Good Time Girl. Kate O’Mara
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‘Of course, what else? Just keep quiet and listen. De La Tour … Yes, the one that went to Hamburg. Yes. Are you sitting down? Well, you’d better. It’s a fake.’
As Bella finished the sentence, Terri, the assistant floor manager on the adjoining set, cued Geoff, who, as Paul McMaster, had been perched on the edge of the desk and now rose like a pheasant rocketing from a hedgerow.
‘What!’
Tom, who was wandering aimlessly around the office with his hands in his pockets, stopped in his tracks at his brother’s outburst. At this moment, the outer office door opened and a petite blonde entered. She was gorgeously pretty, like a Barbie doll. Paul cupped his hand over the phone.
‘Yes, Gemma. What is it?’
‘Sorry to interrupt you s-sir,’ lisped Gemma breathlessly, ‘but there’s been an accident in the workroom. Young Billy’s cut his hand on the gilly – guillotine.’
Patsy Hall, playing Gemma, was regarded by the rest of the cast as a nonactress. She had been cast by Hugh in a weak moment, having been totally bowled over by her undeniably gorgeous looks and figure. He had felt, rightly, as it transpired, that she would boost the series’ ratings. Unfortunately, she was virtually talentless. As soon as she made her entrance it became apparent that she was ill at ease – and she had fluffed her first line.
Larry, watching like a hawk, but all the while listening on his head-cans to the candid comments coming from the gallery, waited to be told to suspend operations. The gallery was the enclosed glass sanctum high above the studio floor from which the production team directed the show. The director, in this instance, Scott Dudley, quite literally called the shots. Larry rolled his eyes with a ‘Gawd help us’ expression as Patsy then bumped into the filing cabinet, and the scene jerked awkwardly on, the other actors attempting to rescue it, but the rhythm and flow had been disturbed and much to everyone’s relief the sound boom appeared in shot.
‘Okay, hold it everyone,’ intoned Larry, listening to the string of expletives from his earphones. ‘Yes – yes – uh-huh … Yes, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself … Patsy, dear,’ said Larry loudly, turning his attention to the miscreant, ‘the director says we’re going again, and can you possibly manage even an approximation of the text – it’s vital, dear, as we’re using one of your lines to cut to another shot. Oh, never mind,’ he amended as he saw Patsy’s look of total bewilderment. ‘Just remember the lines and don’t bump into the furniture.’
This last was delivered in the clipped tones of Noël Coward. The whole studio chuckled quietly and there was a shout of raucous laughter from Bella, still on her chaise longue, waiting to do another very brief cutaway scene.
‘Standby to go again, studio,’ said Larry in a long-suffering voice. The boom operator shrugged his apologies to Larry. ‘Don’t mention it, dear,’ was the swift reply. ‘It was as welcome as the relief of Mafeking.’
The next time Patsy got it right, but her performance was dull and wooden. Up in the gallery, Scott Dudley was making his opinions known.
‘She’s appalling! She can’t move, she can’t speak, she can’t act – what the fuck can she do?’ he asked, clutching his forehead in disbelief. ‘I mean apart from that,’ he added, seeing the expressions of his colleagues. ‘Look at her, it’s pathetic. Oh God, I can’t bear it. Cut to camera one,’ he said curtly to his assistant, Pam.
‘It’s not his shot yet,’ replied Pam instantly.
‘I can’t help it. Punch up one,’ he insisted.
The remainder of Patsy’s speech was heard out of vision over a close-reaction shot on Tom.
Pam was Scott’s girlfriend. He was heavily married with teenage children, but his affair with Pam had been progressing steadily now for three years. She was devoted to him and was also very good at her job.
‘And cut to Paul,’ barked Scott, switching to a reaction shot on Geoff earlier than was planned.
Geoff noted the red light on the camera that was trained on him come on and reacted accordingly. He was secretly pleased; he was having a very intermittent affair with Patsy, but knew she was totally untalented.
The scene finally finished.
‘Thank you, studio, that’s a clear!’ Larry bellowed. Then: ‘God, what a load of bullshit!’ he muttered to himself as he removed the head-cans. ‘I hope this looks better than it plays.’
‘Yes, that’s right, McMasters, Cork Street, as soon as you can.’ A shot of an ambulance tearing across London from McMasters as the theme music surged accompanied the closing credit titles. Claire Jenner switched off the TV with the remote control unit and sank back against the pillows. The McMasters had deteriorated over the years, she thought. There was a time when she had wanted to be in it. It had been a terrific series when it had first started, full of drive, with punchy and original dialogue. Now the actors were still doing their best with the scripts they were given, but it was becoming decidedly cosy. It needed a kick up the arse, an injection of new life, a sparkling new character perhaps, or story line.
Claire gazed listlessly around the room. Why the hell was she worrying about a TV series? She was quite convinced she would never work again. Anyway, how could she? She was unattractive, undesirable – unnecessary. No one wanted her. Well, Roger didn’t at any rate. The tears started to well up inside her. She heard the clatter of her friend Sal in the kitchen making soup. Dear Sal. Claire would never have come through this without her. The tears coursed unbidden down her cheeks at the thought of her friend’s cheerfulness and kind understanding. The door of the bedroom burst open.
‘Have I missed the end? Damn. What happened?’ Sal demanded, entering and plonking herself down on the end of the bed. ‘Soup won’t be a moment.’
‘Nothing much,’ replied Claire, trying to sound normal, ‘Billy cut his hand and was carted off to hospital. The preceding forty-five minutes were so dull I nodded off.’
‘Dear God, it’s getting more like The Archers every week – what’s the matter with you?’ Sally interrupted herself to look at her friend suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been blubbing again, I hope?’ There was a painful pause as Claire tried to regain control of her feelings to no avail.
‘I miss him,’ she whispered miserably. ‘Oh, Sal, I loved him so much,’ and she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
Sally was apparently unmoved by this spectacle. ‘Really?’ she said dryly, ‘I suppose it’s possible to love a turdfaced piece of shit –’
‘Don’t speak about him like that,’ protested Claire between sobs. ‘He’s beautiful …’
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ observed Sally sagely, relenting and putting her arms round her friend’s shoulders. ‘What he did wasn’t very pretty, though, was it?’ she asked gently.
‘No,’ agreed Claire, brokenly trying to overcome her sobbing. Eventually she said, ‘Sal …’
‘I’m here.’
‘Sal, I wish I could have had the baby.’
Neither of them said anything for a long while.
Claire’s childhood had been almost idyllic. Generous, strong, loving parents had given her a splendid education. She had responded to her happy upbringing in kind. A hardworking, lively intelligent girl, she had done well at school, always coming among the top of her class. She was well-mannered, considerate and charming, and, being an only child, learned to amuse herself. She was an avid reader and loved good music – in every way the perfect child. Until she reached her teens. Still hardworking and ambitious, but now moody, temperamental and a rebel, she flouted her parents’ authority on every occasion, slamming doors, screaming at the top of her voice for