Score! (28 page)

‘You could always get some smaller ones from Props,’ said Wolfie gravely, and both men had to flee clutching their sides.

The set was absolutely crowded out. Mr Brimscombe, binoculars hanging from his scrawny neck, was selling tickets at the door. Ross Benson, who’d been smuggled in by a returned Hype-along to do an in-depth piece, fell off a rafter, fortunately landing on the great four-poster. As he was very handsome, Dame Hermione looked very excited. Tristan, however, flipped.

‘Clear the set! Clear the fucking set!’

‘Please don’t bother,’ said Hermione graciously.

‘Where am I going to hide my microphone?’ grumbled Sylvestre, who usually had to drop it down Hermione’s cleavage.

‘Up her ass,’ volunteered Ogborne.

‘Quiet, please!’ roared Bernard.

‘Lucy,’ howled Tristan, then lowering his voice. ‘Can you do anything about the blue veins on her boobs?’

Lucy darted forward with concealer, murmuring, ‘Don’t you get nervous about taking your clothes off in front of all these people?’

‘Indeed not.’ Hermione looked amazed. ‘A woman should be proud of her body.’ Then, in indignation, ‘Why is that man reading
Dogs Today
? Very discourteous of him. Oh, it’s you, Meredith. I suppose you don’t really count.’

Bernard grabbed Tristan’s camera script to conceal a huge hard-on.

‘We’re turning over,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Action,’ shouted Tristan.

‘Christ, Alpheus isn’t having to act in this scene at all,’ hissed Sylvestre to Wolfie, a few moments later. ‘He’s bigger than a fucking Thermos.’

‘Hermione ees supposed to be gritting her teeth, Uncle Treestan,’ whispered Simone, ‘but she look as though she enjoy every minute.’

‘Cut,’ said Tristan, then to Hermione, ‘Your husband is virtually raping you in this scene,
chérie
. Could you possibly act a bit more upset?’

‘There are beings, Tristan’ — roguishly, Hermione quoted him back at himself — ‘who are born for others, who are quite unaware of their own egos. Elisabetta had far too perfect manners to upset her elderly partner by showing him she wasn’t having a good time.’

Tristan was defeated.

‘Okkay, okkay.’ He sighed.

They’d just have to film her even more from behind.

‘I’d take a wide shot on this one,’ he told Valentin.

‘One could hardly do anything else.’

Oscar, slumped over the camera ostensibly checking the lights through his eye-piece, was actually asleep.

‘Talk dirty to me, Alpheus,’ murmured Hermione, who was used to being turned on by Rannaldini’s crooning obscenities.

‘Unless Sexton pays me cash like you,’ murmured back Alpheus, ‘I may have difficulty meeting next year’s tax bill.’

Chloe was utterly mortified. Alpheus had been pompous and self-regarding.

‘But I thought he loved me and would shelter me through life like a great tree,’ she told Tristan, as she toyed with her scallops Mornay in the Heavenly Host that evening.

‘Plants growing in shade miss out on sun and rain,’ said Tristan.

Chloe’s breasts leaping out of that crimson dress had the same springy texture as the scallops, he decided.

‘You and Baby are stealing the show,’ he went on, filling up her glass. ‘You’ll get your revenge on Hermione when the reviews come out. You’re so beautiful, Chloe.’

Chloe glanced complacently at her reflection in a nearby mirror. Lucy’s streaking was so subtle. The dark glasses over her blackened eye showed off the tilt of her nose and the luscious curves of her smiling crimson mouth. She must buy Lucy a box of chocolates tomorrow.

Back at Valhalla, a weary Lucy finished writing the day’s notes and stuck in Polaroids of a naked Hermione and Alpheus. At least she hadn’t had to powder Alpheus’s cock. And Chloe’s lower lip was rather thin so she’d had to extend the natural line along the bottom with a lipbrush and fill in quite a large gap. But the end result had been heavenly, particularly in that incredibly skimpy dress. Tristan had reeked of Eau Sauvage and even put on a suit.

Out in the park, as the orange glow of sunset died away, the occasional bleat of a lamb and the deep-throated reassuring rumble of its mother reminded her of Cumbria and made her long for tumbling grey streams, geometric walls and mountains rising out of the mist. Why did one feel most homesick when one was miserable?

As Tristan walked Chloe back to the north wing, she cursed herself for wasting so much of dinner bitching and talking about herself. She wasn’t used to dining with a good listener. The lamp over the doorway shining through the clematis cast a leaf pattern on Tristan’s face. From the sides of his nose past his beautiful big mouth, two lines dug trenches that had not been there in January.
Don Carlos
was taking its toll.

