Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  ‘How are you doing?’ It was the question everyone asked.

  ‘I’m surviving.’ She gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Fine. Busy. Lots happening in terms of a licence fee agreement.’ He spoke for a while about the subject that occupied every senior broadcaster’s waking moments.

  ‘So, tell me about the show?’ she asked during a break in conversation.

  ‘Well, at the moment it’s scheduled to start recording next week. That has to stay if we’re to meet our proposed transmission slot. As I mentioned, though, there are a few options. One, we could cancel the run altogether, but we are already heavily committed in financial terms. Or, we could go ahead and do a shorter series, say six episodes. That would require a lesser commitment from you, although our cost per episode would increase dramatically, but let’s leave that for the moment. Thirdly, we could bring in another presenter and use the basic idea but change the name, because it’s already associated with you from the pre-publicity. If we did that we would, of course, do your series next year, and maybe even stretch the budget to go ahead with the original format, which I know was to travel to a different country for each show.’

  ‘I thought that was agreed, anyway?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly on the table but nothing’s been signed yet.’

  Libby was surprised that Melanie, her agent hadn’t nailed that one by now. It was the only reason she had agreed to this current format. It just showed what taking your eye off the ball for a week or two could do.

  ‘If I don’t do it, who would you get?’

  ‘There’s a new young chef working in Children’s at the moment. We’ve been looking for something for her for a while now. We’d have to simplify the format because she doesn’t have your experience and, of course, she wouldn’t attract your audience, so the sponsor would have something to say about that. Also there are the ratings to consider. To be honest, it’s not an option I want to pursue. I’m not sure she’s ready for mainstream TV, although her slots have been working really well and she’s a bright, appealing girl, but I may have to consider it because of the heavy financial losses we’d otherwise incur.’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off Libby as he spoke. They were old friends and he was determined not to put the gun to her head, despite the pressure on him. ‘What are your thoughts?’

  Her voice seemed to come from a long way away. ‘I suppose I feel I should do it, but I’m not entirely happy with certain aspects of the series. If all this –’ she spread her arms – ‘hadn’t happened, I’d have insisted on some changes. But I’ve always known that transmission slots and ratings are sacrosanct and the wonderful world of show business doesn’t stop for anybody.’

  ‘Libby, we’ve known each other too long and you know I’ll do anything I can for you at this time. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll consult with you or Melanie all the way on what happens next. You’re a big star and very important to us. I don’t know enough about the detail of this current series but if you are unhappy then, speaking personally, I would advise you not to do it.’ He smiled at her gently. ‘Of course, I never said that.’

  She gave a small grin back. ‘Thanks, Leo, I know I can trust you. I don’t know what it is, to be honest. It’s most likely just me. Anyway, I have been thinking about it and it’s probably best I do it. I can’t sit around here any longer.’ She didn’t mention her demons. ‘I have to face people some time. Also, I know the team will look after me.’

  ‘Are you sure? Do you need another twenty-four hours?’

  ‘No, I’ve been thinking about it on and off since we spoke on the phone. Besides, I’m incapable of sustained logic at the moment. It’ll probably do me good to be occupied for the next few weeks.’ Too selfish to seriously consider ending it all, she desperately wanted to keep busy until some of the grief lessened and the fear subsided.

  He looked relieved, then sad. ‘I think it probably will.’

  ‘Although Leo, I’m not sure I’ll be able for such a hectic schedule in the first week, so you’re going to have to bear with me on that one. If I can’t do it . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep in touch and liaise directly with Jeremy. Don’t push yourself too far, just do what you can. If we only get nine or ten programmes, then so be it. I’ll take responsibility for agreeing to it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. I have here the proposed schedule and the running orders for the first week. I haven’t been involved so I know nothing about them really, but they’ll obviously make sense to you. Would you like me to leave them?’

  ‘Sure, then I can contact the team myself. There’s no point in you being the go-between any longer.’

  They chatted for a while and when Leo left Libby settled down at her desk and tried to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering, wishing for the impossible. At least the small amount of effort made her feel hungry for the first time in days so she prepared herself a ham sandwich in the spotless, lifeless kitchen and made a mental note to send Mrs O’C. home at the weekend. She poured herself a glass of white wine and returned to her desk to try and make sense of it all.

  Her mother arrived, as usual, at around three-thirty and this time Libby allowed herself be persuaded to go for a walk. She pulled up the collar of her long black wool coat and wore her sunglasses, just in case she met anyone. They strolled around the beautiful Herbert Park and Libby thought of David chasing her here one day last summer. She knew it was always going to be like this. The faintest trace of warmth in the late afternoon sun was a promise of better days to come and Libby felt slightly more alive after feeling the fresh air in her lungs.

  It took two days for Libby to pluck up the courage to phone the office. Her secretary didn’t know what to say to her, so she talked about inconsequential things that needed attention, rabbiting on until Libby felt like screaming. When she managed to get a word in, she asked to be put through to Jeremy Scott-Thomas.

  ‘How are you?’ There it was again: why couldn’t they all stop asking?

