Good Time Girl

Patsy giggled again. ‘You’d have to ask her. She’s usually up here,’ she added looking around the room. ‘She likes a drink or three.’

‘Does she?’ Tony Snellor took out his miniature tape recorder, placed it on the table between them and switched it on. Patsy turned back, disappointed that there was no sign of Bella. Snellor took a large swig of vodka. ‘Tell me, Patsy, how do you get on with other members of the cast?’

Patsy pondered this for some time. She was longing to air her grievances to someone, and maybe if she said she was unhappy in public they would realize and be nicer to her.

‘I wish they were nicer to me,’ she whispered.

Snellor sat up. ‘I can’t believe they’re nasty to you,’ he said hopefully.

‘They are sometimes. Well, not nasty, exactly. Perhaps they’re just jealous, like you said.’

‘I’m sure I’m right,’ said Snellor. ‘I bet you have trouble with that Bella, don’t you? I mean, she must be worried by a younger, beautiful rival, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Patsy, nodding her head sagely.

‘You know, Patsy, I could do you a bit of good here,’ said Snellor, looking at her with interest. He’d just had one of his brainwaves. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they were humdingers. ‘I’ve been watching this series and, I must say, since you’ve come into it, it’s perked up no end. I think you’ve got what it takes. But producers aren’t always so quick off the mark. But if an artist is seen to be getting a lot of publicity, that means something to them. The ratings go up and they start to build up that artist’s part. Soon she’s taken over and become the star of the series. Do you follow me?’ Snellor glanced at Patsy. Had he gone too far? No. She was gazing at him with shining eyes. He pressed home his point. ‘What I’m saying here, Pat, is, you give me the stories and I’ll guarantee to give you the publicity. It needn’t be too obvious. Just little snippets about what’s happening behind the cameras from time to time. We angle it to include a nice big picture of you. We might even put you on the cover of the colour supplement on Sunday if you come up with the right story. What do you say?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea, Tony!’

8 (#ulink_e0a2012a-87f4-5047-be95-642bd360285f)

Full of trepidation, Claire started to get ready for her visit to the studio. It was the day of her make-up test and she was apprehensive to say the least. Her previous encounters with make-up artists had not been happy. She had only done a couple of small parts in television, and had not had the nerve to stand up for what she wanted.

‘After all, Sal,’ she had complained to her friend after an earlier disaster, ‘I know my face better than anyone else. I know what suits me. I know how to make the best of my features. I mean, I realize I’m no beauty …’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re gorgeous! Everyone knows that. You’ve just got to be firm; you’re too nice, that’s your trouble. Diana Barry throws brushes and things around if she doesn’t get what she wants.’

Claire looked appalled. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, it’s just not professional,’ she said primly.

‘Well then, you’ll just have to go on looking like the back of a number nine bus.’

‘I know, I know. I just don’t know how to handle those make-up girls. They’re all harridans,’ said Claire feelingly.

‘They’re just bullies,’ retorted Sally, ‘and like all bullies, if you stand up to them, they’ll crumble.’

‘I know you’re right, I just don’t have the guts,’ Claire had replied miserably.

That was a couple of years ago, however. She had the guts now, she was tougher now – Roger had at least done that for her. She was determined not to be bullied this time into having a face that was, in her opinion, totally characterless – no eyes nor cheekbones, just lips and eyebrows. She had looked dreadful. It had destroyed her confidence and she had cried bitterly afterwards. When she had seen herself on the television, she had been enraged. Never again, she thought savagely. This was the biggest break of her career and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of her success. She drove to the studio, nervous but determined to win. The more she thought of her previous humiliations, the more furious and the more resolute she became. She was determined to win the forthcoming battle. For battle there would surely be, she felt certain. By the time she arrived at the studio gates, she was trembling, whether from fear or anger she wasn’t sure, but she managed a tremulous smile for the official residing on the gate.

‘I am here for a make-up test for The McMasters,’ she said, suddenly feeling a sense of belonging to something rather special.

He seemed delighted and allowed her to park in the area in the middle right outside the main building, an honour usually the preserve of the top brass of South Eastern Television. Even famous stars had been known to have been turned away from this car park. The gate attendant’s power was absolute. Every visiting actor was at the mercy of his whims and moods. This unexpected favour put Claire in a buoyant mood. She parked and strode confidently into the building. There were several women officiating in the vast reception area. She approached one and was steadfastly ignored. As she turned to another, a phone rang and the receptionist picked it up and became engaged in an animated discussion. Claire addressed a third.

‘My name is Claire Jenner. I am in The McMasters and I am here for a make-up session. Where do I go?’

‘Red assembly – lower ground,’ said the woman, without looking up. She seemed unimpressed, if not disinterested, by Claire’s announcement.

