by Judy Nunn
For years Rodney Baines’ penis had been trained to leap to attention whenever he dropped his trousers and now it was impossible for it to remain flaccid when unveiled.
In shooting the first nude scene Viktor had intended doing Rodney’s shots before Maddy’s so that she could keep her panties on. Not something he normally did but he was a kind man and he knew the girl must be nervous.
‘Ice,’ he demanded, refusing to give up. ‘Bring me ice, much ice, in buckets.’
‘I’m really sorry, Viktor, really I am. I feel awful.’
The ice arrived and Rodney obligingly plunged his penis into the bucket. Without risking frostbite it took several dunking sessions to have any effect whatsoever and, even then, they could rely on only a few minutes’ working time before the penis once more rose to the occasion.
‘Cut!’ A tired sigh. ‘Ice!’
Eventually Rodney’s shots were completed and Viktor turned to Maddy, exhausted. ‘We are ready for you now, Madeleine. No need for worry, we will be gentle.’
But there were problems with Maddy too. Although Rodney’s wayward penis was firmly strapped into a set of jocks for Maddy’s shots, every time she had to lower her own underpants and flicker a glance over his apparently naked groin, she burst out laughing.
‘I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry,’ she said after the fifth take, the laughter turning to hiccups. ‘I think I’m a bit hysterical.’
That morning Maddy had been nervous at the thought of acting in her first nude scene. Now all she could think of was the fact that she was in a soft-core porn film with a very nice man who couldn’t control his penis. It was bizarre.
‘All right.’ Viktor’s control was admirable. ‘We finish for today. Tomorrow we push ourselves together and we work hard.’
‘Plenty more ice in the morning,’ he muttered to the first assistant who nodded and called a wrap for the day. Then they all went to the pub for a pint of ale.
When Maddy rang Phil Pendlebury that evening and told him what had happened he read her the riot act in no uncertain terms.
‘Now you pull yourself together, my love. This is not a porn movie, this is a Viktor Hoff film, you got me?’
‘Yes Phil, it’s just—’
‘Just nothing, lovie. It could be your big break and you can’t afford to stuff it up. So you get yourself on that set tomorrow and you act up a storm.’
He was right, of course. OK, Maddy told herself, you’re on. She knew immediately how she was going to go about it, and she knew immediately that it was going to be easy.
It was. During working hours, or more specifically during working hours which involved sex scenes, Rodney Baines simply became Alex Rainford.
Maddy had thought about Alex many, many times over the years. With Jenny a walking reminder it was difficult not to: the older the child grew the more she looked like him. And then there was ‘Outback Force’. It had been a shock to turn on the television set and see Alex. The series had been quite popular in the UK and had only been dropped recently when Alex’s character left the show.
Although she was still thankful for the fact that she’d escaped him, Maddy was grateful for the happy times she remembered. She knew she would never love as strongly as that again and she was indebted to Alex for the experience.
The one aspect of their relationship which Maddy had ceased to dwell upon, perhaps deliberately, was their lovemaking. After Jenny’s birth Maddy had led a life of celibacy for three years. It hadn’t been difficult. And the sexual salivating, the pawing and the groping that she constantly witnessed during her stints at Danny’s Downstairs were a helpful deterrent. Then, for no apparent reason, she leapt into two unsatisfactory affairs lasting roughly six months apiece and several one-night stands that left her feeling unattractive. She supposed she must have been sexually frustrated without realising it. Anyway, with that out of the way, she put sex aside and concentrated fully on her career.
Now here she was in Androgyne playing a sexual nymphet, but she felt not an ounce of sexuality in her entire being. All she could do was laugh at the poor man with the unruly penis. Well, all that had to change. And Alex was the one who could change it.
That night Maddy lay in her bed and thought of Alex and their lovemaking. She thought of the first time which everyone had warned her would be hell. It wasn’t. She thought of the time he’d surprised her as ‘rough trade’ and she’d begged him for it. She thought of the fast, furious fuck in the middle of the day at Watsons Bay. God, had she ever been that wanton? She thought of the touch of his hands and the feel of his body and slowly the ache between her legs began—the familiar ache that had seemed ever-present when she was with Alex and that she hadn’t felt for years now. Maddy masturbated that night, refused to feel any convent-bred guilt, and turned up to work the next day still feeling horny and ready to go.
