Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  He’d called Annie aside, she’d turned purple in the face and hadn’t been the same for the rest of the day.

  ‘What a bitch that Libby Marlowe is.’ Isobel couldn’t believe her ears when Annie told her what it was about as they sat side by side in the pub. Suddenly everyone was listening and Annie was mortified all over again.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He balled me out for daring to speak to her, basically. Said she’d been very upset. Threatened to contact Max about the incident. Oh God, I feel so stupid.’

  ‘And when you explained, what then?’ Mike Nichols wanted to know.

  ‘Said he didn’t care what information I had. Accused me of being insensitive, at best. Apparently it was her first day back and she was very shaken by the encounter.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you really look like the sort of person who might have stabbed her with a screwdriver,’ said one of the assistant floor managers.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing he can do.’ Mike Nichols shook his head in annoyance.

  ‘God, I hope he doesn’t write to Max.’

  ‘I’ll keep an ear open and if I hear anything in the office I’ll let you know so that you can speak to Max yourself. Otherwise I’d forget about it. What a cow, eh?’ Isobel’s words started a flood of ‘Libby legends’, as one of the crew called them. Evidently the star wasn’t popular.

  ‘Oh, she’s huge, the audience love her but she can be an absolute nightmare to work with. She’s totally self-obsessed,’ one of the cameramen told them and others followed with similar tales, none of which gave Annie any comfort whatsoever.

  Several people came to say ‘well done’ to Annie, which helped a little. She knew the real challenge would come later in the week, but was satisfied with today’s performance. The director had come on the floor especially to congratulate her and the girls in make-up, great for sharing confidences, assured her that other cast members thought she was doing really well. Thankfully, Susannah Browne, or Attila the Hun as Annie had secretly christened her, was nowhere to be seen today, although she’d left specific instructions regarding Annie’s make-up. Janey, a small, plump girl from Scotland with a roguish twinkle, had read the notes, torn them up and smiled sweetly at Annie. ‘Let’s just play around with it a bit until we’re both happy, shall we?’ Annie knew she was being given special attention on her first day and was delighted that Janey seemed not to be in awe of the boss. It had been fun.

  Max Donaldson joined them later. He handed Annie a hot rum and black and sat down beside her, taking a long, pleasurable gulp of his pint of Guinness.

  ‘What’s that stuff? It smells awful.’

  Sipping the warm brew appreciatively, Annie was uneasy. ‘I’ve never had it before but one of the gang suggested it and I was freezing so I’ll try anything once.’ She grinned nervously, hoping he wasn’t going to say anything to spoil the feeling as the warm glow meandered through her body. Please God let him not mention this morning’s incident, she prayed for the tenth time.

  ‘Women are amazing. Men would never change their usual tipple on a whim.’ Max seemed oblivious to her discomfort.

  ‘But look what you’re missing. It tastes even better than Ribena!’

  ‘I’ll risk missing that particular pleasure, thank you. How did you get on today?’ he asked.

  She knew he must have seen the takes: one of the others had told her that he had a monitor in his office and kept a constant eye on the floor, watching every scene he could.

  ‘OK, I think. It was easier in one way because it was all over in a flash and I’d no time to be nervous, and yet harder to concentrate with the number of people on set. Theatre is much quieter generally.’

  ‘Unless a bloody mobile rings in the middle of the performance, which is what happened last night when I was at a show. Idiots, I’d love to strangle them.’ He grimaced and Annie giggled in spite of her nerves. He looked quite ferocious and it didn’t suit him. ‘But no, I understand what you mean. It can be really hard sometimes.’

  ‘It’s just all the hanging around, then bang, it’s over. Still, I’m not complaining. Did you see anything?’ She had to know.

  ‘I did and you were great.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to the more meaty scenes later in the week. But you seem to be settling in nicely, well done.’

  They all had a natter and a great laugh for an hour or so before everyone piled into cars or taxis, complaining about the bitter wind and rain. Annie headed for the local bus stop.

