avoid him, was more than she could bear. But the agent had convinced her that it would be the biggest career boost possible and Barbie had reluctantly agreed.

  It was after Wendy had cleared away the coffee cups and the plate of uneaten Scottish shortbread that Alain decided to make his move. ‘Well, I think we’ve covered all we can at this point, Barbie. I’ll arrange our next meeting with the on-line producer and then we can really get down to the business of format, budget, etc.’ Barbie was about to make her farewell when Alain suddenly remembered. ‘Oh, there was just one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’ Barbie sat back and recrossed her legs.

  ‘I hope you won’t think I’m being too personal.’

  Barbie didn’t say anything. His words sounded ominous. One of the lessons she’d taught herself was, when in doubt, keep quiet.

  ‘At Channel 3 we’re one big happy family, you see,’ Alain continued expansively, ‘and I like to protect that as best I can.’ Confused, Barbie nodded. ‘And with your husband working here on “The Glitter Game” … ’ Alain shook his head compassionately. ‘Well, I’d like to think … ’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any friction.’ Barbie couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘I’d avoid him at all costs, as I’m sure he would me.’

  ‘Oh no, my dear, you misunderstand me.’ Paternalism flowed from Alain. ‘As I said, we’re one big happy family. I would love to think that it was Channel 3 that brought you two back together again.’ His brow furrowed with worry. ‘You see, Barbie, Paul’s drinking heavily — he has been for months now. We’re very fond of him at Channel 3 and we don’t like to see him do this to himself. Or, indeed, to his career.’

  Alain contemplated taking Barbie’s hand in heartfelt sympathy but the woman looked as if she were in a state of shock and he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He’d let the voice do it instead. ‘He loves you, Barbie,’ he crooned, ‘and I know your love for him and the warmth of his home and children would bring him back to the fold.’ Alain sat back, the proud patriarch. ‘And then we can all be a happy Channel 3 family, can’t we?’

  He waited for a reply but Barbie remained frozen so he continued. ‘If, between us, we can get Paul back on the straight and narrow it could be a big year for him, Barbie. It hasn’t gone to press yet, but,’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially even though they were alone, ‘he’s been nominated for a Logie and we’re confident he’ll win.’

  Ah, finally a reaction, Alain thought as Barbie’s eyes flickered. He took it as encouragement and pressed on. ‘Not the public “Most Popular” vote either. He’s up for “Best Actor”, Barbie, and I don’t have to tell you what that would mean to him.’

  Alain rose and Barbie automatically followed suit. ‘I look forward to seeing you and Paul reunited, my dear. And I’ll contact your agent in a week or so about our little morning segment.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ The head was held high and the voice was sharp but the glint of a tear behind the eyes belied the confidence. ‘You can’t buy me, Mr King.’

  It wasn’t the reaction Alain had expected at all and, in the brief pause before he could come up with a rejoinder, Barbie had made it to the door and escaped.

  Alain looked at his watch. Twenty minutes he’d wasted on the bitch. He’d seen the tears glinting in the eyes. She’d be well and truly bawling by now. Well, serve her right! Fancy letting her mousey little pride deny her the best job opportunity she was ever likely to get. God, how he detested fools.

  Alain was right about one thing. Barbie was bawling. She made it to the ladies toilets near the foyer, fought against throwing up, washed her face in cold water, then locked one of the cubicle doors and sat on the lavatory fighting to gain control.

  Alain had been way off mark about everything else. If Barbie were now to spare a thought for the job offer it would be relief at not having to take it. But she wasn’t sparing a thought for the job offer. She wasn’t sparing a thought for anything but Paul.

  So Paul was hitting the bottle. What did that mean? It didn’t mean anything particularly new. Paul had hit the bottle with dependable regularity for years. But Barbie couldn’t fool herself. She was painfully aware that it did mean something new. In all the years they’d been together Paul had never drunk dangerously when he was working. In fact Paul had never drunk dangerously at all. The ‘dependable regularity’ of his drinking had always been part of his ‘between jobs’ self-dramatisation. As he moped about declaring he’d never work again, that the industry had wiped him, that he was washed up, tumble
rs of Jack Daniel’s and ice seemed to go with the image. The moment he was working again the bottle disappeared. It was a moderate Scotch at the end of the day, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner and not even that if the following day’s studio call was an early one.

