Lucky Break (16 page)

She moved along to Hair, where a large man abandoned his knitting to smooth and preen and even snip at the dry ends before pulling her newly straightened hair into a ponytail, freeing two strands and wetting them so that they sprang back into ringlets which hung down over her ears. ‘Parfait,' he said, kissing his fingers, and Charlie smiled into the mirror.

The location was in a glade of trees high up above the city. The air smelt sweet of thyme and sunshine, the evening light, as it slanted down, bathing everything in a haze of gold. A car took Charlie the five minutes from her trailer to the set, and when she stepped out she found herself in a clearing where a fire – the fire – was already lit. Some kind of sacking had been laid down, with leaves and grasses scattered over it, and Marcel was there, in jeans and a T-shirt, hovering by the table where tea, coffee, fruit and biscuits were supplied.

Charlie wandered over to him. ‘Good evening,' he said, holding a polystyrene cup under the spout of the urn. ‘I hope you are feeling well?'

His face looked unusually smooth, and his hair flopped silkily forward over his eyes.

‘Yes. Thanks.' She made herself tea too. There was an uncomfortable silence. It's like one of those horrible first dates, she thought, when you know you're going to end up in bed but you don't know how you're going to get there. She unpacked a Cellophane-wrapped biscuit, and then found she couldn't eat it. Maybe I should have jumped on him that first night on the steps of the hotel, and then at least I'd know what to expect. If I'd already touched him, I'd know how to touch him now, and Charlie shivered at the unsettling possibility of moles, of back hair, of the new foreign feel of his skin. My Objective, she thought desperately, too late, is to . . . what? What was her Objective? She couldn't think. Surely that was the whole point of her character, she didn't have one. She wants to go back to England, take up her place at university, but she doesn't want to lose him. OK. So her Actions are to love him, seduce him, in order to keep him. But in the script, isn't it him, seducing her?

‘Sorry?' Marcel was smiling.

‘Oh, nothing. I was just . . .'

‘You want?' He held out a stick of gum, and she took it, embarrassed.

 

Maisie had assured her, that for any scenes involving nudity, there would be a closed set. No one who wasn't strictly necessary would be allowed in, but here, in this forest clearing, who was going to guard against it? Anyone at all could be lurking in the shadows – prop-buyers, mechanics, the entire catering staff. Even people who had nothing to do with the film could probably take a look. Late-night ramblers, truffle-hunters, men out poaching pheasants. Charlie stared into the fire. I don't really care, she reminded herself, I just don't want to look a fool, when it turns out that I'm actually in
Carry on Au-pairing
while my Mum is telling the whole of Cheltenham WI that I'm in a charming little arthouse classic.

Marcel stretched out beside her. ‘Where are you living in London?' he asked politely.

‘In Willesden,' she told him, ‘you know it?' He said he didn't.

‘And you?' she asked.

‘Yes, I live in Paris. In the Marais.'

Conversation between them faltered. They both looked up, hopefully, when the director walked over. ‘OK, so . . .' he crouched down to squat at their level, ‘what we want to see is . . . love, tenderness, passion.' He smiled, as if delighted with the clarity of his notes. ‘You want to rehearse, or we start filming?'

Marcel turned towards her. ‘Sharlie?' He said her new soft name. ‘What would you prefer?'

‘Me?' And unable to bear the thought of prolonging the agony any further she opted to start filming.

 

‘And Action.'

They both stared into the fire.

‘Don't go back.' Marcel put an arm around her.

‘I have to,' she turned to look at him.

‘You don't have to do anything.' He took her hand, and pressed it. Warmth flooded through her. Sharlie, she thought to herself. Sharlie! ‘Except stay here with me.'

She was ready when his kiss came. His lips, as soft as she'd remembered them, his teeth, clean as mint. This time she didn't pull away so fast. ‘But what about university, my degree . . .' She remained in the circle of his arms. He held her there against him and almost whispered, so that the furry arm of the boom swung down above them, ‘What about life?‘

Charlie remembered Rob, their boarded-up front door, the radio that she'd probably left tuned to Radio 1. ‘Yes. Life.'