‘Your suite or mine?’ she whispered.

There was a long pause. An owl hooted.

‘Darling Chloe.’

‘Are you gay?’

The leaf pattern quivered as he shook his head.

‘Is there someone else?’

‘Something else. Rannaldini’s back tomorrow. I have two, three hours’ work to do.’ Then, when Chloe looked sullen, ‘My father die last year. Your scene with Alpheus was so like his paintings. Give me time, Chloe.’ He kissed her cheek.

As he wandered off into the garden, rain dripped through the wood like some Chinese water torture. The constellation of the Virgin was chasing Leo the Lion across the sky. When push came to shove and grunt, he didn’t want to sleep with Chloe, who, as she undressed, felt it would have been quite easy to get over Alpheus if Tristan had made a pass at her.

Away from home for so long, people started to lose their moorings, groups formed and re-formed, cabals sprang up, feuds and jealousies flourished, as husbands, lovers, children were — sometimes gladly — forgotten. Poor Rozzy Pringle, working flat out in both Wardrobe and Make Up and sending most of her wages home, couldn’t forget Glyn, her horrible husband, however, because he was always ringing up to bombard her with complaints and demands.

‘When he’s ratty,’ sighed Rozzy, ‘I can never tell if he’s been dumped by one of his girlfriends or his business is in trouble again.’

‘No work and all play makes Glyn a kept boy,’ observed Meredith disapprovingly.

Everyone loved Rozzy, who seemed to love everyone, even the lascivious Mr Brimscombe, who spent hours discussing plants with her and even gave her access to his tool-shed. Lucy had filled a window-box outside her caravan with love-in-a-mist. Rozzy remembered to water it, and took James for walks when Lucy was too busy.

Rozzy loved everyone, but most of all she adored Tristan for his kindness when her voice gave out. She was always shoving buttered croissants and big cups of
café au lait
into his hands. Lucy had to curb tinges of irritation — after all, Rozzy fussed over her too. Wardrobe had its own Bendix to wash costumes. Rozzy put in Lucy’s clothes and occasionally dragged Tristan’s favourite peacock-blue shirt off him when he became too obsessed with work to change it. As Cheryl had become extremely bolshie, Alpheus crinkled his eyes in the hope of getting his washing done too, but drew a blank.

Mobbing up Bernard was a favourite location pastime, but Rozzy stuck up for him too. Bernard had insisted on his own little office, facing south between Wardrobe and the smoke-filled ant hill of the production office. Here, he could work out tomorrow’s movement order in peace and complete the
Figaro
crossword, which was faxed over to him every morning. On the door was a notice saying: ‘First Assistant Director. Please Knock.’

So Baby knocked when he went past.

‘Come in. What can I do for you?’ asked Bernard.

‘Nothing at all. It says, “Please Knock”, so I did.’

Bernard was apoplectic, particularly when Baby did it each time he went past, and the habit caught on with everyone else.

They were all giggling about it in the canteen one lunchtime when Rozzy lost her temper.

‘Bernard’s a darling,’ she shouted at them. ‘You only dislike him because he’s good at shutting up chatterboxes.’ She glared at Baby and Granny. ‘And he refuses to reschedule because
someone
’, she glanced reproachfully across at Chloe, ‘wants to buzz off and sing
Carmen
in Paris.’

‘Who wrecked their voice in January singing all over Europe?’ snapped Chloe. ‘I suppose you and Bernard have the screaming hots for Tristan de Montigny in common.’

‘
Parlez pour votre
self,’ drawled Baby.

Then Chloe went as crimson as her lipstick because Bernard was standing in the doorway. The dreadful silence was only interrupted by the clatter and chatter of the canteen staff washing up. But Bernard was oblivious of Chloe. Crossing the room, he kissed Rozzy’s hand.

‘Thank you, Madame Pringle. May I buy you a drink?’

With fractionally warmer weather filming moved outside to Rannaldini’s garden, which had reached a pitch of late spring perfection. Tristan decided to kick off with a returning Mikhail singing a beautiful aria to Hermione. Alas, Mikhail’s English had been so incomprehensible, the taxi driver picking him up at Heathrow took him to Rugby rather than Rutminster. Mikhail rang in in tears, saying he couldn’t reach Valhalla before early evening.

