Bayana nods at me. She’s not so much evil-looking as full-on. English people do not stare at strangers this intently. Her smile is seeming less sinister now. I look back at my hand, amazed.
‘How does she know all of this?’
‘You… are very good… you help people.’
Bayana speaks so falteringly in English compared with her machine gun Spanish. Her voice is rich, masculine. Again, she speaks to Zannah who translates.
‘She says you have a teacher on earth, which is good, but you have even better teachers in spirit. You need to trust yourself. She says you have interesting times ahead. She also says you should get the cards you wanted to buy. Play with them. It will help you connect. You know what she means?’
I’m incredulous. The centre of my forehead has gone haywire. Bayana is the real deal. More than me, more than Sheila even. I bet she’s never been scared of her gift. And if she’s to be believed I am Romany. The joy!
I thank her. Zannah then tells me that Bayana will be giving me natural make-up and a little coral lippy to compliment the dress, which is navy.
Just then, a man walks in. He is good-looking in that plastic, actor-who-looks-after-himself way and he’s about forty-five. He has sun-bleached red hair and a smattering of freckles. He’s posh as hell and uses it to comedic effect.
‘Hello, Tanz. I’m Rog. Flew in yesterday and paid for an extra night so I could get a bit of sun.’
He ignores my proffered hand and kisses me lavishly on both cheeks.
‘Coco Chanel. Very nice.’
‘Thank you. Are redheads supposed to sunbathe?’
‘Oh, I’m not one of those blue-skinned gingers. I’m more of a bronze, really! I like your accent. Reminds me of college. The Geordie girls were always a lot of fun.’
I’ll bet they were.
He looks around him towards the garden doors, through which stand the crew, about to go for another take. I can’t see the actors, but I know they’re out there. Something akin to fear crosses Rog’s face. I wonder if he’s nervous about shooting the ad later. He doesn’t seem the nervous type.
Roger is an old-school womaniser; you can tell a mile off. I find this kind of man quite amusing. Mostly because they’re as clear as tap water and they love hanging out with the ladies. The trick with the Rogers of this world is to have a laugh with them, but never, ever fall for their patter. They are incorrigible and shift their favours around like pieces on a chessboard. Their stories are great, but if you actually get in any way sucked in they will run like hares and leave you weeping into your brandy. So many of my friends have been fooled by this kind of man and I’ve had to delve deep to find any reserve of polite sympathy, because mostly I could see it coming from the millisecond I was introduced to them.
When he stands next to Zannah and gives her a squeeze they look like a pair of Duracell batteries. Two copper tops. I’ve always fancied redheads, but this one I’ll be giving a miss. Zannah smiles indulgently at him. Bayana looks him up and down once, then dismisses him and looks back at me. She leads me off towards her make-up table. When we’re out of earshot she takes my hand again, but doesn’t examine it. She frowns then smiles straight at me. Like the weather suddenly brightening after grey skies. She nods.
‘Darkness come. Not worry. Protected.’
I seem to recall hearing this kind of thing before, in about two hundred horror films, just before something terrible happened. I feel a twinge of dread.
‘You will have a lot of new experiences when you back in England! Romany witch. Very nice… Now, try this…’
And that’s the last she speaks of it. She slaps a coat of lippy on me. It doesn’t look terrible.
‘Yes, good.’
I like her better now, apart from the ‘darkness come’ bit. And I’ll have to do that protection thingy that Sheila taught me because I’m feeling a little light headed from the force of nature that is Bayana. I want to ask her more questions, but her English is pretty terrible. So instead I surreptitiously watch her out of the corner of my eye when she’s not gawping at me. I wonder what she sees that makes her stare? I do hope it’s not the evil eye floating above my head. Though, to be fair, she did say I was protected.
Soon I’m back in the purring silver car with Mr Suave, the driver, and Mr Flirt, the actor. Rog is determined that as we’re not called until nine-thirty we should dine together. I would have liked to go for a little wander on my own, maybe pick up some grilled fish somewhere, but he wants us to go ‘à deux’ and that’s that. And it’s not like he’s unpleasant; he’s fine. It’s just that I have things to think about, Spanish gypsy witches, ghost protectors and all-night sex with an Irish love god being but three.
