Good Time Girl

‘Hi, Sal. I’m okay. No, as a matter of fact I’m more than okay. I’m seeing some producers about a job on Thursday so things are looking up.’

‘Darling, that’s wonderful. Can I come round tonight?’

‘Well, funnily enough, I was going to ask you over. I was just about to dial your number. How did you know?’

‘I’m clairvoyant, and one doesn’t dial any more, one punches.’

‘True. What time will you be here?’

‘In about an hour. I’m bringing some food. You’re looking a bit peaky so I’m going to cook you supper!’

‘You darling.’ Claire was genuinely touched. ‘You couldn’t possibly bring most of your wardrobe with you as well could you? God knows what I’m going to wear for this interview.’

‘What’s the part?’

‘Oh, sort of classy ballbreaker by the sound of it.’

‘I’ve got just the thing! See you later,’ and Sally rang off.

Claire felt better than she’d done for ages. Suddenly there was real hope. She wandered slowly into her bedroom and slid back the cupboard doors. Three long peasant skirts – Roger had liked peasant skirts. A calf-length tweed skirt and matching long jacket – Roger had liked those, too. The high-necked long-sleeved velvet evening dress that Roger had chosen for her, and a cashmere stole – and several pairs of low-heeled pumps. It dawned on her that her entire wardrobe consisted not of her taste but of Roger’s. She had dressed to please him. There was certainly nothing suitable for a tough aggressive business woman here.

She remembered how she used to dress before she met Roger: trousers, sweatshirts, boots; jeans, tee shirts, sneakers; very short skirts with high heels and little nipped in jackets; daringly low-cut evening dresses and anything that was either ethnic or outrageous. Individual clothes for a confident independent woman. She had worn make-up too. Sometimes lots of it. She enjoyed wearing it. Roger had somehow persuaded her that she looked better without it. The only time she got the opportunity to make up was on stage or before the cameras. That’s how she’d first met Roger. In front of the camera. She’d had long hair then, too. A thick wonderful shining mane. And she’d been wearing a lot of makeup. He’d come to take her photo for a magazine article, a glossy in-depth piece featuring young actresses who had been tipped as ‘the girls most likely to succeed’. It had been her only real taste of fame so far. Roger was one of the most successful photographers around, and he’d fallen for her at once, she knew that. She could tell by the way he looked at her. And by the photographs he had taken of her. Yet within a year he had persuaded her to cut off her lovely hair and divest herself of all her make-up. She stood staring at the open cupboard as she remembered. Why had he wanted to change her? It was a mystery.

She walked slowly over to the dressing-table, sat down, and opened the left-hand drawer. Yes, it was all there, her make-up box, false eyelashes, everything. Deliberately she started to apply a golden tinted foundation, not thickly but just enough to give her a tan-like glow. Next, eyeliner, flicked up at the ends to give her eyes an upward slant, her favourite exotic look. Then she outlined her lips with a lipliner, filled in her mouth with a paler lipstick, never a dark one, not for Claire. A smudge of eyeshadow, bronze blusher on the cheekbones and temples, even the chin. And finally, yes, why not? Natural-looking eyelashes, stuck right at the roots of her own, and liberally mascaraed top and bottom.

Her hair had now grown back to almost shoulder length, but was looking decidedly lifeless. She opened the other drawer and pulled out the hairpiece she had bought last year. She had suddenly been asked to play Mary Magdalene in a charity Christmas show. They couldn’t afford to hire a wig for her, so she had gone out and bought one herself from a theatrical wigmakers. She had seen an advertisement announcing that they were selling off old stock. She had been thrilled with it, and had worn it a couple of times since on stage. Now she rifled around and found some hairpins. She wound small sections of her own hair on the crown of her head and secured them with hairgrips. Then she brushed the false hair vigorously and attached it to the pin curls with large hairpins. She teased her own hair back to blend in with the false piece and, hardly bearing to look at herself, sauntered into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Tea. One of her favourite indulgences.

Suddenly she remembered an old holdall in the broom cupboard in the passage. She was sure she had kept some of her old clothes there. She all but ran out of the kitchen, wrenched the cupboard door open and dragged out the case, unzipped it – and yes, it was bulging with garments. Thinking she could use them when she next decorated, she’d never thrown them out. They were mainly jeans, trousers and tops. She exclaimed with delight as she unearthed some much-loved jungle-green army fatigues. She bundled the rest back into the case and carried it lovingly into the bedroom. The kettle was boiling and she ran to make the tea, then hurried back to the bedroom and took out the fatigues. Admittedly they smelt a bit strange, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d give them a good wash that night.

She tore off her blouse and ankle-length skirt, stepped into the all-in-one outfit and zipped up the front. It still fitted well. If anything it was a touch large; of course, she had lost weight recently. It needed a belt – well, at least she still had those. On a shelf in a cupboard she found her favourite. It was very wide, brown shaped leather and she fastened it around her waist with mounting excitement. Shoes – of course, trainers – she used those for rehearsals. She dug them out of the back of the wardrobe and rammed them on her feet. Then, picking up the rest of the clothes from the bed, she strode confidently back into the kitchen, opened the door of the washing machine and chucked them all in. Washing powder and softener followed, then she slammed the door and clicked the controls. She poured a large breakfast cup of tea and wandered into the sitting room. Then, and then only, did she allow herself a good look at her reflection.