Her horniness was so communicative that it didn’t make poor Rodney Baines’ job any easier and, when it came to the sex simulation where they both had to be naked on the bed, embracing and caressing each other, his poor penis had been subjected to so many dunkings that it was blue with cold and felt like a damp, icy snake against her thigh. Even so, after several minutes contact, she would feel a rebellious tremor as it once again quivered its way to attention.
‘Cut! Ice!’
‘I’m sorry, I’m most awfully sorry.’
And Maddy would close her eyes, quell the gurgle of laughter which threatened and concentrate on the eroticism of the images from the previous night.
Not only did Androgyne serve as the career boost Phil Pendlebury had anticipated, it cemented the only two true friendships Maddy had made since she came to England. Previously at the end of each rep season or tour, she had remained in touch with one or two members of the cast for a while but gradually the contact petered out as she concentrated all her free time on Jenny. Not so with Rodney Baines and Viktor Hoff. They refused to let her drop them.
She didn’t see Viktor for months on end but he would ring her regularly from whatever exotic film location he happened to be in at the time. The first two film offers she had were directly through Viktor’s influence. ‘Viktor Hoff suggested we test you,’ she was told. ‘He’s very impressed with your work.’ From then on, in every film crew with which she worked there would be at least one person who would say, ‘You’re a friend of Viktor Hoff’s, aren’t you?’
Like it or not, Viktor Hoff was laying claim to her friendship and there was little Maddy could do about it. She had to admit it was very flattering—Viktor was a talent snob and only claimed as friends people he considered hugely gifted.
Rodney Baines was a different kind of friend. He was the kind of girlfriend Maddy had never had. He was the kind of friend Julian Oldfellow had been.
Maddy often thought of Julian. And Harold. She had agonised over whether or not to reply to their letters. But they were both so close to Alex she didn’t dare. She couldn’t risk any possible contact with Alex until it was absolutely necessary. Until Jenny wanted to meet her father—and that might well be never, which was fine by Maddy.
Not that Maddy had ever tried to hide the truth from Jenny. She’d told the child that she’d had an affair with a fellow actor at NADA and that he hadn’t wanted to marry her so she’d come to England with Grandpa. It was that simple. And Jenny accepted it without question, so far showing no interest whatsoever in her father. The truth was that the child’s homelife with Alma and Robert in Windsor was so stable that she didn’t want for any form of parental influence. Robert was her father and grandfather rolled into one, he doted on her and she could wrap him around her little finger; Alma was her grandmother, and Maddy … well, Maddy was everything: mother, sister, playmate, best friend.
And now Jenny had another father-figure in her life. Rodney Baines. He adored them both. Dear old Rodney, Maddy now thought, as she watched him ordering extra nuts for Jenny’s ice cream sundae. It was difficult to equate his patrician good looks and social ease with a porn star.
Rodney was a gentleman, and one simply didn’t equate a gentleman with pornography.
These days Rodney made two porn films a year and was paid a fortune for it. Without Viktor Hoff’s influence, his one other foray into the world of legitimate cinema had failed miserably and he’d returned to the genre he knew best where the pressure upon him was minimal. He was relieved to be back on his home ground and the money kept him in the lifestyle to which he’d grown happily accustomed. He was deeply grateful to Androgyne though, because Androgyne had given him Maddy.
Rodney loved women but invariably his relationships with them were sexual. And sexuality, which to Rodney was very simple, seemed to complicate women. Complicate them to the point where the relationship soured. Maddy was a breakthrough. Maddy was the platonic relationship he’d never had, maybe the sister he’d never had, and Jenny was the daughter he would have loved to have had. Rodney couldn’t do enough for them.
They exchanged Christmas presents over coffee. Rodney disappeared into the toilets to reappear parading the Pierre Cardin sweater Maddy had given him.
