How to Get a (Love) Life (23 page)

As the rest of the group filed into the room I found myself humming the theme music to
Blind Date
for a moment, expecting Cilla to appear, her great orange bouffant quivering, as she pointed at me and shouted: ‘Nicola from Bristol is here to snare a man, so who is going to be the nuts to her bolt?’ By the time the last man arrived, I was wondering quite what I’d been thinking when I’d signed up for this class. Of course, I couldn’t just pretend to have lots of masculine interests in the hope of finding the man of my dreams. Tom presented me with a plank of wood just a fraction taller than me and I took it hesitantly.

‘Some of them have had a good few lessons now, but not to worry, you’ll catch up in no time. In fact, Alex will show you how to mark out your wood, won’t you, Alex?’

‘I’d be delighted,’ came the reply. A tall man with curly light brown hair and pronounced dimples turned and smiled at me. A light spattering of grey hair placed him in his thirties and the shirt and tie under the apron suggested he had a respectable job. I looked at him and flashed a smile that I’d also practised in the car on the way over.

‘Great.’ I was fairly sure my lashes were fluttering.

‘First you’ve got to cut this thing into two,’ Alex said, kindly. ‘I nearly took my hand off with the tenon saw last week so I’ll start you off. I could do with the practice.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, stepping aside so that he could work.

‘You slot it into this thing, can’t for the life of me remember what it’s called but it keeps the wood still. And then you cut it down towards you, it’s more effective apparently, and also safer. Well, that’s what Tom told me
after
I nearly lost my hand.’

He looked up from the wood and mock-frowned at Tom.

‘Right, Nicola, there you go. I’ll leave you to do the hard bit, I can’t be trusted round this thing,’ he indicated the saw. ‘When you’ve done that I’ll show you how to mark out your wood for the next bit.’

‘Um, thanks.’

Alex moved away, seemingly oblivious to the impact he had made. He had a great arse …

CONCENTRATE, Nicola. You have a tray to make.

As promised, Alex showed me how to mark out the wood. ‘If you want to make a line two centimetres from the edge, you do this. Then you can run it up and score a line into the wood. This will show you where your cut will be.’

He pointed at various sections and I used these moments as an excuse to glance at his ring finger. No ring. Feeling encouraged, I spent the rest of the class quietly working, enjoying the logical process, seeing the project coming together in stages. We were doing something with rebate joints when Tom announced that the lesson was over. I headed back to my car realising, as I drove away, that I was grinning. I was still smiling as I ate dinner, as I brushed my teeth and as I lay in bed. But it wasn’t Alex’s face in my happy mind’s eye. All I saw were my little planks of wood, all lined up together, my tenon saw resting nearby, my workbench covered in sawdust, and the sound of clapping as the guys in the class congratulated me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Waking groggily from an amazing night’s sleep, my stomach plummeted as I read the clock with one eye. 8:34 a.m. was NOT A GOOD TIME. My morning routine flew out of the window as I raced around the apartment and then down the stairs and into the street. I was going to be late to the office. Late. I was NEVER late. This didn’t happen to me. The small hole in my tights, which I’d made when hoisting them hastily up my legs, had turned into an ugly ladder scarring one calf. With no time to pick up spares –
why
hadn’t I remembered to pack them in my handbag? – I pushed open the door to our office and thundered up the stairs.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m late but I’m … standing alone in the office,’ I said, looking around the room and registering the fact that no one else was there. Laughing, I scooped up the post and then noticed the flash of the answerphone. I hit loudspeaker.

‘You have six new messages.’

I raised my eyebrows. This was going to be a long day, I could feel it.

Number one was a frantic message from Caroline.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m going to be late. Ben is off school with tonsillitis or some such vile disease …’

‘Mummmm …’

‘
Shh, not now, Benjamin, I’m on the phone … So I’m waiting for the babysitter to turn up. Should be soon, sorry, Nic, call me later …’

Oh dear. Poor Caroline. I pictured Ben milking the situation for all it was worth, hugs, kisses, jelly, lots of cooling ice cream, and smiled.

The second, equally frantic, message was from James.

‘Good morning team, I’m heading up to Birmingham today for a last-minute meeting with John from Earpiece Productions. It’s a lunch meeting and the man can drink, so I’m taking the train just in case. If I haven’t returned by this evening, call all the A & E’s round Birmingham as I imagine I’ll be having my stomach pumped. Adios, senoritas, don’t let the office burn to the ground in my absence. Bye.’

I rolled my eyes and ripped open the first of the post that day. The third answerphone message made me freeze in my tracks. A loud, impatient voice filled the office.

