Bright, sensible Dot Mallory has been leading an ordinary suburban life, with a good job in IT. She’s come through a fair bit, but things are going well. But when the movie company arrives in Australia to film “The Captain’s Daughter”, everything changes, not just for those directly involved. The more so as Dot’s cousin, the now-famous Lily Rose Rayne, is the star of the picture, and Dot’s a dead ringer for her.

Back At The Coal Face


PART IV

REHEARSALS FOR MOVES


12

Back At The Coal Face

    Ooh, it was all true, and Derry Dawlish was going to make a film of The Captain’s Daughter, and Guess What, he was coming Out Here to make it! Did this necessarily justify the entire staff of The Sydney Morning Star running around like chooks with their heads cut off? Well, possibly it was understandable, nay, forgivable, in persons like Melanie from Reception, who was positive Adam McIntyre was gonna be in it, and this time (had he ever been out here before?) she was gonna get his autograph (or, apparently, die in the attempt), and her occasional helper Julianne, who was positive that, contrarywise, Euan Keel was gonna be in it and she was gonna get his— Yeah. But in Ann Kitchener’s august Editor it was neither understandable nor forgivable!
    “I’m not interested in movie-world gossip, Jim!” she snarled.
    Smartly Jim Hopkins replied: “That’s a pity, Ann. Given that you’re gonna get out and follow the whole thing through from Go to Woe.”
    Ann said a Very Rude Word, but Jim was unmoved. “Series of feature articles for the Wednesday and Saturday issues.”—Ann’s reporterly jaw dropped.—“Not saying you’ll get a whole page each time, well, probably not even a half page, but—”
    “Why?” she croaked.
    “Fill the space, what else? No, well, the public’ll go for it, anything about film stars is always meat and drink. But that apart, the word’s come down from Upstairs.” He eyed her blandly.
    After a moment Ann managed to whisper: “How far upstairs?”
    Jim just eyed her blandly.
    Ann swallowed.
    “Yeah,” he acknowledged with considerable satisfaction. “Seems this fat-faced Dawlish creep knows somebody.”
    “Stop looking at me with your poker-face on; I get the picture,” she groaned.
    “No, ya don’t. We’re being given an exclusive.”
    “Balls,” replied Ann promptly.
    “Will ya shut up and let me tell you?”
    Looking bored, Ann shut up.
    “And you can take that look off ya mug! We’re being given the exclusive rights to follow them round and have our reporter on set, see?”
    She nodded. “May I speak?”
    “You can drop that!”
    Dropping it, Ann said: “You mean, really on set? Not just on hand for the usual Press hand-outs and rehearsed off-the-cuff interviews?”
    “Really on set,” said Jim, looking smug.
    “Y—Um, copping the lot? Dawlish losing his rag and Lily Rose’s temper tantrums and Adam McIntyre sulking and turning up five hours late for the shoot and, um, well, whatever other unlikely carry-ons these prima donnas can dream up to waste their backers’ money and everyone’s time?”
    “Yeah,” replied Jim briefly.
    “Uh—and no restrictions on what we publish?”
    “Um, well,” said Mr Hopkins cautiously, “no-one’s told me there’s anything we can’t publish.”
    “Yet.”
    “Ya probably right, but sufficient unto the day. So get ya skates on. Dawlish is due some time this arvo and Lily Rose’ll be here before the cat can lick its ear and this time,” said Mr Hopkins in steely tones, “I want interviews with pics!”
    Ann cleared her throat. “Mm. Um—but look, seriously, Jim, talking of pics, couldn’t you just send Tony or someone to do the whole bit? Lovely half-page snaps of Lily Rose relaxing on set or throwing temper tantrums or flirting with Adam McIntyre, that’ll fill your spa—”
    “No.”
    “–space, and I could be doing some real work,” she ended plaintively.
    “No. Tony can’t write. Or spell.”
    “Yuh—Uh—Well, someone el—”
    “No. It’s yours. You’ve got the seniority.”
    A series of varied emotions passed over Ann’s countenance, though it was true to say that Mr Hopkins didn’t appear to register them. Finally she croaked: “Ya mean there’s people that wanna do it?”
    “Yeah, but I said, you’ve got the seniority.”
    Ann leant forward urgently. “Jim, give it to Speedy Gonzales!”
    “She can’t write sympathetically, where have you been these past three years?”
    “Gee, is that long? I mean, only that luh— Seems longer,” ended Ann lamely.
    Jim eyed her drily. “Quite. You can have Tony, if you like. At least he’s capable of snapping a few tits or bums with enthusiasm. Female bums, I mean. As opposed to male bums in abbreviated football shorts,” he elaborated unnecessarily. “Well? Do you want him?”
