Читать книгу One Night Only - Sue Welfare - Страница 11

‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how it feels to be back in your home town –’ said Natalia. Natalia was standing out of camera shot, by the hotel reception desk. She glanced down at the notes on her clipboard.

‘And we need you to come in again and if you could maybe say that thing you just said about how much things have changed since you were last here? And remember when this is aired they’ll be cutting my voice out. So if you could speak in whole sentences. It makes the editing a whole lot easier.’ She smiled at Helen reassuringly. ‘You okay with that? You’re clear about what we’d like?’

Helen nodded.

‘Okay, and you’ve got your case? And so are we ready to go again?’ Natalia glanced over her shoulder towards the rest of the film crew, who were arranged in a ragged semicircle by the reception desk. Felix, who was supposed to be directing the Roots shoot, was watching something on the playback screen, but even so he nodded. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said, making a ‘wagons roll’ signal with his fingers.

Helen did as she was told and set down the suitcase she had been carrying and smiled into the camera. ‘It feels great to be back. On the drive up from the station I was looking around at everything, taking it all in. It’s been a while since I’ve been back home and at the risk of sounding like a cliché, I was just thinking how things haven’t changed all that much, and of course that’s the moment when the taxi turns a corner and just about everything’s new. The big warehouse by the river – luxury flats now – Tilman’s factory gone for a shopping mall. So, so far it’s an odd feeling but it’s good to be back. I’m hoping the big things haven’t changed that much.’ Helen glanced around the foyer of the Billingsfield Arms Hotel, catching the eye of the receptionist who was busy fiddling with something behind the desk.

‘Hello, my name is Helen Redford,’ she said, walking up to the desk to talk to the woman. ‘There should be a reservation for me?’

The receptionist looked up and smiled.

‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s just great.’

Natalia turned her attention to the woman behind the desk.

‘Presumably we won’t be needing to book in again, so can we just go from where you give Helen the keys?’

The receptionist nodded. Felix gave her the thumbs up. The receptionist took back the set of keys that she had given Helen on the previous take and waited to be cued in. The woman was a natural, Helen thought.

‘Sorry about this, but they want it to look just right,’ Helen said by way of an explanation. ‘The phone ringing and that guy wandering into shot last time,’ she began. ‘It spoils the way it looks and sounds.’

The receptionist’s smile held. ‘Not a problem,’ she murmured, her attention on Felix, who gave her an okay signal with his thumb and forefinger.

‘We’re good to go, whenever you are,’ he said.

The receptionist cranked her smile up a notch. ‘I hope you’ll be very comfortable during your stay with us, Ms Redford,’ she said, handing Helen the keys to her suite. Still smiling, she waved a porter over. ‘This is Christov, he’ll show you up to your room and take care of your bags, and if there is anything you want, anything at all, then please just let us know.’ She paused, turning the corporate hospitality smile up to stun for the benefit of the camera, and then added, ‘And can I just say how pleased we are to have you here at the Billingsfield Arms, Helen. Welcome home. It’s really good to have you back.’

Helen smiled graciously right on cue. ‘Thank you. It’s good to be back.’

‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s fantastic, really nice. Okay, lovely, lovely, lovely. Now am I right in thinking we’ve got one of the suites with the balcony? The one overlooking the quay?’ he asked first Natalia and then the woman behind the desk.

They were causing a stir. People were coming in off the street to watch what was going on; people who wouldn’t normally consider ever going into the Billingsfield Arms. People, Helen suspected, who the hotel management would probably prefer stayed outside, but who were making their way inside, past the doorman, past the plate glass and handsome oak panelling, to watch the filming. There were two men in anoraks, tracksuit bottoms and baseball caps standing just inside the revolving doors and alongside them two girls with babies in buggies. The girls had bare legs, their hair dragged up into topknots. Over by the entrance to the restaurant were a gaggle of women who had been shopping on the market, and were surrounded by piles of thin stripy carrier bags, the bags spilling their contents out onto the plush carpet.

The doorman stood to one side taking it all in, although from his expression it was painfully obvious he was unsure what to do. Did he throw the gawpers out or let them stay? How bad would it look for the hotel if he ended up on Youtube, hustling the hoi polloi back onto the streets?

Helen smiled at all of them. She had already done a round of autographs and hellos. One of the women, who before coming in had stubbed out a cigarette on the sole of her shoe and pocketed it, waved at her. Helen’s smile broadened as the doorman looked on, narrow-eyed and suspicious, as the woman found herself a chair and started to rifle through the complimentary magazines and newspapers.

