The airfield had served mostly as a maintenance site during the Second World War, and was surrounded by towering, corrugated iron fencing, its steely ripples having succumbed to decades of rust. Today, a small portion had been removed to make way for a temporary entrance, next to which stood a sign:
NO ENTRY!
FILMING IN PROGRESS
Rye Productions
When the production crew first arrived, a group of Millbury Peak’s more active residents had taken up arms against the invasion, a small swarm of picket signs bobbing up and down around the entrance. Other matters had apparently demanded their attention as, this morning, the only faces to greet Renata were those of two potbellied young men standing guard, giggling excitedly and covered in Rye Productions attire. So these were the jobs Quentin had promised the town. They looked up from their chattering.
‘Hello, sorry, I’m here to see Mr Rye,’ said Renata, tugging on a sleeve and glancing around nervously. ‘He told me to ask for him.’
As they were formulating an answer, a man as big as a tank stepped from behind a trailer, wide-framed and dressed all in black. ‘Name,’ he grunted.
It took her a moment to realise this was a question. ‘Renata,’ she answered, picking at her palm. ‘Renata Wakefield.’ The two young men lost interest and resumed their chattering. The tank glared at her. ‘Mr Rye asked me to the set,’ she elaborated. ‘He said I should give my name.’
His face cracked a smile. ‘Right this way, ma’am.’
She was led inside. The airfield was a sea of tarmac sprinkled with intermittent dustings of weeds. A large hangar stood in its centre, more ‘NO ENTRY’ signs plastered across its entrance. The fence snaking around the airfield’s perimeter was dotted with the illegible graffiti of bored country teenagers.
The field was still being primed for production; trucks entered through a dedicated gate at the far end, delivering the means to erect a fully functioning filming location. She looked around at the swarming production crews, like bees readying the hive for their queen.
‘Renata Wakefield?’ The voice came from behind her. She turned to see a girl approaching, slender, blonde, and sporting denim cut-offs so meagre that for a moment Renata thought they had a streaker. She wasn’t the only one who’d turned to look.
‘Renata Wakefield!’ repeated the beaming teenager, her US twang a high-pitched version of Quentin’s. ‘It’s really you, isn’t it?’ Renata looked at the thick hardback under the girl’s arm. Was that a Coleridge collection? ‘I’ve been waiting endlessly to meet you in person, Miss Wakefield,’ she said. ‘What am I doing, I’m so…boorish.’ She offered a hand, tanned, nails manicured. ‘I’m Sandie.’ The young actress unveiled her name with practised composure. ‘Sandie Rye.’
‘Ah, you’re…Quentin’s daughter?’ Renata asked, looking everywhere but into the girl’s wide, eager stare. Even the prettiest eyes could burn.
‘Come on!’ said Sandie as she did a little bounce. She grabbed Renata’s hand and began leading her across the tarmac. The man-tank took a fearful step back. ‘I’m not even in the film and the crew still gave me my own trailer. I’ll show you!’
Before she could protest, Renata was pulled towards a cluster of trailers and Portakabins. Lying between the units were sealed trunks and equipment casings waiting to be unpacked, as well as marquees housing first aid stations, serving and dining areas, make-up and costume-fitting sections, and covered bulks of whirring generators, all bustling with Rye Productions crew. Sandie galloped up the steps of the largest trailer, upon which giant golden stars had been adhered. A printed sign on the entrance read SANDIE RYE. The teenager pushed open the door and lead Renata, still clutching Quentin’s blazer, into the furnished living space. Sandie dashed to the kitchen area, dumped her book of poetry, and began pouring two cream sodas.
Fitted spotlights running the length of the ceiling came to life. The trailer’s fixtures were dark wood, with thick carpeting underfoot and an expansive leather seating area. Sandie flicked a switch beside the wall-mounted plasma television, electronically controlled blinds lowering over the windows in response. Renata stood in the middle of the seating area, feeling like a caged animal. She felt her toes curl.
‘I’m just so jubilant to have Renata Wakefield in my trailer!’ gushed the young girl as she clattered in the fridge.
‘I really do need to see your father, Sandie,’ said Renata, picking at her fingernails. She glanced over and saw the girl was now wearing glasses. ‘Do you have any idea how long he’ll be?’
