by Sue Welfare
‘I know,’ said Harry, handing her his handkerchief. It was neatly ironed into a sandwich-sized triangle and although slightly damp from the rain, smelt of washing powder and sunshine. Good old Harry.
‘I didn’t do it deliberately.’
‘I know you didn’t, and when she calms down so will Charlotte. Here, you stay there and look after the costumes and the rest of the things and I’ll go and see what I can do.’
‘Charlotte’s gone to ring her dad,’ said Helen.
‘Okay, well in the meantime I’ll see if I can talk to someone, see if we can’t sort something out.’
‘Really?’ said Helen.
He grinned. ‘It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? The worst thing they can say is bugger off. Just watch the bags, will you?’ And with that Harry vanished into the press of people heading into the auditorium.
Helen waited. A moment or two later Charlotte stamped down the stairs and slumped onto the step alongside her; her expression was like thunder.
‘Harry’s just gone to talk to someone about the mix-up with the times. Did you get through to your dad?’ asked Helen, hoping to make peace.
‘You care?’ growled Charlotte.
‘Of course I care, Charlotte. I’m really sorry. Despite what you think I really didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘I can’t get through to my dad. The pay phone up there is only taking incoming calls,’ Charlotte said.
There was a tense silence.
‘Harry brought the costumes,’ Helen said tentatively, indicating the bags slung across her knees.
‘So I see. Well, he can just take them back home again then, can’t he? This was meant to be our big chance, Helen. Our big break. They’ve got agents coming from London tonight, you know, and someone from the Corn Exchange who is casting their big extravaganza this Christmas. And bits of it are going to be on TV on the local news. You do know that, don’t you?’
Helen flinched. ‘Of course I do, Charlotte – that’s why we’re here.’
‘This could have been my big chance if it hadn’t been for you buggering it all up.’
‘We’re here now, we can still go on.’
Charlotte’s face contorted into a furious grimace. ‘Without sorting the sound out, without doing a run-through? Don’t be stupid. What it’s going to sound like – what’s it going to look like? Rank amateurs, that’s what. We’ll look like idiots, Helen. And I’m certainly not going to go on stage and make a total fool of myself even if you are. And what if that bloke you saw didn’t give them the music? We’re going to look like morons, Helen, and it’s all your fault.’
Despite trying to keep her cool Helen could feel her bottom lip begin to tremble. ‘I said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t do it on purpose, Charlie, you surely must know that. I –’
‘For God’s sake just shut up, will you? There’s no point apologising now, is there? It’s done. Over. And you know what? You’re just totally useless,’ said Charlotte, waving the words away. ‘I’m going to go round to the phone box on Market Street, ring my dad and get him to come and pick me up. You can do what you like, Helen. Go home with Harry, go back to your pathetic little life. I can’t believe you, I really can’t – you knew how important this was.’ She bent down and snatched up the costumes. ‘We won’t be needing these now, will we?’
‘Helen! Charlotte!’ Harry shouted from the double doors at the end of the corridor. He was waving frantically, trying to attract their attention. ‘Come on, come on. Quickly, quickly, we haven’t got much time.’
‘You better run, lover-boy wants you,’ snapped Charlotte, folding the costumes over her arm. ‘I’d grab him with both hands if I were you, Helen, because let’s be frank, he’s the only chance someone like you’s got. You know what people are saying about you, don’t you? Moving in with Harry like that – that you’re only after him for his money, trying to get yourself knocked up so that he has to marry you? And you know what? I think they’re right, leading him on like that. You’re a grade A bitch, Helen Heel – probably break his heart and leave him when you’ve got what you want. Just like your mother.’
Helen stared at her in horror, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘You don’t know a thing about my mother,’ she hissed.
‘Everyone knows,’ growled Charlotte. ‘She was a tart, that’s what my dad said – everyone knew about her. Ran off with some old rich bloke – didn’t want to take you because you’d cramp her style. I know my mum and dad got divorced but at least I know where my mum is.’
Helen could hardly breathe for pain and indignation. Charlotte couldn’t have hurt her any more if she had stabbed her.
‘You can’t think that,’ Helen whispered. ‘You can’t – you’re my friend.’
‘Was,’ said Charlotte icily. ‘I was your friend.’
Harry ran up to them and caught hold of Helen’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Quickly. What are you waiting for? Bring the costumes and the rest of the things with you. I’ve had a word with the stage manager and if we hurry then they’ll let you have a few minutes to do the sound checks. They can’t promise a full run-through, but at least it’s better than nothing, and I checked and they’ve got your music. But we really need to hurry, come on –’
Charlotte’s expression turned from total fury to elation in a matter of seconds. Helen wouldn’t have believed the transformation if she hadn’t seen it for herself. Charlotte beamed at Harry, apparently oblivious to how upset Helen was, and practically threw the costumes at her.
‘Come on, let’s get going. See, I told you Harry was a genius,’ Charlotte said, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a great big kiss on his cheek. ‘But you didn’t believe me, did you, Helen? You are absolutely amazing, Harry. You see? I was right. I think he would make the perfect manager, don’t you, Helen? You’re a natural …’
Still smiling, Charlotte linked her arm through Harry’s and strode off down the corridor with him, and then, looking back over her shoulder, snapped, ‘What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Didn’t you hear the man – we can do the sound checks. Bring the things, will you. Which way do we have to go, Harry?’