  ‘Which way are you going?’ Mike Nichols asked and when she told him he offered to drop her home. ‘I’m on my way to see my sister in Clontarf who’s just had a baby, so it’s on the way.’

  They chatted like old friends and Annie was delighted to be warm and snug in the car. As she got out he reminded her again not to worry about anything. ‘You won’t hear any more about it, I’m sure,’ he smiled reassuringly.

  As Annie let herself into a freezing cold house, she felt warm and content and really glad not to be working tonight, but knew she’d have to be careful not to take advantage of Owen Kerrigan’s kindness. She still needed that job.

  Fish fingers, frozen chips and a big glass of milk provided sustenance. Annie vowed to try and eat less to keep the pounds off that television added. She settled down comfortably to read and laze, but her mind kept wandering back to that awful incident with Libby Marlowe. She wondered if she could somehow make amends to her hero, despite having been warned not to go anywhere near her in the future.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE FIRST DAY of recording was a nightmare for Libby. Day one on a new series was always trying, and her own lack of energy and emptiness didn’t help. They had taken over a stunning house on the outskirts of Dublin for the duration of the recording but it was freezing and the caterers hadn’t turned up, neither of which helped anyone’s mood.

  Everything that could go wrong did. They were still putting the final touches to the kitchen and the noise added to Libby’s headache. She started to rehearse a link, then stopped. ‘I just cannot possibly work with that racket going on behind me.’ She looked straight at the young carpenter who was brandishing a hammer in mid-air. He scurried off, puce.

  And there was her look. Hair and make-up had tried their best, she knew, but nothing could hide the black crevices etched deep under her eyes, and a grey, pasty face and dull hair – despite intensive conditioning treatment – made things worse. Libby got a fright when she saw herself in the cold, harsh, unforgiving lights of the make-up room. Nearly a month of the worst misery had taken its toll. Even her dramatic weight loss didn’t help. The pounds seemed to have disappeared from her boobs and bum, which emphasized her lack of shape, but the piles of luscious cakes eaten as comfort over the past week had found refuge on her chin or around her middle. She felt ghastly.

  She wasn’t sure about the clothes either, even though they’d already agreed on them weeks before and everyone assured her they were to die for. The look was very modern and for the first time ever she felt like mutton dressed as lamb. The outfit chosen for this programme hung like a habit yet the skirt pinched her waist.

  By the time they actually got around to recording, Libby was close to tears, feeling the director was so busy that he was paying no attention to how she looked. She caught sight of herself on a monitor. It was the final straw: she simply walked off the floor. The new hotshot followed her to a corner. ‘I’m not happy with how I look and I feel no-one has been paying any attention to it.’ She was way past trying to be nice. It was all going horribly wrong and she wanted someone to blame. ‘And this mic is ruining the look of my shirt and I can’t understand why it needs to be placed practically at my chin.’ She shot a venomous glance at the new sound op who’d been slightly offhand with her earlier.

  Jeremy Scott-Thomas was over in a flash. ‘Why don’t you go to your dressing room and I’ll get someone to bring you tea while we have a look at your camera position.’ Li
bby nodded abruptly and disappeared. She rang Melanie, who’d been in touch with her every day since the funeral.

  ‘Mel, I’m not happy – this whole thing looks like an amateur production.’ Melanie recognized the tone.

  ‘Let me talk to Jeremy and I’ll call you back, or I can come over?’

  Libby had the sense to know she was being a bit unreasonable. ‘Oh Mel, it’s probably just me. I feel so awful, I look like a monster and I’m dying inside. I should never have agreed to do it. I can’t cope.’ She broke down. ‘And everyone is being a bit horrible to me,’ she added for effect, even though it was completely untrue.

  Melanie had the distinct impression her client was losing the plot. She’d called Jeremy earlier in the day, to check on Libby and he’d assured her that they were all on their best behaviour and treating her with kid gloves.

  ‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’ As if she was going anywhere. Libby hadn’t the strength even to talk so she ignored the knocking on her door, lay on the couch and closed her eyes.

  She must have drifted off to sleep because Melanie’s singsong high-pitched tones woke her.

  ‘It’s only me. Can I come in?’ She had one of those PR girl voices and today it irritated Libby along with everything else. The younger girl was a tiny slip of a thing with eyes of steel and a manner that proclaimed loudly, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ Of course, when dealing with her most valuable client she was sweetness and light, always. She was half hidden behind an enormous bunch of flowers and Libby gave a weak smile in spite of herself.

  ‘Now, I’ve spoken to Jeremy and he assures me they’ll sort everything out. I’ve told him you’re not feeling great so he’s suggested they spend the rest of the afternoon getting everything sorted and you start for real in the morning. How does that sound? I can stay around here for as long as is necessary this evening, and I’ll phone you if anything crops up.’

  Libby nodded, picked up her bag and made a beeline for the door, not stopping to talk to anyone. Melanie walked her to her car. ‘Go home and get a good night’s sleep and I’ll be here in the morning when you arrive. OK?’

  ‘Thanks. I didn’t think it would be so tough getting back into it again and I guess I don’t have the strength I thought I did.’

  The younger woman made soothing noises and assured her everything would be fine. As she watched Libby ease out into the traffic, she sighed wearily. This was going to be a tough few weeks.

  Libby decided to stop off at her mother’s, then changed her mind halfway there and turned for home. It was all she could manage these days. Mrs O’Connell wasn’t expecting her and she was flustered, but Libby shrugged off offers of food and headed to her room, insisting the housekeeper leave at her usual time.

  She removed the heavy, ageing make-up and lay on the bed, drifting off to sleep in minutes. When she woke it was dark outside and she changed into her robe and made her way wearily downstairs. Mrs O’Connell had been baking for the afternoon. Libby found a mouth-watering array of scones, malt loaf and a chocolate cake, some still warm. The smell of home baking lingered as Libby sat at the kitchen table and sampled a bit of everything. It was quiet as she poured rich coffee and hunted out home-made jam for the scones. That suited her. She wasn’t up to idle chat tonight.

  She poured a glass of wine but could find nothing of interest on any TV channel. Reluctantly, she decided to limit herself to two glasses in an effort to get a decent night’s sleep and look half human for the next day.

  When she woke it was bright. She’d slept through her alarm, so she showered quickly and made some coffee. It gave her no time to think. She phoned to let the studio know she was on her way. Being late on a recording day was a mortal sin and they’d already lost time yesterday because of her. She didn’t want to get a bad name among production companies, so she made a big effort and arrived soon after her call time.

  She was met by several wary faces and everyone was on their best behaviour, anxious to placate their star. Hair and make-up were particularly on the ball and she was pampered and preened for what seemed like hours. When she finally appeared on set they spent almost an hour on her lighting and camera positions and both Melanie and Jeremy were very much in evidence.

  At last, the recording got under way. Scripts had been written for her and whereas normally she used them only as a guide, ad-libbing as she went, today she stuck fairly rigidly to the prepared material, trying to look lively and interested. But it was a surreal experience, as if she was far above it all, looking down on herself.

  The day was long and arduous and they all pushed on relentlessly, as if sensing she might crack up again at any moment. Libby knew she simply had to get through this and so was calm and methodical, if somewhat lifeless. Her smiles were fake and her normal chirpy banter on camera had all but disappeared.

  Even the recipes, carefully chosen, seemed to lack the vividness associated with her cooking and the stylists constantly hovered, ready to touch up everything before the close-ups were taken. Normally, Libby tried to avoid letting the experts loose on her food, preferring her dishes to look natural, even if the home-cooked appearance was carefully orchestrated and styled. Today they fussed around, adding glaze here and placing herbs there, polishing plates and asking for special lighting, and Libby let them.

