Читать книгу Good Time Girl - Kate O’Mara - Страница 10

‘They are looking for a tall blonde to play a tough business woman, owner of a rival art gallery, bent on poaching the McMasters’ clientele and putting them out of business. The story line being, of course, that the two galleries eventually decide to merge and Sara Harper, that’s the character, takes over joint control of the business with Paul McMaster and he falls for her, which causes all sorts of complications on the work and home front, as you can imagine. It’s a great part and you’re absolutely right for it, except that you’re not tall and you’re not blonde – hang on a minute, there’s someone on the other line.’

Thus spake David Hawkins, Claire’s agent. It was exactly two weeks since her abortion and Claire was at the lowest ebb of her life. She now realized that Roger was basically an egotistical cruel shit. So why, she asked herself, was there this appalling pain where she believed her heart was located. She supposed it was the rejection. Being dumped. Not wanted on voyage. Tears started to well again.

David’s phone call had given her a small ray of hope. Sally had stated unequivocally that what she needed was work. It would change her whole perspective on things. A couple of weeks to recuperate – get her strength back and she’d be ready to take on the world again. Claire secretly doubted this. But right on cue, David had phoned. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks and as ever, the prospect of a new challenge had thrilled her. And now she was not even being considered for a part for which she was eminently suitable because her hair was the wrong colour and her stature too short. In normal circumstances, Claire would simply have shrugged her shoulders and said ‘That’s showbiz’. But somehow, now, it seemed as though she wasn’t good enough for Roger and she wasn’t good enough for South Eastern Television either. She was inadequate on all counts.

David was speaking again. ‘You still there Claire?’

‘Yes. David, why does this character have to be blonde?’

‘Because Bella Shand is dark, I suppose. Oh don’t ask me – I shall never understand how producers’ minds work. Anyway, I did point out to Martin and Hugh that you were perfect for the part in every other respect and that they ought to at least see you and let you read.’

Ah, another spark of hope.

‘And what was their reaction?’

‘They said that they’d think about it.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last week.’

‘You never told me,’ said Claire, thinking how much just a prospect would have helped her get through last week. But David knew nothing of recent events. She wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him.

‘Of course not,’ replied David briskly. ‘There’s no point in raising your hopes until I’ve at least secured you an interview. When did you work with Larry Matthews?’

Claire thought hard. ‘I never have,’ she said eventually. ‘Why?’

‘He seems to know your work, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I remember, he came to see us in The Rivals, well, not me exactly, his boyfriend was in it playing Faulkland.’

‘Ah, that would explain it. Well, anyway, they’re going to see you on Thursday, eleven forty-five at their offices at Holroyd House. Do your best!’

Claire fell a thrill of excitement surge through her. ‘How should I try to look?’ she asked him enthusiastically.

‘Tall,’ David replied dryly, and hung up.

Claire laughed out loud. It was the first time she’d laughed in weeks, she realized. She had an uncanny feeling that things were going to get better. She recognized a familiar steeliness, a sense of resolve and determination coming over her. She was going to get this part. She wanted it. More than that, she needed it. It was going to be her salvation. Thursday. Today was Tuesday. That gave her a whole day to sort out something suitable to wear. She might have to borrow an item from Sally’s wardrobe. She crossed to the large mirror that hung above the sofa. Dear God, she thought, I look a fright. Her face was gaunt, pale, her eyes deep and unfathomable, her hair limp and untidy. She sighed heavily and crossed back to the phone. It suddenly rang. Her heart leaped. Roger, she thought involuntarily. She picked up the receiver with trembling hands.

‘Hello,’ she said timidly, hardly daring to hope.

‘Hi, kid, how you doing?’

It was Sal’s cheery voice. Claire felt an initial shock of disappointment followed by one of relief. Of course it wasn’t Roger, it was never going to be Roger again. And a bloody good thing too!

‘Hi, Sal. I’m okay. No, as a matter of fact I’m more than okay. I’m seeing some producers about a job on Thursday so things are looking up.’

‘Darling, that’s wonderful. Can I come round tonight?’

‘Well, funnily enough, I was going to ask you over. I was just about to dial your number. How did you know?’

‘I’m clairvoyant, and one doesn’t dial any more, one punches.’

‘True. What time will you be here?’

‘In about an hour. I’m bringing some food. You’re looking a bit peaky so I’m going to cook you supper!’

‘You darling.’ Claire was genuinely touched. ‘You couldn’t possibly bring most of your wardrobe with you as well could you? God knows what I’m going to wear for this interview.’

‘What’s the part?’

‘Oh, sort of classy ballbreaker by the sound of it.’

‘I’ve got just the thing! See you later,’ and Sally rang off.

Claire felt better than she’d done for ages. Suddenly there was real hope. She wandered slowly into her bedroom and slid back the cupboard doors. Three long peasant skirts – Roger had liked peasant skirts. A calf-length tweed skirt and matching long jacket – Roger had liked those, too. The high-necked long-sleeved velvet evening dress that Roger had chosen for her, and a cashmere stole – and several pairs of low-heeled pumps. It dawned on her that her entire wardrobe consisted not of her taste but of Roger’s. She had dressed to please him. There was certainly nothing suitable for a tough aggressive business woman here.

