by Nev Fountain
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A car arrived, vibrating madly. It was thudding with the beat of what might have been a familiar tune, but the song was distorted beyond recognition. Mervyn and the rest of the crew instinctively covered their ears, bracing for the moment the car doors opened.
‘Jesus,’ said Steve. ‘I saw Coldplay last year and they didn’t play their own songs as loud as that.’ Mervyn couldn’t even begin to imagine what the noise was like inside the car.
Glyn was in the passenger seat. Nick must have made a special journey back to the hotel to fetch him. That’s a great use of a producer’s time, thought Mervyn.
The music was shut off. Then it started again, even louder. Then it went off again. Then on again. They seemed to be wrestling over the knobs on the dashboard, a heated argument dribbling away into a petty squabble over the car stereo.
Glyn emerged, and the music emerged with him, unbelievably loud, thudding across the car park like a dancing giant. He left the car without a backward glance or a ‘Thanks’ to Nick.
Mervyn could see Nick inside, his head resting on the steering wheel. Nick turned off the car engine, and there was blessed silence. He finally raised his head and wearily dragged himself out of the car, staggering to the production van.
Mervyn didn’t need to ask Steve about the story behind that little show.
Glyn didn’t go anywhere immediately. He mooched around the car park, pacing backwards and forwards, trying to calm down and get into his current role of pound-shop Russell T. Davies. He switched his grin on like a light-bulb, aimed it at Mervyn and slapped him on both shoulders with his open palms.
‘Mervyn, Mervyn, Mervyn! Good to see you’re still surviving, my lovely! Day two of school, eh? Still don’t know where to hang my coat and I don’t know the teachers’ names yet, but I’m very keen on Miss Baudelaire who teaches French.’ Then Glyn jogged away to the location area, passing a particularly delicious make-up girl running back to the van with a heavy make-up bag on her shoulder. She was in a hurry, her unfettered breasts fighting each other under her cotton shirt.
Incredibly, Glyn did a complete double-take, staring at them wolfishly as they jiggled before disappearing into the foliage.
‘Now there’s a queen who needs to come to terms with who he really is.’
Mervyn glanced at Steve. He wasn’t talking about Glyn; he was looking at Roger Barker.
Roger had emerged from the make-up trailer, painted and rouged, enormous eyelashes flapping against his eyebrows. He had squeezed his huge bustle dress through the door and it was buzzing with swarms of costume girls holding pins in their mouths. An elaborate wig in the style of an 18th century aristocrat was piled on top of his head. ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille,’ he said to no one in particular, then laughed very heartily because no one else did.
One of the costume girls disappeared completely inside the bottom of the dress and Roger played it for all he was worth, squealing and pretending he was being interfered with. ‘Steady on with those pins, Lucy, I may be the queen, but I’m nothing without my crown jewels!’ The costume girls didn’t respond. ‘It’s okay, they don’t hate me. They’re not talking to me because they’ve got pins in their mouths,’ shouted Roger, again to no one in particular.
‘The whole world can’t have pins in its mouth,’ Mervyn hissed under his breath. Steve spluttered with laughter.
The runner scurried up to Roger, waving her menu. Roger took a long time to decide. Mervyn wondered if he was genuinely indecisive or was he deliberately making the runner wait. There were all sorts of tricks ‘stars’ got up to on set to reinforce their power; none of them ever turned up on time for anything, but there were many interpretations of how late they should be. Some, like Vanity Mycroft, took it to extremes, barely being seen in the mornings. When she didn’t sign up for season three of Vixens he was annoyed, but also relieved. It meant they were actually able to get some work done.
Roger finally made his choice, noticed Mervyn, and sashayed up to him, holding his dress high to avoid the puddles.
‘What’s your name again? I’m sure we’ve met before!’ chortled Roger.
‘Hello Roger.’
‘Mervyn isn’t it? It must be ages since we last saw each other.’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have been ooh, four hours since we last met,’ he said, driving his joke into the ground and burying it with a shovel. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Really? I feel like I’ve aged years since I had breakfast with you.’