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ She wasn’t in the mood for small talk. ‘I presume Leo Morgan has been speaking to you?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to call you today. Have you had a chance to look through everything?’

  When they’d discussed it, Libby agreed to go in first thing on Monday morning to go through everything in detail and meet with the stylists. ‘I don’t want to go traipsing around the building, so perhaps you could set it all up so that they come to my office. I’ll be there by ten.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. You’re happy that we do a technical run on Tuesday, then we have a day to get everything finally sorted, which gives you a breather and then we record on Thursday and Friday?’

  ‘Fine.’ Her response was vague. ‘I may need some alterations to one or two of the outfits, by the way.’

  He’d been warned of that already. ‘I’ll have two people on standby.’

  Libby couldn’t be bothered any more. She said a curt goodbye and as she hung up realized that her whole body was tense. She phoned her mother and put her off, not telling her that it was to be her first night alone. She simply couldn’t take any more fussing.

  A long, hot bath helped, filled with the wonderful aroma of essential oils and expensive muscle soak. The fire was roaring and a tray was waiting. She forced her reluctant housekeeper out the door at seven, assuring her she’d be all right. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, as usual.’

  ‘I’d rather come tomorrow and Sunday.’

  Not if my life depended on it. Libby didn’t say it but her demeanour did. ‘I promise I’ll call you if I need you.’

  ‘I don’t like leaving you.’

  Libby was getting tired of this. ‘Mum is around and I have a list of people who’ve been ringing. I won’t be short of help.’

  She’d no intention of calling any of them. She wanted the weekend to herself to shut out the world and live in David’s dressing-gown and not wash and spray herself with his cologne and
try to get to grips with the dreaded week ahead. A bottle of good brandy helped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MONDAY COULDN’T COME fast enough for Annie. It was her first day in studio and she was excited and terrified in equal measure. She had only two scenes today and they were both short and she knew her own and everyone else’s lines backwards. One was a small piece in the nightclub with a group of actors and the other a two-hander with Stephen Wilson, which she was looking forward to. Nothing too elaborate. She knew it had been planned this way to ease her in.

  The week had been hectic but Annie was thriving on it. Her clothes had been chosen, her make-up eventually decided on by the theatrical chief make-up artist and, best of all, she had a fabulous new hairstyle.

  Paul Hession had been brilliant. The whole ambience was amazing and the experience worlds away from her local ‘ladies and gents hair salon’ where old women gossiped under brightly painted helmets and embarrassed men buried their heads in the racing pages. A head massage had almost left Annie unconscious and she’d emerged after three hours with a soft, sleek, shoulder-length style and subtle streaks in every shade of gold imaginable. Paul claimed to love her fiery auburn hair and refused to drastically alter it, to her initial dismay, but when he’d finished she was astonished at the difference. Even her eyes appeared a stronger shade of green. It made her feel sophisticated, which she knew she wasn’t. And best of all it had cost her nothing.

  The alarm went off at six-thirty, even though her call wasn’t till eleven. Of course, she’d nothing to do because clothes and hair and make-up would all be taken care of. After an hour spent watching the paint-drying scenario that was breakfast telly, she dressed in her new black jeans and soft, pale blue sweater and headed out the door. She was miles too early, but at least now she knew her way around and didn’t have to wait for someone to collect her. She smiled, remembering her first visit and the image it must have created. Today she walked jauntily up the long driveway and confidently strode through the car park towards the production offices of Southside, red-gold hair swinging.

  As she came within sight of the main reception area a vaguely familiar, sleek black car eased itself into a reserved spot and Libby Marlowe hurriedly emerged. Annie slowed her steps so as not to catch up. She watched her idol move towards her and was shocked at her appearance. She looked thin and haggard and her voluptuousness seemed to have vanished, although the shapeless black coat probably had something to do with that. Her eyes were lined and puffy and even her make-up couldn’t conceal the shadows. Noticing the younger woman, Libby pulled on her sunglasses and quickened her pace.

  It was a strange experience. Annie had been thinking about her on and off for the past week, couldn’t get her out of her head; she’d even considered writing a note to explain that she’d served David on the night of the tragedy and assure his wife that he’d seemed relaxed and happy. She dismissed the notion as that of a stalker but seeing Libby today, looking so vulnerable, Annie wondered for the first time about her supposed idyllic lifestyle.

  Before she even knew what she was doing herself, Annie had closed the gap between them. ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind if I—’

  ‘I’m not signing anything today.’

  ‘Oh, no I wasn’t . . .’ This was all going wrong very fast. Annie stepped in front of her idol, anxious to clear up any misunderstanding. ‘I just wanted to tell you . . .’

  ‘Please get out of my way. I’m late for a meeting.’

  ‘I won’t keep you a minute, I just thought you might want . . .’ Annie’s face was crimson. Libby’s was ashen.

  ‘If you try and keep me for even a second longer I’ll call security and have you ejected from these premises.’ Libby spat the words. ‘How dare you upset me like this. Now, get out of my way immediately.’

