After another hour of encouraging, cajoling, mocking, jeering and bullying, Hilda called a halt.
“You’re getting there, Miles. We’ll make an athlete out of you yet!”
Yeah, right.
“You’re gonna look great, baby. You got my gold seal promise on that.” She paused. “So, you got plans for tonight? I thought we could maybe catch a few veggie juices. Whaddya say?”
Veggie juices?! Seriously?
“Er, thanks, Hilda, but my friend just flew in from England and I promised I’d take her around and show her the sights.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Well, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, but… no, not a girlfriend.”
“You can ditch her for one evening.”
It dawned on me that Hilda was making a pass at me. How the hell was I going to get out of this one without the Soviet Nazi in her having a meltdown?
“No, sorry. I promised. Like I said.”
“Raincheck?”
“Sure.” I agreed, even though I had no intention of following through. I had two more weeks of pre-prod, so only two more weeks of Hilda’s nagging. If I lasted that long.
I jogged slowly back to the apartment. Clare was still asleep so I took my time showering. I was just drying off when she banged on the bathroom door.
“Miles! Hurry up! I need to have a pee!”
“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “Keep your hair on.”
I stumbled out of the bathroom as she pushed past me and slammed the door. Charming.
Rummaging through the closet I found some jeans and t-shirts, all clean and folded up. God, I loved this. The apartment came with a housekeeper who did all the laundry. It was going to be hard going back to the squalor of my flat in Euston with Jim the Unwashed when this ended. I didn’t even have to do grocery shopping here – everything was taken care of. I knew there was a price, but right there and then, I didn’t care.
I heard the toilet flush and a grumpy-looking Clare shuffled back out into the main room, her hair a lopsided bird’s nest.
“God, I’m starving. I don’t know if I want breakfast or chocolate – my body clock is all over the place.”
“It’ll wear off in a few days,” I offered.
“Huh, listen to you. Suddenly you’re Mr. Jet Set.”
I frowned, annoyed. What was eating her?
My phone rang, saving me from saying something I might later regret when used in evidence against me. There was nothing wrong with Clare’s memory – only her temper.
The caller ID showed Rhonda’s name.
“Hey, Miles! How’s the diet going?”
God! Was everyone on my case about this?
“’S’okay. What’s up, Rhonda?”
“I’ve organized a driving lesson for you at 1 PM and then at 2 PM you’ve got media training with Gayl Lemon.”
“Media what?”
“Miles, you’ve gotta know how to talk to the Press, how to do interviews. I mean, face it, right now you only open your mouth to change feet. You make the studio guys nervous. Gayl will help you with all the usual stuff.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll see. And after you’ll be seeing Natalia Da Silva.”
“Who?”
“Keep up, Miles – your stylist.”
“Er, but I already got a suit and…”
“Jeez! Your whole wardrobe looks like it came from a disaster movie! You need to look good every time you leave your goddamn front door. I’ve explained this to you.”
“Er…”
“The driving instructor will drop you at Gayl’s offices and then I’ll send the car to take you on to Da Silva. Capiche?”
It was easier to agree.
“Yeah, sure, Rhonda.”
“Ciao.”
And she was gone.
I stared sourly at the phone.
“What was all that about?”
I sighed. “We won’t be able to go to the beach this afternoon. I’ve got a driving lesson and media training. Apparently the studio bosses don’t think I’m competent to speak for myself.”
Clare looked at me evenly. “They’ve got a point, Miles. It’s not really your thing, is it, talking off the cuff? You know what Americans are like – they’re so literal and you’re so weird… I mean, it could be useful. You should be more open-minded.”
“Bloody hell. If I was any more open-minded my brains would fall out,” I muttered, so she couldn’t quite hear.
Her words had cut me, but I knew she was right. I thought back to the woman on the plane – I’d managed to offend her in one short sentence.
I really couldn’t wait for the production to get under way then all this shit would end. I just wanted to work.
“So,” said Clare, “can I come with you? I don’t want to hang around here by myself. And if I’m going to be your assistant,” she laughed, “I need to know this stuff.”
“Fine. Fine. Come. Why not,” I snapped, annoyed that it was just a good laugh to her.
She looked surprised. “What’s your problem?”
I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. “It’s just…”
“What? Tell me?”
“They hired me to do a job and they want to… change everything about me. They’re even sending me to a bloody stylist to tell me what clothes to wear. I feel like I’ll forget who I am.”
“Oh, please! As if.”
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t see how hard it was when pieces of me were being chipped away: the way I spoke, the way I smiled, my hair color, the shape of my body – all changed, or being changed. I felt like I was being swallowed up by the studio machine. It made me anxious. But Clare thought I was being a diva – I could see it written all over her face. I was beginning to regret asking her to come out here.
In silence, I fried a couple of eggs and toasted some bread for an egg sandwich. For her. Not me. Obviously.
“Do you want ketchup with it?”
“No, thanks. Just as it comes. Aren’t you having one? I thought you’d be starving after all that gym rubbish.”
