Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  ‘No.’ There was the faintest sigh before David bent and kissed her upturned lips, but she knew it was an automatic peck.

  ‘Want me to beat someone up for you?’ she asked as she signed both copies and replaced the slim pen in its casket.

  ‘I’m afraid there are too many. Things are tough out there at the moment.’

  She pulled him closer via his expensive tie. ‘I know how to make you forget all those bad guys, but only after you’ve helped me with my personal plan for world domination of the airwaves.’ Her smile was suggestive but her tone was tinged with the faintest hint of criticism. ‘You’ve been promising for weeks to look over those papers for me. So, how about dinner tonight? I can promise you a truly scrumptious dessert.’ Libby was stroking his thigh as she spoke, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. I won’t be home until late, I’ve got clients in from New York so it’s dinner at the Grasshopper and probably drinks afterwards. I did mention it to you the other day.’

  ‘No, you did not. Who are they?’

  ‘That big American multinational that I’ve been trying to persuade—’

  ‘I’m bored already.’ She gave a playful yawn and her eyes were teasing. ‘Couldn’t I persuade you to dump them early and come home to me?’

  ‘I wish. No, I’m going to have to give them the royal treatment. Fine wine, Armagnac, the lot.’

  ‘Well, make sure you don’t drive.’

  ‘I’ve got a car booked for the day, in fact he’s probably outside now. I’d better shoot.’

  ‘OK. By the time I’ve spent the day discussing food I probably won’t cook anyway, so now that you’re not coming home I’ll ask Mrs O’C. to dig out some of that gorgeous wild smoked salmon you got as a present and I’ll take a tray to bed early.’

  ‘See you around midnight so, love you lots.’

  ‘You too. Have a good day.’

  Libby gave him a shiny, happy kiss and smiled to herself as she watched him pick up the papers and head for the door. David English was gorgeous and powerful and sexy and she loved him to bits. At thirty-nine he was one of the country’s most successful financial brains and between them they were a magical couple. Even their looks were a perfect foil for each other, her blond, high-school prom queen image contrasting brilliantly with his sultry movie star appeal. It had been lust at first sight for both of them and the fact that he was extremely wealthy and she was one of the country’s up and coming celebrity chefs meant their relationship had been front-page news from the start.

  There’d been a lot of speculation when one of the most eligible, high-profile men in Ireland had started dating a ‘cook’ and most people, especially the tabloids, had felt it was merely a dalliance on his part. Privately Libby felt it could have ended up as just that, but she was a funny and intelligent companion, a million miles away from her dumb blonde image. She had a way of looking at the world that kept him laughing from the start and he secretly liked the way she could be tough as nails sometimes and didn’t suffer fools easily. Within weeks he realized they were a powerful combination and a great team and the sex was amazing. He was hooked.

  They’d married within six months of their first meeting, more than eight years ago. She’d just turned thirty and had wondered if she’d ever meet the right man, when David came along. Neither of them felt the need to wait. It had been a blissful few years. His wealth and power fitted her like a soft leather glove: it was a life she’d always felt she was destined for and she blossomed. Her career had really taken off and she’d started to do serious TV, as well as books and videos, which kept her extremely busy but was fabulous for her profile. Barely a week went by without some article or photo or speculation in the papers. Suddenly she was a heavyweight and everyone wanted her. She honed her image carefully and was seen as cool and untouchable. As a couple they were on everyone’s A list and Libby exploited her status fully.

  They’d agreed to wait a few years before thinking about children, which suited them both. She was beginning to wonder if they’d ever get around to it. Things were just too good at the moment. They were constantly in demand socially, with friends including aristocrats and politicians (his) and rock stars and celebrities (hers). Life was a caviare and champagne sushi counter and neither was anxious to halt the merry-go-round. It was a litany of parties and holidays and shopping and playing and hard work, although less so for Libby now. It seemed the more successful she became, the more people were on hand to do the slogging for her, but she was careful not to let her career get too far out of her control and David was usually happy to advise her.

