Just Between Us. Cathy Kelly
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of her. ‘Well,’ he conceded, his lips brushing her cheek tenderly, ‘maybe not that stupid. After all, I’ve just married a brilliant wife. And a beautiful one, too.’
If only he were here, Tara thought now with a fresh pang of longing. Finn knew how tense she was about things like awards ceremonies, and knew just how important this one was to her. The exact opposite of her; he was laid-back about everything and would have calmed her nerves better than a pint of Rescue Remedy. But tickets to the National Television & Radio Awards were like gold dust and not even all the show’s writers had been able to get one. There was no way Tara could have brought Finn with her. She’d phone him quickly, just to say hi, that she missed him. Switching her phone on, Tara dialled rapidly. The phone in the apartment rang out without being answered. She smiled at the thought of Finn rushing across the road to the twenty-four-hour garage to buy something, forgetting to turn the answering machine on. She loved the little things he forgot. They were so endearing. She tried his mobile but it was off too. Idiot. But she was smiling.
‘Perfume?’ asked Sherry, spraying the contents of a tiny bottle of Gucci Envy down her cleavage.
‘Yes please,’ said Tara, sorry that she hadn’t thought to bring the Coco Mademoiselle that Finn had given her for her birthday. The ballroom was murderously hot and the combination of a spicy main course and too much red wine meant that everyone had red, flushed faces. None of which would look good on television. Tara had a sudden horrified vision of her shiny, lobster-pink face being all that people remembered when the nominations for the soap awards came up.
She took the proffered vial of perfume, sprayed it liberally down her front and gave a final blast to her wrists. ‘Sherry, I’ve changed my mind. Can I borrow some make-up? I think I need it.’
Five minutes later, Tara was expertly revamped. In those few moments in the ladies’ she felt as if she’d learned more about Sherry than she had over several months of work. Sherry chatted away about how her mother had helped her shop for the dress she was nearly wearing, and how her whole family were going to meet up the next night when the awards were broadcast in case they spotted Sherry. They never missed an episode of the show, either. They were so proud of her.
‘I used to be a beautician, you see,’ Sherry said as she dextrously brushed eye shadow onto Tara’s lids. ‘Mum was worried when I gave it up for drama school.’
‘You’re brilliant at make up,’ Tara said enthusiastically as she admired her newly-sultry eyes, dark and intense thanks to smoky shadows.
‘Thanks,’ Sherry said happily as she zipped up her bag of tricks.
Tara felt bad that she couldn’t say how Sherry was a marvellous actress too, but she hated hypocrisy.
Together, they braved the ballroom. A vast, high-ceilinged room decorated with giant swathes of purple velvet to go with the gilt and purple chairs, it was crammed with every sort of television and radio worker. Actors and presenters rubbed shoulders with writers and producers, all pretending to have a roaring good time because the show was being filmed, and all trotting out the standard remark: ‘It’s such an honour just to be here: being nominated/winning doesn’t matter.’ Which was rubbish because it was all about winning.
The ceremony itself was going to make up ninety-five per cent of the TV show, but nobody wanted to risk glaring sourly at a rival and ending up with that broadcast to the world. Or even worse, being included in the inevitable out-takes video which would change hands as soon as the show was over. So the whole place was awash with smiles.
Tara lost Sherry within seconds, as the actress spotted a camera crew and wove her way through the crowds, her shapely hips undulating sexily as she shimmied along. Marilyn Monroe was said to have deliberately had a quarter of an inch taken off the heel of one shoe to give her that sexy lilting walk. Sherry had clearly upped the ante and had taken off an entire inch on one side, leaving her with a hip movement that Tara reckoned a passing bishop would surely declare an occasion of sin.
Weaving her own way through the tables, Tara said hello here and there but didn’t stop. She’d worked in television one way or another for nine years and knew loads of the people here: if she stopped, she’d never make it up to her table in its much envied place at the front.
As she passed the Forsyth and Daughters table, she nodded at an old work-experience pal of hers who now wrote for the series.
‘Good luck,’ said Robbie encouragingly. ‘I hope you win.’
‘You too,’ said Tara. Which was true because she hoped he would win. It was unlikely though.
Robbie smiled weakly and Tara passed on, knowing there was nothing she could say to raise his spirits. Forsyth and Daughters was a five-year-old show about a family of female lorry drivers and not even ER’s Dr Luka Kovac, manfully wielding the cardiac paddles, would be able to bring it back to life. The scripts were tired, the storyline was exhausted and the only option in Tara’s opinion was to can the whole series. Robbie and his team hadn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning anything, while the National Hospital team were hot favourites for a whole raft of awards.
A voice on the microphone was asking people to take their seats as Tara reached her place.
National Hospital, as befitting one of the nation’s hottest home-grown soaps, had two tables at the ceremony and, now that the empty bottles and the plates had been taken away, they looked bare and untidy with wine stains on the white tablecloths. The actors had been allocated a table close to the stage, while the writers and production people were behind them. There was nobody at the actors’ table because, as soon as the meal was officially over, they’d all rushed off to get their photos taken and to work the room. The writers, on the other hand, insisted that they didn’t believe in networking and sat getting dug into the wine and trying to out-do each other bitching about rival shows. The truth was that nobody was interested in taking pictures of writers, which galled them. They wrote the words, they created the canvas on which the actors shone, so why did nobody know who they were?
‘Did you hear the one about the bimbo who wanted to be in movies?’ muttered Tommy from the depths of his glass, as Tara slipped into her place beside him. Tommy was one of the show’s long-timers. ‘She went to Hollywood and slept with a writer.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ murmured the assembled group, who’d heard it all before.
Isadora, who’d moved so she had a better view of the stage, was now sitting on Tara’s other side. Isadora was another one of the storyline editors, writers who shaped the way the show developed and came up with long-range plotlines. She and Tara worked closely together and were great friends.
‘You look nice,’ said Isadora. ‘Have you been beautifying yourself for your acceptance speech?’
Tara laughed. ‘Sherry did it. It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’ Isadora was impressed. ‘Can she do something for me? I need emergency work. All this red wine has my face looking like blue cheese.’
‘Crumbly?’ inquired Tommy.
‘No, heavily veined,’ Isadora replied tartly. ‘But still, my veins aren’t half as bad as yours, sweetie.’
‘Miaow,’ Tommy retorted.
The lights went down and there was a frantic dash as people raced back to their seats. The babble of conversation went down to a low hum while the audience waited for the show to begin.
Watching the monitors to the side of the stage, Tara and Isadora could see what the cameras saw. The lenses panned across the room, coming to rest on the big male stars of the day and on the most beautiful of the women, all of whom had nearly killed themselves to wear the most talked about gown of the evening. Slit-to-the-navel, slit-to-the-thigh and slit-in-both-directions dresses were par for the course at these events. The more famous stars didn’t bare as much, while the wannabes craved attention and tended to look as if they hadn’t enough money to pay for a whole dress.
‘Leather is big this year,’