Usually the Billingsfield Arms was the kind of establishment where people – guests and staff alike – spoke in hushed tones; where hurrying or shouting, shows of petulance or bad manners, were frowned upon. It was certainly not a place for shell suits and flip-flops, puffa jackets and baseball caps. Other hotel guests – mostly corpulent men of a certain age looking up from behind their broadsheets – cast glances in the film crew’s direction, making a great show of not being curious about all the comings and goings. But despite their measured indifference it seemed as if the business of the hotel had ground to a halt for the filming, as the staff crept out to join the people from the market to take in the floorshow.

‘That’s right. Suite thirty-four, top floor,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘I thought you’d already been up and had a look around?’

‘I did, but we have looked at quite a few. That is the one with the balcony, right? In the middle – the one with the view of all those warehouses?’ said Felix. Felix had bright red hennaed hair and was chewing gum.

‘That is correct,’ said the woman briskly; she didn’t look like the kind of woman who took kindly to hippies or chewing gum.

‘Okay, so we’re sure about that, are we?’ asked Felix.

The receptionist’s expression hardened. ‘Of course I’m sure. Suite thirty-four with a balcony. Your colleague booked it.’ She glanced at Natalia, who was nodding furiously.

Helen stood to one side of the melee along with her luggage. They had been in the hotel foyer for what seemed like forever, unpacking the equipment, setting up and then filming her walking down the street, looking up at the hotel, coming in out of the rain, making her way to the front desk, smiling at the receptionist, confirming her booking. All this for what would amount to a few seconds of airtime or probably be cut in the edit and not used at all. But it was getting them to bond, to gel as a team, which Natalia had explained was very important to all of them.

‘We really want you to trust us and understand where we’re coming from, Helen. We’re here to support you on your journey and make this a great show,’ she had said in a rather earnest pre-filming pep talk. Helen looked from face to face, well aware that no one else appeared to care a stuff about bonding, trust or any journey, other – possibly – than the one home.

So far their impromptu audience had hung on through it all, totally enthralled by all the comings and goings. One of the women, who was leaning against a baby buggy, blew a big pink bubble in her bubble gum.

Helen’s attention wandered, while Felix, Natalia and the receptionist discussed balconies, views and who had seen what and when. The hotel hadn’t changed that much since Helen had last been there. It was no less intimidating, no less grand. It stood just off the market square, no more than five minutes walk from the Carlton Rooms and the main shopping centre. Considering how far she had travelled since leaving Billingsfield it was odd to think that so many of the significant moments and events in her earlier life had been played out within a few hundred yards of each other.

The Billingsfield Arms still resembled a Victorian gentleman’s club with few visible concessions to the twenty-first century. Above the huge open fire hung an ornate gold-framed mirror reflecting the wood-panelled walls, the deep buttoned leather sofas and the high-backed winged chairs arranged around low tables. The floors were covered in thick, heavily patterned wine-red carpet that deadened every sound, every footfall, creating an atmosphere that made you whisper and walk on tiptoes so as not to shatter the tomb-like silence. It was a bastion of old conservative values, of Queen and country, with an ambience that was still more colonial than metropolitan.

With the crew still wrangling over locations the little crowd finally began to get bored and wander away. The girl blew another great balloon in her bubble gum and then – as it burst with a satisfying wet pop – peeled the fallout off her face and teased it from her lank greasy hair before following the others back out into the market square.

Helen glanced up at the mirror above the hearth, wondering what she might see reflected in it. Time dragged. Roots had arranged the shoot; they’d promised a light afternoon schedule, a nice hotel and dinner and then a bright and early start the following morning. It had all made perfect sense at the time.

Arthur had nodded when he looked at the proposal. ‘Good idea, split the days – do some of the filming on the Friday afternoon, then do the rest the next day when you’re rested and raring to go, and then the show on Saturday evening. Sounds perfect to me. Oh, and don’t forget you’ve sound checks Saturday afternoon. I’ve talked to the team at Roots and they seem to think the theatre will make a great backdrop – you know, see you in your natural environment. Your pianist will be there from three I think, but I’ll check.’ Arthur had sniffed his cigar. ‘So let’s see, train there late Friday morning, filming and your show Saturday and then back home Sunday, done and dusted.’

‘You’ll be there, Arthur, won’t you?’ Helen had said.

‘For the show?’ He grinned, ‘Oh God, yes – of course I will, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will. I’ve seen the rehearsals, haven’t I? To be honest, watching you work I wondered why the hell we hadn’t done it sooner.’

