by Sue Welfare
‘Arthur, you are such a bullshitter.’
And so now here she was, all on her own, back in Billingsfield.
Helen glanced into the mirror on the wall; she wasn’t so sure now that she wanted to spend a night in Billingsfield or the hotel. It felt like she was being surrounded and jostled by all the ghosts she had left behind. How many years was it since she had stood in this hotel foyer? Since she had looked out over the market square and wondered what the hell would happen next?
Two elderly men with impressive moustaches made a show of not watching her as they sat either side of the fireplace taking tea. A uniformed waiter was serving them; it looked like a snapshot from some long-distant past. Her long-distant past.
In stark contrast, Felix, the Roots director, dressed in a Che Guevara tee shirt, puffa jacket, beanie hat and ripped-knee jeans was kneeling on the floor hunched over a monitor with the cameraman looking on, watching the images on the screen. ‘I think actually we’re probably done down here,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to make the move upstairs and set up up there.’
Natalia glanced at him. ‘Okay, great – I’ll just need to sort that out.’
Once upon a time that would have been Helen’s cue to head back to her dressing room or slope off for a coffee while she waited, but she had no idea how Roots worked and so Helen stayed where she was.
Across the foyer the longcase clock chimed the hour. Helen didn’t like to think how many years it had been since she had last been in the Billingsfield Arms. It felt like a different lifetime; back then she remembered being intimidated by the quiet grandeur, remembered not being sure what to do or what to say and the worry of being asked to leave.
She could still vividly remember what it felt like creeping up those stairs, all the while waiting for the porter to ask her just where she thought she was going, hurrying along the corridors, checking the room numbers, each passing minute making her increasingly anxious. Looking back on her younger self it seemed like back then Helen had been afraid all the time, always waiting, eyes wide open, for the sky to fall in on her.
Helen glanced up at the ornate staircase almost expecting to see her younger self up there at the top, looking back over her shoulder, wondering what the hell she was doing and wondering where to go next.
‘Are you ready to go up to your room, madam?’ enquired a male voice, which brought Helen sharply back to the present.
Christov, the porter, was a tall blond man with a heavy Eastern European accent, closely cropped hair and a warm open expression. He had been standing around throughout the filming, and had already loaded her luggage onto a trolley at least three times at Felix’s behest. Now he hovered, awaiting instructions.
‘What do you think?’ he said in an undertone. ‘You think maybe we make a break and leave them to it? I don’t know about you but I have many things to do other than standing here listening to them all moaning. Although I am enjoying the look on Ms Mackenzie’s face.’ He nodded in the direction of the receptionist. ‘She looks like she is kissing the stinky herring.’
Helen checked out Ms Mackenzie and then looked up at him and laughed. It was an apt description of her expression.
‘Maybe we should high-tail it out of here?’ he said. ‘Like they say in the cowboy films. Get the hell out of Dodge? I can bring you up some sandwiches, and cake and a pot of tea? You have got other things to do, yes?’
Helen nodded.
‘They said you are doing a show here tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, at the Carlton Rooms. I’m doing a one-woman show; songs, monologues – jokes, you know, stories about my life,’ said Helen. ‘And this too,’ she nodded towards the film crew. ‘They’re making a television programme about me, for Roots.’
‘I know the programme.’ He nodded. ‘Busy time for you then. These people,’ he said, pointing towards the crew. ‘They are your friends?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Felix was still deep in conversation with Natalia about which suite would give them the best look. Natalia was nodding earnestly while ticking things off on her clipboard. Ms Mackenzie was still wearing her fish-kissing face.
‘I really like the balcony,’ Felix was saying, his hands working independently to reinforce what he was describing. ‘And that big cream-coloured sofa. Is that in that room, or do all the rooms have them, a sort of corporate look? I was thinking maybe we could get something in?’
Ms Mackenzie pulled a face.