Roger ignored that. He was the type of bloke who made his little jokes, laughed at them, and moved on; he wasn’t interested in sparring with Mervyn. ‘It’s weird being a woman for the day, all these straps and bits of elastic. I’m used to taking them off girls, not putting them on me.’
Steve winked at Mervyn, then disappeared.
‘I thought about having a shave for this, get rid of the overnight stubble, and then I thought “Sod it!—Emilia Green never did when she played the part, so why should I?”’ He nudged Mervyn in the ribs. Mervyn thought that people only did that on adverts and comedy sketches. ‘So, have you written this?’
‘I’m a consultant. The writer’s going to be here any moment. He’s also an executive producer, and, if it gets a series, the show-runner.’
‘Oh right. A big cheese. What’s he like then, this bloke?’
‘Oh he’s very nice. Very friendly. Lots of jokes. He’s very collaborative. He loves actors to just change the script when they can,’ said Mervyn naughtily. ‘He’s a big fan of the organic acting process.’
‘Sort of like a Mike Leigh type?’
‘Yes, I think you could say that.’
‘Oh. So he’s in charge of everything? Should I talk to him about changing digs?’
‘Well…’
‘No offence, but the place I’m in now is completely unacceptable.’
Of course it is, thought Mervyn wryly. Completely unacceptable. NOW it’s completely unacceptable.
‘Do you know where the pop star girls are staying? Do you think they’ve got rooms free there?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘If it’s more expensive I’d be willing to pay the difference.’
Of course you would. ‘I think they’ve rented their own cottages.’
‘Oh.’ Roger deflated. ‘Perhaps they’ve got room for a small one, if you know what I mean. Not that I am small.’ Roger hopped to the other of his obsessions. ‘Have you heard? There’s no catering van.’
‘Ah, well there’s a reason for that—’
‘No catering van and I’ve had to order a sandwich. I’m starting a full day on location and I’ve been offered a bloody sandwich!’
Mervyn looked at the berouged Roger with a tiny grin.
‘No!’
‘A bloody sandwich!’
‘Disgraceful. Don’t they know who you are?’
‘I know.’
‘They should have at least let you eat cake.’
Ken appeared, jumping from foot to foot with impatience.
‘Ken! Great to see you mate! How are you doing?’ Roger pushed out a hand to shake, but Ken ignored it. ‘We were just talking about you, weren’t we Merv?’
Ken’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Mervyn with angry bloodshot eyes. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Just this morning over breakfast. What’re your digs like by the way? I’m wondering if I can get moved to another B&B and I need to know who I can speak to round here.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Just get on set.’ Ken walked away, and Roger’s grin switched off.
‘What’s Ken doing here?’ he asked Mervyn.
‘He’s the director.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Roger sighed. ‘Always the funny guy. What’s he really doing here?’
‘He’s in charge of catering.’
‘Thank you, Mervy. A straight answer. Much appreciated. Let’s leave the jokes at the door. We’re working now.’ Roger shook his head.
‘In charge of food. Of course he is. Figures. That’s why there’s no catering van.’
Roger wandered off after Ken, forgetting to hitch his skirts up and eliciting cries of anguish from Valerie in the costume van. He could hear Roger’s voice as it drifted away. ‘Ken, I can’t go a day without red meat. Do you think you can send out for steak and chips…?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mervyn noticed that the sandwiches had arrived. There was a big pile of paper-wrapped bundles in a box, plonked on a picnic table. He rummaged through the box, found the one marked ‘M. Stone’, stuffed it in his satchel and wandered down to the shoot.
Roger was in the middle of a clearing, standing to one side of a pole with a sock tied to it, presumably another substitute for some CGI.
Roger saw Mervyn and sidled up to him, a big false grin on his face.
‘He wasn’t in charge of catering at all,’ he hissed.
‘Oh really?’
‘I’ll get you for that.’ Roger was trying to sound jovial, which was difficult for a man with no sense of humour. ‘I’m going to make your life hell on this shoot.’
