Chasing Charlie (10 page)

SAM

‘I can't bloody believe it!' I said as I wiped the tears furiously from my face. Mara sat next to me, her feet tucked up underneath her, her hand on my shoulder. It felt warm and reassuring but it wasn't stopping the tears. Or the snot for that matter. She passed me a tissue.

‘He's not worth the heartache, Sam.'

‘I just can't believe I've fallen for his bullshit again! One' – I raised a shaking finger in the air – ‘he didn't tell me he had a girlfriend! Two' – second finger up – ‘I had to hear about it from my frigging sister!'

‘Oh Sam,' Mara murmured as I buried my face in my hands again.

Not long after the bombshell from Rebecca, I'd asked Dad to drive me to the station.

‘But what about going for a walk?' Mum had asked desperately, as if the Facebook episode wasn't the end of the world.

But I couldn't bear being around any of them, particularly Rebecca's smug face. Neither could I be in that house, the place I'd cried myself sick the last time this had bloody happened. I sat on the train, staring at the landscape passing by the window, stripped bare of any life or colour, turning the evening I'd spent with Charlie over and over in my mind, trying to remember when I'd had that conversation, the bit where we talked about his love life. But I couldn't remember it. Surely I hadn't been so stupid as to not ask him? By the time the train was coming into London, passing brick terrace after brick terrace, I had to acknowledge that perhaps I hadn't asked the question old muggins should have asked first. I mustn't have wanted the answer. I was pathetic. A weak, pathetic excuse for a woman.

I blew my nose some more and eventually the tears stopped. Mara made me another hot chocolate and put the telly on. George came in and kindly chose my knee to knead, spin and then settle on, and started dribbling in earnest. I felt washed out and raw but much calmer. This was Mara in her element and I was quite happy to go with it. It was like having a really competent mum take care of everything and, at that moment, it was exactly what I needed. The silly sitcom on the box flickered, highlighting Mara's small, heart-shaped face. It took me a couple of seconds to work out what was different about her and then I clicked. It was her mouth. It was the first time since before Ed came home that her mouth wasn't a tight, little line.

‘Where's Ed?' I asked.

‘Seeing Max.'

‘I've got some work for him on Tuesday,' I said, suddenly realising I hadn't told her.

‘Really?' Mara said brightly. ‘That's great!'

‘I was in seeing Katherine at her office the other day and she happened to get a call from a client asking if they could have some photos taken of the commercial we're shooting this week. I showed them some of Ed's work on my laptop and she agreed on the spot.'

‘Is it paid?'

‘No, unfortunately not.'

‘It's a start though. Nice work, Sam.'

‘I can't believe I didn't tell you.'

‘Doesn't matter, we've been distracted by other worries with Ed, haven't we?'

I must have looked nonplussed because Mara arched her ‘wake up, slow coach' eyebrow.

‘Rebecca?' Mara said.

Just hearing Rebecca's name tightened the anxious belt around my middle again, bringing the rawness of that day's discovery straight back.

‘She is such a bitch.'

‘Really? Tell me something I don't know.'

‘She was so pleased to see the look on my face when she told me about Lucy!' The audience on the telly laughed stupidly as one.

‘That's Rebecca for you, the epitome of compassion.'

‘As if it isn't enough for her to tell me about his girlfriend, she has to gloat over it too.'

Mara patted my arm kindly and I felt more tears well up. God, where do they all come from? I hadn't cried this much since . . . since . . . well, since the last time this all happened. More laughter erupted from the telly. It was as if they were laughing at me, the sad sack on the sofa crying over the same man for the second time, while my self-satisfied sister was no doubt gleefully telling the story to her friends across town. It just wasn't fair!

‘Did Rebecca say anything about that party they went to on Friday night?' said Mara.

‘Who went to?' I asked distractedly, too busy concentrating on my churning belly to listen.

‘Ed was meeting Rebecca at a party, remember?' Mara said. Her voice was gentle but her body language gave away how anxious she was to know the details.

‘Oh that! I completely forgot to ask her, sorry.'

Mara shrugged and let her head fall back into the sofa again, turning to stare at the television.

‘Ed didn't give anything away either,' she said, her lips no longer soft and relaxed. I couldn't think of a single positive thing to say and sat there awkwardly for a few minutes. Then my phone beeped and I gratefully reached for it.

I couldn't believe whose name had come up.

‘It's Charlie,' I whispered. And despite it all, my stupid heart leapt as I opened the text quickly.

 

Hi sexy, fancy coming to my birthday party Sat the 28th? Whitehall Club, 8pm Cx

 

‘Oh my God.'

‘What's the slimeball got to say for himself?' asked Mara.