    “Eh? Ya mean I’ve got the choi—Um, yes! Thanks!” she gasped. “Um, hang on.”
    “What?” said Mr Hopkins heavily.
    “Um, if I’ve got him— I mean, if we have to be on set for the whole— Um, well, shit, Jim, do you seriously mean me and Tony are gonna be paid to hang around the film set full-time for the next however long it takes?”
    “Or until sales drop off radically—yeah. Ours not to reason why,” replied her august Editor calmly. “Goddit?”
    “Yeah. Thanks,” croaked Ann, preparing to depart.
    “And oy! Don’t pad your expenses!” he shouted. “NO business-class seats to Queensland, thanks!”
    Nodding numbly, Ann tottered out numbly. Queensland? Weeks, no, probably months on end being paid to trail round in the wake of the film company writing two little bits per week well padded with Tony’s pics? Crikey.
    Well, she’d better get down to a bit of research, that was wot! Immediately.
    “Hey, Melanie, what do you know about this story that they’re making the film of The Captain’s Duh—”
    Gee, that was easy. Yep, and the English mag to back it up. …EH?
    “This here says Adam McIntyre and Euan Keel,” she croaked.
    “Yes, ’cos see, Derry Dawlish, that’s the director, him and Adam McIntyre, they’re old friends, see, and Adam McIntyre, he always likes to help him out when he can!” Well, yeah, that was, almost word-for-word, what it said here. Nothing about overkill, though. There was a lovely pic of him, looking wistful but macho, don’t tell her that was a contradiction, thanks, because Adam McIntyre managed it every time, though it was a pity this rag hadn’t managed to dig up a pic from that frightful Technicolor Midsummer Night Gone Mad he did for the said Derry Dawlish. Plus and a lovely pic of Euan Keel in Ilya, My Brother. Incautiously she conceded that the latter hadn't been bad and of course Melanie then had to admit she hadn't seen it. Feebly Ann revealed it had only been on at a smallish theatre that ran most of the art films—Melanie never went there, right. But had Ann seen Crusoe’s Rescue? No! Not that Tom Hanks film, Euan Keel had made one just like— Etcetera.
    … “I’ve got the background, so come on,” she announced.
    Tony Giorgiadis replied immediately: “Yeah, I saw ya talking to Melanie,” but hoisted the equipment and came on. In the car he tried to say was she sure it was today that Derry Dawlish was due and was she sure that Jim had meant they hadda be on the set all the time and was she sure that that Jim had meant the paper would spring for the fares to Queensland and was she sure that Jim had meant both of them and etcetera, but she just kept shouting “YES!” and eventually he got the point.
    Silence fell. Tony appeared to think deeply while chewing but as Ann seriously doubted his brain was capable of managing these two separate and quite distinct actions, she ignored him. “Hey, ya know what it’s like?” he then produced.
    “No.”
    “The President’s Press corps!” he produced proudly.
    “Been watching the box again?” returned Ann cordially. “I can put you in touch with TV Anonymous.”
    “Very funny. Anyway, it wasn’t The West Wing,” he produced arcanely, “that’s the White House Press corps!”
    “Tony, if you say ‘corps’ once more this arvo, make that this week, I personally will introduce you to the notion that the word is closely cognate with the synonym for ‘body’! Dead body.”
    “Eh? Aw. Very funny. No, but you know, like in Air Force One, they follow him around, see? Everywhere he goes, they go!”
    There was a large truck in front of them, proceeding at the usual fifteen K per hour, effectively blocking Ann’s view of anything. She couldn’t slow down, there was a giant 4WD on her bumper. Effectively blocking her view of back there—right. “If you’re talking about planes,” she grunted, trying in vain to peer past the truck, “that’s a dirty word just at the moment, too.”
    “Eh? No! Um, not exactly. I mean, it is the plane, of course— I wouldn’t try to pass just now.”
    “I am not trying to pass!”
    “No, I wouldn’t,” he agreed placidly. “Like I was saying, it is the President’s plane, only I meant the film. Like, it was named after it. You know, Ann!” he claimed inaccurately.
    “No,” she grunted.
    “Harrison Ford!”
    “Jesus, Tony! Don’t use expressions like that on a wet August arvo halfway to Kingsford Smith! Not if ya wanna live to eat ya tea!”
    “Thought you liked him?”
    “Of course I like him! Every red-blooded female in the movie-watching world between the ages of four and ninety-four likes him! I’m trying to drive!” shouted Ann.
    “Sorry.”
    They lumbered on. The muck off the roads mixed with the incessant rains of August in Sydney and plastered itself stickily to Ann’s windscreen…
    “Hey, you oughta take this bomb to the car-wash now and then. Like, once a year?” he produced brightly. “Wouldn't kill ya.”
