Miller didn’t have to say much. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She was happy to sit back and listen to Bunny’s stories. Salacious anecdote followed salacious anecdote about actors and colleagues whose names had long since faded into obscurity. Miller had no idea who Bunny was going on about but the old girl was such a good storyteller, it didn’t matter who the protagonists may have been.
Miller was enjoying herself enormously. It didn’t matter how the evening was wearing on; she had no one to go home to since Jerry had moved out, and Bunny’s stories were infinitely more entertaining than anything the goggle box might have to offer.
And Bunny’s company was like a blanket, warm and cosy. Miller was reminded of cuddling up with her mother on a settee while a storm lashed at the windows. I was eight, Miller reflected, and I’ve never been loved so much since.
“Of course, all this,” Bunny made a gesture at everything and nothing in particular, “the film, I mean, dear, it’s all thanks to my wonderful fans.”
“Hmm?” Miller realised she had been listening to the sound of Bunny’s voice rather than the words she was saying.
“I’d be at home twiddling my thumbs right now if it wasn’t for my loving fans. It’s them who’ve kept me going. They’ve made all this possible. Oh, I don’t understand the ins and the outs of it, dear. They do it on their computers. Well, I don’t know sweet buggery about any of that kind of business. But they’ve been campaigning for years, writing petitions and all sorts. And then they set up some kind of fund-raising drive and it went through the roof, apparently. The money just kept pouring in. People want Hospital Corners, you see, dear. Pure, uncomplicated entertainment. Yes, the stories were a bit silly sometimes, a bit far-fetched and melodramatic, but it took people out of themselves. We gave them a world in which everything was sorted out in the end. The characters would go through a rough time of it but you knew they’d be okay in a couple of episodes time. Even if somebody died, it was usually for the best. We gave them optimism, dear. A positive view of the world. And that’s what people need these days - more than ever, it seems. Too many arseholes in this world, dear. And who the bloody hell put them in charge? More arseholes, that’s who. It’s all arseholes, everywhere you look.”
Miller was deep in thought. Bunny finished her sherry but before she could despatch Miller to the bar to fetch another, Miller reverted to detective mode.
“Bunny... ”
“Yes, dear. Same again.”
“No, you said something about fund-raising. You’re telling me the fans put up the money for the film to be made?”
“That’s right. Packet of scratchings too. Let’s push the boat out.”
“But if the fans put up the money, who are the Americans swanning around? I thought they were the producers.”
“That’s where it gets complicated. When all the money came pouring in, an American studio contacts me, saying they’ll double the kitty and put all their resources at my disposal. Only, of course, there were certain provisions. We had to have an American in it, to make it easier to sell across the pond. But I never agreed to all these terrorists and things blowing up.”
“Excuse me - they approached you?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Why would they approach you?”
“Because I own the rights, dear. When the show was cancelled, I did a deal with the television company. I wouldn’t sue them for breaking my contract if they signed over the rights to Hospital Corners to me. And where are they now? They lost their franchise and I’m still going strong. They thought they were getting off cheaply but I’m laughing now. Those rights will now keep me in clover for the rest of my natural.”
“Very shrewd,” said Miller. “And what do the fans think of the American takeover?”
“You’ll have to ask them, dear. Now get that arse to the bar. I’m gasping here.”
Miller waited to be served. Her mind was racing. Oh, if only Brough was there to talk it through. He’d see some connection she couldn’t.
She returned to the table.
“Lovely,” Bunny tore into the packet of fried pig skin. “Now, did I ever tell you about the time I was stuck in a lift with Val Doonican?”
***
“I’m running you a bath,” Pinkie announced. “Now come and join me in the circle of healing.”
He had moved the coffee table and placed a ring of crystals on the rug.
“I don’t want to,” said Oscar. “I want to go after Dan.”
“You need to cleanse,” said Pinkie. “I’ll make you a juice that’ll strip out your colon. Then you can have your bath with essential oils.”
Oscar slumped on the sofa. “I’ve got lines to learn for tomorrow.”
“You won’t learn anything if your mind is crowded,” said Pinkie, in a patronising tone. He sat beside Oscar and patted his thigh. Oscar squirmed under his touch. “Come on; Pinkie knows best.” The hand moved up the thigh. Oscar pushed him away.
“I think you’d better find somewhere to sleep,” he said. “And tomorrow you can go back home.”
“My, my! Your chakras are blocked! Come here and let me raiki on you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about any more.”
“Oscar, Oscar, you’ve been in this godforsaken, miserable dump for too long.”
“I’ve been here since Monday!”
Pinkie shook his head. “This place is poisoning you against me. Turning you from the path.”
“They have a word here,” said Oscar. “That word is ‘bollocks’.”
“Let me fill you with my life-light.”
“Let me show you the door.”
“Let me open you like a door. Let me open your perception. Let me light a candle to our cosmic vibrations.”
Oscar laughed. “You’ve become a parody of yourself; do you know that?”