Anyway, good as my word, I meet him in front of the hotel after a shower and a change of clothes. He’s scrubbed and shiny in a black T-shirt and cargo pants. I get the feeling he’s been craving company as he chatters away about the champagne in the hotel and the holiday he had last year where the pool was so big you could swim to a bar on an island in the middle. His stories seem to be peppered with bars. I’m pretty sure he’s already partaken of at least one bar today. We walk along the street beside the beach and actually it is wonderful to breathe sweet air while the sea blithely swooshes beside us. It’s been a crazy week. It’s great to unwind.
Rog takes us to the place he went to the night before. Open-plan, open air (there’s an indoor bit, but it seems a shame), good wine list and a waiter that looks like Ryan Gosling. Woof. What is it with me and sexy serving staff? Rog asks if I mind him ordering the wine. I do mind and order him to order Sauvignon Blanc. Because we’re on the coast I indulge my fetish for seafood and get some whitebait, grilled octopus and salad. He goes for a large steak. Men always go for steak, it’s something to do with their penis, I’m sure of it. The wine is too delicious. I ask Ryan to get us some tap water to stop me getting squiffy. He smiles and I slip down the chair slightly. Rog is oblivious as he tells the twelfth story about his theatre exploits. Bless.
Surprisingly, Roger admits to having a wife. She is a renowned TV actress and a little younger than him. They have three young children.
‘But Tanz, she goes to bed by nine o’clock most nights. We live in the bloody back of beyond. What am I supposed to do after nine? I tell you, I bloody miss Hampstead. She said to me this week, “Rog, why are you doing that stupid advert? We’re not that skint!” and I said “Darling, a few grand never goes amiss”. But the truth is, there is only so much fun to be had from mopping up milky vomit and goo goo gooing all day long.’
‘So why the hell did you have three, then?’
‘It was her. She had our first, Aimée, and it was quite good fun and it made her feel all womanly, so she got the bug. Then she went all mother-earth, making chocolate brownies and organic butternut-squash sandwiches and all that. But I can see she’s getting bored now. I give her until our youngest, Harry, is two and she’ll be “fuck all the voiceovers, I want to be Mrs Famous again”. She’s on that rowing machine two hours a day as it is, to keep her figure. It’s only a matter of time before our nanny gets completely lumbered. But you can’t stand in the way of a woman and her ticking womb!’
I can’t work out why actors ever have kids. They’re the most easily bored, fidgety-minded juveniles on the planet.
‘Rog, you have to be supportive. You were evidently bored today, showing up on set early, so being away from home obviously isn’t as enthralling as you thought it would be.’
‘No, it was great. I could just float about being the man I was before, posho pain-in-the-arse on tour! It’s not like I’m ever going to leave them for good, you know. I’m not a total bastard. I just like to remember what it was like years ago, when I was free. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? I didn’t ask for three sprogs! I was happy with one.’
‘Roger! You can’t say that. Well, you can, but it’s best not to.’
‘I know, I know. I’m a shit. But a charming one, don’t you think?’
/>
‘You’re all right.’
‘I’m starting to worry that you’re impervious to my charms.’
‘Worry no more, I absolutely am. Ohhhh, look at the time! I need to clean my teeth and make a phone call to check on my cat sitter.’
‘Come on then, let’s get the bill you Teflon-hearted Geordie wench.’
Night Games
After a thank you to the director, Tom, the wiry chap from Walsall who has provided me with a night in Spain and enough money to settle my nerves for a few months, the actual shoot passes painlessly enough. Obviously I have to dance like a loon, with jazz hands and can-can legs, which tickles Rog and the crew no end, but instead of taking hours and hours like other ads I’ve shot, this takes a wondrously brief eighty-seven minutes. Rog’s close-up takes an extra ten minutes and then we’re done.