    “Shuddup,” she warned.
    “Want some chutty-gum?” he said companionably.
    An sighed. She’d thought his generation had never heard of that expression. “No, thanks all the same, Tony.”
    “Maybe that truck’ll turn off,” said Tony kindly. “I mean, what’d it be going to the airport for?”
    To collect freight. Ann took a deep breath and said nothing. They crawled on…
    “That four-wheel-drive’s turned off,” he reported, twisting.
    “Yeah.”
    They crawled on…
    “Shit!” Ann braked violently as the thing ahead came to a dead halt.
    Tony peered. “Can’t see a thing. Traffic lights, is it? –Can’t see a thing. Hey, there’s a huge great campervan behind us, where’s he going? Not the weather for it, is it?”
    “What about Harrison Ford?” said Ann heavily.
    “Eh? Oh!” Brightening horribly, he told her.
    Was that the thing she’d fallen asleep in the middle of, on TV? One of the many. On second thoughts she wouldn’t mention that to him. “Yeah, Harrison Ford’s always good, however bad the epic. Hey, did you see—” She stopped hurriedly. He’d probably liked it.
    “Yeah?”
    The traffic was still stationary, so Ann was forced to utter. “Um, forget what it was called, but that earlier mention of castaways brought it back. –Not you,” she sighed. “Melanie. The Tom Hanks version versus the Euan Keel version.” Oh, his Kirrian had dragged him to it and it had been dumb? Really? Not asking which one he meant, she explained heavily: “This was Harrison Ford and a girl, um, think she was the mad partner’s girlfriend on Ally McBeal for a bit. Even madder, or I have got that—” She hadn’t, and it was, and blah, blah, blah, gee, he’d obviously been glued to the thing, and she’d thought it was only semi-literate, spindly-legged, breastless little bunnies in zoot-suits like Mary (Speedy) Gonzales herself who’d be capable in any way of relating to it. “Uh—yeah,” she croaked. “Yeah, well, it was her, and him, Harrison Ford. Playing an older—”
    Oh! Him and Kirrian had seen that! Only it was pretty weak, didn't Ann think?
    Ann was able to agree with that one: in spades, yep.
    Silence fell. Tony didn’t ask why the fuck they were talking about really bad Harrison Ford movies; just as well, because Ann couldn’t for the life of her remember why.
    “Anyway, it’s like the President’s Press corps,” he stated definitely. Rather as of one concluding an argument—why?
    Oh! “You and me trailing round after these movie types,” she groaned. “Yeah, Tony, if two can a corps make, it is just like the President’s Press corps. Can we presume if anyone’s gonna be shot as we fly to Queensland it’ll be us and not Lily Rose Rayne or Adam McIntyre?”
    Mr Giorgiadis’s reaction to this snide query was merely to state: “Kirrian was saying that Lily Rose, she marries Commander in the Christmas Special.”
    “Huh?”
    “Yeah. Her Aunty Bev, she saw it in England last Christmas. She sent Kirrian’s mum a tape of it.”
    “You do mean Rupert Maynarde’s character, do you, Tony?”
    “Um, think so. Um, well, blond guy, um, medium height, um, the one that’s got all those friends and rellies that they’re always trying to push off onto her.”
    “Unless my hormones have completely given up on the job, he’s gay,” croaked Ann.
    “Well, yeah!”
    Ann’s brain whirled in frantic speculation.
    “Is he gonna be in the film?”
    “I was wondering that, Tony,” she croaked.
    “Yeah. Um, ya did say Adam McIntyre and Euan Keel were gonna be in it, didn’t ya?”
    “Yes. Well, Melanie’s magazine said that,” admitted Ann limply.
    “Yeah. One of them’ll get her in the end,” he predicted firmly.
    “Y—Uh, well, I’d say so.”
    “Gotta be!”
    Ann nodded limply.
    The rest of the drive to the airport was occupied by Mr Giorgiadis’s fruitless attempts to determine which of Adam McIntyre and Euan Keel would end up being awarded Lily Rose Rayne in the film and Ann’s attempts not to listen to him while keeping the car on the road.
