Behind the Scenes

by Anita Notaro

  ‘How’s the garden?’ He hadn’t taken his eyes off Libby.

  ‘It looks great.’ She smiled up at him. ‘But I’m leaving it tomorrow.’

  ‘The house sold?’

  ‘It did. But I’ve found a great new place with a slightly more manageable garden.’ She was not going to ask for his help. ‘Now, we’d better head on in before the photographers run riot looking for this lady.’ She smiled at Annie and then at his parents and saved her cheesiest smile for the pretty young woman. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Take care of yourself.’ That look again, the one that always caught her by surprise.

  ‘You too.’ She legged it, as Annie would say.

  ‘Into the ladies’, quick.’

  They disappeared round the corner. Annie was worried. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘I am now. God I nearly fainted when I saw him. What did you think when you saw him again?’

  ‘I have to say you sure know how to pick ’em, Ms Marlowe.’

  ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. That voice. Those eyes. I’d almost forgotten how powerful he is. And seeing him dressed up, he does look different, you’re right.’ Libby was pleased. ‘It’s quite a combination. I could almost smell the heather. He definitely doesn’t belong in a place full of sick people.’ Annie made a face.

  Libby laughed in spite of her misery. She was glad her friend had had a real chance to see how gorgeous Andrew was and how stupid she’d been.

  ‘What about your woman? Any ideas?’

  ‘No.’ Libby was deflated. ‘I guess he’s well and truly over me.’

  ‘Huh, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

  ‘He’s always like that with people. When he’s with you, you get his full attention. Can you believe I had that opportunity and I threw it away?’

  ‘It’s his loss as well.’

  ‘Listen, he’s younger than me and even as a gardener he was a great catch. How attractive do you think he is as a surgeon, with all that money, not to mention power? And then there’s the charisma.’

  Annie hugged her.

  ‘And how old was she – the girl? Eighteen?’

  ‘At least twenty-two, I’d say,’ Annie said.

  ‘Very attractive, though.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s have a drink.’ Annie knew there was nothing else to talk about on that score.

  ‘I’m really glad we saw him again. I wanted you to see him at his best,’ Libby whispered as they were drawn into the mêlée.

  At one-thirty Libby slipped off home. ‘I’ve booked a cab,’ she told a protesting Annie. ‘You’ll be partying all night anyway. I have the removal men coming at eight.’

  Annie insisted on seeing her into the taxi. ‘Sure you’re all right?’ It was the younger woman’s turn to play mother. Libby nodded brightly.

  Back home she wandered around, burying her head in some of David’s things, trying to recall every detail of his face. Then she strolled barefoot in the garden and sat where she’d sat many times with Andrew and saw him as clearly as if he was standing directly in front of her. It was a night for remembering.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  ANNIE ARRIVED UNANNOUNCED shortly after eight o’clock, ahead of the removal van, carrying her overnight bag on her shoulders and clutching her award and some orange juice and croissants in her arms.

  Libby was taken aback. ‘What are you doing here? Are you mad? What time did you get to bed?’

  ‘Five,’ Annie said, her eyes still shining. ‘You?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Tough?’

  ‘Lonely.’

  ‘Make me some coffee and tell me all about it. Then I’m here to work. Oh, I almost forgot!’ she screamed delightedly. ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  Libby hadn’t. There they were on the front of all of them, laughing, screaming, hugging, looking as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Over coffee and croissants Annie told her all the gossip. Most of the names meant nothing to Libby, but she listened as if they were her closest friends. All that was required was an occasional ‘really’ or a ‘wow’ here and there, enough to keep Annie going for minutes at a time.

  ‘The only thing is I’m not sure if I’m a luvvie or a darling. I’ve never been air-kissed so many times in my life. Luvvies are all plunging necklines and too much jewellery – and that’s only the men. Darlings are less ostentatious and more dramatic.’ They giggled and gossiped some more.

  ‘And I met someone.’ Now she had all of Libby’s attention.

  ‘Please don’t say his name was Marc Robinson or I really will throw up.’

  ‘Not on your nellie, Sheila.’ Annie’s Australian accent was perfect.

  ‘Tell me quick.’

  ‘His name is Gary Bryson. He’s a movie producer. Tall. Ish. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Very cute.’

  ‘I want to know everything.’

  ‘Nothing happened, actually.’ Annie looked a bit deflated herself. ‘But we talked. He asked for my number, wanted to meet me for a drink.’ She cheered up just thinking about him. ‘But best of all, I sort of imagined him kissing me and I felt all tingly.’

  Libby hugged her. ‘That is the best news. I hope that awful Aussie was watching everything.’

  ‘He was. He sort of followed me around most of the evening.’ Annie’s grin was as wide as a canal.

  The arrival of the troops at nine-fifteen sent them scurrying around. Libby gave the orders just as she’d been doing all her life.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Help me pack the last of David’s things.’ It was a plea.

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  Libby nodded. She had decided to give them all to charity. Now she and Annie worked in silence, packing them into boxes and labelling them. All went well until Libby found his wallet, with its carefree picture of the two of them taken on their last holiday together. She stared at it for ages.