‘Remind me again, is that the room with those big prints on the wall? Like big flowers? I’m thinking that has got to be the one –’
Natalia’s nodding quickened. ‘I agree, and the natural light is great in there too.’
‘Can we get a different sofa?’
Natalia stared at her clipboard and then at Ms Mackenzie.
It seemed as if the only person who hadn’t been into her room yet was Helen.
‘Maybe we could get something a bit funkier in there? Less last year –’
Ms Mackenzie started to protest.
‘I’d like to shoot Helen on the balcony, looking out over the water, something moody and reflective we can use as ambience and cutaways between segments. Helen all alone, contemplating the past. You know how this stuff works. And it’ll make a great neutral space for the interviews that we don’t do at the theatre. Like the anonymity of life on the road –’
‘So do you want to go and set that up now?’ asked Natalia, not that Felix seemed to be listening.
‘Maybe we could go down to the quay this afternoon before the light goes. You know the bit where the new arts centre is, by the warehouses? I was thinking more coat-collar-turned-up-against-the-wind shots. She’s got great bones for that sort of moody look. Now, do we want to shoot her going up in the lift, because if we do we’ve got to do it now, or wet her coat down for continuity?’ Felix paused and, glancing around, caught Helen’s eye, although Helen guessed that Felix didn’t actually see her.
Truth was, for a director, once you got past the early excitement and then all the starry pretensions, the massive but fragile egos, the drunken, the drugged, the whole diva thing, wheeling an actor out in front of the camera, saying the right words at the right time, was just a job. And she had no doubt that as far as Felix was concerned actors were part of the furniture, noisy, difficult, opinionated parts perhaps, but still ultimately something to shuffle in and out of shot.
‘Can we get a spray bottle or something from somewhere?’ Felix was saying to no one in particular. ‘And do you think we can sort out the sofa? Those stains are going to show up on camera.’
Ms Mackenzie reddened and waved him closer. ‘Can you please keep your voice down? I mean we’re delighted you’re here but –’
‘How delighted?’ Felix snapped back quick as a rattler.
She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, how delighted are you to have us here? You see we’re all starving.’
‘There’s a café in Dougland Terrace,’ she began, helpfully pointing towards the doors. ‘Just round the corner to your left; you can’t miss it.’
‘No chance we could eat here, then?’
‘Of course. The Talbot Room is open all day, or I could get one of the waiters to come and take your order.’
Felix smiled. ‘Gratis, is that? On the house?’
Ms Mackenzie visibly stiffened. ‘I’m terribly sorry but I don’t think so – I mean, I could check with the duty manager for you but it’s not our policy –’
Felix leaned in closer and smiled wolfishly. With his bright red hair it made him look like a demented ferret.
The Roots team had sent a taxi to pick Helen up from the station and filmed her on the ride up. Felix had let Natalia do the talking while he peered at Helen thoughtfully, as if she was an interesting sculpture or piece of furniture that he was trying to get the measure of.
‘I’m really looking forward to working with you,’ he said. ‘Jamie and Natalia have been telling me all about you.
I mean what a journey; what a story. We’ve got so much to work with here, and you have a real presence, Helen – a real presence, and great facial architecture – I had no idea. The photos really don’t do you justice.’
Helen had smiled and nodded and murmured her thanks, not altogether sure what the right response was to a compliment on her facial architecture. And then she had noticed that his attention had moved on – obviously the pull of facial architecture could only last so long.
At the moment Felix, over by the reception desk – having fallen foul of the Billingsfield Arms freebie policy – was weighing up the pros and cons of carrying on with filming or stopping for something to eat.
‘It seems like a natural place to take a break to me,’ he said, speaking to the crew rather than Helen. ‘And you’ll get housekeeping to sort out that sofa?’ he said to Ms Mackenzie.