    No sooner had they set foot inside the terminal building— No, well, right after Tony had bought a Crunchie Bar, put it like that, they were accosted by a person who demanded aggressively: “Press?” Given that that was what these here labels they were wearing— And given that Mr Giorgiadis as we spoke was hoisting— Oh, forget it. Ann admitted they were. The aggressive one immediately demanded: “Sydney Morning Star?” To which Ann replied: “We are, yes.” Immediately it introduced itself. All right, it was a male, Ann would have described him as “Courteney Church, male, thirty-one, gay, Caucasian,” if the law any longer let one’s reports make sense, but as it was she just described him as “Courteney Church, thirty-one”. Mr Giorgiadis appeared unimpressed but then, possibly the first name alone would’ve done that? Though given his generation, she wouldn't have taken her dying oath—to say nothing of his wife’s first name. The accent indicated that Mr Church was English, and Tony didn’t like them, either. The clothes didn’t count, Mr Church could’ve painted himself sky-blue-pink and Tony would scarcely have blinked. Though it was true you didn’t see many fur-collared greatcoats in this neck of the Antipodean woods. Or any, actually. Mr Church was Double Dee Productions’ Press Liaison!
    “Uh—yeah?” said Ann foggily, as Tony was just chewing and the silence was lengthening.
    “You’re late,” Mr Church elaborated, frowning. “I thought you were never coming! Derry’s plane’s due any minute! Hurry up, we’ve got to get your photographer”—Tony did have a name, in fact he’d just introduced himself—“into position, and then they’ve given us a room off the VIP lounge, but it’ll just be a short interview.” Briskly he shoved a list of approved questions at Ann—talking of Air Force One, who did Derry Dawlish imagine he was, the President in person?—and led them off. …Oh! Goddit, goddit, given the paper was headed “Double Dee Productions” it started to percolate: must be the famous Derry Dawlish’s production company. Uh—hang on, wasn’t he nominally the director? Did he do producing as well, or—Forget it. None of the reading public would notice, or Ann Kitchener was a Dutchman in his clogs.
    When they got there, there was no sign of anybody except a small clutch of the public meeting its rellies and Bill Mason and his crew from Channel 9, so Ann was enabled to say to Tony: “Dig this.”
    “Eh?”
    Oh, right: couldn’t read, went with the couldn’t write and couldn’t spell. “It’s a list of approved questions for Derry Dawlish.”
    “Eh?”
    Quite. Ann folded it neatly and placed it in her pocket.
    Then nothing at all happened.
   … “I wish it was today Lily Rose was coming,” stated Tony glumly.
    So did Ann: get ’em over in one fell swoop.
    Not that, not that, silly her! He was now saying ecstatically: “Hey, ’member that episode where her bikini fell off?”
    Sighing, Ann returned: “I don’t think that would happen if she did turn up today, Tony, because in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s midwinter, and even film stars under orders from their Press agents won’t be wearing bikinis to get off international flights. However vain or mad or both they might be.”
    “All right, be like that!”
    Ann would, thank you very much—yes.
    Nothing at all went on happening.
    Eventually Bill Mason lounged over to them, grinning. “Was that Speedy Gonzales I saw at that motorway pile-up last night?” he greeted them.
    Could’ve been. Who knew what he’d seen? “Probably,” she sighed.
    “Bill Evans took that pic. Good, wasn’t it?” volunteered Tony.
    It had been very good, yes. Great searchlight beam, huge crane outlined by aforesaid beam, brought in to lift the giant articulated truck off the mangled Mazda, not to say the mangled bodies…
    “They hadda use the jaws of life,” he was telling Mr Mason happily.
    “Yeah. My producer cut that bit: too bloody,” admitted his fellow-ghoul, Jesus!
    “Where are the rest of them?” said Ann loudly.
    Bill jumped. “Eh? Uh—well, no idea. We’re here, and you’re here. Isn’t that enough?”
    “Enough to satisfy the A triple C?” replied Ann nastily in the vernacular.
    “Gotta be,” said Mr Mason insouciantly. “Unless you’ve been bought out while I wasn’t looking.”
    “Is it the A Triple C that oversees media ownership?” asked Tony fuzzily.
    “Go to sleep again,” sighed Ann heavily.
    Shrugging, he got on with the chewing.
    “Dare say they didn’t think D.D. was worth the bother,” offered Bill.
    “Eh? Oh! To return to the last subject but fourteen! No, probably not,” agreed Ann, not lowering herself to ask whether the expression “D.D.” was one of Bill’s own, the current Media-Speak of the current In Crowd, or something he’d got out of his wife’s copy of the English Woman’s Weekly. “Hey, you might know! Is it Adam McIntyre or Euan Keel that’s gonna get Lily Rose in the end?”
    Blandly Mr Mason replied: “Read your hand-out, Ann.”
    Right, goddit: he didn’t know, either. So were Double Dee Productions deliberately not revealing it so as to lead the punters on? And in that case should she, Ann, break it in a blaze of glory in the Saturday entertainment section, round about page 53, or, um, not? Supposing she ever found out—right. Um, hang on. If it was Adam McIntyre, Double Dee would have absolutely no reason to lead the punters on: they’d be trumpeting it from the rooftops—Ah-hah!