Reluctant to waste Hermione, who’d already spent three hours in Make Up bullying Lucy, Tristan decided to shoot a later scene in which Philip finds Elisabetta unattended, and sacks her favourite lady-in-waiting, the Countess of Aremburg. This was the non-singing part in which he had cast Rozzy, which would at least get her name on the credits. Rozzy was only required to burst into tears, but she was dreadfully nervous even of this piece of mime, particularly as Rannaldini had just returned from Tokyo and was scowling from a new chair with ‘Executive Producer’ printed on the back.

Being called at such short notice, Rozzy had had no time to wash her hair — which Lucy was able to hide under a very pretty, short, curly wig — or to remove a few hairs from her chin and upper lip.

‘Some Immac will take them off in a trice,’ said Lucy soothingly.

‘We haven’t got time,’ quavered Rozzy.

‘Course we have.’

‘Lucy,’ screamed Hermione.

‘Don’t leave your old bags unattended,’ quipped Meredith, as Lucy belted off to Hermione’s caravan.

‘I’ve nicked a toenail,’ moaned Hermione, ‘and it’s sticking into my big toe. Have you got a plaster?’

‘Only to put over your mouth,’ muttered Lucy.

‘Are you nearly ready, Luce?’ Wolfie appeared at the door. ‘My father’s about to boil over.’

As a result Lucy only had time to put a bit of slap on Rozzy and pray that the dark base would hide any hairs, before Sylvestre arrived to mike her up.

Alas, poor Rozzy, struck down by nerves, fled to the honeywagon, from which, because naughty Sylvestre had not switched off the mike, the whole crew could hear the sound of Mount Etna erupting.

‘Mrs Pringle’s got the runs,’ giggled Pushy Galore.

‘Pity she’s not playing for England,’ sighed Ogborne. ‘They’re fifty-two for four.’

Even Bernard was smiling. Everyone, however, managed to compose their faces as Rozzy arrived on the set, except Hermione who, with merry laughter, proceeded to explain the joke.

‘That’s enough, Hermione,’ snapped Bernard, seeing Rozzy going crimson. ‘Rozzy looks beautiful, and the hair is very nice.’

‘That style makes you look years younger,’ conceded Hermione, ‘but you’re a little too red in the face.’

‘Probably a hot flush,’ sighed Rozzy.

‘Oh, no, dear, you’re well past that.’

‘Let’s go for a quick rehearsal.’ Tristan came off his mobile to Aunt Hortense. ‘Rozzy, you look wonderful.’

‘He could make a warthog feel like Helen of Troy,’ grumbled Pushy.

I’m Elisabetta’s lady-in-waiting, I ought to be playing the Countess, she thought furiously as, with the rest of the ladies of the chorus, she bobbed around in front of a hedge of white roses trying to get into shot.

‘“Countess,”’ sang Alpheus sternly, ‘“at daybreak you will return to France.”’

‘Burst into tears, Rozzy,’ shouted Tristan.

Rozzy’s only problem would have been holding them back any longer. Particularly when Hermione repeatedly stroked her face as she mimed her consoling aria and, between takes, loudly advised Rozzy to invest in some decent electrolysis.

‘It’s well worth it at your age.’

Tears of such humiliation had gushed out of Rozzy’s eyes that Tristan was genuinely able to congratulate her on a wonderfully convincing performance, which didn’t cheer Rozzy up one bit.

Happily, Hermione’s comeuppance was in train. Oscar, who was not the most famous director of photography in the world for nothing, had decided to avenge both Chloe and Rozzy.

That evening, as everyone poured into the viewing room to watch the rushes, all that could be heard was Hermione’s agitated squawking. Having lit her from beneath in her nude scene with Alpheus, Oscar had made her bottom look enormous.

‘The great globe itself,’ said Granny, in a sepulchral whisper.

‘You should have reduced it with a darker base, Lucy,’ giggled Meredith.

‘Any moment, David Attenborough will pop up and lecture us
sotto voce
on the mating habits of the hippopotamus,’ cried Baby, in ecstasy.

Shouts of ‘My bottom is not that big, my bottom is
not
that big,’ were drowned by cheers, particularly from Chloe, who gave Oscar a big kiss.

‘What are you doing after this?’ she murmured. ‘I owe you.’

Tristan laughed, but was cross with Oscar because they ought to reshoot. He was overruled by Sexton and Rannaldini, who both liked big bums and small budgets.

‘Do you know the meaning of the word “callipygean”?’ asked Sexton cosily, as he tried to bear Hermione away for a consoling drink.