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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