    “What?” asked Bill eagerly.
    “Nothing. I’d’ve thought Derry Dawlish would be up-market enough for the ABC.”
    “Too up-market?” ventured Tony.
    “Go to sleep again, Tone,” advised Bill with a grin. “Uh—well, don’t ask me. Dare say they’ll all be out in force when Lily Rose arrives.”
    “Yeah!” agreed the uncrushable Mr Giorgiadis. “Hey, Bill, ’member that episode where her bikini fell off?”
    Ann sighed, and gave up any pretence whatsoever of listening.


    Dawlish did eventually arrive—gee, he was wearing a fur-collared greatcoat—and answered Bill’s questions nicely and smiled into the camera nicely, and smiled nicely for Tony and then let Mr Church lead him and his hangers-on plus Tony and Ann into the aforementioned room off the VIP lounge, where he removed the greatcoat, passed some very pithy and doubtless off-the-record remarks about Sydney Airport and its heating arrangements, and sat down calling loudly for alcohol. Well, not “Alcohol, alcohol!” no. More like: “Get me a bloody drink, Aaron, before my tongue crumbles to dust, what in God’s name did those Customs cretins imagine they were doing?”
    This was a clearly a rhetorical question, and the good-looking Aaron scrambled out to the VIP lounge to fetch the necessary. And, just by the by, why hadn't they put a trolley in here while they were at it? A trolley containing not only drinks but plates of sandwiches, then it wouldn’t matter that Ann had missed lunch entirely and Tony’s had consisted of a vanilla slice left over from morning tea, followed by that recent Crunchie Bar. –Had assumed they wouldn't be spending most of the early afternoon trailing out to the airport: right.
    Given the lack of this trolley, Ann answered the famous director’s question, rhetorical or not, with the kind suggestion: “Inspecting your illegal imports?”
    He glared.
    “Off the record, is that mink on your collar?” she asked cordially.
    “No. Marmot,” he snarled.
    Crumbs. Wasn’t that very, very— Um, hadn't it figured in— Um, well, something Russian. Well, set in Russia. Something they made a movie of? The phrase “Gorky Park” came to mind but Ann couldn’t have said precisely why.
    “Really? I hope that’s not like crocodile,” she said cordially.
    At this a thin-faced joker that was part of the entourage said very, very meekly: “It is part of the Environment, if that’s what you mean.”
    Ann took another look at him. “I hope that ‘environment’ had a capital E.”
    “Of course,” he said primly.
    She gave in and grinned. “Yeah. Well, they’re a protected species here, now.”
    This apparently caught the attention of the gorgeous blonde that was possibly the famous director’s very own, though this was not clear from anything he had said or done. Certainly nothing along the lines of taking her arm to guide her to the VIP lounge or holding the door of the VIP lounge— Well, yeah, they were all like that in Ann’s experience, true, but gee, this was a famous Overseas fillum director that made Art films! On second thoughts, scrub every syllable of that.
    “You know, Derry: we saw it on The Crocodile Hunter!” she said brightly.
    Though not generally experiencing much sympathy with gorgeous blondes that attached themselves to well-off, well-known blokes more than twice their age for what they could get, Ann had to suppress a wince: this was the sort of cretinous remark guaranteed to make famous Art Film directors turn on their gorgeous blondes and rend them—
    He had. The gist was, he didn’t watch it and it was not worth watching.
    “I know it’s silly, but I like it,” she said sadly.
    “My wife likes it,” offered Tony kindly. “It’s made for the Yank market, of course, that’s why it’s so dumb.”
    Put it well.
    “Yes. It does occasionally allow some faintly informational content to filter through—from what I’ve seen of it, which isn’t much. –Well, the attraction of tracking the accent wore off rather soon,” said Ann apologetically, more or less in the direction of the thin-faced guy.
    “It would,” he agreed, grinning. “Some of us did attempt to tell Derry that the Australian public probably wouldn’t appreciate anything as out of touch with global public taste as that coat, but he wouldn’t listen.”
    “Lily Rose has got a fur coat,” said the blonde helpfully.
    “That’s right, Miff: she wore it in the Christmas Special,” he said kindly with a very kind smile, meanwhile going slight pink round the edges. Oh, dear. Poor sod. Make that poor silly sod.
    “Yes, well, possibly the Fifties ambience of the thing will cause the global public to overlook it,” said Ann briskly. “Do you want to get this interview over now, Mr Dawlish, since your off-sider doesn’t seem to have found the bar, or would you rather wait until you’re fortified?”
    “I’ll wait, thanks,” he said nastily. “Who are you, again?”