  Pinning him down was the problem. He was travelling extensively and working horrendous hours and she was worried that he looked tired all the time. ‘I’m fine, stop fussing, I’ll sort it out,’ he’d told her more than once recently and she was content, happy to be in partnership with her whiz-kid husband as long as it only involved using a solid gold fountain pen for a split second every so often. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to ring his rather tiresome secretary later in the day and get her to write him out of his diary for a week next month, despite the fact that it was less than that since they’d had a break. The ghastly woman was always telling Libby how busy ‘Mr English’ was and she knew the dowdy forty-something had been in love with him for years.

  Tough old boot, Libby smiled as she dialled the number of his office and finished her breakfast, preparing to be nice simply because she was feeling generous today. A week in Colorado, skiing in the pure mountain air, was just what they needed and she had a two-week break in her shoot schedule around the end of next month. She’d check it all out later with her PA.

  Her mobile rang. It was the producer of the new series, Jeremy Scott-Thomas, enquiring what time she’d be available.

  ‘See you in about an hour or so darling, OK?’ She was always teasing him for his plummy, ‘my father is a lord and I’m only doing this as a hobby’ accent.

  ‘Fine, I’ve got a draft running order ready and the stylists will be here all morning.’

  ‘Oh God, not the stylists again,’ Libby laughed. They were everywhere – for food, hair, make-up, clothes. Secretly, she loved them. They made her and her food look delicious even if neither did need much effort. She hung up, still smiling, and checked her other appointments. She resolved to get her husband alone the following evening and make him forget his worries, although what she’d planned would diminish his energy levels further.

  ‘You’re even scrummier than the tastiest morsel,’ David had teased her the other night as he nibbled her ear while she prepared a quick duck stir-fry with crunchy vegetables and crispy noodles; they’d abandoned it in favour of another, altogether more tasty quickie and then stretched out on the feather bed and sipped ice-cold Bolly. After a few words with her PA and a tiresome ten minutes spent discussing a long, detailed list with her housekeeper, Libby travelled the short distance to the office in her new shiny black Merc, a surprise Christmas present from David. She was mildly irked that someone had parked in her reserved spot and soon had a middle-aged uniformed officer scurrying about. Within two minutes a preppy, college type emerged, flushed and stuttery, to where Libby stood.

  ‘What part of reserved do you not understand, I wonder?’ Libby gave the spotty youth the full benefit of her ‘don’t fuck with me, earwig’ look, then let him squirm for a few seconds before turning away. ‘I trust he won’t be in a position to keep me late for a meeting again, Joe?’ Libby always knew the names of the unimportant people who were important to her.

  ‘He won’t, Miss Marlowe, I can assure you. If you’ll leave me your keys I’ll park the car and have them delivered to your office.’

  Libby gave him one of her helpless little girl looks. The ignoramus involved would be banned from driving on the complex for at least three months. She sashayed in past a room full of hopefuls, at least one of whom smiled at her. ‘More auditions for that ghastly soap, I suppose?’ Libby shuddered at the
receptionist, wondering how people watched such drivel, much less believed it.

  Chapter Three

  ANNIE WELLER WAS the smiler. She just couldn’t help herself. Everyone knew Libby Marlowe and in real life she was even more striking. Annie sat entranced, without a trace of envy as the woman emerged from the shiny black panther to chat to the security guard. She took in the endless legs, designer sunglasses pushed back on top of her silky blond hair, and the soft leather bag and matching briefcase swinging jauntily as she handed over her keys and strolled indoors.

  As an entrance, it was something else and everyone who watched it wanted to be her.

  ‘What is it about her?’ a soft-spoken girl sitting near Annie asked no-one in particular.

  ‘Apart from the fact that she looks like a beauty queen, has a model figure, superstar husband and as much money as Bono, d’ya mean?’ A much younger girl laughed sarcastically and the group joined in.