SIX
Filming
‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how it feels to be back in your home town –’ said Natalia. Natalia was standing out of camera shot, by the hotel reception desk. She glanced down at the notes on her clipboard.
‘And we need you to come in again and if you could maybe say that thing you just said about how much things have changed since you were last here? And remember when this is aired they’ll be cutting my voice out. So if you could speak in whole sentences. It makes the editing a whole lot easier.’ She smiled at Helen reassuringly. ‘You okay with that? You’re clear about what we’d like?’
Helen nodded.
‘Okay, and you’ve got your case? And so are we ready to go again?’ Natalia glanced over her shoulder towards the rest of the film crew, who were arranged in a ragged semicircle by the reception desk. Felix, who was supposed to be directing the Roots shoot, was watching something on the playback screen, but even so he nodded. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said, making a ‘wagons roll’ signal with his fingers.
Helen did as she was told and set down the suitcase she had been carrying and smiled into the camera. ‘It feels great to be back. On the drive up from the station I was looking around at everything, taking it all in. It’s been a while since I’ve been back home and at the risk of sounding like a cliché, I was just thinking how things haven’t changed all that much, and of course that’s the moment when the taxi turns a corner and just about everything’s new. The big warehouse by the river – luxury flats now – Tilman’s factory gone for a shopping mall. So, so far it’s an odd feeling but it’s good to be back. I’m hoping the big things haven’t changed that much.’ Helen glanced around the foyer of the Billingsfield Arms Hotel, catching the eye of the receptionist who was busy fiddling
with something behind the desk.
‘Hello, my name is Helen Redford,’ she said, walking up to the desk to talk to the woman. ‘There should be a reservation for me?’
The receptionist looked up and smiled.
‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s just great.’
Natalia turned her attention to the woman behind the desk.
‘Presumably we won’t be needing to book in again, so can we just go from where you give Helen the keys?’
The receptionist nodded. Felix gave her the thumbs up. The receptionist took back the set of keys that she had given Helen on the previous take and waited to be cued in. The woman was a natural, Helen thought.
‘Sorry about this, but they want it to look just right,’ Helen said by way of an explanation. ‘The phone ringing and that guy wandering into shot last time,’ she began. ‘It spoils the way it looks and sounds.’
The receptionist’s smile held. ‘Not a problem,’ she murmured, her attention on Felix, who gave her an okay signal with his thumb and forefinger.
‘We’re good to go, whenever you are,’ he said.
The receptionist cranked her smile up a notch. ‘I hope you’ll be very comfortable during your stay with us, Ms Redford,’ she said, handing Helen the keys to her suite. Still smiling, she waved a porter over. ‘This is Christov, he’ll show you up to your room and take care of your bags, and if there is anything you want, anything at all, then please just let us know.’ She paused, turning the corporate hospitality smile up to stun for the benefit of the camera, and then added, ‘And can I just say how pleased we are to have you here at the Billingsfield Arms, Helen. Welcome home. It’s really good to have you back.’
Helen smiled graciously right on cue. ‘Thank you. It’s good to be back.’
‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s fantastic, really nice. Okay, lovely, lovely, lovely. Now am I right in thinking we’ve got one of the suites with the balcony? The one overlooking the quay?’ he asked first Natalia and then the woman behind the desk.
They were causing a stir. People were coming in off the street to watch what was going on; people who wouldn’t normally consider ever going into the Billingsfield Arms. People, Helen suspected, who the hotel management would probably prefer stayed outside, but who were making their way inside, past the doorman, past the plate glass and handsome oak panelling, to watch the filming. There were two men in anoraks, tracksuit bottoms and baseball caps standing just inside the revolving doors and alongside them two girls with babies in buggies. The girls had bare legs, their hair dragged up into topknots. Over by the entrance to the restaurant were a gaggle of women who had been shopping on the market, and were surrounded by piles of thin stripy carrier bags, the bags spilling their contents out onto the plush carpet.
The doorman stood to one side taking it all in, although from his expression it was painfully obvious he was unsure what to do. Did he throw the gawpers out or let them stay? How bad would it look for the hotel if he ended up on Youtube, hustling the hoi polloi back onto the streets?
Helen smiled at all of them. She had already done a round of autographs and hellos. One of the women, who before coming in had stubbed out a cigarette on the sole of her shoe and pocketed it, waved at her. Helen’s smile broadened as the doorman looked on, narrow-eyed and suspicious, as the woman found herself a chair and started to rifle through the complimentary magazines and newspapers.
Usually the Billingsfield Arms was the kind of establishment where people – guests and staff alike – spoke in hushed tones; where hurrying or shouting, shows of petulance or bad manners, were frowned upon. It was certainly not a place for shell suits and flip-flops, puffa jackets and baseball caps. Other hotel guests – mostly corpulent men of a certain age looking up from behind their broadsheets – cast glances in the film crew’s direction, making a great show of not being curious about all the comings and goings. But despite their measured indifference it seemed as if the business of the hotel had ground to a halt for the filming, as the staff crept out to join the people from the market to take in the floorshow.