Bereft of any more lines, Marcel leant in for another kiss, his hand, sliding down her side, his body pressing into hers. How big is this heat, she found herself wondering, as together they fell back on to the matting which must have been laid on a path of rocks, because one of them was digging into her spine. In any normal situation she would have shrieked and sat up, but this was serious, this was love and passion. Marcel continued to kiss her and she him. Now what? she thought, beginning to suffocate, and before her lips went numb she broke away and began to kiss his neck, his ear, all the while stroking his hair. If only they could have gone on talking? We need more lines to help us through, and just then, as if his career depended on it, Marcel sat up and tugged off his shirt. Charlie's heart contracted. Not only was he beautiful, clean and strong in the half light, but now it meant she too would have to make a move. He pulled her up against him and they kissed again, her hands on his naked back, his, stroking the stretch of bare, brown midriff below her handkerchief of a shirt. When they could kiss no more, he bent his head to the tie of it and together they fumbled with the knot so that by the time it fell open to reveal her breasts Charlie was so relieved to have succeeded with it that she hardly cared.

‘Cut' came the unexpected call. A woman rushed forward with a dressing gown. Marcel turned away and wiped his mouth.

Charlie looked towards the director but he was busy. Instead she pulled her gown around her and tilted her head patiently while the make-up woman patted powder over her flushed face.

‘Right,' the director called eventually. ‘Great. Let's go again, and let me see, more . . . more urgency, more desire.'

This time when Marcel took off his shirt, Charlie ran her hands over his body, felt the warm flesh, the springy ribs, the muscles in his arms. Her shirt, which she'd re-tied, slipped off her shoulders and he bent down and kissed each breast. She felt her face flame and then grow pale and she remembered Sally Warren telling everyone at the raucous first-night
Hedda Gabler
party how once, during a sex scene, an actor, who she refrained from naming, put his tongue in her ear, whereupon she promptly threw up. To get away from Marcel's mouth she eased him back so that she was straddling him, but now he had his hands at her waist, unbuttoning her shorts. She stopped abruptly and looked towards the camera. She was met with a row of eager eyes, each dropping away as she stared them out.

‘What is it?' The director came out from the safety of his camp.

‘Am I? Do I have to . . . for God's sake, do you want all my clothes to come off, or what?' The man looked embarrassed. He shrugged and pouted and glanced from side to side. ‘I think . . . Yes. The shorts. Off.' Then, he looked away. ‘The panties, they can remain. Or not, be playful, express yourself. You were in drama school, no?'

Charlie crossed her arms over her breasts to stop herself from punching him, and she thought of the long hours in Silvio's studio, moving their eyes from left to right. ‘Yes,' she mouthed darkly, and she wondered what would happen if she had signed the no pinky bits clause. Where would the body double come from? Would she dash out from between the trees, a huge black bottom wobbling, and throw herself in abandon on Marcel?

‘So, très bien,' the director nodded, and they prepared to go again.

This time Charlie wriggled out of the shorts herself, but Marcel didn't remove any more of his clothes. He unfastened his belt, and made a show of tugging at his flies, before rolling her over on to the sacking and pressing himself against her with a groan. For a full five minutes they humped and moaned.

‘I'm so sorry,' Marcel said, when it was over. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes,' she winced, feeling underneath her for more rocks. She waved away the dressing gown. What was the point of pretending to be modest, when any minute she would be writhing and gasping again? Marcel snapped up a sharp green blade of grass and stretched it between his thumbs. ‘I stayed in London once,' he told her, whistling through it like a boy. ‘My father worked for a bank, when he was living, and we used to go to Hyde Park, and row on the little boats.' He sank down on one elbow and Charlie lay beside him. ‘I know those boats,' she said, ‘it's funny but I've never been on one, and I've lived in London since I was sixteen.' There was silence. ‘What happened to your Dad?'

‘Oh.' A cloud passed over the surface of his face. ‘He was ill, for a long time.' He touched her hand. ‘Maybe one day we'll go on the boats. No? Me and you. And I will row.'

