One Night Only. Sue Welfare
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had sighed. ‘I’m still not sure about this,’ she’d said.
‘What’s not to be sure of? You’ll be fine, honest,’ said Arthur. ‘They’re good people, Helen. I mean they’ve won awards and everything. And you’re an old hand at this; there’s nothing they’re going to pull that you won’t have seem a dozen times before.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried I could organise someone to come with you if you like. Do you want me to book you a dresser for the show – or a driver? See if I can get Florence or Benny? I know they’d both jump at the chance.’
Helen had shaken her head, and with more confidence than she felt, said, ‘Don’t be silly. And you’re right, I’ll be just fine. Just make sure you’re there for the show. All right? First show of the tour – I’m banking on you to tell me what you think.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be brilliant, you always are.’
‘Arthur, you are such a bullshitter.’
And so now here she was, all on her own, back in Billingsfield.
Helen glanced into the mirror on the wall; she wasn’t so sure now that she wanted to spend a night in Billingsfield or the hotel. It felt like she was being surrounded and jostled by all the ghosts she had left behind. How many years was it since she had stood in this hotel foyer? Since she had looked out over the market square and wondered what the hell would happen next?
Two elderly men with impressive moustaches made a show of not watching her as they sat either side of the fireplace taking tea. A uniformed waiter was serving them; it looked like a snapshot from some long-distant past. Her long-distant past.
In stark contrast, Felix, the Roots director, dressed in a Che Guevara tee shirt, puffa jacket, beanie hat and ripped-knee jeans was kneeling on the floor hunched over a monitor with the cameraman looking on, watching the images on the screen. ‘I think actually we’re probably done down here,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to make the move upstairs and set up up there.’
Natalia glanced at him. ‘Okay, great – I’ll just need to sort that out.’
Once upon a time that would have been Helen’s cue to head back to her dressing room or slope off for a coffee while she waited, but she had no idea how Roots worked and so Helen stayed where she was.
Across the foyer the longcase clock chimed the hour. Helen didn’t like to think how many years it had been since she had last been in the Billingsfield Arms. It felt like a different lifetime; back then she remembered being intimidated by the quiet grandeur, remembered not being sure what to do or what to say and the worry of being asked to leave.
She could still vividly remember what it felt like creeping up those stairs, all the while waiting for the porter to ask her just where she thought she was going, hurrying along the corridors, checking the room numbers, each passing minute making her increasingly anxious. Looking back on her younger self it seemed like back then Helen had been afraid all the time, always waiting, eyes wide open, for the sky to fall in on her.
Helen glanced up at the ornate staircase almost expecting to see her younger self up there at the top, looking back over her shoulder, wondering what the hell she was doing and wondering where to go next.
‘Are you ready to go up to your room, madam?’ enquired a male voice, which brought Helen sharply back to the present.
Christov, the porter, was a tall blond man with a heavy Eastern European accent, closely cropped hair and a warm open expression. He had been standing around throughout the filming, and had already loaded her luggage onto a trolley at least three times at Felix’s behest. Now he hovered, awaiting instructions.
‘What do you think?’ he said in an undertone. ‘You think maybe we make a break and leave them to it? I don’t know about you but I have many things to do other than standing here listening to them all moaning. Although I am enjoying the look on Ms Mackenzie’s face.’ He nodded in the direction of the receptionist. ‘She looks like she is kissing the stinky herring.’
Helen checked out Ms Mackenzie and then looked up at him and laughed. It was an apt description of her expression.
‘Maybe we should high-tail it out of here?’ he said. ‘Like they say in the cowboy films. Get the hell out of Dodge? I can bring you up some sandwiches, and cake and a pot of tea? You have got other things to do, yes?’
Helen nodded.
‘They said you are doing a show here tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, at the Carlton Rooms. I’m doing a one-woman show; songs, monologues – jokes, you know, stories about my life,’ said Helen. ‘And this too,’ she nodded towards the film crew. ‘They’re making a television programme about me, for Roots.’
‘I know the programme.’ He nodded. ‘Busy time for you then. These people,’ he said, pointing towards the crew. ‘They are your friends?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Felix was still deep in conversation with Natalia about which suite would give them the best look. Natalia was nodding earnestly while ticking things off on her clipboard. Ms Mackenzie was still wearing her fish-kissing face.
‘I really like the balcony,’ Felix was saying, his hands working independently to reinforce what he was describing. ‘And that big cream-coloured sofa. Is that in that room, or do all the rooms have them, a sort of corporate look? I was thinking maybe we could get something in?’
Ms Mackenzie pulled a face.
‘Remind me again, is that the room with those big prints on the wall? Like big flowers? I’m thinking that has got to be the one –’
Natalia’s nodding quickened. ‘I agree, and the natural light is great in there too.’
‘Can we get a different sofa?’
Natalia stared at her clipboard and then at Ms Mackenzie.
It seemed as if the only person who hadn’t been into her room yet was Helen.
‘Maybe we could get something a bit funkier in there? Less last year –’
Ms Mackenzie started to protest.
‘I’d like to shoot Helen on the balcony, looking out over the water, something moody and reflective we can use as ambience and cutaways between segments. Helen all alone, contemplating the past. You know how this stuff works. And it’ll make a great neutral space for the interviews that we don’t do at the theatre. Like the anonymity of life on the road –’
‘So do you want to go and set that up now?’ asked Natalia, not that Felix seemed to be listening.
‘Maybe we could go down to the quay this afternoon before the light goes. You know the bit where the new arts centre is, by the warehouses? I was thinking more coat-collar-turned-up-against-the-wind shots. She’s got great bones for that sort of moody look. Now, do we want to shoot her going up in the lift, because if we do we’ve got to do it now, or wet her coat down for continuity?’ Felix paused and, glancing around, caught Helen’s eye, although Helen guessed that Felix didn’t actually see her.
Truth was, for a director, once you got past the early excitement and then all the starry pretensions, the massive but fragile egos, the drunken, the drugged, the whole diva thing, wheeling an actor out in front of the camera, saying the right words at the right time, was just a job. And she had no doubt that as far as Felix was concerned actors were part of the furniture, noisy, difficult, opinionated parts perhaps, but still ultimately something to shuffle in and out of shot.
‘Can we get a spray bottle or something from somewhere?’ Felix was saying to no one in particular. ‘And do you think we can sort out the sofa? Those stains are going to show up on camera.’
Ms Mackenzie reddened and waved him closer. ‘Can you please keep your voice down? I mean we’re delighted you’re here but –’
‘How delighted?’ Felix snapped back