  So why was he drinking now? Was Alain right? Was Paul really that unhappy? If so, he certainly never let on to the children when he saw them.

  Barbie felt her resolve strengthen. She couldn’t afford to give in now — she’d worked too hard to become her own person again. She was no longer Paul’s doormat. Besides, she told herself as she gave her face a final cold water splash, he didn’t need her. Logie for Best Actor? Voted in by his peers? Hell, Paul wouldn’t need anybody. That was all he’d ever wanted. He’d had the adulation of his fans for years but to be taken seriously as an actor of note … !

  Barbie attacked the paper towel dispenser. He’ll be fine — you look after number one, she told herself as she studied the pale face in the mirror. With the make-up gone and only a smudge of mascara left she looked very wan. But not pathetic, Paul, no, not to be walked over.

  Vicky, Simon, Greg and Jim had a great time watching the Academy Awards. They were slightly drunk and very raucous.

  Then, suddenly, as the presenters for the Best Actress category were halfway through their inane preamble, Greg announced that Anna Bowrey had lost out.

  ‘What?’ Jim looked at him dangerously.

  ‘Yeah. Sidney told me.’

  There was a stunned silence before Vicky screamed at him. ‘What did you tell us that for, you deadshit.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Greg’s smile was patronising and irritating to the extreme. ‘You didn’t really think she had a chance, did you? She’s up against Meryl, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Greg.’ Jim looked just as angry as Vicky. ‘We agreed. We’ve been avoiding the news all day.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Greg shrugged. Sidney told me. I couldn’t shut him up.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you had to tell us.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,’ Simon interrupted. ‘We’ll wave the flags anyway.’

  ‘ … and the winner is … ’ Jim and Vicky glared at Greg as the presenter gave a toothy grin right down the barrel and took just a little too long over the dramatic pause. ‘ … Anna Bowrey!’

  While Vicky, Jim and Simon stared at the screen in disbelief, Greg jumped to his feet wildly waving his flag. ‘She did it! She did it!’

  A slow smile spread over Simon’s face. ‘You cheeky bastard, you didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘ ’Course not. I had no idea! Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Then they were all on their feet, waving flags, pouring champagne, belting Greg and generally feeling a patriotism they’d never known was in them.

  Jane wasn’t feeling patriotic at all. She was trying to. She was trying desperately to tell herself that the main thing was that an Aussie had won an Oscar. But it wasn’t working. ‘Which Aussie?’ a little voice kept asking. And another little voice kept answering, ‘It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me … ’ until she felt like screaming.

  Jane had known since mid-afternoon that Anna Bowrey had won. She’d made a point of finding out as soon as possible. The news had left her with a dull, sick feeling that she knew was going to grow and fester. And that night she didn’t even attempt to quell the masochistic drive that compelled her to watch the Academy Awards. She needed to witness the triumph that should have been hers.

  Only seconds after Anna Bowrey’s acceptance speech, Jane punched the ‘off’ button and sat staring at the blank screen. She felt such hatred! But it wasn’t directed towards Anna Bowrey. The girl had grabbed at the main chance after all, just as Jane had grabbed at hers. But the girl hadn’t had an Edwina Dawling around to cripple her. God, how Jane hated Edwina Dawling!

  And the following day, when the headlines, the media news programmes, and the radio DJs all screamed ‘Aussie wins Academy Award’, Jane felt her hatred grow.

  Within the television industry though, the excitement was short-lived. The Logies loomed near and, by the following Friday, Academy Award fever came to an abrupt halt when the press announced the nominees for the Logies.

  There was a triumphant Channel 3 party that Friday night. ‘The Glitter Game’ had scooped the pool.

  Not only was Edwina nominated in every category for which she was eligible, but it was considered quite possible that she might win all three.

  Paul’s Best Actor nomination was a surprise announcement but very well received and the only person with reservations about Mandy’s Best Supporting Actress vote was Sidney who, while being effusive in his congratulations, fumed with jealousy inside. Mandy understood and, underneath her gracious acceptance, felt genuinely sympathetic. Sympathy was easy for Mandy. If the roles were reversed she knew she’d feel exactly the same way.

  The Best Newcomer nominations were no surprise to the viewers. All three nominees were highly popular and it would be anyone’s Logie.

  Jane found it ironic that, after nearly six years in the industry, she should be nominated for Best Newcomer. It meant all those TV guest roles she’d sweated over had gone unnoticed and even rave reviews for leading stage performances meant nothing to television viewers. It was a further bitter pill to swallow on top of Anna Bowrey’s triumph. Some substitute for an Academy Award!