My temper exploded. “I know this is all a big fucking joke to you but I’m the one who’s… who’s got to go out there and put myself on the line. Everyone’s telling me I’m too fat, too ugly, too stupid, too badly dressed – and… and there’s all this pressure… and now my best friend is just pissing her pants laughing at me!”
I was staring at her, panting, my hands clenched into fists. I couldn’t look at her shocked expression, so I shoved the plate at her and stormed off into my bedroom, slamming the door. I felt as if I’d reverted to being 12 years old and arguing with my mum about playing my music too loud. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the fury pulse through me.
I ignored her tentative knock, but she opened the door anyway. How very Clare.
“I’m sorry, Miles. I was just trying to… be funny. You know, make light of things. I’m sorry if I made it sound like I don’t care. I do. You know I do.”
Clare
I wound my arms around his waist and rested my head on his back. I’d never seen Miles so tense – it wasn’t like him to lose his temper. And he’d never shouted at me before. Never.
He was holding himself tightly, as if he was afraid he’d explode again. I could feel the tension radiating out through his rigid muscles. Shit! He was really losing it!
“I’m sorry, okay?” Please tell me you’re not mad. Please!
He turned around and kissed my forehead.
“I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just…”
He let out a long breath and rubbed my arms gently.
“It’s okay,” I said, quietly. “Don’t worry about it.”
Below us, a car horn honked. Miles threw an irritated look over his shoulder.
“Oh, crap! My driving lesson – I’d forgotten. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Do you still want to go to this media training thing later?” he asked, looking harassed.
“Ye
ah, should be a laugh.”
He flashed me a grateful smile, and then he was off. I could hear him running, taking the stairs three at a time. He sketched a wave and I watched through the window as he had a short conversation with the instructor. A tall, glamorous looking blonde woman.
Bloody hell: wasn’t there anyone out here who didn’t look like a film star? And then suddenly a light went on in my head – I got what Miles had been trying to tell me: everyone out here was judged on their looks. HD TVs were the new high court and the jury was still out. Every wrinkle, every spot, freckle and mole, highlighted for everyone to see. Yeah, I sort of got how Miles must be feeling. Sort of. But he was right – I had no clue how it must feel to stand in front of a film camera, every blemish recorded for posterity.
I really wanted to rewind this morning, press the delete button and start again. I’d go right back to the moment that Miles came out of the shower with just a small towel wrapped around his waist. I mean, wow! I’d seen Miles without his shirt on before – wandering around the flat, playing football in the park, the summer we went to the beach at Brighton – but I’d never seen him look so well muscled. Did I mention wow? The Nazi Soviet personal trainer must really know her stuff. Bitch.
But after the ogling, I really hadn’t meant to wind him up. I just wanted to make light of it all. Well, that backfired – big time. Worse still, he thought I was being insensitive. As if he wasn’t at the forefront of my mind almost every waking minute, to the point where I disgusted myself.
I spent the next hour wandering around the apartment, unpacking my case and dressing with more care than usual. I put on my best jeans, the ones I usually saved for dates – which meant they’d only been worn once – plus a new t-shirt that was slightly more girly than usual. I wondered if mascara was appropriate for media training and figured in for a penny, in for a pound. It felt weird wearing makeup in the daytime.
By the time Miles returned, I was feeling as tense as he looked, but I tried very hard to act chilled. I ran down and jumped into the back of the car. Thankfully, Miles wasn’t driving.
“How was the lesson?”
“Okay, I guess. I’ve done nearly all the practice hours and I’ve watched Drivers’ Ed videos and that. The learner’s permit should be here any day.” He sighed. “It’s pretty easy driving out here, I think. Compared to London anyway.”
The instructor raised a plucked eyebrow and glared at me in the rear view mirror.
I didn’t know what to say to that, having never bothered about driving. Even if I bought a car for a few hundred quid, I couldn’t possibly afford the insurance.
The driving instructor smiled insincerely and dropped us at the offices of Lemon Inc. Time to find out what media training was all about.
Miles
“Hi! My name is Gayl Lemon and I’m here to show you how to do awesome interviews! Yay!”
Next to me, Clare stifled a laugh and suddenly I was glad she was here after all. The studio had sent three other actors on the course and there were some money types in suits. Altogether there were eight of us, including Clare.
Ms Lemon was pencil thin and wearing the kind of pale green power suit that I thought went out with Jackie Kennedy. Although apparently not. It looked a bit odd. Her face said forty, but her hands said sixty.
“You’ll learn the art of meeting the press: how to talk to reporters and to give them what they want, including sound bites; we’ll practice different kinds of interviews, including junkets with multiple questioners; on- and off-the-record comments; and for those of you in the moviemaking business, how to handle the Red Carpet.”
She said ‘red carpet’ in a way that clearly demanded Capital Letters.
“We’ll start with some basic principles: firstly, and most importantly – prepare, prepare, prepare. Don’t wing it, people, even if it’s a subject you know well – and don’t assume an audience will know the subject at all. Practice those sound bites. Now, you might get someone trying to provoke a reaction out of you: well, make sure you set the tone. Don’t vary your message because the questions are hostile or provocative. Decide what you want to communicate – and keep that in mind throughout an interview. If questions don’t lead you there immediately, take a detour in your answers – this is what we call ‘bridging’. And golden rule time, people: nothing is 100% off the record. Ever.”
