That Summer at the Seahorse Hotel

by Adrienne Vaughan

  He whipped off his mask. “You!” She dragged herself back to the script.

  “Who else?”

  That’s not the line they rehearsed, Mia thought.

  “How dare you?” She pushed past him, he wobbled, regained his balance.

  “Sir, if you think I will acquiesce, you are much mistaken,” she said.

  His line now. “It’s you making, er … the mistake.” Oh dear.

  “I will not submit.”

  He flung himself at her, missing his mark, they scrabbled about.

  “Still rolling,” called the director.

  Lol pulled a face at Mia; that would have to be cut. The camera swung back, the boom operator sidestepping the action.

  The male actor said something too quietly, the soundman fiddled with a control.

  He took a dagger from its sheath and – camera moving in ‒ held it against her throat. He kissed her again, biting her lip. Close-up on the blood. Close-up on eyes flaring.

  Lol shook her head.

  Amelia was over-acting.

  “It’s supposed to be a parody,” Mia whispered.

  “Tragedy more like.” Lol hissed in reply.

  The actor pushed the blade at her mouth, sliding the metal from her lip, splitting the skin ‒ good special effects. It oozed bright blood. He took the knife to the bodice of her gown. Camera pulling back. Boom in.

  “I will devour every inch of you, your mouth, your breasts, your heart, you will be mine,”

  “I will not be a victim,” she said haughtily.

  Mia caught Lol’s eye, Amelia did haughty very well.

  “No, not a victim,” he said in his rich, deep voice.

  “But my wife, I will take you and you will take me.”

  He pushed her against the wall. The camera rolled in. Holding her tightly, he placed the dagger at the fabric stretched across her breasts.

  “I will drink of you and you of me.”

  He took the knife to the cloth. It jagged.

  He tried again. It snagged.

  He looked at her, she at him. She used unseen fingers to pull at the fabric. He tried again.

  “CUT!” someone yelled. “For Christ’s sake, wardrobe! Shouldn’t it just come apart?”

  “Bugger,” the vampire said, disappointed he had not witnessed Amelia’s bosom spilling out; this part had to have some perks. “That’s the first time we got that dialogue right all morning.”

  “First time you got it right, you mean.” She twisted free.

  “Dresser, is there a dresser on set?” one of the assistant directors called. Mia passed an armful of hot water bottles to Lol.

  “Not your shout,” Lol dropped the bottles on the stair. “Let’s grab some grub before the hordes descend.” It was nearly noon.

  “Someone has to go.” Mia replied, ignoring the offer of an early lunch.

  “It’s Poppy’s job and she’s busy with her own leading man, not our problem.” Lol said. Mia handed over the clipboard and wrapping extravagant locks in a high ponytail scurried away, tiptoeing over cables as she raced towards the puce-faced assistant director.

  “They nearly got it right that time,” he growled.

  “Not my actor,” she said quickly. “But I can sort it.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes, max.” She ferreted in her kit bag, clear plastic, so she could see quickly what was needed.

  A loud groan, the sound of wood splintering, masonry cracking and then a gasp as the balustrade gave way, the vampire had been leaning on it, swigging from a hipflask. He disappeared. People started shouting, running in every direction. The vampire sat in the midst of the rubble, brushing brick dust from his cloak.

  “Let’s call it a day,” the director announced.

  The second assistant sighed. “Will we ever finish this bloody shoot? Every time we need to be outside it rains. Every time we’re on set, something falls apart.”

  Mia peered out through the gaping hole in the backdrop, bits of balcony strewn across the lawn. Beyond the set she could see a forest of trees sweeping up the mountain, a glint of sea and there like a halo, a new rainbow, bright, fresh and feisty. The view was so vivid, so beautiful it took her breath away. Oh, what she would not give to be out there. She looked down at the rubble.

  The vampire slid into view, a flurry of first aiders checking him out.

  “I’m fine, honestly,” he lisped through dislodged fangs.

