I pulled back and opened my eyes. As I did, I swear I saw a flash at the window. A camera flash.
Savannah gasped. ‘Who was that?’
I ran to the window and just glimpsed the shape of a man disappearing behind one of the trailers.
I opened the trailer door and ran out after whoever it was but, too late, he was gone.
Savannah came and stood behind me. ‘Hell,’ she said. ‘I hope that wasn’t the press. They bug me wherever I am these days. Always looking for a story. It’s one almighty drag.’
And it will be one almighty drag if that kiss gets back to Lia, I thought, as Julie and Chantelle from the make-up department walked past, took a good long look at us then giggled. Chantelle turned back and winked at me.
GOSSIP ABOUT my trip to Fowey with Savannah had spread round the unit base like a Mexican wave at a football match. And of course, it had also got to Cat, Becca . . . and Lia, who had come to hang out with the girls in their break.
‘Here comes the toy boy,’ teased Becca, when I found them hanging out at the back of the trailers and taking in the good weather we were having. ‘Heard that you’ve got a new job as an escort now.’
I looked closely at the three of them and tried to gauge what was going on in their heads. Toy boy? Was Becca being snide? Had she and Cat been talking and sided with Lia, casting me as the villain? I decided to keep things light and smiled back at Becca. ‘Yep, it was a tough job but someone had to do it. Riding in a limo, sightseeing, hanging out with a celeb. Yeah, it was really hard work.’
Cat and Becca smiled back at me but Lia didn’t.
‘So what’s she like?’ asked Cat.
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Sweet. A bit lonely.’
‘Everyone thinks she fancies you,’ said Becca.
‘Well who could blame her?’ I said, laughing. ‘Nah, I think she just wants someone to talk to.’
‘That’s not what’s being said around here,’ said Becca. ‘Some people have almost got you married off.’
I shrugged and directed my reply to Lia. ‘Yeah, but you can’t believe everything you hear. And you must know what it’s like from when your dad was on the road and in the public eye, Lia. He told me about being on tour and people reading too much into situations that were totally innocent.’
At that moment, Fran, the lady in charge of catering, beckoned Cat and Becca to go back into work. So, at last, I was left alone with Lia.
‘So are you going to tell me what’s really going on?’ she asked.
I took her hand and squeezed it in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. Lia winced. Clearly I’d squeezed too hard.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Honest. If anything had been going on when we went down to Fowey, I wouldn’t have told you that I’d spent the day with her, would I? I could have said that I was over in Plymouth on my own. Surely the fact that I told you that I’d been with Savannah as soon as I got back means that nothing went on?’
Lia considered what I’d said for a moment. ‘So what you’re saying is, if something was going on between you and Savannah, then you wouldn’t tell me?’
‘Yes. NO,’ I was getting confused. ‘No, what I was saying was because I told you that I’d spent the day with her, it means that I am telling you what has been going on. Which is nothing. When people cheat, they don’t tend to tell their girlfriend or boyfriend anything about their actions.’
It wasn’t coming out right at all. And I hadn’t told her about the rehearsal I’d just done with Savannah or the kiss, or the photo. Why was that? I asked myself. Is it because something is going on? But it isn’t. Not really. So maybe I should tell her. But would she be upset? Sometimes what you don’t know, doesn’t hurt you. God, I don’t know. It’s not half confusing.
‘How do I know if I can trust you, Squidge?’ she asked, but at the same moment, Sandra appeared from behind the trailer.
‘Hey, Squidge. Roland’s looking for you,’ she said. ‘He said to make it snappy.’
‘Right. OK. See you later, Lia.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Later.’
She’s still not happy with me, I thought, as I made my way over to see Roland. How am I going to put this right? I do want to keep seeing her. I do want her to be my girlfriend. Trying to explain in words doesn’t work; in fact, explanations only seem to land me more in trouble. How can I let her know how much I care?