I’m cock-a-hoop. Last night’s exploits are finally taking their toll. I look forward to a glass of wine on my balcony as a sleep-balm, then I shall collapse on my lily-white sheets and snooze to my heart’s content. As we sweep into the bar, Rog asks if I’d like a night cap. I tell him I’m bushed and get a glass of vino to take to my room.
‘Fair dos, my lady. Pleasant dreams.’
I wonder who he’ll chat up in the bar tonight. Probably anyone and everyone until about six a.m. I’m so tired I take the lift. I put on my black lounging trousers and a little white vest and immediately feel comfy. I open my balcony door and sit down on a cosy seat overlooking the pool, which is lit from below and looks like the Blue Lagoon. I can hear crickets and soft chatter. To think last night I was in sex heaven. Well, tonight I am in peace heaven. With the worries I’ve had over the last year, I’m feeling terrifically grateful again. I offer up my usual little prayer of thanks as my head begins to nod.
I am just drifting off when I hear a tapping. I have no idea what it is. Dazedly, I wonder if someone is doing DIY in the hotel. ‘Tap, tap, tap.’ Is it coming from my room? ‘Tap, tap, tap.’ What the hell?
I get up and wander in. There is silence, then the tapping again… Someone is knocking at my door. I open it a crack. And there stands a half sheepish, half beseeching red-haired man brandishing a champagne bucket with a bottle of Perrier-Jouët in it and two crystal flutes.
‘Rog?’
‘I’m so sorry darling; I know you said you were tired, but you only have one night here and, well… downstairs is a bit of a no-no for me at the mo. Can I just join you on the balcony for a little glass of shampoo then I’ll leave you be? Scout’s honour.’
Oh God. I don’t want company, but I actually feel sorry for him. He looks like a chastened schoolboy. I open the door.
‘Oh. You’re an angel!’
He heads for the balcony as I wrap an electric blue pashmina around my shoulders. I refuse to put on a bra when I feel so comfy, but I’m not really a show-off-my-nipples kind of gal either, so this will do the trick nicely. Pashminas are a bit of a compulsion of mine. Apart from the ones I got in Bangkok, I also bought about six of them in different colours last time I went to Canal Street in New York. I couldn’t believe how cheap they were. What can I say? I love a bargain.
Rog is already uncorking the champagne when I get out there. Luckily there are two balcony seats and he’s making himself very comfy in the other one. He pours the champagne like an expert, remembering to tip the glass. Perrier-Jouët is not exactly the cheapest champagne and I dread to think how much it cost at the hotel bar, but judging by the number of telly programmes his wife has starred in over the years, I’m sure he can afford it. I wonder what she’d say if she could see him now?
The bubbles tickle the back of my throat as I receive the first sparkly hit. It immediately takes the edge off my sleepiness.
‘Why was the bar downstairs a no-no?’
He fingers the stem of his champagne flute for a second or two.
‘Erm… Do you promise you’ll still love me if I tell you?’
He is such an actor. I sigh.
‘Yes, Rog, I promise.’
‘The actress, the one playing Mrs Sun-bar?’
‘Yes, I met her briefly this afternoon. Gorgeous-looking blonde with tiny hips and sink-plunger lips.’
‘Yes. Her.’
‘Well?’
‘She’s staying at this hotel along with Mr Sun-bar. Who looks a nice-enough chap. Not long out of drama school apparently, still has that sheen of hopeful enthusiasm that gets kicked off you and trodden on by the time you’re thirty.’
‘Right!’
This business is rife with bitterness. I wonder how Rog feels working in the theatre and doing bit parts in adverts while his wife garners TV fame and fabulous pay packets. I don’t know many men who like to be ‘kept’ by a woman. Apart from my ex, of course, but I’m not going there right now. I’m far too happy today to hark back to that bullshit.
‘Anyway, the actress, she’s called Ruth. I worked with her on a thing at The Bush about a year back. It was one of those progressive little plays that look like they might be rather profound then turn out to be fucking awful. Our director seemed an able sort of chap until we started rehearsing and it became abundantly clear he didn’t know what he was doing. The only upside was Ruth wandering around in the altogether for half of the show every night. I played her lover, she played a maniac. You know how it is, when things go a bit tits up at work… the Dunkirk spirit and all that… we got close.’
