I couldn’t believe he'd been so obnoxious. Left gobsmacked as Lionel continued his way across to one of the huge marquees, with a trail of admirers in his wake, I hazily heard Freddy G (as everyone called Mr Guillem) call out, “Sandy, sweetheart, come over here will you? I want to introduce you to your roommate.”
Aware that I must be the "roommate", I turned to eye Sandy as she approached. Dark silky brown hair cascaded down her back, her well-shaped legs seemed to go right up to her neck and as she approached I realised we were pretty much the same height and age. She gave me a friendly smile as she held out her hand to shake mine.
“You can’t believe what a relief it is to finally have gotten a roommate. I hate having to sleep alone, especially here in the desert when any little noise in the night gives me the jumps, what with the coyotes an' all.”
“That’s enough, Sandy,” interrupted Freddy G quickly. He must have guessed that after my degrading encounter with dickhead Lionel, Sandy’s stories of night creatures might just make me turn on my heel and leave – even if I had to drive solo all the way back to LA.
“Help Chantelle take her stuff to your caravan and show her around, there’s a good girl,” he added as he gave her a pat on her behind. I didn’t comment aloud, but much to my irritation I judged that in the eyes of many in the film business, the likes of Sandy and me were all just a lot of tottering mutton. Sandy seemed immune, however, as without giving it a second thought she casually tossed one of my bags across her shoulder and led me towards the caravans.
Caravan Number Fifteen was to be my home for the next several weeks, and as I went inside I was surprised and immensely relieved to see how spacious and homely it was. The cooking/dining area was rigged out with a fully equipped kitchen, including mini-bar, whilst a large satellite television set took up part of the fully-furnished lounge area. There was a low deluxe sofa, a couple of bright pink beanbags, which I thought were a bit harsh on the eye but tolerable, and a colourful Mexican rug spread on the floor. You wouldn’t want to stumble in here with a shocking hangover, but I liked it.
The bathroom was also spacious; brightly illuminated with a full-length mirror. As I stared at my reflection with Sandy next to me, it hit me that apart from our facial features, the two of us looked as if we'd been cloned. If Sandy thought the same she kept it to herself, and led me to the bedroom. The two beds were relatively close together, separated by an undersized bedside table. The main part of the bedroom was taken up by a huge closet and chest of drawers.
My attention turned to the bed that was obviously used by Sandy, as on the wall above the headrest and all along the bedside were photos of her: parachuting from planes, free-falling, hanging off cliff tops, riding speeding motorbikes, or diving through arrows of bursting flames. Slowly things stated to fall in place.
“I take it you’re the stuntwoman.”
“That obvious, is it?” Sandy giggled. I felt an instant admiration for her, though it also flashed through my mind that if she wanted to earn her living by trying to avoid getting herself killed, she must have lost her marbles somewhere along the way.
“And you,” Sandy went on, “must be the body double for all the sex scenes.”
Chapter Six
“SEX SCENES!! WHAT!!?” I exclaimed, my legs buckling under me in shock.
Sandy, aware that she'd not said quite what I expected – much less wanted – to hear, took firm hold of one of my elbows to steady me and made a quick attempt to remedy the situation.
“Just kidding,” she grinned.
But I had a horrid feeling that it was no joke. My belongings unpacked, I sat there seriously shaken by what Sandy had let slip. In an attempt to take my mind off it, she took me back outside to give me a quick brief on the running of the camp.
Being a desert location, hair and make-up calls were often at 4.30 or 5 am, to enable work to start at first light and get scenes shot before the excruciating heat set in. Meals were served in Tent A. Tent B was laundry service. Marquee Number One was a converted recreational saloon. Marquee Number Two was props and wardrobe. Marquee Number Three was a first aid tent… Sandy's impromptu guided tour was suddenly cut short as a piercing screech shattered the calm of the serene desert evening. Some ten metres away, and heading in our direction like a sand storm, was Crystal Lee, currently the best-paid actress in Hollywood. The super cool and collected image the press always presented of her vanished in a flicker as I realised the ear-shattering shriek had come from her, and that there was nothing even remotely "cool" about her – at least on this first impression.