‘That’s right. Suite thirty-four, top floor,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘I thought you’d already been up and had a look around?’
‘I did, but we have looked at quite a few. That is the one with the balcony, right? In the middle – the one with the view of all those warehouses?’ said Felix. Felix had bright red hennaed hair and was chewing gum.
‘That is correct,’ said the woman briskly; she didn’t look like the kind of woman who took kindly to hippies or chewing gum.
‘Okay, so we’re sure about that, are we?’ asked Felix.
The receptionist’s expression hardened. ‘Of course I’m sure. Suite thirty-four with a balcony. Your colleague booked it.’ She glanced at Natalia, who was nodding furiously.
Helen stood to one side of the melee along with her luggage. They had been in the hotel foyer for what seemed like forever, unpacking the equipment, setting up and then filming her walking down the street, looking up at the hotel, coming in out of the rain, making her way to the front desk, smiling at the receptionist, confirming her booking. All this for what would amount to a few seconds of airtime or probably be cut in the edit and not used at all. But it was getting them to bond, to gel as a team, which Natalia had explained was very important to all of them.
‘We really want you to trust us and understand where we’re coming from, Helen. We’re here to support you on your journey and make this a great show,’ she had said in a rather earnest pre-filming pep talk. Helen looked from face to face, well aware that no one else appeared to care a stuff about bonding, trust or any journey, other – possibly – than the one home.
So far their impromptu audience had hung on through it all, totally enthralled by all the comings and goings. One of the women, who was leaning against a baby buggy, blew a big pink bubble in her bubble gum.
Helen’s attention wandered, while Felix, Natalia and the receptionist discussed balconies, views and who had seen what and when. The hotel hadn’t changed that much since Helen had last been there. It was no less intimidating, no less grand. It stood just off the market square, no more than five minutes walk from the Carlton Rooms and the main shopping centre. Considering how far she had travelled since leaving Billingsfield it was odd to think that so many of the significant moments and events in her earlier life had been played out within a few hundred yards of each other.
The Billingsfield Arms still resembled a Victorian gentleman’s club with few visible concessions to the twenty-first century. Above the huge open fire hung an ornate gold-framed mirror reflecting the wood-panelled walls, the deep buttoned leather sofas and the high-backed winged chairs arranged around low tables. The floors were covered in thick, heavily patterned wine-red carpet that deadened every sound, every footfall, creating an atmosphere that made you whisper and walk on tiptoes so as not to shatter the tomb-like silence. It was a bastion of old conservative values, of Queen and country, with an ambience that was still more colonial than metropolitan.
With the crew still wrangling over locations the little crowd finally began to get bored and wander away. The girl blew another great balloon in her bubble gum and then – as it burst with a satisfying wet pop – peeled the fallout off her face and teased it from her lank greasy hair before following the others back out into the market square.
Helen glanced up at the mirror above the hearth, wondering what she might see reflected in it. Time dragged. Roots had arranged the shoot; they’d promised a light afternoon schedule, a nice hotel and dinner and then a bright and early start the following morning. It had all made perfect sense at the time.
Arthur had nodded when he looked at the proposal. ‘Good idea, split the days – do some of the filming on the Friday afternoon, then do the rest the next day when you’re rested and raring to go, and then the show on Saturday evening. Sounds perfect to me. Oh, and don’t forget you’ve sound checks Saturday afternoon. I’ve talked to the team at Roots
and they seem to think the theatre will make a great backdrop – you know, see you in your natural environment. Your pianist will be there from three I think, but I’ll check.’ Arthur had sniffed his cigar. ‘So let’s see, train there late Friday morning, filming and your show Saturday and then back home Sunday, done and dusted.’
‘You’ll be there, Arthur, won’t you?’ Helen had said.
‘For the show?’ He grinned, ‘Oh God, yes – of course I will, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will. I’ve seen the rehearsals, haven’t I? To be honest, watching you work I wondered why the hell we hadn’t done it sooner.’
Flattered, Helen had smiled, although she had rather hoped he’d be there with her for the filming too. As if catching her thoughts Arthur shook his head. ‘You won’t want me the rest of the time, hanging around getting in the way, cramping your style. You’ll be just fine – you’re a natural – and I’ll only be a phone call away.’
Helen had sighed. ‘I’m still not sure about this,’ she’d said.
‘What’s not to be sure of? You’ll be fine, honest,’ said Arthur. ‘They’re good people, Helen. I mean they’ve won awards and everything. And you’re an old hand at this; there’s nothing they’re going to pull that you won’t have seem a dozen times before.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried I could organise someone to come with you if you like. Do you want me to book you a dresser for the show – or a driver? See if I can get Florence or Benny? I know they’d both jump at the chance.’
Helen had shaken her head, and with more confidence than she felt, said, ‘Don’t be silly. And you’re right, I’ll be just fine. Just make sure you’re there for the show. All right? First show of the tour – I’m banking on you to tell me what you think.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be brilliant, you always are.’