‘He's invited me to his birthday in a couple of weeks,' I answered, distracted.

Mara's face darkened. ‘What a louse.'

I flinched. Suddenly the care and attention of mother-hen Mara felt more like control and repression. And in that moment, it all became clear to me. These past few weeks, where she'd been so uncomfortable with Ed around, were all about Mara not being in control. Ed was daring to do things Mara didn't approve of (granted, I didn't approve of him hanging out with Rebecca . . .) and now I was doing things she didn't approve of either, so Mara was getting cross. I sat up straighter on the sofa. What the hell would Mara know about love anyway? She never allowed it to come close to her.

‘You know what, Mara? I am bloody well going to go to that party!' I blurted. Mara's face dropped in disbelief and for a moment I wavered but then I ploughed on.

‘I am going to go, and I'm going to look amazing, and I'm going to bloody well show him!'

Mara sighed and slumped back against the sofa, shaking her head.

‘Show him what?' she asked wearily.

Yes, good question. I huffed and puffed for a moment.

‘Show him who the most beautiful, funny, real woman in the room is . . . Show him . . . show him that the person he keeps mucking around isn't a mug, she's a living, breathing, gorgeous woman!'

Mara sighed a resigned sigh.

I would show him all right, I thought. I almost slapped my own thigh I was so fired up with determination. I was damn well going to look the best I'd ever looked. He was going to be so bowled over he wouldn't be able to help himself. He'd forget about his girlfriend – she'd be so fucking boring and lifeless she'd fade into the curtains. It would be as if only I – hopefully standing under a suitably flattering light – existed. I got up off the sofa, far too revved up to loll about feeling sorry for myself and went directly to my bedroom to look through my wardrobe, knowing full well there was nothing glamorous in there. As I marched into my little hovel, two thoughts jostled for space in my racing mind.

1. Charlie couldn't really be serious about that stuck-up tart if he'd invited me to his party surely?

2. How the hell was I going to afford a new dress?

SAM

My alarm woke me while it was still dark. I sat up and groaned. What a bloody awful night. All that fervour at proving myself to Charlie had lasted about five minutes in the end and I'd spent the last two nights worrying about Charlie's party, and what the bloody hell I was going to wear. I padded down to the sitting room to wake Ed up. For once he responded straightaway to my quiet knock. Without talking much, we took a quick shower each and grabbed some toast to eat en route on the Tube. Not for the first time I wished I had a car. Getting to set on time was always a mission for me without one and this time I also had Ed's kit to help carry down the road. It was heavier than it looked.

Outside, the sun hadn't even started thinking about getting up. The wind had died down overnight and taken the sharp edge with it. I hoped it would stay that way, as I would be spending most of the day outside. I liked the company we were going to be working for today and usually I looked forward to working with them. They were young and imaginative, always coming up with interesting concepts on limited budgets – and they paid on time, which was always a plus – but today I was struggling to muster any enthusiasm. On top of the worrying I was doing about Charlie, I was also feeling tense about Ed. I'd wrangled this job for him and if he stuffed up it would reflect poorly on me. Katherine, the producer, had told me that she had another job – that one paid – lined up where the photographer had just pulled out, so this could mean a few weeks' work for Ed on location in Scotland if he performed well that day. He'd bloody well better.

To top the morning off, Louise Laverell was due on set in half an hour. Ms Laverell was basically made up of a body into which a bunch of sharp and prickly words and thoughts had been poured and kept all tense and spiky by far too much exercise and not enough food. She was struggling to keep her head above the dangerous water forty-plus-year-old female actors swam in and was high maintenance, grade eight. Laverell had starred in a long-running whodunnit series for ten years, gone on to dabble in theatre, bit parts in television dramas and a role in a Film Four film. In my opinion (far too humble, obviously), she'd done pretty well for herself and should be happy. Unfortunately for everyone around her, she wasn't. Quite the contrary. Laverell was extremely bitter and twisted about her perceived sidelining by the industry, and people not appreciating her enormous talent. It wasn't money she wanted – she was married to an exceedingly rich investment banker who hadn't appeared to be even remotely affected by the banking crisis. But she would do anything to get on the telly, which was great news for a company like Katherine's, who were working on a tight budget. Desperate actors can be very amenable to heavily negotiated fees but unfortunately with Louise, it was impossible to negotiate her attitude once she was on set.