‘You had an affair?’
‘An affair? God, no. That’s not what it was at all. Harry had just been born and my wife hated my guts. Partly because of the hormones and partly because I’d decided to do the play instead of staying at home. But I always feel so helpless in those first months, it’s her and the baby and I’m the spare prick at a wedding. I mean, she’s got a nanny to help her, what does she need me for?’
This is why actors shouldn’t have kids. But the thing is, in twenty years I’ll bet he’s the one who’ll be proudly speaking of his brood like they’re his own private talent-army. He’ll embarrass them by showing up when they go clubbing and will probably attempt to steal his son’s girlfriends.
‘Your wife probably felt fat and vulnerable, Rog. She probably wanted you to want to be at home.’
‘But she’s not usually the clingy type, how was I supposed to know that?’
‘You could have asked her?’
‘I did. She told me not to do the play!’
He refills both of our glasses. Rog is a hilarious car-crash. I wonder if he’s aware of it. I reckon he milks it. I think he loves his wife a lot, but wants to be the centre of attention like an adopted three-year-old.
‘So what about big-lips Bertha, then? Why are you hiding on my balcony?’
‘Oh God. Well… as I said, I played her lover and after she indicated she rather liked being naked in front of me, we took it somewhere a little more private in the last week of the show. Places like the theatre cleaning cupboard, the pub loos, the back of her Mini Cooper – that one was interesting – then finally against a wall down an alley by some rather potent West London bins.’
‘All right! I don’t need all the details!’
‘Sorry, yes, sorry. You’re quite prudish for a northerner, aren’t you?’ He guffaws. ‘Anyway, when the show finished and I went back to domestic bliss, I found out that life had quite horrendously mirrored art. She was indeed a young maniac. Spoiled rotten, not used to anyone saying no to her, especially a forty-two-year-old ginger, and totally incapable of taking a bloody hint. Even a hint involving a threatened police protective order.’
‘Jesus Christ? You’re joking?’
‘No. In the fortnight after the show finished she texted me four hundred and twelve times. We were soul mates, we were going to love each other for ever, she was going to be with me whether I liked it or not. By the end of the second week she was going to tell the Daily Mail if I didn’t come to her flat and “fuck her into next week”. By that point I’d pretended to lose my phone and got a new number. I was sh
itting it and my wife was plunging into despair with post-natal thingummybob. If she’d found out it would have finished us.
‘That’s when I dropped my old phone in the local duck pond and called my agent. He took Ruth’s number and said to leave it with him. Turns out he called her, made himself out to be more important than he was and told her if she breathed a word to anyone about me or my family she would never act in this country again. Her ambition won over her mental illness and I never heard hide nor hair of her until I walked into that villa today and saw her through the window being Mrs bloody Sunshine!’
‘That must have been a great moment for you!’
‘It was pant-fillingly scary.’
‘Did she see you?’
‘No, she had her back to me. I very quickly checked my costume then ran off to a little tapas place with my book and kept out of the way. I only wandered back when you were due in as I knew they’d be taking you to the hotel soon after and I wanted a lift. Thank God they were still in the thick of it out there.’
‘I hope you’ve learned your lesson.’
‘I don’t know. It’s all quite exciting, really.’
‘Roger, if you really think that, you’re an idiot.’
‘I like your pashmina, by the way. Isn’t it a little warm though, don’t you think you should let the air get to your lovely arms?’
‘Fuck off. Don’t start with me. I told you, I’m impervious.’
‘I can’t help myself. I’m a sex maniac.’
He winks. Suddenly I remember my dream on the plane, Frank telling me I would spend my time with a sex maniac. I stare at Rog.
‘Don’t look like that darling, I said a sex maniac, not a bloody rapist.’
‘Sorry, no, slipped off there for a minute. Anyway, I’d kung-fu kick you right off this balcony if you were a rapist.’
He guffaws again. I reach over and refill my glass. I think I deserve it after listening to his ridiculous, and let’s not forget, self-inflicted miseries.
Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1) Page 10