Mervyn looked at him and gave a sardonic smile. ‘Sorry Roger, I’m afraid Ken has beaten you to it.’
Roger was aghast. ‘Ken bloody Roche! Directing this thing? Do they have April Fool’s on a different day in Cornwall?’ He looked at his expensive chunky watch to check the date. ‘I mean, is it on October the first down here?’
‘They want it to have the feel of the old series.’
‘Fuck that! We want it to be good!’
Bryony piped up ‘Roger, you’ve left your mark. Please. You need to stay exactly there.’
‘Fine, sweetheart.’
‘No… Exactly there. Otherwise Clockworks can’t get your crashed spaceship in behind you.’
‘Oh,’ said Roger, pointing at the stick with the sock on it. ‘I thought that was the crashed spaceship. I was going to congratulate you for having better special effects than the old show.’
Bryony smiled, humouring him.
Ken slumped into view.
‘Okaay, Roger. This bit of Cornwall is pretending it’s a hostile alien planet.’
‘Ken, Cornwall doesn’t have to pretend. It is a hostile alien planet,’ Roger cackled, and elbowed a nearby Gorg in the ribs.
‘Can we just get on?’
‘Ready when you are, Kenny boy.’
‘Okaay, you’ve been captured by the gonks…’
‘I think they’re Gorgs, Ken.’
‘I am a Gorg,’ said the Gorg.
‘Just do the scene, Roger, we’ve wasted enough time…’
Roger wasn’t an actor. He looked like an actor; he had an actor’s big lustrous hair, he had an actor’s big lustrous laugh, and an actor’s nose. He stood next to actors on occasion and attended their parties, their charity bashes and their funerals. He was shallow, he loved talking about himself, he’d played 13 parts on television since 1968… But he wasn’t an actor. Because he didn’t act. All he did when asked to act was raise his voice and waggle his eyebrows.
Fortunately that was what was usually required, and this morning was no exception. Roger played up his part like a pantomime dame, showing his knickers, fluttering his fan and coming out with a high-pitched falsetto squawk, which was an old man’s idea of how an old woman sounded. It was going to liven up a rather young and bland cast, Mervyn had to admit.
He continued in that vein for an hour. Bryony returned from the OB van having looked at the footage she’d shot that morning, and everything was going well.
But then she went pale. She whispered in Ken’s ear. He went pale too. ‘Okaay everyone, let’s do scene 71.’
The crew looked bewildered. They’d just done scenes 71 to 76.
‘Scene 71, everybody.’
Roger looked around, waiting for someone to say something.
Ken wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Roger?’
‘Yes?’
‘That was good, but next time…’
‘Yes?’
‘Take your watch off.’
*
‘Six scenes? We went through six scenes with him wearing a bloody watch?’
Nick shrugged at Louise. ‘Apparently.’
She walked around the car park in a wide circle, trying to calm down. Eventually she came back to Nick, who was standing with his arms tightly folded. ‘So…has anyone asked Ken as to how he managed to miss the watch?’
‘Apparently he was relying on Bryony to notice that sort of stuff and she wasn’t there…’
‘Okay, he let someone else do his job. No surprise. What about costume? What has Valerie got to say for herself?’
‘She said Roger wanted to keep the watch with him. He insisted. He promised he’d take it off for takes.’
‘Well he didn’t, did he?’
‘No he didn’t.’
‘And everyone else? The camera guys?’
‘They assumed it was some kind of space bracelet.’
‘A space bracelet? A fucking Rolex space bracelet?’
Nick shrugged again. ‘Perhaps we can cut a few of the scenes for reasons of time…’
‘No fucking way. I’m not losing a second because of those two arseholes. We’re going back into the forest and we’re going to finish them, even if we do it in the dark.’
*
The light was fading. Arc lights were cranked up. Ken was flailing, a man slowly sinking into a swamp.
‘Okaay, scene 74, take two,’ he gabbled. Roger and the blonde one scrambled for their marks. ‘Okaay, hold the gun steady…rolling…action!’
Roger adopted his falsetto voice. ‘Arkadia, my dear, why are you pointing that at me? Try aiming it at the nasty robot people. They’re surrounding us as we posture.’