Flattered, Helen had smiled, although she had rather hoped he’d be there with her for the filming too. As if catching her thoughts Arthur shook his head. ‘You won’t want me the rest of the time, hanging around getting in the way, cramping your style. You’ll be just fine – you’re a natural – and I’ll only be a phone call away.’

Helen had sighed. ‘I’m still not sure about this,’ she’d said.

‘What’s not to be sure of? You’ll be fine, honest,’ said Arthur. ‘They’re good people, Helen. I mean they’ve won awards and everything. And you’re an old hand at this; there’s nothing they’re going to pull that you won’t have seem a dozen times before.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried I could organise someone to come with you if you like. Do you want me to book you a dresser for the show – or a driver? See if I can get Florence or Benny? I know they’d both jump at the chance.’

Helen had shaken her head, and with more confidence than she felt, said, ‘Don’t be silly. And you’re right, I’ll be just fine. Just make sure you’re there for the show. All right? First show of the tour – I’m banking on you to tell me what you think.’

He laughed. ‘You’ll be brilliant, you always are.’

‘Arthur, you are such a bullshitter.’

And so now here she was, all on her own, back in Billingsfield.

Helen glanced into the mirror on the wall; she wasn’t so sure now that she wanted to spend a night in Billingsfield or the hotel. It felt like she was being surrounded and jostled by all the ghosts she had left behind. How many years was it since she had stood in this hotel foyer? Since she had looked out over the market square and wondered what the hell would happen next?

Two elderly men with impressive moustaches made a show of not watching her as they sat either side of the fireplace taking tea. A uniformed waiter was serving them; it looked like a snapshot from some long-distant past. Her long-distant past.

In stark contrast, Felix, the Roots director, dressed in a Che Guevara tee shirt, puffa jacket, beanie hat and ripped-knee jeans was kneeling on the floor hunched over a monitor with the cameraman looking on, watching the images on the screen. ‘I think actually we’re probably done down here,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to make the move upstairs and set up up there.’

Natalia glanced at him. ‘Okay, great – I’ll just need to sort that out.’

Once upon a time that would have been Helen’s cue to head back to her dressing room or slope off for a coffee while she waited, but she had no idea how Roots worked and so Helen stayed where she was.

Across the foyer the longcase clock chimed the hour. Helen didn’t like to think how many years it had been since she had last been in the Billingsfield Arms. It felt like a different lifetime; back then she remembered being intimidated by the quiet grandeur, remembered not being sure what to do or what to say and the worry of being asked to leave.

She could still vividly remember what it felt like creeping up those stairs, all the while waiting for the porter to ask her just where she thought she was going, hurrying along the corridors, checking the room numbers, each passing minute making her increasingly anxious. Looking back on her younger self it seemed like back then Helen had been afraid all the time, always waiting, eyes wide open, for the sky to fall in on her.

Helen glanced up at the ornate staircase almost expecting to see her younger self up there at the top, looking back over her shoulder, wondering what the hell she was doing and wondering where to go next.

‘Are you ready to go up to your room, madam?’ enquired a male voice, which brought Helen sharply back to the present.

Christov, the porter, was a tall blond man with a heavy Eastern European accent, closely cropped hair and a warm open expression. He had been standing around throughout the filming, and had already loaded her luggage onto a trolley at least three times at Felix’s behest. Now he hovered, awaiting instructions.

‘What do you think?’ he said in an undertone. ‘You think maybe we make a break and leave them to it? I don’t know about you but I have many things to do other than standing here listening to them all moaning. Although I am enjoying the look on Ms Mackenzie’s face.’ He nodded in the direction of the receptionist. ‘She looks like she is kissing the stinky herring.’

Helen checked out Ms Mackenzie and then looked up at him and laughed. It was an apt description of her expression.

‘Maybe we should high-tail it out of here?’ he said. ‘Like they say in the cowboy films. Get the hell out of Dodge? I can bring you up some sandwiches, and cake and a pot of tea? You have got other things to do, yes?’

Helen nodded.

‘They said you are doing a show here tomorrow.’

‘That’s right, at the Carlton Rooms. I’m doing a one-woman show; songs, monologues – jokes, you know, stories about my life,’ said Helen. ‘And this too,’ she nodded towards the film crew. ‘They’re making a television programme about me, for Roots.’

‘I know the programme.’ He nodded. ‘Busy time for you then. These people,’ he said, pointing towards the crew. ‘They are your friends?’

‘No, not exactly.’