“You can tell Freddy G to go fuck himself. I told him yesterday that I refuse to do any more takes without my stylist here with me. If by tomorrow evening there’s no change you can all kiss my ass goodbye as I’ll be walking out of this godforsaken place and won’t be coming back…” Crystal’s tirade continued as she bulldozed past us.
Once out of earshot, Sandy confided, “That’s Crystal Lee. And just in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s got a tongue on her like a whip. Lionel can’t stand her; that’s why he refuses to do the…” She hesitated in mid-sentence “... the… the proposed sequel to this film with her,” she hastily added.
Yeah, right, you mean he refuses to do the sex scenes with her!!
So now I knew for certain. What Sandy had so innocently blurted out earlier on in the caravan was true: I was here to do the nude scenes.
It all made sense. The intense exercise for the final toning-up for close-ups of my naked body; the all-over sun-tan; the hair straightened to match Crystal's. When you analysed it, it was obvious. With careful lighting and camera angles, not too close-up on the face, Crystal looked a duplicated version of Sandy and me. Or rather, we looked like twin versions of Ms Hysterical Lee. That’s it, I promised myself. The moment I get the chance to seek out Freddy G, I’ll inform him that I have no intention of earning money by selling my body, on or off the screen.
Dinner over, Sandy and I moved out of Tent A. Over in the distance the sun was a deep orange fireball low on the horizon. I gazed at it sullenly, and it sunk in that I was, frankly speaking, seriously bloody homesick. The entire showbiz extravaganza was just a bit too much for me, and I'd gone and landed myself in the middle of a goddamn circus.
And, let’s be honest about it, I was frightened. Sex scenes. Fuck!
Dinner had been like sitting through a casting for The Comedy Club mixed with American Idol; all and sundry battling it out to be noticed. It had left me with a splitting headache and heartache for home. I sighed as I glanced gloomily at the sinking sun.
“I’m just going to take a quiet stroll before I hit the sack,” I said to Sandy as she moved off to get an early night, having a stunt scene to film the following day.
She gave me a warm smile as she advised, “Don’t wander too far, honey,” then sauntered off to home-sweet-caravan-home.
***
The sun had almost set by the time I'd scrambled my way up one of the sand dunes on the border of Flick City. I was on the side where the jeeps and helicopters were stationed, and I was half tempted to leg it down into one of the parked vehicles and pray to Lady Luck to get me out of this mayhem. But I wasn’t that brave, so I turned my back on the village below and gaped at the wonders of the open space around me: ruby-red desert sand was visible for miles on end, and the air was silent apart from the whisper of the evening breeze. The relative silence was soon broken. Feeling the coke I had gulped down during my evening meal come up, I let escape a blaring burp, one that any monstrous five-year-old would have been proud of. I could even hear it echo across the Nevada night.
“That wasn’t very genteel of you, was it?” said an amused, deep voice behind me. “And there was me thinking that British girls were all refined and well-mannered.”
I turned, crimson-faced, towards the speaker. It was the last person on earth I expected to see. There, standing before me, his clear green eyes penetrating my own, was Lionel King. I forgot my embarrassment as I recal
led the ungracious way he'd behaved that afternoon.
“I don’t think you’re quite the one to be tutoring me on good manners,” I replied, in the most genteel voice I could muster, “when you’re so evidently discourteous yourself.” Round one to me. Lionel, however, just smiled alluringly. I was captivated by the fact that, up close, he reminded me of Robbie even more than ever.
Lionel was swiftly down on his knees, my hands tightly clasped in his (much to my embarrassment), as he looked at me apologetically.
“Please forgive me for my ignorance earlier this evening when you arrived. I didn’t count on your enchanting presence until tomorrow. I didn’t even glance in your direction. I didn’t expect it to be you.” His clasp tightened as I struggled to break free.