‘So we’d better do this quickly,’ snarled the blonde one. ‘Then I can get back and tell the Council of Mistresses that you were killed by the Styrax.’
‘Treachery!’ spat Roger.
‘It’s for the good of us all. With you gone we can finally…’ she drifted to a halt, confused.
There was a strange noise. A rhythmic bleep-bleebity-bleep noise that got steadily louder. It certainly wasn’t anything to do with the shot.
‘CUT!’ shouted Bryony.
The bleep-bleebity-bleep sound carried on. Everyone was looking puzzled, then one by one, they all started looking in Mervyn’s direction.
Mervyn realised with a shock it was his own phone. He’d forgotten what it sounded like; it hadn’t rung for days because of the appalling signal coverage. Ever since he’d arrived, his phone had been like a regular at the bar of the Black Prince: sullen and silent, only making a noise when it needed juicing up.
Mervyn wrestled with his coat, desperate to retrieve the phone and stop the noise. ‘Sorry, sorry, didn’t realise I actually had a signal.’
Mervyn stumbled off into the woods, Ken’s glare scorching his back.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. It’s Dominic.’
‘Dominic?’
‘Dominic Stone.’
Oh. That Dominic. Mervyn’s son.
Ten years ago, he’d found a scruffy kid on his doorstep asking to talk to Mervyn about his life. What Mervyn expected to be the usual yawn-stifling fanzine interview turned into something quite mind-boggling.
Mervyn didn’t like uncomfortable situations, and this one had seemed like the ultimate. When it came to meeting a long-lost son, it ranked even above being forced to make a best man’s speech. But to his initial relief, his son contained the same confrontation-avoidance gene that had sent his father scurrying under tables the moment people started raising their voices in his vicinity. Dominic didn’t demand vengeance for the years he never had with his father, or monies for the years of counselling that he thought he deserved. He simply shook Mervyn’s hand affably and bought him a latte from Costa. They were there for half an hour. Ten minutes was taken up with the father/son stuff, 20 minutes was spe
nt with Dominic demonstrating to Mervyn all the ring tones on his mobile phone.
Over the years, through phone calls and the occasional e-mail, they kept up a friendly but rather shallow relationship. Mervyn had started to regret the lack of shouting and tears that marked their first meeting. If there had been some emotion to begin with, perhaps he might have got some emotional traction with him now. As it was, Dominic demanded nothing of him, expected nothing from him. Which meant Mervyn felt he had to do something for him.
‘Sorry Dominic. I didn’t recognise your voice.’
‘Hey Dad. No worries. My bad. No talkie long time. Totally my fault. Rush rush.’ Dominic talked in sentences of two, three or, if he was feeling particularly expressive, four or five words. He was the only person whose phone calls were more abbreviated than his texts. Mervyn remembered that his son broke the earth-shattering news of his parentage with the words: ‘Thing is. My mum. Did the dirty with you. Apparently. So you daddy, me Dominic. Do we hug? Let’s not.’
It all set Mervyn’s teeth grinding. Mainly because after a minute of listening to it he ended up imitating it himself.
‘So how are you Dominic? What job are you orbiting this week?’
Every time they spoke, Dominic was doing something new. He stored up life experiences like his mother, but not with any particular goal. He was the ultimate ambition-free drifter; picking up a job like it was a shiny toy, getting bored and finding another.
‘Great job, Dad. Underground driver. Circle Line. Incredibly cool. Nice and warm. Place to sit. Pay you shed loads. Only two potential bummers. First bummer: the suicides. They jump off platforms. Under trains. V. v. messy.’
‘I can imagine that’s a downside.’
‘Bummer is. Poor suicide types. Problem solved, they think. Trouble is, platforms not good places. Train slows down. Most of them live. A bit splattery. But no die.’
‘Seems a pity.’
‘Yeah. They should try bridges. Jump off them instead. Deffo mortality potential.’
‘Thanks Dominic. I’ll definitely take that advice on board when the black despair finally takes hold.’