    Ann didn’t delude herself that this was a question addressed to her humble human person. “Sydney Morning Star,” she said briskly.
    Quickly Courteney Church interpolated: “You remember, Derry: they agreed to run a bi-weekly feature series, with pics!”
    Whether or no the great director remembered was not absolutely clear to the little people, but Mr Church then approached the bulk, and murmured something perilously close to the beard, which seemed to clarify the position. And if it didn’t the thin-faced guy’s reminder: “The ones you claimed the partridge was wasted on at the villa over New Year’s, Derry,” certainly did.
    “Oh, them. Just make sure they realise we have final cut, Courteney.”
    “If that means what I think it means,” said Ann on a brisk note while Mr Dawlish’s Press Liaison was still nodding sycophantically, “my Editor is definitely under the impression that we do.”
    Derry Dawlish was observed to take a deep breath, and Mr Church bleated quickly: “That can’t be right, Ms Kitchener!”
    Ann loathed being called “Ms” by persons who hadn’t asked if she was even more than she loathed—alone of the English-speaking world of the 21st century, true—being called “Ann” by persons who hadn't asked if they might.
    “That’s what he told us,” she said flatly.
    “I wasn’t there!” put in Tony quickly.
    –Thin-Faced Guy was here observed to swallow a smile.
    Ann preserved her calm and looked mildly at the great film director.
    “Gareth!” he said loudly and irritably, snapping the fingers.
    Just as Ann was wondering if this was some strange swear of the movie In crowd, a bland-faced, smooth-looking guy with a laptop looked up from it and said: “Mr Dawlish is correct, Ms Kitchener. According to our memo—” Gee, according to their memo, Someone Very High Up in person had signed the agreement and blah, blah.
    Ann shrugged. “Just as you like. I’ll copy all my copy to you, then, shall I?”
    Thin-Faced Guy choked, but Bland-Face just said coolly: “No, to Courtney—Mr Church, thanks,” so Ann gave him up as a lost cause. Added to which he was—not obviously gay, no, but nevertheless clearly not hetero. She couldn't have said how she knew, but nevertheless she was quite sure.
    “All right, then: those bi-weekly emails full of women’s mag blather will be from me,” she said to Mr Church. “This is bi-weekly as in twice a week, you do realise that?” He just looked blank so she added helpfully: “As opposed to fortnightly,” and Thin-Faced Guy broke down in a helpless sniggering fit.
    “Biennial,” said Ann thoughtfully to him.
    “Quite!” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Lor’! I feel ever so much better. I’m Bernie Anderson, by the way, Ms Kitchener. –It is ‘Ms’, is it?”
    “No, ‘Miss’. But call me Ann, they normally do, in fact it normally never occurs—”
    “Yes,” he interrupted calmly. “It’s just the same back in Blighty.”
    “Heck, is it?” said Ann limply.
    “We thought ya might be more, like formal?” offered Tony.
    Ann looked expectantly at Bernie Anderson but gee, he didn’t take this as a question, they must have that back in Blighty, too.
    “Then you thought wrong,” he said mildly. “And please do call me Bernie, Ann.”
    “Um, yes, thanks,” said Ann, very weakly indeed.
    Bernie Anderson eyed her in some amusement but merely said to Tony: “Fancy helping me to find Aaron and/or a drink?”
    A variety of emotions passed over Mr Giorgiadis’s very speaking face and Ann put in quickly: “This is Tony Giorgiadis, call him Tony. Or Tone, if you must.”
    “Hah, hah,” said Tony, grinning, but eyeing Bernie Anderson warily.
    “He’s wondering if the normal arrangements apply to drinks found by him and served to Press persons while on duty in strange little rooms off VIP lounges. As opposed,” she explained sweetly, “to those served in your actual V—”
    “Shut it, will ya?” said Mr Giorgiadis mildly. “She’s like that, ya wanna ignore her,” he explained to Bernie Anderson. “Only actually, I haven’t got much cash on me, as it happens.”
    Bernie got up. “Derry’s publicity budget will cover it. Coming?”
    Tony got up looking happy, though casting a wary glance in the direction of the famous film director. The bulk remained unmoved, and he hurried out in Bernie’s wake.
    That left Ann and a crowd of Double Dee little people and the great Director.
    “We could just sit here like bumps on a log,” she noted cordially.
    “I intend to,” he grunted sourly.
    Goddit. She allowed her chin to sink on her chest.
    Time passed…
    Mr Dawlish was just beginning to stir and scowl when the beauteous Aaron panted back in. “The bar in the VIP lounge was closed!” he gasped.
    “No, technically open, but unpersoned,” said Bernie smoothly, appearing behind him with a laden trolley.