When I got to the production office, I saw that Donny Abreck was in there with Roland and Sandra. In case he was saying something private, I didn’t go straight in. Instead, I hovered on the steps from where I could hear Donny ranting and raving inside. It was weird listening to him. He was expressing the part of me that feels restricted living here in Cornwall.
‘This place is the boons. It’s like . . . it’s like the edge of the world,’ moaned Donny. ‘There’s nothing to do, there’s no movie house, no shops, no restaurants . . .’
‘You’re only here a few days,’ I heard Sandra say. ‘We’ll make your scenes top priority, then you’ll be out of here.’
What is his problem? I asked myself. As Sandra was saying, he doesn’t have to stay here forever. Unlike me, who’s had to spend his whole life in the place. He’s with us for a week, tops, then he’s out of here. Surely part of the job of being an actor is going where the job demands.
Then Donny began a long list of all his personal requirements: can’t eat this, won’t eat that; must have this, mustn’t have that. I could see that there was going to be a lot of running around after him while he was on the set. What a prat, I thought. Who does he think he is? I decided to nickname him Primadonny because of the way he was carrying on.
When I’m a director, I decided, I’m going to give all sorts of unknown actors parts. Actors who will appreciate getting the work and won’t moan when they have to go to a quiet location for a week or so. Sometimes we see the same old faces over and over again in films, when there’s a whole army of good actors out there all waiting for their break. Actors who wouldn’t behave like spoiled kids. Savannah’s not like that. Not when you get to know her. She hadn’t objected to the location, not once. In fact, like in Fowey on Saturday, she’s taking this as a chance to see a world that’s different to the one she lives in. And all that stuff that Roland came out with about her not wanting to mix with the crew. Rubbish – she’s been really cool with everyone.
‘And the hotel I’m in,’ continued Donny. ‘The corridors creak, the plumbing rattles, my room smells of boiled vegetables and there’s no goddamn shower. How do people here keep clean?’
‘The Axford’s have kindly said that you can stay with them,’ said Sandra. ‘I take it that you want to move?’
‘You bet. I was out with them Saturday night. Nice folk, the Axfords. Have my things moved over as soon as possible.’
He came out and almost walked into me.
‘Oops,’ I said, dodging out of his way.
He didn’t even glance at me. He just kept walking as though I wasn’t there. When he’d gone, I stepped into the trailer. Roland handed me a list. I glanced down at it. The usual white lilies for Savannah. And a whole load of stuff for Donny.
‘Be sure to get the shampoo because he’s run out,’ said Roland pointing to an item at the bottom of the list then handing me an empty shampoo bottle. ‘Être, it’s called. Take the bottle so you don’t get it wrong. It’s some French type that everybody in Hollywood uses. If you can’t get any, order it. Oh, and get me a bottle as well.’
I made my way over to my bike. It was a good job that my dad had fixed a box on the back for carrying things, as there was going to be a lot to bring back.
I left my bike at Arthur’s pub and took the ferry over to Plymouth, then a bus into town. As soon as I got there, I tried a couple of the big pharmacies for Donny’s shampoo, but no luck; they had a million other varieties but not his. After trying a dozen smaller chemists and hairdressers, there was nowhere else to try. Maybe it’s no longer available, I thought, as I came out of the last
place I could think of, at least, not down here. I can’t go back empty handed though. Maybe he’ll settle for something else. I made my way back to the first place I’d tried and perused the shelves. They heaved with every type of product for every type of hair. I chose a posh designer one by a celebrity hairdresser and hoped that it would do the trick. I bought an extra bottle for Roland.
After that, I bought the other things on Donny’s list, then headed for the flower market for Savannah’s lilies. The market was held in a vast old warehouse down by the water in the Old Town. The air smelt sweet and fresh as I stepped inside. The place was a riot of colour: reds, purples, pinks, yellows, oranges; there were flowers of every shade, shape and size.