To her delight and surprise Claire saw a girl she had once known smiling back at her. She all but whooped with joy. Could it be that she actually felt happy? That the awful weight of misery that she had been dragging around with her for months was beginning to lighten? The anguish of the last two weeks had been insupportable and she knew it would be a long time before that diminished. But this was the start. She surveyed herself from all angles, then sat down on the sofa to sip her tea. Perhaps some music? No, no, not music, not yet. Music stirred the emotions. No, she mustn’t overreach herself. One step at a time. Practical progress first. The door bell rang. Again her heart leapt. This was ridiculous. She must learn to control herself. She put the cup down on the glass coffee table and went to the front door.

‘Hello, darling. I’m a bit early. Does it matter?’ Sally stood in the doorway laden with carrier bags and clothes slung over her arm. ‘My God! Have I come to the wrong flat?’ she exclaimed in amazement as she took in Claire’s appearance.

Claire laughed. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it?’ cried Sally, dropping her burdens and hugging her. ‘Oh, darling, welcome back!’

‘Have I really changed that much?’ asked Claire, extricating herself.

Sally stood back and surveyed her. ‘This is the girl I knew four years ago. You look stunning!’

Claire smiled back at her. ‘I think I’m going to get better, Sal,’ she said evenly.

‘I know you are,’ Sally replied with conviction. ‘You look heaps better already, though admittedly you smell a little funny, sort of mildewy! Nothing that a drop of scent won’t put right.’

Claire giggled. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

Sally stopped her. ‘No, darling, new man, new scent,’ she said firmly.

‘But I haven’t got a new man,’ protested Claire laughingly.

‘Looking like that, you soon will have,’ said Sally. ‘Yep, new job, new man, I’m absolutely convinced of it.’

‘Yes,’ said Claire doubtfully, ‘but I’ve got to get the job first.’

‘And so you shall!’ said her friend with determination. ‘See what I’ve brought you!’ And she rescued the clothes from the floor where they had fallen.

‘But, Sal,’ protested Claire, as Sally held up a superb-looking garment, ‘this is your new Italian suit!’

‘That’s right,’ responded Sally gaily. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ And she held it up against Claire. ‘This’ll get you the job!’

6 (#ulink_1f3995d0-b32c-5456-8732-445f22f8fb2d)

She had class. Of that there was no doubt. She looked good, was in fact stunning. High cheekbones, slanting grey eyes, dark reddish brown hair and a flawless complexion. Hugh noted it all. The impeccably cut slate-grey suit. The moss agate earrings and matching ring, the dark green of which was picked up in a long narrow silk scarf hung loosely around her neck. The shoes and handbag of matching grey suede. The hair piled on top of her head. Hugh felt a surge of excitement. He had found Sara Harper.

‘Excuse me a moment will you, Ms Jenner?’ He rose from his seat. ‘Oh, would you care to take a look at the script?’ he added. ‘I’m just popping down the corridor.’

‘Thank you, yes, I’d love to.’

He seemed to be in a hurry, Claire thought. As soon as he had gone, she picked up the wodge of type-covered paper that he had placed in front of her. The pages were held together at the top with a single clip. ‘The McMasters. Episode 10’, it said on the front page, followed by a list of the producers, assistants and various other administrative personnel. She flicked through the pages, trying to find her character. She already thought of it as ‘hers’. She had an idea that Hugh was impressed. He had seemed agitated. She noticed that she often had this effect on men. Ah, here it was.

Int. Sara’s office.

A tall blonde woman is perched on the edge of a desk. She is speaking on the telephone. She swings a shapely leg as she talks.

Claire smiled to herself. This was right up her street. She had to have this part. The door opened and Hugh reappeared with another man in tow, older, bald, benign-looking.

‘Ah, Ms Jenner, you’re still here,’ he sounded relieved.

As if I’d think of going anywhere with a part like this hanging in the balance, thought Claire.

‘This is Claire Jenner, Martin,’ said Hugh. ‘Ms Jenner, this is our producer, Martin Roberts.’

‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ said Claire, rising to shake hands. Martin nodded and smiled shyly, shook her hand vigorously but did not speak. They both seemed uncertain of what to say next.

Then, seeing the script, Hugh had an inspiration. ‘So, what did you think of Episode – er – Ten – is it? Yes, Episode Ten.’

‘I’ve only just glanced at it,’ replied Claire, wondering how on earth he supposed she’d had time to read it in the few minutes it had taken him to fetch Martin.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Hugh replied. ‘Did you manage to find our Sara?’ He spoke of the character as though she were a personal friend.

‘Yes, I found her first entrance. I think it’s brilliant.’ Both men looked at her eagerly.

‘Good, good, splendid,’ said Hugh. ‘And how do you feel about her?’

‘I can handle her,’ she replied, fingering the script for a moment, then tossing it across the desk.