Felix was still deep in conversation with Natalia about which suite would give them the best look. Natalia was nodding earnestly while ticking things off on her clipboard. Ms Mackenzie was still wearing her fish-kissing face.

‘I really like the balcony,’ Felix was saying, his hands working independently to reinforce what he was describing. ‘And that big cream-coloured sofa. Is that in that room, or do all the rooms have them, a sort of corporate look? I was thinking maybe we could get something in?’

Ms Mackenzie pulled a face.

‘Remind me again, is that the room with those big prints on the wall? Like big flowers? I’m thinking that has got to be the one –’

Natalia’s nodding quickened. ‘I agree, and the natural light is great in there too.’

‘Can we get a different sofa?’

Natalia stared at her clipboard and then at Ms Mackenzie.

It seemed as if the only person who hadn’t been into her room yet was Helen.

‘Maybe we could get something a bit funkier in there? Less last year –’

Ms Mackenzie started to protest.

‘I’d like to shoot Helen on the balcony, looking out over the water, something moody and reflective we can use as ambience and cutaways between segments. Helen all alone, contemplating the past. You know how this stuff works. And it’ll make a great neutral space for the interviews that we don’t do at the theatre. Like the anonymity of life on the road –’

‘So do you want to go and set that up now?’ asked Natalia, not that Felix seemed to be listening.

‘Maybe we could go down to the quay this afternoon before the light goes. You know the bit where the new arts centre is, by the warehouses? I was thinking more coat-collar-turned-up-against-the-wind shots. She’s got great bones for that sort of moody look. Now, do we want to shoot her going up in the lift, because if we do we’ve got to do it now, or wet her coat down for continuity?’ Felix paused and, glancing around, caught Helen’s eye, although Helen guessed that Felix didn’t actually see her.

Truth was, for a director, once you got past the early excitement and then all the starry pretensions, the massive but fragile egos, the drunken, the drugged, the whole diva thing, wheeling an actor out in front of the camera, saying the right words at the right time, was just a job. And she had no doubt that as far as Felix was concerned actors were part of the furniture, noisy, difficult, opinionated parts perhaps, but still ultimately something to shuffle in and out of shot.

‘Can we get a spray bottle or something from somewhere?’ Felix was saying to no one in particular. ‘And do you think we can sort out the sofa? Those stains are going to show up on camera.’

Ms Mackenzie reddened and waved him closer. ‘Can you please keep your voice down? I mean we’re delighted you’re here but –’

‘How delighted?’ Felix snapped back quick as a rattler.

She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, how delighted are you to have us here? You see we’re all starving.’

‘There’s a café in Dougland Terrace,’ she began, helpfully pointing towards the doors. ‘Just round the corner to your left; you can’t miss it.’

‘No chance we could eat here, then?’

‘Of course. The Talbot Room is open all day, or I could get one of the waiters to come and take your order.’

Felix smiled. ‘Gratis, is that? On the house?’

Ms Mackenzie visibly stiffened. ‘I’m terribly sorry but I don’t think so – I mean, I could check with the duty manager for you but it’s not our policy –’

Felix leaned in closer and smiled wolfishly. With his bright red hair it made him look like a demented ferret.

The Roots team had sent a taxi to pick Helen up from the station and filmed her on the ride up. Felix had let Natalia do the talking while he peered at Helen thoughtfully, as if she was an interesting sculpture or piece of furniture that he was trying to get the measure of.

‘I’m really looking forward to working with you,’ he said. ‘Jamie and Natalia have been telling me all about you. I mean what a journey; what a story. We’ve got so much to work with here, and you have a real presence, Helen – a real presence, and great facial architecture – I had no idea. The photos really don’t do you justice.’

Helen had smiled and nodded and murmured her thanks, not altogether sure what the right response was to a compliment on her facial architecture. And then she had noticed that his attention had moved on – obviously the pull of facial architecture could only last so long.

At the moment Felix, over by the reception desk – having fallen foul of the Billingsfield Arms freebie policy – was weighing up the pros and cons of carrying on with filming or stopping for something to eat.

‘It seems like a natural place to take a break to me,’ he said, speaking to the crew rather than Helen. ‘And you’ll get housekeeping to sort out that sofa?’ he said to Ms Mackenzie.

‘I’m almost certain that there are no stains on our soft furnishings,’ she began. ‘And I’m not sure that we can move –’

But Felix had moved on. ‘Apparently there is a café just round the corner. How about we take half an hour now, and then, if the sofa’s not sorted, move on to the next location –’ he glanced across at Natalia. ‘Which is where? The theatre?’ He glanced around at the crew for confirmation. ‘So, café then? It’s not looking like we’re going to get much in the way of comps from the ice queen behind reception there. I would have settled for a plate of fucking ham sandwiches for God’s sake.’