  ‘I think it’s that she has an edge about her.’ A young guy in his early twenties, who was obviously one of the production minders, hit the nail on the head. ‘She’s sassy and looks like she could have a laugh with you or have you fired, and that’s incredibly sexy when you’ve got all she’s got.’ Everyone wanted some.

  She can’t be much older than me, Annie thought. She looked away immediately, knowing that the other woman probably hated it when strangers smiled at her.

  But for Annie it was an omen. Libby Marlowe had somehow become her lucky mascot. She was everything the younger girl was not – stunning, confident, sexy, vibrant; and everything she wished she could be – namely a star. Well, an actress really, but a little bit famous all the same, although Annie wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone, because apart from one fierce, burning ambition she was a mass of vulnerability and insecurity, always had been. Being an actress meant you got to wear a mask a lot of the time and Annie was a brilliant performer. Hence the outfit today.

  She’d first seen Libby while she was in hospital recovering from cancer. After months of pain and drug-fuelled sleep and retching and discomfort, one day Annie had finally felt well enough to sit up and watch some mindless television. It was the first time she’d been interested in anything in months and as she flicked channels she came across the ultra-cool Libby Marlowe. Annie Weller fell in love in that childish, girl on girl way peculiar to females. She decided that Libby was lucky, because that day she felt better than she had in yonks. From then on Annie secretly wanted to be just like her. She’d kept an eye on her career and daydreamed more than once, especially when she saw the fairytale wedding pictures featuring her heroine in a back copy of a glossy magazine.

  There were other stupid coincidences, at least in Annie’s star-struck head, like years later, when Annie was reading an article in a Sunday newspaper entitled ‘The Sexiest Women in the World’. She had just noticed that Libby Marlowe was the only Irish woman in the top twenty when she glanced at the date and realized that her period of remission was over and she was finally considered ‘cured’. Libby became her good luck charm all over again.

  I wonder if you get sick of all the attention after a time, the younger girl speculated now, with some sympathy for the celebrity chef, knowing she was constantly hounded by the media. They seemed to print a different story about her every week, the most recent of which speculated on whether Libby had been spoilt as a child, since she had no sisters or brothers and had gone to a private school.

  Oh well, not something I’m going to have to worry about in the near future. Annie grinned, wondering if her local free community paper would hound her for an interview if she got the part. Some chance, although half our street will want signed photos of the stars in Southside, Annie thought and tried to picture her neighbours’ reactions. They instantly deserted their doorsteps once the opening music of the programme came belting out from cheap, leather-sofaed living rooms and steamy, cabbage-smelling kitchens. ‘What’s the appeal?’ Annie had asked more than once, intrigued that her older, settled neighbours were fascinated by the racy drama series.

  ‘We can all dream, love,’ Mrs Morgan smiled.

  ‘Makes me feel young and sexy,’ Lucy O’Neill added and blushed.

  ‘And horny.’ This from mad Madge Thompson. They all fell about. Laughter was what kept them going.

  ‘Annie Weller, please.’ A friendly voice startled her out of her daydream.

  ‘Hi, I’m Rosa, one of the secretaries on Southside. Sorry to have kept you so long. We’re running way behind today, yesterday wasn’t half as bad.’

  ‘You mean there are even more people auditioning?’ Annie felt deflated.

  ‘Lots, although not for the part of Bobby. The series is to run two nights a week instead of one after Easter so we’ve had to create a number of new parts to help our storylines.’

  They had arrived in a small room full of people, who all looked at her in that way you do when you’re not quite sure of someone. Annie quickly shrugged off her coat in an effort to convince them that this was definitely not her normal interview suit. A tall, gangly blonde was the first to recover. The men simply stared at her breasts and then made a huge effort to keep their eyes on her face.

  ‘Hello, I’m Isobel Ryan, production assistant and this is Max Donaldson, executive producer and Dave Gordon, script editor.’ Isobel went on to introduce Annie to a number of writers, directors and others. It was all quite scary.