  It was seven-thirty by the time they had a full programme in the can. She was talked out and her face hurt from trying to look interested. The relief on set was tangible. The first one of a new format was always the killer: at least now they knew it could be done.

  Libby got a round of applause as soon as she’d finished her final link. She ignored it and walked off and the set was de-rigged in record time, everyone in a rush to get to the pub for a drink to celebrate. Then it was home to bed and up early, ready to do it all again, even though the next day was Saturday. They were a programme behind and had to catch up but at least she had Sunday to look forward to and the prospect of a break had never seemed more welcome.

  Libby was out of her clothes in record time, anxious to get away and be by herself. Melanie popped her head round the dressing-room door.

  ‘Fancy a quick drink or a bite to eat on the way home?’

  Libby couldn’t imagine anything worse. ‘Would you mind if I passed? I’m absolutely shattered.’

  ‘No problem.’ The younger woman walked with Libby towards her car.

  ‘How did you think it looked?’ Libby asked warily as she threw her bag in the boot.

  That was a no-win question, Melanie knew, so she gave the standard PR answer. ‘It’s a very interesting concept, you were fantastic and by the time it’s edited and all the music stings put in, I think it should do well in the ratings.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced, but for the first time I don’t really care. I just want to get it over with. By the way, thanks for being around today, it was great knowing you were keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘No problem, do you want me around tomorrow as well?’

  Libby was about to say no then changed her mind. Let them all earn their money. They made enough out of her.

  ‘If you could, it would be terrific. Once I get tomorrow over with, I’ll feel we’re really up and running and besides, I’ll have Sunday to recover.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll be here.’ She smiled at a tired, worn Libby. ‘Get some rest.’

  ‘Thanks, Mel, you’re a star.’

  She looked forlorn as she pulled out into the line of traffic on a chilly, damp winter night, resolving to ring one of her favourite restaurants and get them to deliver spicy Indian food to her door, something she never did as a rule, preferring to cook from scratch herself. She also decided to open a good bottle of wine and to hell with the two glasses theory. She’d survived in spite of it all.

  Mel waved, turned towards her own car and was on her mobile in a flash, searching for company and a very large G&T.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ANNIE WAS IN love. She’d never had these feelings before but she recognized t
hem from the movies and magazines she’d seen over the years. The signs were classic: a net of butterflies had camped out in a tree in her stomach and she had a permanent tight, hard knot to prove it. She’d been going around grinning at nothing for days and had sweaty palms and an overactive heartbeat every time she saw him.

  ‘Him’ was Marc Robinson, an actor in Southside whom she’d always thought was cute on screen but who was seriously gorgeous in real life. He was Australian and had been headhunted for the part of Alan, a dentist who’d moved to Dublin for the summer and decided to stay. In the show, he was currently setting up in practice and encouraging younger women to worry about their fillings and have regular check-ups. His character was definitely not the shy, retiring type and neither, it appeared, was he.

  He was the healthiest-looking man she’d ever seen, all blond hair and blue eyes and a lean, tanned body, courtesy of life down under. He looked every inch the surfing dude but funnily enough the first time she’d laid eyes on him he’d been dressed in an expensive suit and it didn’t look out of place.

  He was one of the few actors she hadn’t met during her initial stint on the show. It was love at first sight for Annie and suddenly she understood what made all the screen legends swoon. It put her previous romances firmly in the shade, not that there had been many. She’d lost her virginity to an actor she’d met on one of her first full-time productions. After a couple of weeks he confided in her that he thought he might be gay. Then there was a heterosexual hairdresser called Jonathan, whom Annie thought she was in love with but who was more in love with himself. She had a brief fling with a bus conductor she met in the gym, but he left her for a bodybuilder. After her illness there’d been a couple of snogs with actors and one with a stage manager, but none of them had developed and Annie had been more interested in getting on with her career than in having a serious relationship.