    “There aren’t any overseas flights due in for a bit,” explained Tony, surfacing behind him with a bottle in his fist. “‘Hey, Ann, they got German beer: you oughta try it!”
    “Pilsner Lager, Derry’s rather fond of it," said Bernie without blinking.
    Ann’s mouth opened and shut, and it wasn’t just the dehydration. Faintly she uttered: “But—Forget it,” she decided, catching Mr Anderson’s eye. “It’s all the same, isn't it? Cosi è, se vi pare. Likewise, Honi soit qui mal y pense. I’ll have one, thanks.”
    “There’s sandwiches,” offered Tony helpfully.
    “Ye-es. Real airport sandwiches in sealed plastic—? Mm. I’ll just settle for these free macadamia nuts. Ooh, salted!”
    “Kirrian’s mum reckons that the salt ruins them,” said Tony conversationally, also taking a packet of very, very expensive nuts.
    “Yerf,” agreed Ann through a mouthful. She washed it down with very, very expensive foreign beer and sighed deeply.
    Bernie also helped himself to nuts. “You remember, Miff,” he said to the blonde, as she was eyeing them dubiously: “you had them on your sliced pineapple when we were in Queensland last year.”
    “That was green stuff, mate!” put in a chunky, streaked-blond guy with a heavy tan, grinning. –That hair had to be done, nobody’s hair was naturally mid-brown underneath and streaked yellow, platinum, fawn and brown on top. Not in the year 2002.
    “Mate, youse Poms aren’t allowed to say ‘mate’ out here,” noted Ann conversationally.
    “Shut it, will ya?” growled Tony, turning bright red. “Ya wanna ignore her, mate,” he said quickly to the streaked one. “Everybody says it.”
    “That isn't quite true,” she murmured. “Nice ladies from Double Bay never say it.”
    “Ignore her,” repeated Tony, the flush fading, as the streaked one was grinning widely. –Perfect teeth, had he had them done, too? And was the broken nose left that way for effect or was he saving up his pennies like anything to have it done to match? And was the five o’clock shadow due to the long flight or to simple thick-headedness?
    “The macadamia nuts were sprinkled on and under the green stuff, I think we eventually determined,’ said Bernie calmly, ignoring this last exchange completely.
    “I remember now,” agreed the gorgeous Miff, happily eating an expensive salted nut. “They didn’t taste of anything.”
    “What do these taste of?” asked Streaked One, grinning.
    “Salt, and shut up,” said Bernie briskly. –Boy, was he making it obvious or was he making it obvious? Poor sod, thought Ann again.
    Meanwhile the famous film director was making inroads on the crisps and the beer, not to mention the Black Label. What a terrible pity she, Ann, was driving…
    “Why don't you get it over with, Derry, mate?” asked Streaked One at last, grabbing the Black Label just as the directorly ham fist was reaching for it.
    “You can pour me one of those, thanks, Harry,” noted Bernie. “Yes, why don’t you, Derry? I’m sure Ann’s got her questions all prepared.”
    Mr Church was smiling and nodding over his Black Label and ginger so Ann got out her notepad and said briskly: “Yes. Number One, why on earth are you making this film in Australia, Mr Dawlish?”
    Mr Church turned bright red and choked.
    “Leave it out, Ann,” said Tony uneasily, as the great director was still chewing chips.
    He swallowed. “Is that a serious question?”
    “Yes, but I don’t guarantee to publish the answer,” replied Ann calmly. “We’re slated to follow your lot round for the next umpteen weeks, and if I don’t know why, I’ll burst.”
    “In that case I may consider admitting off the record that my sole reason for filming here is that I was bloody sure a free trip back home to see her family’d be about the only inducement that’d persuade Lily Rose to do the Daughter. Next question?” he said blandly.
    “Thanks,” said Ann weakly. “Um, well, isn’t it going to be set in Singapore ?”
    “Parts of it, yes. We thought the Queensland coast would be ideal for that: the unspoilt ambience that Singapore had back in the Fifties before the efficient Chinese took over and put up all those bloody skyscrapers.”
    “Derry, I wouldn’t,” murmured Bernie.
    “Rubbish, Bernie. She won’t print a syllable of it: what makes you imagine (a) that she wants to, (b) that her readers’ll be interested or (c) that the paper’s lawyers will let her?”
    “Or (d) that it'd get past my editor and as far as the lawyers,” admitted Ann. “Um, no. Sorry. But we have heard conflicting rumours, you see.”
    “I dare say. We are filming in Queensland, and we have found a choice location, which I shan’t reveal, for Adam’s Singapore hideaway. Lovely little beach, old bungalow.”