  Annie let her be, and was just about to go quietly outside for a minute or two when Libby looked up. ‘He was my best friend and now some days I have difficulty remembering what he looked like.’

  ‘He’ll always be right there in your heart.’ Annie wished she could say more.

  ‘I know.’ Libby wiped her eyes. ‘And then when I met Andrew, I felt that same pull.’

  Annie understood.

  It was easier after that. There were a few other moments when she stumbled across the unexpected, but none to rival finding the photo in his wallet. In a couple of hours it was all over and Annie left her to say goodbye to the house while she waited in the car.

  Libby was staying at her mother’s for two weeks and she was dreading it. She dropped Annie home then dumped her stuff and headed into town to meet John Simpson, to close the sale on the house. She was also finalizing the purchase of the cottage. It had all gone remarkably smoothly. When the other solicitor handed her the keys to her new home she felt a small surge of hope and it gave her some comfort. She and Annie were going to christen it later that evening.

  Avoiding heavy conversations with her mother became a daily chore. Quickly Libby developed a routine. She got up early every morning and headed out to White Linen Cottage, as she discovered it had once been called because of its proximity to a laundry more than a hundred years ago. The builders had moved in. Her contacts had proved invaluable, and John Clancy and his team set about checking everything and making the few changes they’d discussed.

  On the second day he had good news for her.

  ‘Guess what I found?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the hall, behind that funny-looking plywood.’

  ‘Tell me, please.’

  He led her proudly in.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  They’d stripped back the wall that had been badly boarded up to reveal a dinky little fireplace.

  ‘Once that’s cleaned up it will look gorgeous. It even has the original brass hood. I’ll take it off and have it properly polish
ed. And I think you need a new slate hearth. You should also have a look-out for a good set of fire irons.’

  ‘I can do better than that. I have an original high fender, you know, with a leather seat. It’s adjustable and I think it will fit perfectly.’ She hugged the older man. ‘Thanks, John, that’s cheered me up no end.’

  Libby was cleaning down all the wood panelling herself and her days were spent knee deep in dust and grime. The workmen were amazed to see a ‘celebrity’ up to her neck in dirt and enjoying it. It was hard, the toughest physical work she’d ever done, but it kept her mind off food and drink. She was too tired in the evenings to do anything but have a hot bath and fall into bed – and straight into dreams of Andrew.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  THINGS SIMPLY COULDN’T get much better for Annie. Since winning the award, her agent had been bombarded with scripts for her to read. One or two were long-term projects still in development. Some would require her to move to the UK, but she wasn’t prepared to think that far ahead yet.

  Gary Bryson had phoned as promised and they’d met for a drink. He was funny and laid-back and really cool and Annie was mad about him. Based between Dublin and London, he worked hard and took life as it came. Annie felt totally relaxed with him and found herself telling him everything. He was in awe of the way she’d handled so many setbacks and when she told him about the attack he reached over and pulled her close and stroked her hair. It was so gentle, so comforting, so non-sexual in a way, that she didn’t feel any tension or fear. He stroked the top of her head as if kissing a child’s wound. After a while she looked up at him. ‘So you see, I’m not really in the market for a heavy relationship just at the moment. I think it’s only fair to tell you now, not waste your time.’

  ‘Listen Annie, chill, will you? Let’s just have some fun. I like being with you. You’re smart and funny and cute. We can go places and party or just stay home and eat popcorn and watch movies. I’m not looking for a heavy scene either, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So we have a deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ She laughed as he shook her hand. He was quirky and a little bit mad and just what she needed at the moment.

  Marc Robinson was also calling her, leaving messages, trying to get her to meet him for a drink. She hadn’t bothered replying to any of them. That gave her a great deal of satisfaction.

  On the home front, she’d rung two agents. Both of them recognized her name and were now anxiously hunting around for an apartment for her. She had to do none of the legwork, which was just as well as she was working six-day weeks at the moment as Southside tried to up her profile fast in the current episodes, in order to capitalize on her win. Sundays, her only free days, were spent reading new scripts, learning lines and visiting her father occasionally. She hadn’t seen Libby for a few weeks and she really missed her, although they spent hours on the phone late at night. She teased her about getting her hands dirty and Libby gave back as good as she got. ‘Just you wait until you see it, Annie Weller, you’ll eat your words.’

  * * *

  It was true enough. The place was shaping up nicely. The outside had been brushed down and given a fresh coat of the pale pink paint, with all the woodwork done in matt white. The windows sparkled thanks to vinegar and newspaper, a tip she’d been given by one of her neighbours, an elderly man named Walter, who’d stopped to welcome her to the neighbourhood. Libby didn’t know it but she was the subject of many a chat among the locals, either over tea and scones or a creamy pint, depending on the time of day and whether they were male or female. The men all fancied her and the women wanted to be her.

  She’d cleaned up the front garden, reading books on pruning in bed in the evenings and even planting up some new windowboxes with autumn colour and trailing ivy. By the front door stood two clipped box pyramids in large Victorian planters, and two standard bay trees framed the front gate. Even at this late stage in the year the garden was scented with pink roses and late-flowering clematis.