Pinkie pouted. He snatched up his man bag. “I’ll book a suite here,” he said. “I’ll put it on your tab. Perhaps when you’ve had your bath you’ll see things more clearly. I’m the one who cares about you. Oscar. I’m the one who keeps you focussed when everyone else around you is all fakery and bullshit. You’ll remember that and you’ll come knocking on my door. Just you see.”
He stormed out in a snit.
Oscar called down the corridor after him, “I’m pulling the plug.”
He shut the door and reached for his phone. He realised he didn’t have Dan’s number - how could he not have Dan’s number?
He looked at his laptop...
I could contact Dan via the messenger...
He decided against it. Dan had deceived him. Dan should have told him who he was the moment they met. This is what happens when you think you’re close to someone from the internet.
Perhaps Pinkie was right. Perhaps Pinkie really was the only person who wasn’t fake.
Oscar went to bed and sat up, reading the script for the next day. But he couldn’t take in a word of it. He curled up and when sleep finally overcame him, it was fitful and troubled him with disturbing dreams of his unfortunate brother.
***
Miller poured Bunny into her car. The driver nodded; he understood the ways of Miss Slippers. And with Bunny snoring on the back seat he wouldn’t have to endure the same old showbiz tales the old biddy seemed to spew out on a loop.
Miller got straight on the phone to Harry Henry. He was still working at Serious. She told him what Bunny had said about the fans and the money.
“I’ll look into it,” said Harry Henry, stifling a yawn. He rubbed his eyes without taking off his glasses. “Tomorrow. I’m tired, Mel.”
“I can imagine,” said Miller. “What we need is names. Who’s behind the fund-raising?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that s
omebody so invested in a creaky old television programme might be bonkers enough to do anything to get the film made.”
“Or not made,” said Harry Henry.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been reading a lot of the forums. Some people are of the opinion that the film is an insult to the series. An insult to its legacy.”
“So they might take steps to disrupt the filming?”
“They might take writers and directors!”
“Harry, you’re brilliant. If I was there, I would kiss you.”
“Um... I’m a married man,” he reminded her. Miller laughed and told him he was priceless.
“We’ll look together,” she said. “I’ll be in at nine. Now, go home and get some kip.”
“Imagine me saluting,” said Harry Henry. “And Mel?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t worry about David; I’m sure he’s fine.”
***
Dan went back to his digs. He booted up his laptop and just as quickly shut it down again. He wanted to contact Oscar and try to explain. Every time he had tried to tell the film star who he was, something had happened. But online, perhaps he had a chance. They had always got on well online.
“You’re the only person I talk to,” Oscar had said on several occasions. “You’re the only one who talks to me like I’m a human being and not a living doll.”
Oh, Oscar. Dan threw his head back onto his pillow. We could be friends in real life; I’m sure of it. Perhaps more.
Please forgive me for not telling you from the start.
Please let me back into your life.
8
Jessica Bean was in the office early. She stood by the fax machine, chewing her fingernails. I’ll have to treat myself to a manicure, she thought, to celebrate when Rob and I pull this off.
Julian Farrow came in. He expressed his surprise at seeing Jessica there before him.
“Time difference,” she explained. “They’re behind us in Los Angeles. The pages could come from Monty at any moment.”
“Well, you know what they say about watching kettles,” said Julian. “Why don’t you nip out to Catering and get us some breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I could murder a sausage sandwich.”
It was a stand-off. Jessica snatched up her bag. “Red or brown?” she asked with a sigh of resignation.
“Surprise me,” said Julian. The p.a. flounced from the room. Julian rubbed his hands. The fax beeped and chuntered into life. “Good old Monty!” Julian saluted the machine. He gathered the pages as they came out and fed them into a shredder.
When Jessica returned with his sandwich and a coffee, he was sitting at the desk pouring over several sheets of paper. “This is great stuff,” he enthused. “I knew Monty wouldn’t let us down.”
Jessica plonked the coffee down so hard the plastic lid came off the cup.
“Steady!” Julian laughed. “I’m going to need you to copy this for everyone.”
Jessica left the room. She stabbed her finger at her phone.
“Huh?” grunted her brother, still in bed.
“Shit, shit, shit,” was her greeting. She told him what had happened.
“It’s just one scene,” he told her. “It’s not a problem.”
“But it’s not our scene,” she wailed. “You do know who Julian is, don’t you? He’s the nutter from the forum who wants to turn our beloved Hospital Corners into a musical. I think he’s had the same idea. I think he’s intercepted the sides from L.A.”
“Shit,” said Rob, suddenly more awake. “Shit, shit.”
“Exactly,” said Jessica. “He’s got to go.”
“Yes,” said Rob. “He’s got to go.”
***
“Early birds!” said Chief Inspector Wheeler when she found Harry Henry and Miller poring over monitors. Miller brought her up to speed.
“Fans, eh? Do you know the word derives from ‘fucking fanatic’? Doesn’t surprise me. Any names in the frame?”
“That’s the thing, Chief,” Harry Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. “People use false names on the internet. It’s quite a common phenomenon.”
“No fucking shit,” said Wheeler. “There’s ways and means around that, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” said Miller.
“Fucking yeah,” said Wheeler. “You trace the wossname - the I.P. address.”
The two detectives looked impressed.
