Confessions of a Film Extra. Timothy Lea
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I can’t get anyone to come near me.’
‘You amaze me,’ I husk. ‘Tell you what: I’m not doing very much at the moment. Why don’t I give your windows a quick once over?’
All the time I am talking to her I cannot take my eyes off her knockers and she pulls her robe across her chest protectively.
‘You’re sure it’s no trouble?’
‘None at all.’
‘All right. I won’t be long.’
When Sandra comes out of the dressing room she leads the way to the car park and steers me towards a bubble car, the shape of which is a perfect match for her own best feature.
‘It’s very economical for hopping about in,’ she says. ‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of a crush.’ She reaches across to shut the door and for a second I feel as if I’m bringing in the melon harvest. ‘Snug, isn’t it?’
‘Very. Tell me, how many films have you made?’ I say, demonstrating that gift for conversation that has made me the darling of my Mum’s Tupperware parties.
‘I’ve no idea. About twenty, I think.’
‘I don’t even know your full name.’
‘At the moment it’s Sandra Virgin. I’ve had about six. Paula Rental, Dreft Sunsilk –’
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