“Get up,” I hissed. God knows who was viewing the scene from below! "Please let go of me,” I implored, all in vain as he pulled harder on my hands until I came to rest on the ground beside him. His face was just inches from mine, his penetrating gaze leaving me dizzy. He’s going to kiss me. As he was holding my hands I couldn’t slap him across the face if he so much as dared to take advantage of me. As if reading my mind Lionel shifted slightly away from me, his smile lingered on his lips, clearly amused by my discomfort.
“I’d like you to join the crew on set tomorrow so that you can start getting a feel of how things work and familiarise yourself with the team. They're a great gang. I’m sure you’ve met some of the members already. Sandy’s a great girl. If you have any snags, just ask her. And if you can avoid Crystal, you’ll be doing yourself a favour. As for the rest, you’ll sail through.”
This is my chance, I thought. Aloud, I asked, “What exactly is my role in this film?”
Not losing his suave air, Lionel turned to me, jade eyes locking into mine in a gaze that sent a quiver down my back.
“My darling girl, all that’s required of you is to be yourself and have a little fun.”
Before I could insist further Lionel pressed on, tactfully changing topic. “So how do you like LA? Got any surfing in?” I wondered if Gabby had debriefed him about my close encounter with the dark Pacific depths.
“The tennis courts suit me better than the Californian waves,” I admitted.
“Yes, quite a little ball slammer… Or so I’ve been told.” He grinned, and I remembered the first time I'd seen Lionel down by the tennis courts watching me play when I'd mistaken him for Robbie. I now knew it was Lionel, despite Gabby's pretence otherwise.
“How about your accommodation back there? Bit more luxurious than your present combo, I should think.”
“Well, I’ve got to admit,” I answered, feeling more at ease in Lionel’s presence than I would have thought possible, “I was becoming spoilt in Freddy G’s spacious cottage, which is not good, because I’ll have to return to the real world at some point. And his main house is just grand. But even the caravan here is bigger than my flat back in London, so I can’t complain.”
By this point we'd both settled back on the sandy terrain. As I gazed up into the night sky, now ablaze with shining stars, I heard Lionel's voice so very close beside me that I could almost feel his words caressing my face. With genuine interest in his voice, he asked, “So, given the opportunity to remain here, would you stay?”
I hesitated before answering. Robbie flashed into my mind, and I had an image of the two of us outside my dream home, that petite country cottage. A shooting star flashed across the night sky leaving a trail of twinkling stardust behind, and I momentarily closed my eyes and wished for that dream to come true.
To Lionel I replied, “Christ no! I don’t know how you handle it, but it must be a goddamn nightmare having screaming fans faint right away if you so much as sneeze in their direction, and have paparazzi falling out of trees just to get a shot of you. It’s way too wacky for me, thanks.”
I hoped I hadn’t sounded offensive, but you really did have to be half-whammy to put up with the never-ending Hollywood reality show.
“How did you get on with Gabby?” Lionel asked, changing the subject. He was propped up on one elbow, gazing at me with deep curiosity.
“I set the sprinkler on her.” I confessed, holding back my glee at the memory.
“No kidding?” Lionel grinned at my amused look.
“Yep, she did the full-on body-dive to the ground thinking that the sprinklers were out to ambush her.”
Lionel let out a loud boisterous laugh, presumably at the image of Gabby taking cover. He had one of those contagious laughs, which started me off too, until I had tears of merriment running down my cheeks.
Yeah, Lionel is alright.
Chapter Seven
The following day, after being courteously escorted back to my caravan by Lionel, I was up with Sandy at the crack of dawn. As we walked passed Crystal's colossal caravan on our way to breakfast, we could already hear her shrill voice. Poor sod, I thought, to whoever was on the receiving end.
“Is she ever satisfied?” I asked Sandy.
“Beats me,” Sandy shrugged as we moved into the breakfast queue. The smells of freshly-brewed coffee and newly-baked bread, cakes from the oven, sizzling sausages and bacon, fried tomatoes and onions did wonders for my taste buds. But I did feel a tinge of guilt as I realised that all Gabby’s hard work was about to go to pot.