“What?” said Wheeler, reddening a little. “I watch telly like any normal person.”
“I’ll get on it,” said Harry Henry.
“Get Ian to help,” Wheeler called over her shoulder as she left. “Be here all fucking week otherwise.”
Miller rang the technician’s extension. Ian said he’d be with her right away. Miller blushed.
“He fancies you,” said Harry Henry.
“Don’t be saft,” said Miller. “Oh, Harry; if only you weren’t already taken.”
The smile dropped from Harry Henry’s face, serving to make Miller laugh all the more.
***
The disused hospital looked starker than usual in the early light of morning. The trucks and trailers were all silent as if they’d been abandoned, adding to the eerie atmosphere. It’s easy, Dan reflected, to imagine the old place as being haunted, and all the film crew spirited away in one fell swoop.
He called in at the production office to ask for the day’s schedule. The p.a. to the director grunted and said he wasn’t needed; the morning’s scene was between Doctor Kilmore and Nurse de Screens. There would be no stunts, cunning or otherwise.
Charming, thought Dan. He went over to the catering truck to get a cup of tea. He decided to stick around. Perhaps he could snatch a moment with Oscar and perhaps during that minute, Oscar would understand and Oscar would forgive him.
It’s a lot to ask of a minute, he realised.
He sat with his tea and watched people arriving. It was always the crew first. They had to set-up for the day. Long hours on a film, Dan observed. A lot of activity interspersed with longer periods of inactivity. Waiting around and getting bored.
It was during these periods that Oscar had been most active online. At first Dan had replied to tweets, making puns and quips. Eventually the film star had noticed him and had begun to retweet and favourite Dan’s ripostes. Then one day - one glorious day - Oscar had clicked Follow. Dan couldn’t believe it. Now they were able to send each other private messages. The private messages had led to an exchange of email addresses. It was a magical time. Dan felt privileged to see beyond Oscar’s public persona and absolutely thrilled to be in contact with someone with whom he saw eye-to-eye.
Surely Oscar felt the same? Surely he wouldn’t want to say goodbye to all that, that closeness that spanned the Atlantic Ocean?
Dan couldn’t drink his tea. The butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t allow it. He tapped his feet under the table, anxious and impatient to see Oscar, and determined to fight for the relationship they shared.
“Can I join you?” A voice roused him from his contemplations.
“Delia!” Dan shuffled to his feet. “Please.”
“Quite the gentleman,” the actress chuckled. She was already in her nurse’s uniform. “I don’t know; I expected you to act like our American friend. Because you look just like him. Silly, isn’t it?”
“Oscar can be polite,” Dan pointed out.
“I suppose,” Delia sipped her orange juice. “I don’t really know him. Yet. We’ve got a big scene today. Intense. I get to put my hand inside his shirt.”
“Ooh!” said Dan. “He’s a lucky fellow.”
“It’s mad, isn’t it, when you think about it? This job? Any other profession, you know your
co-worker for a couple of days and you kiss them and feel them up, well, you’d get your marching orders, wouldn’t you?”
“Hmm,” said Dan, trying to sound like he was listening.
“I’m the lucky one,” she continued. “World’s sexiest man. We’re going to a fashion launch together. All the papers will be there. That should do my profile some good. Not that that’s why I’m taking him - please don’t think that. I really think - and this is just between you and me - that there’s a real connection between Oscar and me. I think we could really make a go of things. Or am I being silly?”
“Oh, no,” said Dan, with a sad smile, “I don’t think silly is the word.”
She reached across the table and gave his hand an appreciative squeeze.
“You’re sweet,” she beamed. “And don’t worry I don’t think your duties as stand-in will be called upon.” She laughed and left. Dan’s mood darkened. Loyalty to the Oscar he was close to prevented him from telling Delia the truth.
Even if Oscar forgives me, he thought, we can never be together. Not properly. Not publicly.
But unlike, Delia Cartwright I don’t want Oscar as a trophy on my arm. I’m not that shallow. Am I?
Fretting with self-doubt, Dan noticed his tea had gone cold. That could be a symbol of something-or-other, he thought bitterly. If this was a Dabney Dorridge film, it would signify the cooling of Oscar’s affections towards me.
***
Pinkie jumped into the car that collected Oscar from the hotel before the movie star was aware what was happening.
“Pinkie, fuck off.” Oscar was in no mood. He had hardly slept; the make-up girls had their work cut out for them that morning.
Pinkie ignored that and wittered on about a schedule he’d drawn up that would benefit Oscar between set-ups, “Good for the body and the psyche,” he announced, displaying a ‘vision board’ he had cobbled together. “Macrobiotic lunch and meditation. Incense and a runic reading.”
Oscar shook his head.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Pinkie pouted. He tried to rest his chin on the movie star’s arm but Oscar elbowed him away. “I’m your very personal assistant,” Pinkie went on, his voice becoming a little sterner. “And you’re going to be nice to me all day long or I might find myself talking to the British press - and you know what they’re like for rumour and gossip. If they ply me with so much as a drink of water, there’s no saying what might come spilling out of me.”
Hospital Corners Page 7