‘Oh hell, I’ve been stupid,’ he said as he sat to watch the girls opening their gifts.
‘Why?’ Maddy asked. The gifts were large bottles of scent: Joy for Maddy and Miss Dior for Jenny.
‘That’s why. I forgot. You probably bought a whole range of French stuff duty-free on your way in.’
‘We certainly didn’t, it’s far too expensive; Jenny’s been told she’s too young. Anyway and we’re saving for next year’s holiday.’
‘Fantastic!’ Jenny jumped up and thrust her neck against Rodney’s face. ‘Smell that!’ she insisted.
When Jenny told Rodney his present was breakable, he opened it very carefully. ‘Bet you don’t know what it is,’ she said.
Rodney looked down at the ugly little statuette. ‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me …’ A further second’s pause. ‘It’s from a church, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a replica of a gargoyle.’
‘Oh.’ Jenny was sure he wouldn’t have known that.
‘And it’s from … um …’
‘Guess, guess.’
‘Um … Notre Dame?’
‘Wrong!’ Jenny squealed triumphantly. ‘Sacre Coeur!’ And Rodney and Maddy shared a smile.
‘The real ones are huge and they’re all different,’ Jenny explained, turning the ugly bird-like figure around on the table, ‘and they’re put way up on the sides of the cathedral to frighten off the evil spirits.’ The statue fascinated Jenny. ‘And a pigeon pooed on me from right near this one.’
‘I bet that means good luck,’ Rodney said.
‘Yes, it does,’ Jenny nodded.
It was midafternoon when Rodney dropped them at Paddington Station. As usual Maddy refused to let him drive them to Windsor and as usual he didn’t insist. He’d gathered very early in their friendship that Maddy kept her Windsor and London existences separate. Rodney supposed it was because of her father. Maddy had mentioned that he didn’t approve of her career.
Actually Robert McLaughlan had mellowed considerably over the last few years. Maddy was sure it was due to Alma’s influence. Alma had changed too. She was softer, a little more feminine, her back a little less ramrod straight.
The romantic in Maddy was sure they were lovers but for the life of her she couldn’t catch them out. There was no physical contact between them, Alma still called Robert ‘Mr McLaughlan’ and she still appeared to sleep in the little basement bedroom. Well, whatever it was, it was working, Maddy thought—good luck to them and good on you, Alma.
It was a pleasant family Christmas—a white one, which never ceased to delight Maddy. It made sense of all the Christmas cards with snowmen, sleighs and white-tipped fir trees which exchanged hands every sweltering Australian December. The same blistering Decembers when people ate midday turkeys, hams, plum puddings and brandy sauces, then arranged to meet at the beach to swim or sleep it off.
On Boxing Day, as they all admired the snowman that Jenny had made and pelted each other with snowballs, Robert and Maddy McLaughlan were both aware that something fresh had been forged in their relationship. They didn’t know what it was until New Year’s Eve, two days before Maddy was to return to London.
Maybe it was the wine that loosened their tongues but they suddenly found themselves talking as they’d never talked before. Even at their closest, when Maddy was a child, they’d never really talked. Robert had found it somehow dangerous and confronting. Now he had a desperate need to rectify things.
God only knows why, Maddy thought, much as she was enjoying their contact. Then she looked at Alma, sitting by the open fire playing Snap with Jenny and she had a feeling she did know.
Jenny was yawning and trying to stay awake till midnight. They had eaten one of Alma’s excellent meals, accompanied by one of Robert’s excellent reds, and they were drinking coffee and port waiting to toast in the New Year. Robert had apologised for his years of intractability and Maddy had apologised for her years of wayward behaviour and it was Robert who got to the basics.
‘I’d like to think that you were proud of the name McLaughlan, Maddy,’ he said. ‘You and Jenny both.’
‘Jenny’s always been a McLaughlan, Dad.’ She waited to see if that was all the reassurance her father was seeking but it wasn’t, and she was glad. ‘I never did really change it, you know. Madeleine Frances is only a stage name.’ She grinned at him. ‘If they ever take my passport or if I ever go to jail I’m still a McLaughlan.’