As I headed for the white lilies, my thoughts turned to what Mac had said this morning about different girls being like different fruits. I’d compare them to different flowers, I thought, as I took in all the types on display. For one thing, there are more varieties of flower than fruit and they have more subtle associations to describe the thousands of different types of girl out there. I mean, with fruit, you’re limited. And who would ever want to be compared to a pear or a grapefruit? It’s not poetic, somehow. Imagine a romantic evening and looking into a girl’s eyes and saying, ‘Hey, you remind me of a banana’. She’d probably hit you. But if you said, ‘You remind me of a rose in bloom’, or something soppy like that, she’d probably like it. Yeah, I thought, I must remember to tell Mac that flowers are far better than fruit for comparing girls to.
I’d never thought about it before, but there must be the perfect flower here to compare to a hundred different girls. What would Lia be? I cast my eye around the flowers on display. No, not those purple ones over there, nor those pink ones there, definitely not a daffodil. Something elegant, graceful – like her. Maybe a white rose? No, they are lovely, but too common. Then I saw the perfect flower: an orchid – white with a pale pink centre. It was exquisite. Beautiful, just like her. Yes, that’s it, I decided. Lia would be a rare orchid.
And what would Savannah be? I asked myself, as I made my way to the lily section. I soon spotted it. Savannah may like her white lilies, I thought, but that’s not what she’d be. No, she’d be . . . I bent to read the label on the bucket. Tiger lily, it said. That’s it. She’d be a tiger lily. Bright orange. In your face. Can’t miss it.
I glanced at my watch and realised that I should be heading back to get the ferry. I quickly went to the white lilies.
‘Been a naughty boy then, have you?’ said the flower seller, with a knowing look when I went to pay for the required three dozen.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
The man nodded to the flowers. ‘Three dozen! To buy a bouquet that size, you have to have done something.’
I laughed as I handed over the money. ‘Not me, mate. I’m innocent.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said the flower man, with a wink. ‘Aren’t we all?’
I gave him a cheesy grin back as I took the lilies. I guess he must see a lot of blokes in here buying flowers to make up with their wives or girlfriends, I thought. I wonder if it works.
As I walked out of the market and back towards the bus stop, there were a couple of girls walking towards me on the opposite side of the pavement.
‘Those for me?’ one of them called over, giving me a big smile.
‘Next time,’ I called back. I was feeling good. My jobs were all done. I felt just in the mood for a bit of harmless banter.
Through the window of a hairdressing salon, a receptionist spotted me and called her friend over. They started waving at me and pointing to the flowers then putting their hands over their hearts and laughing. I laughed back. Hmm, I thought, I’ve bought flowers before for Mum and for relatives’ birthdays, but I’ve never had a reaction like this before. Obviously the bigger the bunch, the better. That’s it! I thought. That’s how I’ll show Lia that I care. I quickly added up how much I’d saved so far since I’d started working. It had to be an impressive bouquet for Lia, at least as stunning as the one I had for Savannah. A half-dead cheapo bunch from a corner shop certainly wouldn’t do the trick. No, but a huge bunch will tell her what I can’t say with words. It will be worth the cost and I can make up the money later. Yes, flowers. They will be loads better than a thousand explanations, apologies or excuses about the rehearsal and why I’d kissed Savannah.
I turned on my heel and headed back for the market, where I picked out a dozen orchids. I almost passed out when I heard how much they cost.
‘You sure you haven’t done anything?’ asked the flower man as I handed over the money for the second bouquet.
I shook my head. ‘Nope, but you know how it is with girls – you can’t tell them that, so best buy them flowers.’
The man tapped the side of his nose. ‘You’re a wise man,’ he said. ‘A wise man.’
DONNY WAS OK with his shampoo when I took it to him on my return to unit base. Though I did have to explain that it wasn’t any old shampoo – that a celebrity hairdresser created it. Roland wasn’t happy; he wanted Être and only Être. He wanted the product used by the stars, and nothing else would do.
‘Is this Être or is this some cheapo product that any Jo Blow uses?’ he asked, when I offered him the bottle of the same shampoo I’d bought for Donny.