By this time, Clare’s eyes were as round as billiard balls and I could see her glancing at me anxiously. I knew why – she thought I couldn’t hack it. That really pissed me off, especially because I knew she was right. How the hell was I going to learn all this corporate bullshit?
“Okay, lovely people: media training 101. When dealing with journalists – and this fact is true for the general public, too – try to use their names once in every sentence. It makes them feel special. Always remember to ask at least one question about them. For example, if they’re wearing a wedding ring, ask how long they’ve been married. If they mention they’re a mommy or a daddy, ask their child’s age or name. And never, ever underestimate the value of a compliment. Everyone loves a compliment, and if you’re the one handing it out… everyone’s going to love you. Make them feel good about you.”
This was so un-British. I knew if someone gave me a compliment I’d just try and turn it into a joke. But this was serious. Gayl was serious.
“We’ll start off easy and fun: practice that Red Carpet moment. The four key things you Must Remember about the Red Carpet are: answer every question as if you’ve never heard it before – even when you’re answering for the fiftieth time. No reporter wants to feel second rate and we sure don’t want a Bad Review because of that, do we, people!”
“No, ma’am!” they chorused, much to Clare’s continuing amusement. I stuffed my fist in my gob to try and stifle the hysteria that threatened to overtake the few senses that were still in working order.
“The second Red Carpet Key is to Enjoy Yourself! Smile, people! That’s the name of the game! Thirdly, speak slowly and clearly – and never, ever, EVER give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers! What do we Never Do?”
“Give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers,” we parroted back.
Gayl beamed.
“And fourthly, Eat Something! You sure don’t want to be Passing Out on the Red Carpet!”
She droned on. We learned how to ‘pitch it, promote it, tell it and sell it’, and she talked about the importance of not dissing the fans. This was one thing I could really relate to. I remembered when I was 13, waiting for hours outside Ronnie Scott’s jazz club just to get David Sanborn’s autograph – and the disappointment I’d felt when his chauffeur-driven car left by the by the back entrance.
“As the great Jack Nicholson says, people, ‘it’s easy to forget how meaningful these encounters are for fans’. And we don’t want to let them down. What don’t we want to do?”
“Let them down,” I muttered, avoiding Clare’s accusing gaze.
“Now, something else to remember: no matter what you think of your coworkers on a movie or at the office, when you’re asked you say, ‘What a great guy!’ Okay? Let’s practice those Red Carpet Keys in pairs. Miles, why don’t you practice with me?”
Oh, crap.
“Now then, you’re on the Red Carpet and I’m An Interviewer, okay?”
“Yep, got it.”
“Miles Stephens – can you tell us who dressed you tonight, Miles?”
“Er… myself. I was by myself… er…”
She sighed. “Miles, focus! I’m asking you about which designer provided your clothing. I talked about this – point three in the seminar introduction!”
Oh, great. Public humiliation.
She huffed loudly and tried again.
“That’s a fabulous suit, Miles. Where’s it from?”
“I dunno. From a shop. Er…”
“No, Miles, no! You must know these things. And if you get brain freeze,” she sighed again, “just say, ‘Oh, they did a great job!’ and move on. Okay? Okay, le
t’s try again. So how did you get on with your costar, Lilia Purcell?”
“She’s a great guy… I mean, great girl. She’s great.”
Gayl’s Daz-white smile slipped entirely. I thought she was going to cry. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Clare, helpless with laughter.
The rest of the training was excruciating – mostly for Gayl, because I was so bad at it, and the studio had obviously told her that I had to pass this shit. I hoped it was like puppy training classes – no matter how badly behaved your pooch, everyone got a certificate at the end. I really fucking hoped so. At least I hadn’t pissed on the floor. Yet.
Clare was enjoying herself, quietly winding up the guy she was practicing with. She caught my eye and wrinkled her nose. I smiled back weakly. Yeah, big fucking joke.
After another gut-churning hour, Gayl released us. She looked slightly frazzled and when she smiled at me, I thought she was going to pull a muscle.
I was shocked when two of the women attending the media training asked for my autograph. I think it was because Gayl had dropped Lilia’s name a thousand fucking times. Clare looked royally stunned so it was worth it just for that.
When we finally got out of there, Clare was quiet.
“I’d better read that contract tonight,” was all she said.
I recognized the SUV that was waiting, relieved it was Earl who’d be driving us.
“Hi, Earl. This is my friend, Clare.”
“Good evening, miss,” he said, smiling at her.
“Oh, hiya. You’re the one who’s actually got some taste in music – Miles told me about you.”
Earl grinned at her and tipped his cap.
I was sort of jealous – Clare got on with everyone. She was so much better at all of this than me. Without even knowing it, she’d done just what Gayl had told her – started off talking to Earl with a compliment. Fuck. How was I ever going to learn that?
But if I’d thought that three hours with Gayl Lemon was hard going, her brand of humiliation was nothing compared to my first visit to a stylist.
Earl drove us to a discreet four-story building and a man sitting in the foyer directed us to the top floor.
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