  “Is he drunk?” the second assistant asked, wide-eyed. Mia ignored the question, picking up discarded clothing. She liked the vampire, one of her mother’s former paramours. There had always been a long line of suitors where her mother was concerned, most of them merged and mingled, always friendly, always kind, yet none of them really interested in the actress’s only child. The girl with no father, not one that had ever been named, officially anyway.

  One did stand out, quite spectacularly of course, the one and only Aloysius Fermoy Fitzgerald, known by his stage name Archie Fitz. Dear Archie, the most remarkable of her mother’s friends, if not always for the most wholesome of reasons. She looked at the vampire. He and Archie had fallen out, some long ago argument they could not remember but would never forgive. The vampire placed the classic brogues before her.

  “Be a darling and make these more comfortable, can you?” he begged, fangs now pocketed. “They’re rubbing my heels, no skin left.” She gazed into his dark, bloodshot eyes. He looked worn out, every century etched on his pale, blood-sucking face. Shoes were outside her area, footwear a professional cobbler’s job, they would have to be sent away, more delay.

  “No problem, James.” Mia took the shoes. “When do you need them for?”

  “How do I bloody know?” he called back, painfully picking his way across the floor to the sanctuary of his dressing room and a good stiff whiskey.

  Lol had retreated to the wardrobe truck.

  “Don’t do his shoes for him,” she said, blowing smoke through her nostrils.

  “If you get caught …” Mia warned, eyeing the roll-up. Lol shrugged.

  “Old soak. If he wasn’t half-cut all the time we’d be finished by now. Good job he didn’t break his bleedin’ neck, they’d have to find a stand in, even more hanging around. Should just can the whole thing.”

  Mia was only half-listening, she was checking costumes, pinning on names of actors, notes about alterations, repairs.

  “Poppy’s always missing, skeleton staff that’s what we are.” Lol was lighting another cigarette. “Who’s our union rep? We get paid little enough, friggin’ slave labour.”

  “Go away if you’re going to smoke, out of the truck!” Mia was firm.

  Lol extinguished the cigarette, waving to disperse the smoke.

  Mia’s phone trilled. She pulled it out of her pocket.

  A text.

  How’s it going? When will you be back? R x

  Lol watched Mia’s face soften.

  “Lover boy?” she asked, something indefinable in her tone. “Missing you, is he?”

  Mia caught her breath, suddenly elated; her man, her lovely man, wanted her home. His timing was perfect, how she missed him, longed for him. Ignoring Lol she tried to text back, fingers full of pins. She hit call. Straight to voicemail. Despite being high in the Wicklow Mountains there was hardly any signal.

  “No reply?” Lol craned her neck to look at Mia’s phone.

  Mia did not comment. Lol was a good friend but an incorrigible gossip. Ten years Mia’s senior, Lol had been ‘back stage’ all her life. Sneeringly cynical about affairs of the heart, Lol had been single for as long as Mia had known her and little wonder. Lol was permanently annoyed, snarling and spitting her way through the day, drinking and smoking her way through the night; though just caffeine and tobacco, these days.

  Sometimes Mia wished Lol would consider an alternative career. A dresser was a young person’s job; tiring, relentless, often unappreciated and at times desperately lonely. Filled with warm camaraderie while on lo
cation but suddenly sad when a movie wrapped, the party over and no one home to welcome you back to a semblance of normality. “A professional vagrant.” Her mother called her. Mia was determined not to end up like Lol. The very thought filled her with dread. She would have a profession and a personal life, whatever it cost. She twisted the makeshift ring on her finger.

  “A cup of tea?” she asked her colleague.“Nah, let’s knock off, I’m knackered.”

  Mia gestured at the costumes filling the truck, the third assistant director had just delivered the call sheet for the next day. “There’s work to do.”

  “Leave you to it, then.” Lol grabbed her bag. The door opened onto the courtyard, it was already dusk, the navy blue sky bubbling with black clouds. “It’s nearly dark, we can make an early start tomorrow.”

  “Just another hour or so,” Mia said. “I’ll see you later.” She closed the door, relieved. Maybe she could get ahead, nail some of the trickier tasks. The costumes for the grand finalé were complex, many pieces needed bringing together to create the perfect ensemble for each character attending a fabulous, eighteenth century masked ball. Besides, Mia liked to work alone, do things her way.