  Annie stepped back as if she’d been shot. ‘Yes, of course, sorry. It’s just that I met your husband on the night he—’ But she was speaking to herself.

  Libby was shaking as she sped through reception and found the sanctuary of her office, terrified in case anyone would stop her and she’d break down. How dare that awful woman approach her? She made up her mind to report the incident to security. As she entered the lavish production offices she knew so well, she kept her head bowed, not trusting herself to utter a greeting. If she had looked up she would have realized that everyone had suddenly busied themselves, wanting to give her space. No-one even tried to make eye contact.

  Libby couldn’t believe how scared she felt, coming back to work. If a tabloid photographer spotted her now, he’d have a field day. God, maybe that woman was from one of the tabloids. She picked up the phone in her office and called the head of security.

  She relayed the incident and exaggerated it for effect.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll track her down. If she was visiting then she’ll have had to check in at reception. If she works here she’ll have used her security pass to get past reception, so it will be on the main computer. What time was it exactly?’

  ‘About five minutes ago.’

  ‘Fine. Leave it with me. She won’t bother you again. I’ll pay her a visit myself. What did she look like, by the way?’

  Libby told him what she could recall and hung up, feeling slightly mollified.

  She was left alone for a good while, then Jeremy knocked gently and came in carrying a cup of herbal tea, her normal mid-morning refresher.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘Good. Listen, as soon as you’ve had enough today, just say so. I can handle most of the stuff. We only need your input on a few things.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Ready to face the first group?’

  Libby nodded, looking anything but ready. She gave him a thin smile.

  ‘I’ve kept all the meetings small and they’ve been warned not to raise anything that isn’t essential so that should cut out a lot of the usual bullshit. And there’ll be no moaning, at least, you can be sure of that.’ He smiled at her kindly and she was grateful.

  The first meeting was with the food stylists who took charge of all the recipes. As they shuffled in, nobody looked Libby directly in the eye. Everyone said good morning to her nose or her chin.

  Jeremy ran the meeting with a rod of iron and it was over in a flash. Every time she made a suggestion, which wasn’t often, someone offered to see to it. She was touched at the way they were minding her: before she would have taken it for granted. It was easier than she had imagined.

  She didn’t leave her office except to go to the loo and at twelve-thirty Eleanor her secretary offered to bring in lunch, sent by Jeremy after she’d refused his offer to go out to eat. ‘Just a sandwich would be fine.’

  ‘Any particular kind – ham, chicken, salad, toasted?’ the young girl asked her breasts.

  ‘A chicken salad on brown.’

  A tray arrived with a sandwich, some fruit, a muffin and a small portion of cheese and biscuits and Eleanor had even managed to find a real cup for the coffee instead of the ubiquitous plastic beaker. Surprisingly, Libby was hungry, which pleased everyone in the outer office. They were monitoring her as if she were an invalid.

  By four o’clock she was absolutely whacked. Jeremy walked her to her car, for protection, she suspected. He’d been horrified when she’d told him about the earlier incident and promised to lean on security as well.

  ‘Take it easy tomorrow. We’ll be working flat out. I’ll only ring you in an emergency. If we need you at all it will only be for an hour.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve all been so kind. Will you tell them I really appreciate it?’

  Libby wasn’t known for saying thank you, but he knew it had been a tough day for her. She looked a bit tearful and her voice wobbled slightly. He didn’t quite know how to deal with a slightly emotional Libby, it was a new experience, so he simply said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll try. Goodnight.
’

  Jeremy waited until she was moving off and then hurried back in to the warmth of the office, wishing he was closer to her.

  Libby drove home without even the radio for company, wanting to stop off at one of her favourite shops, a gorgeous Italian deli in Ranelagh, but not having the courage.

  The house was dark and uninviting. Mrs O’C. had left early to take one of her cats to the vet and she was glad, because the bleakness matched her mood. She pulled the curtains in the small sitting room, not bothering to put a match to the already set fire. In the kitchen she ignored the tempting tray of food and instead unwrapped a hunk of cheese and smothered some crusty bread with butter, eating as she went to pour herself a gin and tonic. A chocolate roulade that her mother had delivered she sliced and topped with cream. In the past few days she seemed to crave comfort in the form of sugary, fatty food, and solace and dullness in liquid form.

  The television provided little relief and she was left with the cast of Southside for company, as yet another far-fetched plot was thrown at an unsuspecting public, or so she thought. Outside, the rain lashed matching her gloomy mood.

  Annie was also enjoying the company of the Southside regulars, in the warm atmosphere of the local pub. They’d decided to celebrate Annie’s first day and even though she’d been finished since three she was happy to hang about in the wings, watching and learning. They’d been drenched making a mad dash to the old world bar but the warmth of a real log fire and a round that comprised mainly hot rums and ports helped ease Annie’s tension, which had nothing to do with her first two scenes. They’d been over in a flash. She hadn’t fluffed once, and felt ready for anything – except the unexpected visit from the head of security to what was usually a closed set.