For the first time Robert was the one who initiated the hug. It was a brief one, as their hugs always had been, and he, as always, was the one to break contact first, but Maddy was grateful for the breakthrough it signalled.
Then Robert averted his face and reached for the port. ‘Another one?’
Although The Lady from Maxim’s didn’t go into production until mid-January, Phil Pendlebury had arranged a week of rigorous dance classes for Maddy before the commencement of rehearsals.
‘You want to be one up on them, love—“The Shrimp” is a hell of an energetic role so we got to get you good and fit and able to trot out a bloody great cancan.’
As usual Phil was right. The lady from Maxim’s, otherwise known as ‘The Shrimp’, was a Parisian nightclub dancer with suspect morals who delighted in shocking the upper classes. One of the highlights of the play was her frenzied cancan during the Duchess’s garden party in Act Two.
Maddy reported to Peg McSween’s dance studios feeling more than her customary buzz of excitement at the prospect of starting a new job. This was the title role in a major West End production. Her first. And it was a classic French farce written by the master of them all, Georges Feydeau.
She could hardly believe it was only yesterday that she felt so terribly sad as she and Jenny said their goodbyes—it was going to be a long break this time: three months. Yet here she was delighting in the weeks of work ahead. God, she was mercurial.
‘I’ll miss you, Jen,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll really miss you.’ And she smiled as she remembered Jenny’s answer. ‘Not that much you won’t, Mum. “The Shrimp” won’t let you.’ Then Jenny had yelled ‘Chookas!’ as she waved the train goodbye.
Robert and Alma were taking Jenny to the Isle of Man for the remainder of her school holidays. Another breakthrough, Maddy thought, Robert never holidayed. The five weeks of rehearsals would be over and the show would be well and truly run in by the time Jenny and Maddy saw each other again during the next school holidays. Then she and Jen could be together for a whole three weeks, Maddy consoled herself. Jenny could watch from the wings the way she loved to and it would be her tenth birthday and Maddy could give her the Qantas flight vouchers and maybe feel as if she wasn’t such a bad mother after all. And, of course, they were bound to chat on the phone endlessly each Sunday. They had agreed, though, because Maddy’s schedule was a gruelling eight performances a week Monday to Saturday, that she would remain in London and rest on S
undays.
‘Careful, careful, we don’t want a hamstring injury now, do we?’ Peg’s soft Edinburgh burr was motherly, caring. ‘We take it very gently, Madeleine.’
When people first met Peg they were invariably lulled into a false sense of security. ‘We take it very gently twenty times in a row, dear.’ Peg was a martinet. ‘And we hold the position for twenty seconds each time. We don’t push, we don’t pull, we don’t bounce, we just hold the position.’
And this was only the beginning of the warm-up! Maddy groaned inwardly. Everything ached. Everything had been aching for four days now. Mind you, she had to admit that by the end of the warm-up she was loose enough for the next work-out, and the fourth day was certainly less painful than the second and the third.
‘They didn’t tell me you’d had any dance background, dear. I’m delighted, it’s a great help.’ And Maddy blessed Norah Hogarth and NADA’s dance classes all those years ago.
In the execution of the Act Two cancan Maddy was required to throw cartwheels and leap into a full split by way of finale. As her breathing improved, the cartwheels were fine, albeit exhausting following a full five minutes of cancan. The splits were another thing altogether and Peg finally decided it was time to give up.
‘We’ll cheat it, dear. Back knee bent, hurdle position, throw up the skirts, let out a scream and they’ll never know the difference.’ Thank goodness there were times when Peg could be kind, Maddy thought.
After the first week of rehearsals the cancan sequence was the least of Maddy’s worries. She had broken through the pain barrier, was fitter than she’d been since her NADA days and she knew the sequence backwards. With the dance now conquered, she had to concentrate on the problem of translation.
‘It’s all very well to say play her vocally cockney and physically French, Ned,’ she complained. ‘But a coquette from the Place Pigalle and a Soho hooker don’t translate the same way on stage. Maybe they do in real life but they certainly don’t in the theatre.’