‘Maybe.' Charlie felt ridiculously pleased.

‘Before, have you been in France?'

‘Just once, for a weekend.'

‘But you have travelled?' It seemed now the act was done, and done and done again, they were free to talk.

‘Not really,' Charlie told him. ‘My Dad took me to Nigeria once, when his father died . . . to the land of his ancestors, you know . . . but that was hard, it was as if he turned into someone else . . . you know what I mean?' She felt, of all people, he would. ‘And when I came back my mother had arranged for me to go to boarding school, in Kent, if you can call that travelling.' An unexpected surge of misery flooded through her.

‘You didn't like it?' Marcel looked at her, concerned.

‘I fucking hated it.' But when she saw his solemn face she laughed. ‘OK, it wasn't that bad. They didn't beat us or anything. I just felt different. And I missed home. And then I hated home because they'd sent me.'

Marcel pressed her hand. ‘And now?'

‘Now?' She thought for a moment. ‘My parents don't know anything about me.'

 

It was light by the time they got back to the hotel. ‘You will sleep?' Marcel asked her. They'd travelled in the same car, dressed once again in their own clothes, gazing out at the waking countryside, the old stone of the houses, the stirring dogs, the sudden flashes of sea between the trees.

‘Yes,' she said.

‘Or would you like . . . we could swim?'

‘Now?'

‘Why not?'

‘Will the pool be open this early?'

‘The pool?' He grinned. ‘The sea!' He leant forward and spoke in rapid French to the driver, who swerved away from the palm fronds of the hotel entrance and veered out on to the road.

Charlie looked at him. ‘I was going to say later.' She shook her head. ‘I was going to be sensible and say, let's meet up for lunch.'

Marcel grinned. ‘Now I'm allowed to talk to you, I don't like to wait.'

Charlie turned her whole body towards him. ‘What do you mean,' her voice was low, ‘allowed?'

Marcel took her hands. ‘To keep the tension, I had to promise, to stay away, but now, the big scene is done, so . . .'

Charlie was open-mouthed. ‘You left me on my own all this week . . .' her heart was pounding, ‘you bastard, for the sake of the film?'

Marcel gave some quick instruction to the driver, who veered off the road. Below, across a stretch of rocks and tiny flowering sea-plants, was the curve of a blue bay.

‘Wait, attend,' he told the man, and pulling Charlie after him, he ran with her across the rocks and pools and down to the fine white pebbles of the beach.

‘I am sorry,' he said, ‘it was not easy for me too. Please. Will you forgive me?'

When she hesitated he dropped down on to one knee. ‘I'm 'orrible, I know. Just 'orrible.'

‘Stop it.' Charlie had to laugh. ‘You 'orrible man.' And she tugged at his arm so that he stood up.

‘Thank you.' He reached out and touched her hair, tentative, as if the feel of it was new. ‘But it worked, no? You were at your best. Exquisite.' And with no one's eyes on them he drew her towards him, finally, for their first real kiss.

Who's Your Agent?

Nell's agency was run by an old woman, with an old woman's name – Ethel Dabbs – but Nell dealt almost entirely with her assistant, Lyndsey. Lyndsey was young and enthusiastic, and she'd taken Nell on after seeing her play the nurse in a production of
Romeo and Juliet
in a theatre above a pub in Chiswick.

‘Welcome to Ethel Dabbs Associates.' Lyndsey had ushered her into their office, and Ethel Dabbs herself had looked up from behind a desk, and adjusting her glasses, peered at her unsparingly.

Nell was delighted to have an agent. Instead of scouring the pages of
The Stage
for adverts, or writing off with her photo and CV to every repertory theatre in the country, she sat and waited for the phone to ring. Mostly it was her mother wondering how she was getting on, but sometimes, thrillingly, it was Lyndsey with details of auditions – a play at Leicester Phoenix or a season at the Glasgow Citizens. Once she even called with news of a meeting for a small part in
The Bill
. Nell forced herself to wait for several days before ringing her back, and when she did, Lyndsey was always cheerful. ‘Not this time, I'm afraid. It didn't work out. On to the next one, eh?'