  She always had.

  SENDING SIGNALS

  Are you still on location?” The distinctive, classically-trained voice sounded exasperated.

  “Yes, for another week or so, why?” Mia was surprised. Her mother rarely called and never used the mobile; Fenella considered communication her daughter’s duty. Besides, the actress was incredibly busy, always in demand and Mia could ring Trixie, Fenella’s personal assistant, if it was urgent, no need to bother her mother with anything trivial, no need at all. Fenella took a deep breath wishing she had persuaded Trixie to make the call.

  “Darling, I’ve terribly sad news. Are you in the middle of something?” Fenella was desperate for a way out.

  Mia had just finished for the day and was in no mood for her mother. She always felt she had to stand to attention when she spoke to the ‘great actress’, ensure every word uttered assured her parent everything was just so, nothing to worry or even think about. All was well in Mia’s world, always. She glanced around the dank caravan, dishes in the sink, duvets dumped in piles. All she wanted to do was kick off her shoes, pour a glass of wine and telephone Rupert, her relatively new and rather fabulous fiancé, indulging in a long, amorous call, full of lust, longing and desire.

  “No, nothing in particular.” Mia was nonplussed. Her mother’s idea of terribly sad and her own were aeons apart. Perhaps a favourite plant had wilted, a treasured gown torn, a precious book lost.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes,” Mia lied.

  “Prepare yourself … it’s Archie.”

  Mia stopped twirling a strand of conker-coloured hair. “Sorry?”

  “Uncle Archie, darling. I’m afraid he’s worsened.” Fenella’s voice faded.

  “But, he was getting better, his treatment …” Mia blurted.

  “The cancer’s spread, more tumours ... he won’t be with us much longer.”

  “How long?”

  “I’m not sure.” Fenella had no idea, Bernice had been vague or perhaps Fenella had just not taken it in.

  “But, I need to see him, I must …” Mia looked out of the small window, the glass splattered with watery tears. The moon was trying to break free as grey mist clung to the mountain.

  Fenella swallowed. Trixie was listening.

  “Yes, of course, darling. He’s asking for us, you in particular. So, if you can, be there … I mean.” Quiet again. “But if you can’t, he’ll totally understand, we all will. Remember him as he was, the last time you saw him. When was that?”

  “What?” Mia gave her head a shake.

  “The last time you saw Archie, darling?” Fenella could see Trixie glaring.

  “Florence, I think. Yes. I was working.”

  “We had that lovely day together, the three of us,” Fenella confirmed. “A concert in the Boboli Gardens, then lunch.”

  “Four of us,” Trixie piped up, slamming a desk drawer. “I hope she can make it.”

  “Is that Trixie, what did she say?” Mia was anxious, she wished Trixie had phoned instead.

  Fenella’s perfect jaw clenched. “She hopes you can make it.”

  “Of course I’ll make it,” Mia replied, sounding stronger. “Which hospital?”

  “Well, that’s it, darling, he isn’t in hospital. He’s at home.”

  “In Chelsea?” Mia could not picture him there.

  “No, in Ireland. He’s gone home to Galty.”

  Mia felt her heart lift. “But I’m here. I’m in Ireland.”

  “Are you? Why?” Fenella felt flustered.

  “I’m on location.”

  “I didn’t know you were in Ireland.” Fenella’s turn to glare at Trixie. Trixie shrugged, not her job to keep the actress informed of her daughter’s whereabouts. Fenella was pacing the floor. She had to get to Archie before Mia. She must see him first.

  “I’ll leave right away,” Mia said.

  “But your work?” Fenella tried.

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s Archie ... I’ll leave immediately.”

  “No!” Fenella snapped. Trixie dropped the diary to the floor. Fenella calmed. “No, darling. Not without me. Too much of a shock. Wait till I get there, we’ll go together. Far better for all concerned.”

  Mia was deflated. She wanted to see Archie alone, to say goodbye with no one else there; no stage, no audience, no final speech.