    Ann nodded feebly, though taking notes as she did so. “There’s a fair few of those in Queensland,” she admitted. “Anything you'd like to say along the lines of dying to be here, thrilled to be here at last, how lovely you think Sydney Harbour is?”
    “No.”
    “Thought not,” she agreed, making a note.
    In spite of what he’d just said to Bernie, the great director ordered grimly: “Give me that.”
    Gleefully Ann handed over her notebook. It was all in shorthand, tee-hee!
    Oops, not tee-hee. “Read that,” he said, handing it to Bland-Face.
    “It’s very bad,” replied Gareth. “I’d say she never went to a proper secretarial school. Though I suppose you could call it Pitman’s. Um… ‘Making film in Queensland’—I suppose this is. Um, ‘sing poor’—right, Singapore. ‘Love’—Um, ‘Lovely beach. Has been here before’—more or less. ‘Thinks our’—what? Oh: Sydney Harbour: ‘Sydney Harbour lovely.’ Um… Something ‘to be here again’.” He shrugged slightly.
    “‘Thrilled to be here again’,” said Ann blandly, holding out her hand. “Thanks. –Could Tony take another pic of you, please, Mr Dawlish? With any of these others you'd like me to name.”
    The great director heaved his bulk to its feet. “Bernie Anderson,” he said clearly, pointing at him. Production Designer.” He pointed again. “Myfanwy Griffiths, Mr Dawlish’s lovely companion.”—Ann had to swallow.—He pointed at Streaked One. “Harry Strachan, Dialogue Writer.”
    “Crumbs, really?” croaked Ann feebly. “I’ve read your SF thing.”
    “Alone of all the world!” said Harry with a laugh, getting up and setting his empty beer bottle on the trolley. “Come on, Miff, you can stand between me and Bernie, a thorn between two roses: that’s right.”
    “Straighten your tie, Derry,” said Gareth in a bored tone.
    “Couldn’t he be in it?” asked Ann wistfully. “He’s got an excellent bone structure: very photogenic, I’d say, wouldn't you, Tony?”
    “Yeah, you’d photograph pretty good,” he agreed in his vernacular, squinting at Bland-Face.
    “Gareth is my Personal Assistant, to answer that unspoken question you’re shouting from the rooftops, Miss Kitchener,” said Derry acidly, “and he doesn't particularly care to be photographed.”
    “Gee, comprehensive. –Come on Tony, hurry up, they’ll be wanting to loosen their ties again, haven’t you ever been on an international flight?”
    “Yeah, ’course!” he said indignantly. “Me and Kirrian went to Bali for our—” Honeymoon, yeah, yeah. Them and the rest of Young Married Oz.
    Bored though she was, Ann wrote carefully in clear the five names, reading from left to right. In addition checking to see just how Miss Griffiths spelled her first name.
    “That’s it, is it?” asked the great director as Tony finished snapping.
    “Yes, thanks; I can make the rest up,” said Ann blandly.
    Ignoring Mr Church’s horrified gasp, the great director replied calmly: “Do that.” And grabbed up his coat.
    “What about the stars, Ann?” prompted Tony.
    “I said, I can make that up.”
    “Yeah, but Jim might wanna know when they’re due.”
    “When are the stars due, Mr Dawlish?” asked Ann blandly.
    “When I’m ready for them.”
    “We’ll notify you!” gasped Mr Church.
    See? Ann didn’t brother to say it or even look it, she just nodded and said: “Thanks for the beer and macadamias, Mr Dawlish. We’ll see you at the studios.”
    He paused on his way to the door. “No doubt. –I could give you an exclusive on my vision of the Fifties, but I presume you don’t want that?”
    “Well, I’d be very interested,” she admitted, “but our readers don’t want it, you see.”
    “Exactly,” he said on a wry note. “Come on, you lot, if I don’t get a hot bath in the next half hour heads will roll.”
    Tony’s gulp was audible all over the little room just off the VIP lounge but the entourage just surged off in their leader’s wake—
    Oops. One of them didn't. The dust had cleared and Bernie Anderson was still there, smiling very slightly. “How long does it take to your Hyatt Hotel?”
    “Given the weather and the traffic, allow yourselves a good hour.”
    “Unless there’s a pile-up,” added Tony cautiously.
    “Or a truck,” added Ann, less cautiously.
    “Mm. If you want any details about the sets, or Lily Rose’s clothes, hair or make-up that the studio handouts haven’t already provided, ask me,” he said with a smile. “Bye for now!”
    “Ta-ta,” said Ann limply. “Um, thanks for everything!” she cried.
    Bernie turned at the door. “I thought you handled him damned well. He is a prick of the first water, of course, but a bloody talented one. Don’t let him wear you down!” And with that he was gone.
    “Crikey,” uttered Ann weakly.


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