‘James, this is Glenn. Where the hell is Lydia? We’ve set up the shoot and she was given a call time of seven A.M. She better be on her way …’

Christ. Glenn.
Glenn was as scary. He was the agency’s biggest client over at Lime Productions and was shooting a series of adverts for a mobile phone company. He’d been using all our actresses and actors and he was, as Caroline put it, ‘the bread on our table’, or ‘our bread and butter’, or, oh, something about bread. Either way he was important. And pissed off.

‘
… James, for Christ’s sake, where is she? We are ready to go, everyone is here, get her down here now.
’

We couldn’t lose his business. James had spent weeks, no months, courting Glenn. He’d returned from meeting after meeting drained but exuberant. Glenn was demanding but loyal.

‘
… James, I don’t need to tell you that I am losing my patience. If she isn’t here within the hour we will be looking elsewhere. And not just for this job.
’

I’d heard enough. I grabbed the ‘Bookings’ file and flicked through to today’s list. Lydia was meant to be in a town centre studio an hour and a half ago. I grabbed the phone and dialled 1471. Private number.

‘Damn,’ I cursed, slamming the phone down.

I could make it. I could go in person and apologise. I could sort this out.

I yanked open the filing cabinet and leafed through to Lydia’s CV and details. There she was. I’d ring her on my way. I picked up my keys and raced out of the door.

Huffing, I reached the studio door less than eight minutes later, and then hopped from one foot to another, waiting for someone to buzz me in.

‘Hello,’ I breathed down the intercom. ‘The Sullivan Agency, I’m …’ I took a breath, but the buzzer went off and I was in.

I raced to the reception desk. ‘Hi, morning, I’m from the Sullivan Agency and I’m—’

‘—LYDIA,’ came a roar from behind me.

A large man dressed in an expensive grey suit was bearing down on me. His nostrils flared as he shouted at me. ‘You are nearly two hours late. What the hell are you thinking? We need to shoot this thing now. We’re bleeding money, every minute we—’

‘—Oh no,’ I interjected. I’m not Ly—’

‘—There’s no time for apologies or excuses. Follow me,’ he bellowed, marching off. He made it three steps before spinning back around. ‘I thought you had long hair?’ he barked.

‘Well, no, you see the thing is—’

‘—PAUL!’ he yelled to a bespectacled man I assumed to be the director (he was sitting in the director’s chair looking at a camera). ‘I thought you said she had long hair?’

‘She did,’ Paul said, turning pale as he took me in. He frowned and rubbed his head, ‘She … did …’

‘I’m not—’

‘—It doesn’t matter now. I think I actually prefer it. Right, get the girl into her clothes and let’s get this thing moving. I need to be out of here by lunch, this place costs a damn fortune!’ Glenn strode off to yell at some poor runner nearby.

‘Um … excuse me,’ I said into the ether. Everyone seemed busy, looking at monitors, checking cables or being yelled at by Glenn.

A girl with cropped hair and a tiny nose ring came rushing forward and took my coat and Lydia’s CV from me.

‘Nice photo,’ she smiled, glancing at it briefly. ‘You look younger in the flesh, ooh you’ve done a stint on
Casualty
, how exciting,’ she said, running off with the CV.

‘Oh no, I … I’m not …’

Before I could call after her, I was spun round by an enormous woman with a sizeable chest and tight blonde curls. ‘I’m Pauline, wardrobe, you had us worried there. Now, we’ve got some great outfits for you today so follow me.’ She pushed open a nearby door which led to a room lined with racks of clothes. ‘MAKE-UP,’ she screamed suddenly, making me jump.

‘Well, you see, actually —’

‘Arms,’ she said, signalling that I should raise them.

Uncertainly, I lifted my arms. ‘You see, Pauline, I think there might be a little confusion,’ I babbled into the material as it was tugged over my face.

‘Hmm …’ she muttered, rummaging through the clothes rack. ‘I thought you were a 36B but those puppies look bigger.’

I crossed my arms over my chest self-consciously. The urge to confess ebbed as I realised I really didn’t have an alternative plan. I hadn’t even called Lydia. Where was she? Oh God, where was I? What was I doing? It wasn’t even nine in the morning and I was semi-naked, being prodded by Pauline and about to pretend to be an actress in an advert I knew nothing about.

Pauline whipped around. ‘Your first outfit is a one-piece so take off your trousers and we’ll get you into it.’