  The new kitchen had been fitted. Libby had gone for free-standing units, all different sizes, some in a clotted cream colour and others in raspberry with thick maple work surfaces. Although it looked and felt as if it had been there for years, the lines were smooth and sleek and behind the doors lay every modern convenience, including a state of the art cooker and a walk-in fridge-freezer. She’d found a big old polished french table in an antique shop; now it glistened in the slanted autumn sunshine and was home to a huge porcelain jug filled to overflowing with raspberry-coloured flowers from the local flower shop where the staff seemed to delight in finding exactly what she was looking for. What pleased Libby most about the kitchen was that she’d done it all on a budget and had even managed to kit out the pantry and the utility room, buying the best appliances and decorating in a fresh, simple, country style.

  Her bedroom was furnished sparsely with an oversized french bed, one they’d had in a spare room in the old house. She’d dressed it in white with a fat eiderdown and an antique throw and plumped it up with bolsters and huge square pillows in various shades of copper and gold. All over the house were her gorgeous lamps and rugs and the floorboards had been sanded and polished by a professional. In the bathroom the old bath had been resurfaced and the taps restored. The wood panelling was painted in the palest blue lime-wash that reminded Libby of the sea. Everywhere stood jugs and buckets filled with flowers, most from the garden.

  The sitting room was the last to be finished, mainly because the beams had to be sanded to remove the awful black tarry substance that had made them seem dark and low. The stone fireplace also needed work. Libby was ecstatic when at last she could bring in her two big squashy couches and settle her Edwardian table under the window.

  * * *

  Annie telephoned one night when she was admiring her handiwork.

  ‘Hi, stranger.’

  ‘Hi yourself. How’s it all going in fantasy land?’ It was strange that their roles were now reversed. Annie was the star and Libby knew little or nothing about what was happening in the world of telly.

  ‘Great. Busy. But listen, I’ve got a day off on Friday and I’m finished at about four on Thursday. Fancy meeting up?’

  ‘Why don’t you come here and I’ll cook you dinner?’ Libby was suddenly excited. ‘You could even stay over.’

  ‘On that damp smelly mattress? No chance!’

  ‘Well, bring an overnight bag and if you don’t want to stay I’ll drop you home myself. How’s that for an offer you can’t refuse?’

  ‘Best one I’ve had for weeks. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done. When are you moving in?’

  ‘Thursday. You’ve just made the decision for me.’

  ‘Oh my God, that is so cool. Your first night and I’ll be there. I can’t wait. I’ve lots of gossip to tell you.’

  ‘OK, come about eight.’

  The push was exactly what Libby needed. She urged John Clancy to get all her pictures up and add the final touches to her study.

  No-one had seen it finished, not even her mother, who’d been horrified when Libby had taken her to see it originally. Christina Marlowe had begged her daughter to move home permanently until she found ‘a more suitable place’: it only made Libby more determined than ever to make a new life for herself.

  She did a big grocery shop on-line and arranged delivery for Thursday morning. She arrived at the cottage with bags of the fresh ingredients that she preferred to choose herself from small specialist shops. Clearing out her larder in the old house, she’d been amazed at the amount of obscure ingredients she’d collected over the years. Now it was all stripped back to basics, just like her life, and as she stocked the cupboards sparingly she felt much less cluttered inside and out.

  The morning was spent cooking and she was amused at how well she could improvise, using an old milk bottle when she couldn’t find a rolling pin and substituting lime juice and zest for the hard to find kaffir lime leaves normally used in the delicate chicken starter she’
d invented years ago. It was still the one she was most often asked for at parties.

  For dinner itself she was roasting a good, old-fashioned loin of pork with succulent white fat. She crushed some garlic and crumbled a few bay leaves, added some good olive oil and seasoned it well, then worked the whole thing into a gloopy mush. She massaged the meat with the aromatic oil and left it to do its work for a couple of hours.

  The crackling she scored with one of the builder’s knives and scattered some salt flakes to help it crisp up.

  The only accompaniment was to be some roast potatoes, cooked with the meat to suck up all the juices. A simple salad and some gravy made with the roasting pan scrapings, a glass of Vermouth and a good crack of pepper completed the feast.

  For pudding she was preparing a simple fruit crumble to make the most of the wonderful blackberries and plums in season. It had a sublime, almost toffee-apple crust and needed nothing except a jug of pouring cream to set it off.

  Just before eight Libby went outside and looked at her new home, seeing it as Annie would when she arrived. It was a chilly autumn evening so she’d lit the lamps and candles but left the curtains open to reveal a soft orange light that contrasted with the curls of powder-grey smoke spiralling from her chimney. The air was heavy with scent after the earlier showers and she felt calm and peaceful as she went indoors to touch up her make-up and wait for her friend. She switched on the outside Victorian lanterns to complete the welcome.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ Annie was squealing with delight and doing an obscure African tribal dance outside while the taxi man looked on in amusement. Libby dashed out. They hadn’t seen each other in over three weeks.

  ‘You’ve cheated. I know you. You’ve demolished that grotty old place and had a chocolate box cottage imported from, I dunno, Cornwall or Switzerland or somewhere.’