  Jane hoped desperately that Vicky, the other ‘Glitter Game’ nominee, would win. The third nominee was a ten-year-old cutie with freckles and plaits who’d recently moved in as the resident GP’s niece in the Channel 8 doctors’ soapie and Jane couldn’t bear the thought of her taking out the award.

  It was a ‘closed’ cast, production and friends party. No press or general network executives were present and, after the opening congratulations to the nominees, everyone was encouraged to let their hair down.

  Alain resolved the Narelle situation early in the festivities. The guests hadn’t even been called to the table but were still milling about the bar when Alain sought out Darren. ‘Darren!’ They pumped hands effusively. ‘I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You look fighting fit. Married life agrees with you, I take it?’

  Darren nodded vigorously and cast a goofy look at Narelle who was giggling in a corner with Vicky and Simon.

  ‘She’s one in a million, all right, isn’t she?’ Alain continued. This was the way to talk to Double Bay dentists, he’d decided. Clichés. Darren would respond to clichés.

  ‘She certainly is.’ Another goofy look.

  Alain looked troubled. ‘She belongs to the world, though, Darren. You know that, don’t you?’ Darren dragged his eyes away from Narelle and looked at Alain. ‘Her public needs her,’ Alain said by way of reinforcement.

  ‘Yes,’ Darren agreed. ‘She’s very popular.’

  Darren kept nodding as Alain outlined his plan — the channel would help Narelle through a comfortable pregnancy, supply every form of postnatal aid and thereby save the public from a substandard viewing existence, otherwise cheated of their favourite pet.

  He was still in mid-flow when Darren interrupted. ‘Yes, I think that’d be great.’

  ‘You do?’ Surely it wasn’t going to be this easy?

  ‘So long as Narelle’s happy.’

  ‘Oh, she will be. She will be.’

  ‘Yes. Her fans are very important to her and she enjoys her work.’

  ‘She won’t regret it, Darren.’ Alain patted his shoulder. ‘Neither of you will. She has a gift that belongs to the world.’

  It was time for Alain to circulate. ‘Now you let your hair down, kick up your heels, enjoy yourself.’ And he set off to dispense bonhomie, pleased with a job well done. ‘The Glitter Game’ had retained its number one sex symbol.

  Darren watched Alain circulate. Narelle would be pleased. In fact, just this morning their postcoital conversation had evolved around how much they’d both miss the bright lights and adulation. Wha
t a strange man Alain was, though, Darren thought. Did the man always speak in such clichés?

  Alain was adding up his debits and credits. Vicky was a big loss admittedly but he’d find another street kid and make another star. Paul hung in the balance, dependent upon Barbie, the booze and a Logie — all things beyond Alain’s control. Now there was only Edwina to go. She’d be back on Monday. He’d give in to whatever astronomical fee she demanded, of course, but he wasn’t going to enjoy the negotiations. He heaved a sigh at the thought.

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I said, I’m leaving, Alain. Right after the Logies. I’m not renewing my contract.’

  ‘But, you said … ’

  ‘I know what I said, but I didn’t sign, did I?’

  ‘Edwina, the show will —’

  ‘The show will just have to get on without me.’

  Alain felt a sense of panic. Could the show survive without Edwina? Normally, yes; anything could be rigged, given time. But could the show survive without the six months’ preparation which would normally be planned for the departure of such an important character and the introduction of a new one to take over? Could Edwina now undo all his hard work in one fell swoop?

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Edwina.’ He tried a last-ditch appeal to her better nature. ‘I would have thought your sense of loyalty … ’

  Edwina laughed. ‘Listen to yourself, Alain. Just listen to yourself.’ She was still laughing as she opened the door.

  Sydney looked good. The Opera House gleamed white against the night sky and the floodlights of the Harbour Bridge tinged the giant coat hanger a magic blue. Multicoloured lights bounced off the black water and brightly-lit ferries scuttled across Sydney Harbour.

  Searchlights fanned the sky around the Regent Hotel, flashbulbs popped blindingly and fans screamed by the thousands.

  The television magazines had been boasting for weeks now that it was to be the biggest and most lavish Logies night on record. And it was. After all, the budget was triple that of any preceding award night because of the delayed telecast of the Logies to England.