‘I’m almost certain that there are no stains on our soft furnishings,’ she began. ‘And I’m not sure that we can move –’
But Felix had moved on. ‘Apparently there is a café just round the corner. How about we take half an hour now, and then, if the sofa’s not sorted, move on to the next location –’ he glanced across at Natalia. ‘Which is where? The theatre?’ He glanced around at the crew for confirmation. ‘So, café then? It’s not looking like we’re going to get much in the way of comps from the ice queen behind reception there. I would have settled for a plate of fucking ham sandwiches for God’s sake.’
Ms Mackenzie glared in their direction; she had frosted over considerably since her big moment on screen.
‘So you don’t want to go upstairs?’ Helen said.
Felix and Natalia both swung round.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ Natalia blustered. ‘I thought you’d already gone up, Felix and I have been here a while, doing a recce, your suite – the best sofa, you know –’ She giggled and blushed, which made Helen wonder if maybe she fancied Felix. ‘Would you like to go upstairs and see your suite, take a look around, get unpacked? Get settled? Are you hungry? I’ll get them to organise some food for you – and then are you okay with what we’re doing this afternoon? You have got a copy of the schedule, haven’t you?’
Helen smiled. Natalia talked to her as if she might be senile. ‘I’m fine; you do understand that I’ve got a live show tomorrow night, don’t you?’
Felix and Natalia glanced at each other. ‘Well, yes,’ said Natalia after a second or two.
‘And that’s not something we can mess with,’ said Helen firmly. ‘We’ve got a full house, and I have to be there for a technical run-through, sounds checks, lighting –’
Felix nodded. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture; not a problem. That was one of the reasons why we got you here today. Obviously we’re going to want to talk about how it all started. Road to stardom and all that. And we talked to your agent and he said it would be fine to do that in the theatre?’
Helen nodded. ‘I know, and I’m okay with that. But I’ll still need to spend time there getting ready for the show.’
‘Oh yes, of course, obviously,’ said Felix, without a shred of sincerity.
‘So let’s get you some food; would you like room service or would you prefer to have something in the restaurant?’ Natalia asked taking her arm, making as if to guide her towards the stairs. ‘Apparently the chef here is really good.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can sort it out,’ said Helen, disentangling herself. ‘You go and eat with the crew. It’ll give me a chance to get my bearings.’
Natalia hesitated. ‘I’m not sure –’
‘I’ve got some calls to make.’
Natalia looked her up and down. ‘You sure you’ll be okay with that? I really ought to stay with you. It’s our company policy.’
Helen smiled ruefully, wondering what Ruth had told Natalia about her drinking habits.
‘I’ll be fine. What time are we going to start again?’
Natalia glanced across at Felix. ‘What time?’
Felix broke off the monologue he was subjecting the cameraman to on the importance of ambience, and glancing at his watch said, ‘Say three quarters of an hour? But don’t worry, we’ll come up and find you when we’re ready.’
‘Is that okay?’ Natalia asked, brightly.
‘Fine,’ said Helen.
Finally given the go-ahead, Christov guided Helen towards the lift. He grinned. ‘So you, you’re like a big TV star then, eh? ?’
Helen laughed. It wasn’t quite the deferential approach she might have expected and she was glad. ‘Not really, not these days, but thanks for asking.’
Christov pulled a comic sad face. ‘That’s a big pity. I was hoping that you might help me to get my face onto the film.’ He struck a pose to make the most of his profile and then indicated the crew, as the lift doors closed behind the two of them. ‘I was hoping that meeting you, this might be my big break. I sing too, you know, you like to hear me sing maybe?’
Helen smiled. ‘I’m not sure that singing to me would help further your career.’
‘But you can pull strings.’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Not any worth pulling.’
He looked hurt. ‘That’s a big pity. Okay, so maybe now is not the moment, but before you leave you listen, yes? You like Frank Sinatra?’
The lift made silent stately progress to the third floor, the doors gliding open like oiled silk as they reached their destination.
‘You’re really planning to sing for me?’ she laughed as the lift doors re-opened.