She remembered how she used to dress before she met Roger: trousers, sweatshirts, boots; jeans, tee shirts, sneakers; very short skirts with high heels and little nipped in jackets; daringly low-cut evening dresses and anything that was either ethnic or outrageous. Individual clothes for a confident independent woman. She had worn make-up too. Sometimes lots of it. She enjoyed wearing it. Roger had somehow persuaded her that she looked better without it. The only time she got the opportunity to make up was on stage or before the cameras. That’s how she’d first met Roger. In front of the camera. She’d had long hair then, too. A thick wonderful shining mane. And she’d been wearing a lot of makeup. He’d come to take her photo for a magazine article, a glossy in-depth piece featuring young actresses who had been tipped as ‘the girls most likely to succeed’. It had been her only real taste of fame so far. Roger was one of the most successful photographers around, and he’d fallen for her at once, she knew that. She could tell by the way he looked at her. And by the photographs he had taken of her. Yet within a year he had persuaded her to cut off her lovely hair and divest herself of all her make-up. She stood staring at the open cupboard as she remembered. Why had he wanted to change her? It was a mystery.

She walked slowly over to the dressing-table, sat down, and opened the left-hand drawer. Yes, it was all there, her make-up box, false eyelashes, everything. Deliberately she started to apply a golden tinted foundation, not thickly but just enough to give her a tan-like glow. Next, eyeliner, flicked up at the ends to give her eyes an upward slant, her favourite exotic look. Then she outlined her lips with a lipliner, filled in her mouth with a paler lipstick, never a dark one, not for Claire. A smudge of eyeshadow, bronze blusher on the cheekbones and temples, even the chin. And finally, yes, why not? Natural-looking eyelashes, stuck right at the roots of her own, and liberally mascaraed top and bottom.

Her hair had now grown back to almost shoulder length, but was looking decidedly lifeless. She opened the other drawer and pulled out the hairpiece she had bought last year. She had suddenly been asked to play Mary Magdalene in a charity Christmas show. They couldn’t afford to hire a wig for her, so she had gone out and bought one herself from a theatrical wigmakers. She had seen an advertisement announcing that they were selling off old stock. She had been thrilled with it, and had worn it a couple of times since on stage. Now she rifled around and found some hairpins. She wound small sections of her own hair on the crown of her head and secured them with hairgrips. Then she brushed the false hair vigorously and attached it to the pin curls with large hairpins. She teased her own hair back to blend in with the false piece and, hardly bearing to look at herself, sauntered into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Tea. One of her favourite indulgences.

Suddenly she remembered an old holdall in the broom cupboard in the passage. She was sure she had kept some of her old clothes there. She all but ran out of the kitchen, wrenched the cupboard door open and dragged out the case, unzipped it – and yes, it was bulging with garments. Thinking she could use them when she next decorated, she’d never thrown them out. They were mainly jeans, trousers and tops. She exclaimed with delight as she unearthed some much-loved jungle-green army fatigues. She bundled the rest back into the case and carried it lovingly into the bedroom. The kettle was boiling and she ran to make the tea, then hurried back to the bedroom and took out the fatigues. Admittedly they smelt a bit strange, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d give them a good wash that night.

She tore off her blouse and ankle-length skirt, stepped into the all-in-one outfit and zipped up the front. It still fitted well. If anything it was a touch large; of course, she had lost weight recently. It needed a belt – well, at least she still had those. On a shelf in a cupboard she found her favourite. It was very wide, brown shaped leather and she fastened it around her waist with mounting excitement. Shoes – of course, trainers – she used those for rehearsals. She dug them out of the back of the wardrobe and rammed them on her feet. Then, picking up the rest of the clothes from the bed, she strode confidently back into the kitchen, opened the door of the washing machine and chucked them all in. Washing powder and softener followed, then she slammed the door and clicked the controls. She poured a large breakfast cup of tea and wandered into the sitting room. Then, and then only, did she allow herself a good look at her reflection.

To her delight and surprise Claire saw a girl she had once known smiling back at her. She all but whooped with joy. Could it be that she actually felt happy? That the awful weight of misery that she had been dragging around with her for months was beginning to lighten? The anguish of the last two weeks had been insupportable and she knew it would be a long time before that diminished. But this was the start. She surveyed herself from all angles, then sat down on the sofa to sip her tea. Perhaps some music? No, no, not music, not yet. Music stirred the emotions. No, she mustn’t overreach herself. One step at a time. Practical progress first. The door bell rang. Again her heart leapt. This was ridiculous. She must learn to control herself. She put the cup down on the glass coffee table and went to the front door.

‘Hello, darling. I’m a bit early. Does it matter?’ Sally stood in the doorway laden with carrier bags and clothes slung over her arm. ‘My God! Have I come to the wrong flat?’ she exclaimed in amazement as she took in Claire’s appearance.

Claire laughed. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it?’ cried Sally, dropping her burdens and hugging her. ‘Oh, darling, welcome back!’

‘Have I really changed that much?’ asked Claire, extricating herself.

Sally stood back and surveyed her. ‘This is the girl I knew four years ago. You look stunning!’

Claire smiled back at her. ‘I think I’m going to get better, Sal,’ she said evenly.

‘I know you are,’ Sally replied with conviction. ‘You look heaps better already, though admittedly you smell a little funny, sort of mildewy! Nothing that a drop of scent won’t put right.’

Claire giggled. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

Sally stopped her. ‘No, darling, new man, new scent,’ she said firmly.

‘But I haven’t got a new man,’ protested Claire laughingly.

‘Looking like that, you soon will have,’ said Sally. ‘Yep, new job, new man, I’m absolutely convinced of it.’

‘Yes,’ said Claire doubtfully, ‘but I’ve got to get the job first.’

‘And so you shall!’ said her friend with determination. ‘See what I’ve brought you!’ And she rescued the clothes from the floor where they had fallen.

‘But, Sal,’ protested Claire, as Sally held up a superb-looking garment, ‘this is your new Italian suit!’

‘That’s right,’ responded Sally gaily. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ And she held it up against Claire. ‘This’ll get you the job!’