At Archway, Ed led the way up to the surface of the earth. Commuters pushed up behind us and I was forced to walk very closely behind him. I was surprised that he smelt of freshly washed clothes and soap. The funky stench of the backpacking photographer had well and truly gone. Hang on – I couldn't help but sniff harder – there! Underneath the floral detergent, I caught a whiff of his tangy manly odour. A brief vision of his chest, lean and hard, flashed across my mind. I pulled away from his jacket. Whoa, Sam, I thought, that was a bit random for half six in the morning. I looked around furtively. Had anyone actually seen me lean in to sniff a man's jacket? But the bland, shuttered faces passing us on the opposite escalator didn't flick a single eye my way.

Out of the station, we turned right and right again. Ahead I could see a couple of trucks parked up.

‘Cool.' Ed grinned at me. I smiled back. Even after a few years in the industry, I couldn't help feeling excited when I saw the big trucks parked up. They always look like they mean business – something about their size and numbers, I guess.

‘What did they have to do to get all this parking?' Ed asked.

‘Hand over a hefty wedge to the local council,' I replied. ‘These are only the ones that need to be close to set, most of the trucks are parked up the road, a couple of minutes away, in a car park they've leased for the day.'

‘So which ones are here then?'

I counted them off as we got closer. ‘Looks like camera, gaffers, grips and . . . make-up maybe? Although usually they're parked with everyone else down the road.' Then I remembered about Louise Laverell. Of course that would explain the position of make-up so close to set. Louise's proximity to set is always a deal-breaker and a total headache for everyone.

‘Which one's which again?' Ed asked.

‘Gaffers look after lights, grips look after the movement of the camera.'

‘Cool,' Ed said again and I hit him, instantly regretting it because my arm had gone weak from his kit weighing me down.

‘Don't be such a kid!' I said and he grinned some more, pointing at a car parked right behind one of the trucks.

‘What happens if someone is away and they've left their car in the way?'

‘Well, it means the location manager has a thumping big headache. Although not the one on this job. Smooth Pete doesn't do headaches, as far as I know.'

Speaking of the devil, I spied Pete ahead on his phone, standing beside a svelte little car. As we drew closer to him, we could see it was a Porsche. Pete's face was tight. Like a man with a headache threatening. Oh dear.

‘Yes, I've tried that, it was a pittance to them I think so he's not budging . . . aha . . . OK, I'll see you soon.' He turned to look at us and gave me a hug. He smelt of cigarettes.

‘Sammy, great to see you!' Pete's social skills made him an exceptional location manager. He could literally charm the pants off anyone. Something I knew from experience.

‘Likewise,' I answered and stepped back slightly, suddenly uncomfortable that there was history between us with Ed standing right there.

‘You're looking a bit stressed out there, mate,' Ed observed.

Pete looked at the Porsche. ‘Yes. An uncooperative member of the public won't move their car.'

Ed and I studied the car with Pete for a moment, looking up to the house it was parked next to. It was a detached Georgian. A magnolia tree reached over the clipped box hedge with bare knobbly branches. The house they were filming in was next door.

‘Have you tried bribing them?' I asked.

‘Oh yes, with Katherine's amazing vouchers, tickets for two to IMAX, off peak. They said no.'

‘They've probably got their own IMAX inside,' Ed mused.

Pete chuckled. ‘Well, it means the diva won't be parked close to set. This spot was going to be for make-up. She'll have to – shock horror – walk down the street to set.'

‘Isn't that make-up, just down there?' I pointed to the truck about a hundred yards down the road.

‘Yip, that's the one, about eighty yards too far away for madam.' He pulled a face and then turned to Ed, his hand extended. ‘I'm Pete by the way.'

‘Ed.'

‘Oh, sorry,' I said. ‘This is Ed.'

‘I gathered that,' Pete said.

I blushed, glad it wasn't quite light yet.

‘Well, best be off. Everyone will be arriving shortly and I definitely need a coffee before I see Louise.'

‘We'll come with you, I need to get the radios out.'

Together we walked a couple of blocks up the road where the rest of the trucks, including honey wagons, wardrobe, unit and numerous crew cars were parked up, and the unit truck was in full swing making coffee. I left Ed catching a quick coffee, grabbed all the radios, gave a few to the crew I could see who needed them in the car park, and headed back to set to give the rest out to the camera and lighting crew.

An hour later, I heard the low hum of a car slowing down outside the house. That had to be Louise. I nipped to the edge of the Porsche still parked up and held up my call sheet so the driver would see where to stop. Louise always wanted to be met by the director or, failing that, the producer, which was a right pain in everyone's bums. There was no way the director would have time, and neither would the producer. It was part of the third's job, getting the cast onto set on time, so it should always be people like me meeting Louise. In fact, I knew exactly what time Louise had got up that morning. Katherine had reminded her over the phone the day before. Actors, honestly! I'd learnt early on that it was best to approach them with flattery slathered generously with professional jargon, to make them feel part of something very, very exciting. I almost always deployed that tactic when I had to dig the buggers out of make-up. They often felt they weren't pretty enough yet so when it came to knocking on the door of the make-up trailer, I would say, ‘This is your five-minute call. Camera is standing by, grips and gaffers are on final checks and the director is looking forward to seeing you on set.' And that usually did it. The actors would be ready to go when I returned four minutes later.