‘I think it would be a very good idea. What about your husband? Is he coming? I have seen him in the newspapers, very pretty, maybe you both like music. I will sing for you both, something lovely – Dean Martin maybe. You know him?’ Grinning, he burst into the opening bars of ‘That’s Amore’.
Helen took another look at him and laughed. ‘Thank you, that is wonderful. Now where do you recommend that I eat?’
‘You think so?’ Christov said brightly, rolling the luggage trolley ahead of him and unlocking the doors to her suite. ‘I like them all, Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, Dean Martin and that Mack the Knife song –’ he shimmied his hips and sung a line or two of the chorus, ‘it’s very good, very good indeed. They don’t write songs like that any more – Beyoncé, ‘Single Ladies’ – what is all that?’
‘Food?’ Helen prompted gently.
‘Oh yes, well the food is good here but me, I would go to the Belafonte. It’s a little bar and restaurant on Porter Street, opposite the chemist, not so far away, you can walk – and not so pricey but nice music, very good food. If you go there tell them I sent you, my cousin Gregori, he runs it. I sing there sometimes.’ He flung open the doors of the suite. ‘They open for lunch too. I could ring, get you a nice quiet table if you like for tomorrow night after the show. Or maybe for tonight, after you have finished with the filming? Now here we are, what do you think? You like it? It’s one of our nicest rooms.’
Beyond the double doors the suite was bright and modern. The pale yellow sitting-room walls were hung with huge modern abstract prints and large mirrors, while the wall opposite the main doors was dominated by French windows framing a view out over the quay, the river, and a balcony set with a small table and chairs.
Helen went over to look at the view. It was a long time since she had strayed into an urban landscape. Today in the rain the old Billingsfield quayside looked more forlorn than inviting, with the river rolling by, battleship grey, under the cloudy midday sky; although there was something oddly beautiful about the stark postindustrial dockland. High-rise flats crowded out the far skyline, and were high enough up for their windows to catch the insipid afternoon sun. Some of the waterfront warehouses had been converted into flats too, while great swathes of the quay and adjoining buildings had been given a facelift. There was a row of little bars and shops fronting the waterside, making those that were still empty seem all the more forlorn. It felt like a lifetime since she had last seen this view.
/> ‘Would you like me to give you the guided tour of our luxurious facilities?’ Christov was saying, as Helen, lost in her own thoughts, stared out over the choppy slate-grey water.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, catching his voice on the periphery of her hearing. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find everything. Thank you.’ He didn’t make any move to leave. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated.
‘I will leave you the room service menu,’ he said, sliding a leather-bound booklet onto the table alongside her. ‘I’ve put everything in your bedroom. You used to live here?’
‘In Billingsfield? Yes, that’s right. Although it was a long time ago now.’
‘It’s not always easy to come back to a place. But anything you want, anything at all – just ask for me, for Christov. I am almost always around somewhere. I will help.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ She smiled, handing him a folded bank note. ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’
But still he didn’t move, and for a moment Helen wondered if he was expecting a bigger tip, but instead his brow furrowed. ‘You know, you look very sad, I would say pensive, you want that I should go and get that girl? The one with the hat?’ Slipping the money into his pocket he mimed Natalia’s body posture with uncanny accuracy.
Helen shook her head and, smiling, straightened up, making an effort to shake off the disquiet that had dogged her since she stepped off the train earlier. ‘No, I’m fine, really. I was just thinking about how many years it is since I’ve been here, and how many ghosts I might be stirring up by coming back.’
Christov nodded. ‘For everything there is a time, maybe now is the time for this, you know? Time to bring your ghosts out into the light, time to pull their teeth.’ He grinned as he did another graphic mime. ‘You shouldn’t worry, things are seldom as bad as you make them up here in your head,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘We all do it, making mountains out of mouses.’
Helen smiled. ‘Molehills.’
‘Yes, and those too. Get some food, eat, have a cup of tea, you will feel better. You want me to send tea up? With those little sandwiches and cakes. That woman downstairs, she told me that this is where you started your career.’