‘Ice, Miss Wakefield?’
‘Uh, fine, thanks.’ Her toes began to hurt. ‘It’s just he said I’d be able to find him here and—’
‘Yeah, my apologies,’ the girl said with a sniff, stepping towards the couches. She handed Renata a glass. ‘They said he’s due in soon, but you can wait with me for the…interim. The truth is Daddy doesn’t actually know I’m here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s kind of a surprise. See, he didn’t want me in this film…’ She paused, a hint of heartbreak passing over the young girl’s face. ‘…which is fine, but it doesn’t mean I can’t come visit.’ She looked down, fiddling with her fraying shorts. ‘Dunno…maybe he’ll, like, have a change of heart.’
Her thoughts flicked like a television changing channel. ‘My mom had all your books when I was growing up, you know,’ she gushed. ‘Man, I read them all. You’re what got me into literature.’ She shoved aside some glossy magazines on the coffee table to reveal an Emily Brontë, placed as tactically as her unnatural vocabulary. ‘I know your latest…chef d'oeuvres haven’t been received as well as usual, but that’s because they’re more literary. Adelaide Addington, her romances. Y’know, the men she meets…’ She twirled her blonde hair, showing off an elaborately tattooed ring finger. The girl’s brown eyes glazed over. Renata discerned dark rings buried under the make-up. ‘She’s so inspiring. You’re so inspiring, Miss Wakefield.’
The channel flicked.
‘Hey, you ever thought about making a film? Just imagine…’ she did her best movie trailer voiceover, ‘…Starring Sandie Rye as Adelaide Addington. I even have the blonde hair! I bet Daddy would help. Dunno, maybe he’d even—’ She spotted Renata eyeing the glossy magazines pushed aside, each cover plastered with Sandie’s airbrushed face. ‘Miss Wakefield, I want you to know I’m more than what they make me out to be,’ she said. ‘I’m a grown woman, and nothing’s more imperative to me than my career – and making my parents proud. If you ever decide to bring Adelaide Addington to life, I swear I’d do her justice.’
‘You’ll certainly be the first to know.’ Renata stared into her cream soda. ‘Maybe I should come back later.’
‘Well, whatever. That’s cool,’ she said, scratching her nose. ‘But man, I’d love you to stay a while longer.’
She risked a glance at Sandie, probably about the same age as Renata when she’d been in the accident. Fifteen years she’d spent convalescing in hospital, beginning at the same point in life that this young girl was embarking upon a glamorous acting career with the support of a loving family. How far apart two lives could stray. Had Renata been raised with such love and support, where may she have ended up? A family of her own? She probably wouldn’t have wound up a suicidal hermit, anyway. But behind this sculpted façade of glamour and ambition, as well as her forced impressions of intellectuality, Sandie was still just a teenage girl, maybe even as confused and lonely as Renata had been at her age. There was something bubbling beneath the surface, beneath this well-rehearsed presentation of stardom and ambition.
‘Well, maybe I could wait with you,’ said Renata, ‘if you really don’t think he’ll be long.’
‘Miss Wakefield,’ said Sandie, hesitantly, ‘did you ever worry about making your parents proud when you were my age?’ So that’s what was bubbling underneath the surface: pressure, likely placed on herself by herself. ‘I mean, I don’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just my mom and dad have done so much for me and I somet
imes wonder if I’m, like, good enough. I just want to do right by them, y’know? Make it big so I can give back some of what they’ve given me – like you probably did with your parents.’
Renata squirmed in her seat. ‘Well…I don’t know, Sandie.’ She risked another glance at the girl. ‘I kept to myself when I was your age. Then I spent many years in hospital following an accident, so—’
‘I didn’t know that,’ interrupted Sandie. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘It was a car crash.’ Renata wrapped a loose thread from her sweater around her finger. ‘My memories of that time were left a bit fuzzy. Still, I don’t remember ever writing for anyone other than myself.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s great you want to make your mother and father proud, but in the end you have to do these things for yourself, because one day…’ she looked away ‘…you might find yourself alone.’