  “Trixie will organise my flight. Meet me in Dublin, we’ll travel down together.”

  Fenella was sharp now, any hint of emotion sucked away.

  “But I’m in Wicklow,” Mia told her, hoping she would understand, she was closer to where Archie lay dying.

  “Meet me in Dublin, I want us to go together.” Fenella was firm. “Trixie will text details, you know I can’t do that text thing, gives me a headache. You will be there?”

  “Yes, yes of course.” As the news took hold Mia was in no mood to argue.

  “You’re worried about taking time off, I can tell. Who’s directing? Do you want me to call, clear it for you?”

  Mia stifled a sigh. “No, don’t do that. See you in Dublin.” The line went dead.

  “Poor Archie …” Mia said to herself.

  Fenella handed the mobile to Trixie. “Is it switched off?” Trixie nodded. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear? You put me right on the spot!”

  Trixie looked her in the eye. “You put yourself on the spot. Archie specifically asked for Mia. He said you can come if you want but Mia must come. He must see her.”

  Fenella paced the floor, they were in the parlour of the home they shared, the room they used as an office.

  “See her why? Why does he specifically want to see my daughter, that’s what I want to know?” She was at the window, fiddling with the shutters.

  “Who knows?” Trixie watched Fenella stressing, she did even that stylishly.

  “That’s precisely the point.” She turned on her friend. “Who knows? Who bloody well does know?”

  Trixie was unfazed. “Interesting dilemma, dichotomy, whatever?”

  Fenella was staring at her hands. She ran to the mirror, pulling at the collar of her immaculate linen shirt. “God! Blotches, I’m covered in blotches.”

  “Take deep breaths, it’s only stress,” Trixie told her.

  “Stress? I’ve an audition tomorrow, I can’t go looking like this.”

  “More deep breaths, it’s calming. Now, would you like vodka or a pearly pink pill?”

  “Which do you think?” Fenella asked, wide-eyed.

  “Both,” Trixie gave the blotches a cursory glance. “That is a double-whammy blotch fest!”

  Fenella was distraught. “Christ, who are you mixing with? I don’t even know what you’re saying half the time!”

  “Well, let’s hope Archie’s not terribly coherent either, goodness know wha
t he has to say to your daughter,” Trixie threw back, heading for the bathroom.

  Fenella picked up the phone. She was going to ring Archie, find out for herself why he wanted to see Mia. But it was Bernice who had called; Bernice knew they had quarrelled, saying it was best Fenella came and made her peace face to face. Trixie reappeared with the medicine. Fenella took the pill and drank the vodka neat.

  Mia was suddenly, soul-achingly sad. Letting the phone slide onto the crumb-spattered work surface, she hauled open the fridge and dragged out a half-empty bottle of rosé. Casting about for a clean glass, she poured a measure into the nearest mug and holding it to her chest, stood at the door sipping the cold, sweet wine.

  A storm grumbled in the distance, black shards of angry cloud slit across the orange sky, as the last dregs of sun slipped beneath the peaks. Oddly the view seemed to ease her. At least she was here, in Ireland and Archie could well be witnessing this same night fall, there was some comfort in that. And as she watched the storm build she felt close to him, hearing his unmistakable voice, crystal clear in her head.

  “Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”

  A slow handclap. She must have said the words out loud. Embarrassed, she took a gulp of wine.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Only me.” Courtney Watts, the assistant director emerged from the shadows, hair blowing wildly. “Prospero I think, The Tempest.” He held his jacket across his chest. “May I come in?” He raised his voice above the wind. Oh, God, she thought, what’s wrong now?

  “Of course.”

  She stood back as all six feet two of him filled her lonely caravan. A shortfall of accommodation trucks meant only a couple of aged caravans were available by the time she and Lol had arrived; it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, maybe Courtney had found them an alternative. Maybe not, he looked so serious.

  “Awful night,” he confirmed. Mia grew worried. It had not been a good day on set. “No one else here?” There could have been a couple of bodies buried beneath the bedclothes. He was avoiding her eyes.