  ‘How do you feel about the part?’ Max enquired, glancing through Annie’s résumé. ‘I see you haven’t done any TV before but I’ve heard good things about you from Mike, who saw your last theatre performance.’ He indicated a younger man, who smiled encouragingly up at her. Annie suddenly thought she must look like a clown: she’d been holding the same ‘please like me’ grin on her over-made-up face for ages.

  ‘I’m really excited by it, although I only have the single page you issued. She sounds like a gutsy character who’s been through a really rough time and I think I’d enjoy playing her. I like the fact that she’s not your normal TV heroine . . .’

  ‘What makes you think she’s a heroine?’ The producer looked intrigued.

  ‘I think she could be. The character has great potential. She’s a star in the making.’ Annie was sure she’d gone too far with her fantasy. She cleared her throat and tried to return to planet earth. ‘Eh, she probably doesn’t care too much what people think of her but I’d like to make her a little bit vulnerable underneath, just to give a bit of depth to the details you provided.’ Annie felt she was waffling and wondered if she’d misinterpreted the brief.

  ‘That’s fine, we’re very unsure as to where she’s going, to be honest. At the moment we’ve written her into four episodes only and we may or may not go further with her. Anyway, here’s a scene we’d like you to read for us, and let me introduce you to Stephen Wilson, who plays Ted Doran.’

  Max indicated a tall, angular man, who now strode quickly towards Annie with a broad grin on his face. She knew the smile well from the box.

  ‘Why don’t you take a couple of minutes to talk and read it through and let us know when you’re ready,’ Max said and Stephen led her over to a corner of the room, filling her in quietly as they walked away.

  ‘Let me tell you quickly what I know about the scene. Ted has just started to get involved in this whole business. On the surface he’s a respectable nightclub owner who has recently realized there’s big money to be made behind the scenes. A number of wealthy businessmen want to be “entertained” privately and he’s on the lookout for girls. Bobby is a waitress but has clearly been around. She’s flashy enough for him to think she might have done this kind of thing before, although that’s obviously an assumption on his part. The men all seem to fancy her, so he decides to offer her a job.’

  ‘OK, it seems quite straightforward, but from the dialogue she could think he’s trying to come on to her, so I might play it a bit suggestive at first and then pull back once I learn what he really wants. How does that sound to you?’


  * * *

  Max and the others watched Annie’s performance intently. The executive producer asked them to read a second scene and in a couple of minutes it was over. She had no idea how it had gone, although Stephen seemed enthusiastic as he shook her hand. She glanced towards the table.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, we’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve made a decision, which might even be today, as we need the actor for costume checks and a read-through at the end of next week.’ The executive producer was already looking at his notes for the next person and Annie felt dejected as she moved towards the door.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I should have said, just in case . . .’ She smiled nervously at the expectant faces, ‘I sort of . . . dressed for the part, although I may have overdone it just a little.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Max smiled at her and then decided she’d taken him seriously. ‘Only joking, I think we all gathered you had much better taste, judging by the photos you sent us.’

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say so she slithered out, feeling very flat and acutely conscious of the cheap Lycra skirt riding up around her ample bum.

  Chapter Four

  LIBBY WAS HAVING an exhilarating and exhausting day. They’d finally agreed on a format for the show. It was to be set in a dream house and the idea was to deal with all aspects of entertaining – everything from baking luxurious breads to laying the perfect table. An entire programme would be devoted to the ideal pantry and store cupboard. Unusually, Libby wasn’t entirely sure about it but they’d investigated every conceivable idea to do with cooking. Perfect pantries and beautiful breads weren’t really her thing: she was happiest trying out new ideas, finding exciting combinations, using a simple mélange of the freshest local ingredients to create something magical. She knew she had a way with food, things just seemed to work for her and sometimes they worked amazingly well.