Ms Mackenzie glared in their direction; she had frosted over considerably since her big moment on screen.

‘So you don’t want to go upstairs?’ Helen said.

Felix and Natalia both swung round.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ Natalia blustered. ‘I thought you’d already gone up, Felix and I have been here a while, doing a recce, your suite – the best sofa, you know –’ She giggled and blushed, which made Helen wonder if maybe she fancied Felix. ‘Would you like to go upstairs and see your suite, take a look around, get unpacked? Get settled? Are you hungry? I’ll get them to organise some food for you – and then are you okay with what we’re doing this afternoon? You have got a copy of the schedule, haven’t you?’

Helen smiled. Natalia talked to her as if she might be senile. ‘I’m fine; you do understand that I’ve got a live show tomorrow night, don’t you?’

Felix and Natalia glanced at each other. ‘Well, yes,’ said Natalia after a second or two.

‘And that’s not something we can mess with,’ said Helen firmly. ‘We’ve got a full house, and I have to be there for a technical run-through, sounds checks, lighting –’

Felix nodded. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture; not a problem. That was one of the reasons why we got you here today. Obviously we’re going to want to talk about how it all started. Road to stardom and all that. And we talked to your agent and he said it would be fine to do that in the theatre?’

Helen nodded. ‘I know, and I’m okay with that. But I’ll still need to spend time there getting ready for the show.’

‘Oh yes, of course, obviously,’ said Felix, without a shred of sincerity.

‘So let’s get you some food; would you like room service or would you prefer to have something in the restaurant?’ Natalia asked taking her arm, making as if to guide her towards the stairs. ‘Apparently the chef here is really good.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can sort it out,’ said Helen, disentangling herself. ‘You go and eat with the crew. It’ll give me a chance to get my bearings.’

Natalia hesitated. ‘I’m not sure –’

‘I’ve got some calls to make.’

Natalia looked her up and down. ‘You sure you’ll be okay with that? I really ought to stay with you. It’s our company policy.’

Helen smiled ruefully, wondering what Ruth had told Natalia about her drinking habits.

‘I’ll be fine. What time are we going to start again?’

Natalia glanced across at Felix. ‘What time?’

Felix broke off the monologue he was subjecting the cameraman to on the importance of ambience, and glancing at his watch said, ‘Say three quarters of an hour? But don’t worry, we’ll come up and find you when we’re ready.’

‘Is that okay?’ Natalia asked, brightly.

‘Fine,’ said Helen.

Finally given the go-ahead, Christov guided Helen towards the lift. He grinned. ‘So you, you’re like a big TV star then, eh? ?’

Helen laughed. It wasn’t quite the deferential approach she might have expected and she was glad. ‘Not really, not these days, but thanks for asking.’

Christov pulled a comic sad face. ‘That’s a big pity. I was hoping that you might help me to get my face onto the film.’ He struck a pose to make the most of his profile and then indicated the crew, as the lift doors closed behind the two of them. ‘I was hoping that meeting you, this might be my big break. I sing too, you know, you like to hear me sing maybe?’

Helen smiled. ‘I’m not sure that singing to me would help further your career.’

‘But you can pull strings.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Not any worth pulling.’

He looked hurt. ‘That’s a big pity. Okay, so maybe now is not the moment, but before you leave you listen, yes? You like Frank Sinatra?’

The lift made silent stately progress to the third floor, the doors gliding open like oiled silk as they reached their destination.

‘You’re really planning to sing for me?’ she laughed as the lift doors re-opened.

‘I think it would be a very good idea. What about your husband? Is he coming? I have seen him in the newspapers, very pretty, maybe you both like music. I will sing for you both, something lovely – Dean Martin maybe. You know him?’ Grinning, he burst into the opening bars of ‘That’s Amore’.

Helen took another look at him and laughed. ‘Thank you, that is wonderful. Now where do you recommend that I eat?’

‘You think so?’ Christov said brightly, rolling the luggage trolley ahead of him and unlocking the doors to her suite. ‘I like them all, Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, Dean Martin and that Mack the Knife song –’ he shimmied his hips and sung a line or two of the chorus, ‘it’s very good, very good indeed. They don’t write songs like that any more – Beyoncé, ‘Single Ladies’ – what is all that?’