‘Um, right, yes,’ I said, not really understanding what she’d just told me, but understanding enough to realise that I was soon about to be standing in this room dressed only in my bra and pants. The only comforting thought was that they matched.

‘Right, we got you these.’ She produced a pair of red shoes that seemed so teeny tiny that Tinkerbell herself could have worn them.

‘Oh no, I’m a seven,’ I explained before anyone tried to jam my feet into them.

‘Well they’ll be a tight fit then!’

I bent down and attempted to cram my oversized feet into the delicate little shoes. My heels were hanging over the side. Both my little toes were peeking out at strange angles. Pauline sighed crossly and grabbed her notebook. ‘It says here you’re a four,’ she said consulting the pages.

‘No, they, um, well you see, the thing is—’

‘—Doesn’t matter,’ she said whipping them off me. ‘I’ll get Chloe to get you something out back. CHLOE!’ she screamed to the poor runner Glenn was yelling at earlier.

‘Yes.’ Chloe dashed over.

‘Can you go out back and find me something in a seven that would go with the catsuit? Preferably in red? Boots maybe …’

‘The what suit?’ I gasped, as Chloe raced back off.

‘Catsuit,’ she repeated as my jaw dropped open.

‘Well, what did you expect superheroes to wear?’ she asked, smiling for the first time.

‘Superheroes? Oh right, okay, right, fine, yup, OKAY,’ I babbled, really starting to panic now. Where was Lydia?! What was I doing? This was way out of my job remit!

Glenn appeared in the doorway. My hands flew up and I desperately tried to cover as much of my naked body as I humanly could.

‘Pauline, we need her in five,’ he barked, oblivious to my humiliation.

‘She needs make-up, Glenn,’ Pauline said, indicating for me to step into the catsuit she was holding out.

‘How long then?’ he grumbled.

‘Ten,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Ten minutes max,’ he said, striding out again.

‘Rosaline will be doing your make-up,’ Pauline said as I squeezed myself into the catsuit. It clung to every single curve of my body. I breathed in as she did up the zip at the back. ‘We can straighten your hair, that will be quicker,’ she said, smoothing a piece of hair down behind my ear.

Suddenly, the double doors to my left burst open and an older woman with iron-grey hair down to her bottom and dressed in a flowery shirt and navy blue culottes appeared, clapped her hands and stalked over towards me. ‘What a beautiful face,’ she said, raising my chin.

‘No time for that, Rosaline. Glenn wants her asap, we’re almost done here,’ Pauline said through a mouthful of pins.

‘PAULINE!’ came Glenn’s cry.

‘Christ, we’re coming,’ she whispered, as she plunged a couple of the pins into the back of the lycra catsuit so that skin-tight was now no longer an accurate description. Second skin was more apt. I looked down in horror, sucking my stomach in a little more.

Rosaline muttered as she pushed her make-up cart towards a stool and mirror. ‘What does that man think I can do in a few short minutes? Magic takes time.’ She rubbed foundation between her hands. ‘Right, darling, come and sit here. We’ll make you look dazzling, asap,’ she said, rolling her eyes at Pauline over my head.

I could do little but gulp at her and sit down. I felt sick.

Half an hour later I was waiting nervously off camera, dressed in a bright red skin-tight lycra catsuit, complete with white go-faster stripes down the left side. My feet were encased in shiny PVC thigh-high boots. My hair was poker-straight and tied into a high ponytail. My face was clear and powdered. My eyebrows were shaped, my eyes were smudged with black eye shadow and thick liner, and I was biting down on my lower lip which was covered in a luscious scarlet red lip gloss.

Paul, the director, whose cheeks had regained a marginal bit of colour, was explaining my next move. I was to run across to the camera, look left, look right, confidently, bravely. Paul had been great. He clearly knew I wasn’t Lydia but seemed intent on continuing with the charade, as keen to avoid losing his job with Glenn as I was to keep Glenn’s business. We were partners-in-crime.

The blue screen behind me would apparently be filled with images of a devastated street in some downtown part of a city in America: hastily parked cars, tumbledown buildings, etc., but for now it was just an enormous square of blue. There were yellow crosses marked on the black floor to show me where I needed to run in from, where I should stop and where I should run to. At some point I had to pretend to pick up the back end of a car, but for now it was just a lot of running into shot and out again, looking urgent. In my mind, I was back in the office pretending the fax had broken and that the printer on the other side of the room had started smoking. These dastardly office scenarios were clearly doing the trick as, before long, Glenn was yelling ‘Cut!’ Rosaline hurried over to powder my nose. ‘You are gorgeous, darling. I’m barely earning my money today.’