For God’s sake, it’s only shampoo, I thought. But Roland wasn’t having it and sent me out again to find him some. No problem, I thought. I’d find the stuff if it meant that much to him, even if it meant researching it on the Internet and him having to wait weeks to get it. I’d get him a bumper bottle! I felt on top of the world and nothing, not even Roland, could dampen my mood. I’d been on cloud nine since I’d seen Lia and given her the flowers.
On the ferry coming back from Plymouth, I’d phoned Lia on my mobile and asked if she could meet me for a late lunch. She’d agreed and was totally blown away when I gave her the orchids and told her my new theory about women and flowers and how I thought she was like a rare orchid. I must remember this for the future, I thought, as she gave me a huge snog. Flowers can buy you loads of brownie points.
But it wasn’t just the flowers. Mac had let her know that I’d tried to reach her from Fowey and had left a message on his voicemail and her mum had also told her that I’d tried to reach her. I think she was feeling guilty about having been so cool with me.
After a good bit of making-up kissing, we had a great lunch-break, sitting outside the pub, eating chips, catching up and having a laugh and a gossip about everyone on the set. We were an item again and nothing and no one could touch us. Not Roland. (She was appalled when I admitted I was worried she might fancy him.) Not Donny. (‘Not my type,’ she’d said. ‘Too full of himself.’) I really wanted to tell her about the rehearsal kiss with Savannah and the mystery photographer, but I chickened out when she apologised for the fifth time about not trusting me more. Things had only just got back to normal with us and I didn’t want to risk ruining a perfect moment.
I will tell her, I will tell her, I told myself, as I rode back to the set after we’d parted. I’ll tell her when the time is right. In the meantime, I still had to find Roland’s shampoo. I’d exhausted all the likely places to find Être in Plymouth so thought that the best thing was to get out the phone book and call every salon and pharmacist listed to see if I could buy it anywhere in the South West. I called every salon between Portsmouth and Bristol, but they all gave me the same story.
‘Sorry, love, Être isn’t available anymore.’
‘Nope, they stopped making it months ago.’
I didn’t like to go back to unit base and admit failure, but by five o’clock I had no choice; there wasn’t anywhere else to try.
Roland didn’t like it. He was in the office with Sandra when I got back and gave him the bad news.
‘It’s only to be expected when you hire a kid as a runner I guess,’ he said to her, not even giving me a second glance.
‘But it’s no longer available,’ I said, determined to
get him to at least acknowledge my presence.
At last he turned and looked at me. ‘Listen, no longer available is not acceptable. Come back with an answer like that and you wouldn’t last a minute in Hollywood.’
What would you know? I thought. You’re just a jumped-up Boy Scout who never got to be pack leader. I’d show him who wouldn’t last in Hollywood. I’d track down a bottle of his precious shampoo if it killed me.
First stop was the local hairdresser to ask her to check suppliers further afield than the South West. Luckily, she happens to be my mum. I told her what I was looking for.
‘Never heard of Être, love,’ she said. ‘But ring our Pat in Leicester; she supplies all the major salons and posh shops in London. She might have heard of it.’
Two minutes later, I had Auntie Pat on the phone.
‘Just a sec,’ she said. ‘I’ll look it up on my computer. Yep, here it is. Être. No, it’s not French at all. It’s made in Scunthorpe. Factory went out of business last month.’
‘Is there any way you can get me a bottle? Do they have old stocks for sale?’
‘Not that I can see. Why does it have to be Être?’
‘It’s for one of the production team here. He’s a bit of a prat and wants to use the same designer products as the stars.’
Auntie Pat laughed. ‘Then more fool him. The base of most shampoo is usually the same, what makes it all appear different is the scent added and then the packaging. And that’s all you pay for with the top-of-the-range stuff – the packaging.’
That gave me an idea. I still had Donny’s empty bottle in the box on the back of my bike so dashed out to get it. I ran up to the bathroom and poured in a measure of the economy shampoo that Mum gets from the supermarket, then I rifled through Mum’s selection of essential oils that she keeps by the bath. The sandalwood smelled pretty exotic. A few drops of that, a splash of orange and, voilà . . . Être, Squidge style.
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