I hoped Louise had behaved herself this morning. This was a big job for Katherine and it was so important that everything ran smoothly, and the client went home happy. It was six forty-five. I opened the passenger door.

‘Good morning, Ms Laverell. I'm sorry we had to get you out of bed so early this morning. Make-up is this way.'

Louise looked at me haughtily and sighed. ‘And you are?'

‘Sam Moriarty, third assistant director, Ms Laverell.'

‘And you are?' What a line. It was so tedious that Louise couldn't, or wouldn't, remember me from other jobs. I'd worked with her on several occasions in the past. Of course, I would always be invisible to her. She would never consider a third someone worthy of speaking to, let alone remembering. There were far more important people locked into Louise's one-track mind. People who talk to other people like her at exclusive private parties, at openings, at awards ceremonies. It was people like Louise that had my enthusiasm for my job hanging by a thread some days.

Louise contemplated her options. A cab beeped angrily behind her car, which was – surprise, surprise – blocking the way. Blocking the road as if Louise was more important than anyone else in the entire city in that moment.

‘Marm?' the unit driver queried, looking rather anxiously into his rear-view mirror. I glanced at him. He was a pimply little beggar, with no discernable chin, his young hands clutching the wheel anxiously. I didn't recognise him and he didn't look like he'd been in the job for long. I felt a pang of pity for him. He'd obviously be much happier breeding Labradors or pet bunnies or something, not cowering in the seat in front of Louise, his vulnerable neck just there for her to sink her nails into.

‘Fine,' Louise huffed. She placed an elegant shoe onto the road and stepped out, coming up to my shoulder. I took one step back and opened my arm, directing her to the footpath, not unlike an aircraft marshaller minus the ping-pong bats. You could never be too careful with actors – they might not be able to make it to the footpath without being shown the way. Once I was sure Louise had stepped safely onto the footpath, I stepped back quickly to shut the car door, leaning in to offer a ‘Good luck, mate!' to the relieved driver.

Louise stood on the footpath. It was early dawn but nonetheless she wore dark glasses, the collar of her large woollen coat turned up against the potential invasion of fans or paparazzi. I looked around. The crew were exchanging rude banter while they lugged equipment into the house they would be filming inside that day. No one was even looking our way. Poor Louise, I smirked, no attention for her at all. All that money spent on her Armani sunglasses for nothing. But below her glasses her mouth looked sad, and I reminded myself of the other thing about actors. At the end of the day, they could be staggeringly insecure. I sighed. I couldn't really feel animosity for this woman. She was someone to be pitied rather than intimidated by. I took another look. Written on that mouth was a whisper of what I'd seen in Mara lately: Mara the worrier, trying to keep it together; Mara, the one who just cared too much about the tiny circle of friends and family around her. I cursed myself for my mean thoughts about Mara being a control freak.

I was so lost in these thoughts that I walked straight past wardrobe and had to pull up abruptly.

‘What!' Louise snapped.

‘Sorry, Ms Laverell, I was thinking about something else, wardrobe's just back here.' I retraced my steps, walked over to the trailer and stood next to it. Louise's lips pursed as she marched past me to the door, her coat bristling with disdain, but then she stopped. I wondered what she was up to for a moment until I realised she was waiting for me to open the door.

‘You don't want to make me late, do you?' Louise demanded.

‘Sorry,' I muttered to Louise's shoes as I opened the door. ‘I was just thinking about a friend who's worrying about things too much at the moment,' I added under my breath. I'd said it aloud without thinking and I was sure she wouldn't hear me but Louise's heels stopped their click-clack mid-step. She turned to me, standing by the door beneath her, and took her glasses off.

‘What did you say?' she said, her tone much less biting.

‘Oh.' I bit a suddenly wobbly bottom lip and looked up to meet Louise's eye for a second.

‘Nothing really, it's just things at home have been a bit strange lately. One of my best friends hasn't been very happy,' I found herself blurting out, wondering why of all people I would be sharing this with Louise Laverell?

Louise looked at me, her face softening the tiniest bit. ‘I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Moriarty.' And then she turned and went into the trailer, leaving me to shut the door behind her. I stood blinking on the footpath and pressed my fingernails into my palms, then forced myself to take three slow breaths.

In. You are pathetic! Out. In. Pull yourself together! Out. In. And bloody well get on with your bloody work! Out.