‘Thank you,’ said Claire politely. She made her way to the escalator that went down to the basement, glancing as she went at the huge colour photographs that were arranged around the walls of the reception hall. There was one featuring the current cast of The McMasters. She would be amongst them soon, she thought to herself happily. Soon, she too would be as famous as they were. She would not be ignored by the receptionists but welcomed and made much of. At the bottom of the escalator she came to a corridor with another off it at right angles. Illuminated signs indicated ‘Red Assembly’ and ‘Make-up Department’.

Claire could hear sounds of chatter and laughter coming from within. Her heart started to beat a little faster. She approached the door clutching her handbag and script to her, and entered. She stood there for a few moments before anyone noticed her. The make-up room was long and narrow, and the walls were hung with mirrors surrounded by fluorescent lights. The long uninterrupted worktop that went the full length of the room was covered in powder puffs, make-up brushes, jars, bottles, little round pots of pencils, sponges, combs, heated rollers and every known aid to beauty. In front of the mirrors, at regular intervals, were six chairs of the type used by dentists. Actors and actresses were sitting in these, being tended by make-up artists – Claire’s harridans – who were clad in crisp pale blue overalls and seemed to be on very good terms with their victims.

A young man, nearest to the door, observed Claire’s entrance through the mirror.

‘Well, hello!’ he said cheerily. ‘Look what’s just walked in, everyone.’

Claire stood uncomfortably. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to overcome her shyness.

The make-up girl nearest her, who was tending the young man, turned around with no hint of welcome in her face.

‘Yes?’ she enquired imperiously. ‘Can we help you?’

Claire took a deep breath. She knew she had to start as she meant to go on.

‘I’m Claire Jenner,’ she announced loudly. ‘I’m playing Sara Harper – I’ve come for a make-up test.’

The entire room came to a stop. The rest of the make-up girls were arrested in mid-operations to stare at the interloper, whilst the cast members turned as one to eye her with ill-concealed curiosity.

‘Hello, dear – very pleased to meet you,’ said Meg immediately, with great warmth.

‘Hello,’ replied Claire gratefully. ‘And I you,’ and she smiled back at her.

‘And a very attractive addition to the cast, if I may say so,’ said the young man suavely, swivelling round in his chair to face her, stretching out his hand. ‘I’m Simon Lavell, welcome aboard.’ Claire took the proffered hand.

‘Thank you. I’m really glad to be here,’ she said trying to believe it.

‘And we’re very glad to have you, love,’ called Reg from the far end in his homely Northern accent. He played George, the restorer in the series, and husband of the character played by Meg. ‘You’ll liven things up, I shouldn’t wonder. Could do with a new bit of blood.’

Claire laughed, and coloured slightly.

‘Hello, Claire, I’m Amy,’ said a rather pretty brunette with gamine looks, laughing eyes, and hair cut in a bob with a heavy fringe. Claire remembered that Amy played Sophie Longthorn, the receptionist for the McMasters’ rather grand premises.

Also sitting being made up, but too shy to speak, were Frederick Derby, an older actor in his late seventies, who supplied the aristocratic element in this very British television series, and Jason Wright. He played Billy, the boy in the workshop who was responsible for the packing of valuable items. These two turned to smile at Claire. She smiled happily back. At least they all seemed pleased enough to see her. Particularly Simon Lavell. He was still eyeing her in a critical way. The make-up girl who had greeted her so coldly now took charge of the situation.

‘We’re not ready for you yet – we’re in the middle of a recording, you know.’

Claire blushed in spite of herself. ‘I was told to be here at four thirty,’ she said with as much courage as she could muster.

‘By whom?’ asked the termagant.

‘Sonia, Sonia asked me to be here at four thirty,’ insisted Claire, anger starting to rise at this public humiliation.

‘She’s on the floor doing Patsy’s retake, wouldn’t you know,’ said Simon, jerking a thumb in the direction of a large monitor that was affixed to the wall about a couple of feet down from the ceiling. Everyone glanced up at the monitor. The sound had been turned off and there was indeed evidence of a retake of a scene in progress. The screen was filled with huge close-ups of Patsy Hall. Claire looked at her curiously. She had a low opinion of Patsy’s acting ability, although she conceded that she was a lovely-looking girl. She seemed to be looking vacant at the moment, as though unsure of what to do next.

‘Look at her,’ said Simon contemptuously. ‘She hasn’t a bloody clue.’

Claire was astonished at this blunt dismissal of a fellow actor, but said nothing.

‘Get it right, love!’ he jeered at the screen, as it became apparent that the scene was being shot yet again. ‘We all want to go home tonight!’ The rest of the room laughed uproariously, even kind Meg and Reg. Plainly, Patsy was the company joke. Someone turned the sound up and after another attempt, Patsy got it right and the whole make-up room cheered. Except Claire, who was genuinely appalled by the goings-on.