A moment’s pause settled between them. Sandie took a sip of cream soda, then set the glass down on top of an Entertainment Weekly, covering a grinning photo of herself. ‘My parents split when I was sixteen. I dunno, I guess I went through the same stuff every kid does when that happens. It was my fault, right? Had to be my fault. At least in my head it did.’ Renata watched the girl running a painted nail over the tattooed roses spiralling up her finger. ‘So if it’s my fault, if I screwed up my family, then it’s time to find a new family, right? So, between you and me, I went off the rails a bit. Not much, just a lot of partying, trying to find that ‘new family’. Never did, of course.’ Her voice wavered. She looked at the floor. ‘Did some stupid stuff, then realised it all comes back to your real family. Your blood. It hit me that, since Mom and Daddy were split, it was up to me to keep us all together. If I drifted away, so would they. Daddy never stops telling me how important I am to them, how much they love me.’ Renata saw her eyes glisten with what may have been the beginnings of tears. ‘It’s the least I can do to make them proud, y’know?’
Sandie cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. ‘God, look at me. I have Renata Wakefield in my trailer and all I can do is talk about myself! I’m sorry, Miss Wakefield. I’m so imbecilic.’
This teenager, this tanned, manicured, princess of a girl was so far from the teenaged Renata’s world, and yet she recognised so much. The details were different, but the deep-set confusion was the same. ‘Families are difficult, Sandie,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘It sounds like you’re doing great.’ She took a breath. ‘And…call me Renata.’
Their eyes met. Each filled the silence with a smile.
Suddenly the roar of Quentin’s Harley bellowed from outside. ‘That’s him!’ she cried, leaping from the sofa. ‘I have to go surprise him!’
Sandie threw open the trailer door and leapt onto the tarmac, adjusting her glasses as she went. The fence by the entrance clattered as the man-tank stumbled out of Quentin’s way, tripping into corrugated iron. The two boys in their Rye Productions t-shirts stared as Quentin stormed across the tarmac.
‘SANDIE,’ he yelled, marching towards the trailer. ‘What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to come.’
She clasped her hands behind her back, batting her eyelashes and, perversely, pushing her chest out. Her efforts did nothing to mask her shock and disappointment at his tone. ‘Daddy, I…I just wanted to see you. You know how much I miss you when—’
‘ENOUGH,’ roared Quentin. The watching bystanders looked away nervously. He swung round to a nearby technician. ‘Is this her trailer?’
The teenager spoke for the technician, her voice hollow. ‘Yes, it is. Daddy, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She looked at the ground.
Quentin’s eyes suddenly fell on Renata. His expression softened. He stepped towards Sandie and placed his hands on her shoulders, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper. ‘You’re…everything to me. I just want to protect you. I have to protect you.’ He glanced back at Renata, and in that moment she was sure she saw a tear in his eye. ‘Go,’ he growled at Sandie. ‘Pack your things. You’re going home tonight.’
Quentin turned back to yell at the technician, his words exploding like a blown fire hydrant as he demanded to know why he hadn’t been informed of Sandie’s arrival.
Renata watched Quentin in disbelief before feeling something slip into her hand. ‘My card,’ Sandie whispered. ‘Give me a shout about that part.’
‘It’s my charity work,’ Quentin said, slipping into the blazer. ‘She was meant to be taking care of it all while I was away, but she can be so stubborn.’ He looked wistfully across the airfield towards Sandie’s trailer. ‘Gets that from me, I guess.’ Renata, still shocked, looked at the ground. ‘I have a warehouse full of junk – or rather, Quentin C. Rye movie memorabilia – that I’m planning on auctioning off for some children’s hospice thing. She was meant to be dealing with it.’ He tapped his cigarette. ‘Think I was too harsh?’
‘It’s not my place to judge,’ Renata said. There was a crash as a pair of technicians dropped a lighting bracket near them. ‘Is there somewhere private we could talk?’
He scowled at the technicians. ‘Leave us,’ he snapped. The men stumbled away.
‘Quentin,’ she said tentatively, ‘are you all right?’
Cigarette smoke rose from his mouth as he let out a long sigh. ‘Sorry, Ren. Been a long week. Everything’s still, well…weighing heavy, y’know? Everything that’s happened because of me.’