Breakfast over, I accompanied Sandy through hair and make-up. They toiled over her hair, getting it silky straight, but she didn’t need much make-up on, as her scenes had no facial close-ups. Then we made our way to the sand jeeps and were taken on a twenty-minute white-knuckle drive through the desert dunes until we finally reached the location for the day's shoot. I glanced at Sandy as we alighted; her hair was all askew, and I wondered why anyone had bothered to style it.
The preparation for the first take got under way relatively quickly, just as the sun’s rays gradually emerged from behind the rocky mountains that loomed over the valley, and caressed the sandy terrain into a red fireball. Lionel had arrived by helicopter together with the director – though it was obvious that Lionel played a critical role in the management of the movie. They whisked Sandy off up to the tops of a rocky cliff as I looked around for Lionel’s stunt double. Gosh, I thought. With Lionel and his body doubles, I’m going to have images of Robbie popping up all over the place.
I was soon aware that there was no one around who remotely matched Lionel’s physique, and as I shielded my eyes against the bright morning light and glanced up to the mountain top, it dawned on me that Lionel, equipped with a safety harness, was about to do his own stunts. My heart suddenly started racing. As much as I hate to admit it, I found myself fretting over Lionel’s safety, like a true bona fide teen fan. In a real state of nerves I watched as Lionel and Sandy sprinted together across the cliff edge and, in unison, did a death-defying lunge towards a helicopter undercarriage where they then swung precariously fifty metres feet off the ground. Even knowing that they were buckled into safety belts didn’t ease the tension, and with each "take" I nervously started to bite my nails (much to my disgust, as I'd overcome that habit years ago). By mid-morning, my nails gnawed to the bone, the scene was finally wrapped.
“Thank God for that,” I said to myself, relieved. My admiration for Sandy had grown with each "take." Lionel, I realised, was just a pure adrenaline junkie. It was also obvious how much he adored his job, as well as with being a perfectionist. Moreover, I realised that my dream lifestyle – living in the quiet English countryside having to fret only about the weeding – was poles apart from this pandemonium.
Lionel was on a complete high as he came down, and I seriously wondered if he’d danced with the white lady that morning to get him buzzing so. Having said that, Sandy was just as hyper. But I hadn’t witnessed any substance taking while I was with her, so maybe it was just the thrill of defying gravity that did it for them.
“Hiya babe,” Lionel called to me as he approached, with a real goofy grin stretched from ear to ear. “What did you think?”
“Honestly? I think you’re mad! But I’ll give it to you, both you and Sandy were just amazing, absolutely incredible.”
“Have you ever flown in a helicopter?” Lionel asked. Before I had a chance to answer and insist it was something that I didn’t mind passing on, Lionel had grabbed hold of one of my hands and pulled me – well more like dragged me – over to where the helicopter was sitting.
“Come on” he said. “I’ll fly you back.”
“Can you fly this thing?” I questioned, rather alarmed, as he hauled me into the cockpit, panicking that I would never see my green homeland ever again or even touch firm ground under foot.
Before I knew it I was strapped into the passenger seat, big earmuffs on, and precariously swaying as Lionel shifted the helicopter for take-off. I was in such a state of nerves that I thought breakfast was on its way back up. But the lurching and swaying eased as we became airborne, and I was able to endure the take-off and watch the other members of the crew turn to miniature-sized figures.
I was suddenly reminded of Anneka Rice in Challenge Anneka. I can vaguely remember the episodes; my dad had been a huge fan. Whatever happened to her?
We flew out into the desert, and as I started to relax I was able to gaze at the spectacular views below. The red landscape had a life of its own; the steady breeze which picked up the dust particles and shifted them from one side to another as if caressing a lover was like gentle waves across an ocean surface. The seemingly smooth flat virgin terrain was broken here and there by formations of jutting rocky boulders similar to the one used by Lionel earlier that very day to perform his crazy stunt.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 6