Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron
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take my leave," Kit announced. "I think I've had more than enough excitement for one night."
"It's only a little after ten," Erin stated.
"That's probably true," Kit nodded. "But if I go home now, I might be able to take my muse by surprise. If I can coax it out of the microwave, or wherever it's hiding, I might just get some writing done tonight."
"So you are still working on your book." Del sounded pleased.
"Yeah," Kit shrugged. "I are, in between not."
"Not what?"
"Not writing," Kit replied.
"What are you not writing?" Erin asked, looking only slightly confused.
"I'm not writing a detective novel," Kit said. "I'm up to chapter nine."
"That's great news Kit, really," Del said, raising her voice over the band, which had just started up a very loud and rambunctious blues number. "I thought you might have given up on it, seeing there was all that real lust and love, not to mention mystery, in the air."
Kit shrugged.
"Hair? Whose hair?" Erin queried. "What?"
"Mine," Kit shouted. "I've got mysterious lust in my hair, but I do not wish to talk about it."
"How about tomorrow arvo, after the lust returns home?" Del raised her eyebrows suggestively.
"Are you making sense?" Erin asked.
"Not really," Kit admitted.
"Seldom," Del stated.
CHAPTER FIVE
Boardwalk was the latest thing in cool soaps: a cross between the classic trashiness of Number 96, from the good old days of Aussie-TV for-grown-ups, and the seemingly never-ending dilemmas of the occasionally topical Blue Heelers. It was a Melrose Place wannabe, without the underlying spite, in fact without the underlying cleverness, but with a marketable-as-a-CD-compilation soundtrack of homegrown music.
The show was also controversial, and therefore top rating, and littered with the mandatory jumpcut shots of an exotic-looking city - a.k.a. Melbourne. Used only as scene-changers, because the show was filmed almost entirely in the Docklands studio lot, the location-montages were instantly recognisable to Melbournians, but were also non-specific enough to be any exotic-looking city anywhere in the world.
Which proved, Kit thought, that any old city, especially one with a beach, could be made to look exotic if the cinematographer shoots the right shots: this St Kilda palm tree, that flash of boat-on-Port-Phillip-Bay, this vibrant cityscape-at-night reflected on that section of the Yarra River, any tram flashing by Luna Park, and just a glimpse of a rollicking Chinese dragon in Little Burke St - and all done with the camera on an angle and later synchronised to a really catchy tune.
Boardwalk was also filled with young Australian 'stars of the future' as well as quite a few older actual actors. One of the stars who, according to Rebecca Jones, apparently had enough talent to be an actor - one day - was the reason why Kit was standing beside a catering van on the studio back lot, watching three blokes having a very unconvincing punch-up - for the seventh time.
"Cut! That's bloody awful," yelled the man wearing the jacket that said 'Director'. "One more time guys, come on, and then we'll take a break for lunch - if you can get it right."
Kit finished eating the best hot dog she'd ever had, as she watched the soapie-star with a future, Dylan Thomas (yes) raise his fists at the two thugs who had just insulted his 'girlfriend'. While she, the girlfriend, yelled "Hit them Cody" (again yes), he ducked and weaved and generally threw his weight around badly. If he'd been in a real fight, he'd have been decked several times over.
"Cut!" the director growled again. "For Christ's sake Dylan, stop with the 'float like a butterfly' crap and take a swing. Try it again! Places, everybody."
"Dylan is worried about actually connecting; them with him, I mean. He doesn't want to mess up his pretty face," someone said in Kit's ear, which startled her because a second before she'd been standing on her own. Kit turned to face Angela Collier, Boardwalk's PR person, who had just snuck up on her after rushing off, for the third time, to help deal with a lingerie crisis being experienced by one of her other actors.
"That's better.' Kit whispered the comment, with a nod in Dylan's direction, as he ducked just in time to miss Thug A's right cross. He then feigned a left hook and caught the bad guy unawares (ha!) with an almost upper cut to the chin, which sent the Stunt Thug backwards into a well-placed pile of stunt boxes. Stunt Thug B ran off in fear, or because he didn't want to be caught acting in the same scene, and then the girlfriend - Kimberley, Ashley or Britney - threw her arms around brave Cody and mashed her lips against his.
"Cut...and that'll do it."
"Thank god," Kit said. "I was about to volunteer to help him protect his little surfer-chick."
Angela laughed. "It's strange how it never looks this hokey on TV; in the finished product, I mean."
Kit raised an eyebrow, wondering which finished show it was that Angela watched. "Jackie Chan he ain't," she observed.
"That's probably a good thing; I'd be a nervous wreck," Angela laughed, again. "Come on I'll introduce you."
Kit followed the painfully-cheerful Angela across the lot to where the 'director' was having a few words with Dylan and his co-star. "We'll find a solution, I promise. For now we just have to make it work, okay?" he said and then strolled off, shaking his head and looking as if he'd rather be directing traffic. Or as if he was wondering whether he already was.
"Dylan," Angela said, "this is Katherine Turner, the writer I was talking about. Katherine this is Dylan Thomas. Oh, and Bree Fisher."
Dylan stuck out his hand to shake Kit's, while Bree looked her up and down to gauge something - or other. Kit flashed her a brief smile and turned back to Dylan.
"Katherine Turner?" Bree said, questioningly. "Like the actress."
"That's Kathleen Turner," Kit corrected her. "Or Lana; unless, of course, you mean Katherine Hepburn."
"You're not with Who Weekly by any chance, are you?" Bree asked, as Kit's comment hovered over her head trying to find a way in.
"No, I'm not," Kit smiled again.
"You can rack off now Bree," Dylan said, a lot more politely than his choice of words implied.
"You rack off, toad face! I just wanted to know which magazine she writes for, that's all."
"I don't," Kit said. "I'm writing a book."
"Oh," Bree said, screwing up her pert little nose.
Kit wondered whether she'd recognise a book - in a library.
"I don't think she understands that concept," Dylan confirmed
"Oh ha!" Bree stated. "What's the book about, Kathleen?"
"Katherine," Kit said. "It's called Women in Television."
"Women in Television," Bree repeated. "So, pick me up here. Why is it that you want to talk to testerone-features here?"
"Testosterone," Dylan stated.
"Dick-head - same diff!" Bree snarled. "Last time I looked, I'm the woman out of us two."
Beam me up, Scotty, Kit thought desperately. "My book is not about actors. I'm writing about women producers, directors and presenters, like Margot Whelan, Maggie Wheeler, Mary Waters and Rebecca Jones," Kit explained, making up all the names except the last.
"Oh her. She didn't want to know me," Bree complained. "But you should have seen the way she came onto Dylan."
"Who? Maggie Wheeler?" Kit asked.
"No, that tart Rebecca Jones."