‘I told you, Quentin,’ she said, ‘stop blaming yourself. It’s okay.’
‘You hungry?’ He flicked his sleeve to check his watch. ‘Let me make sure Sandie’s all right, then we can have that talk…over lunch?’
She scanned the ensuing chaos around them. Fresh cargo was unloaded from two trucks on the west side, while a group by the control tower continued erecting a sprawling white marquee. The disused airfield was gradually transforming into a fully functioning Hollywood production site.
‘I think you have enough on,’ said Renata.
‘You know, Ren, I’m not just here to make a film. I’m working on a new novel.’ Quentin patted his blazer. ‘That notebook you keep seeing me with has its entire outline…’ He stepped closer. ‘…and guess where I think I’ve left it?’
He smiled. She looked to the ground.
‘That charming clock tower of yours. Let me see to my daughter then I’ll pack us some sandwiches. We can see if my notebook’s up there and have that chat, too.’
‘My father,’ she said, rubbing her wrist, ‘the vicar’s watching him. I should really—’
‘Then go home,’ Quentin cut in. ‘Get Thomas fed and watered and I’ll meet you later. Say seven at the tower?’
She nodded hesitantly.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘dinner it is.’
Her climb was more restrained this time. Two nights prior, each stone stair had burst with memories of her childhood sanctuary. Now, anxiousness slowed her steps. As she’d edged through the early twilight of the cemetery, a faint light had been visible through the tower’s tall window beneath its clock face.
Quentin was waiting.
Now, as she neared the peak of her ascent, she saw candlelight illuminating the top of the stairwell. She froze before the open door, staring into the room.
He was sitting on one of the small steps by the window in front of the larger of the two overturned crates, which was now draped in a folded white tablecloth. Upon the impromptu dining table lay a covered serving dish, silver cutlery, napkins, gleaming champagne flutes, and a glowing candlestick. The candle was one of many; the perimeter of the room was lined with rows of tiny flames, soaking the walls in a warm glow. Renata stepped inside. Her childhood refuge had always been synonymous with the bitter cold, which passed freely through the glassless window built into the stone. Tonight, the combined strength of the candles affected a gentle warmth against her cheeks. He stood to pull out the smaller crate as she approached the makeshift dining table, offering her the seat like a waiter.
‘Quentin, I… You didn’t hav
e to—’
‘Ren,’ he said, reaching into his blazer and pulling out the notebook, ‘please.’
‘You found it? I’m so glad.’
‘Never lost it,’ he said, grinning.
Tapping his foot, he opened the notebook and began scribbling. Through those horn-rimmed frames she once again saw that glimmer in his eyes. As he slipped the notebook back into his pocket, she understood the glimmer was indeed the spark of creativity, never resting nor relenting. The passion that infused his note-taking confirmed that for all she had against the genre in which he worked, she couldn’t deny his devotion to his art.
‘Is madam ready for the main course?’ He lifted the serving dish lid to reveal two bowls of tomato and rice soup.
Renata smiled.
10
She could hardly believe the man was getting paid to write this stuff.
The ring binder given to her by Quentin was crammed with tattered fragments of lazily-constructed script, as well as the occasional excerpt of the novel on which the upcoming movie was to be based. She was shocked at the quality of the dialogue she’d been given to work on, marvelling at it having come from a professional at all. Her primary complaint was how little it said with so much; screeds of words, only a few of which carried any real meaning. She’d learnt from her mother’s collection, before she’d even taken up writing, that to convey any kind of reality-based emotion in dialogue you had to strip it back to its core parts. If you could trim it like a rose, you may be left with something pure and miraculous: a character that spoke off the page.
She had no experience in scriptwriting. That her credentials in anything other than dumbed-down romantic fiction were so lacking didn’t seem to bother Quentin, just as Renata wasn’t bothered to be working in such a different manner than she was used to. Put simply: she needed cash, he needed…what did he need? ‘A woman’s touch’ were his words. Having now read the material which was to constitute the emotional core of this big-budget production, she was beginning to believe the script really did need this ‘woman’s touch’ as much as she needed the money.
For Rye Page 9