Lucky Break (15 page)

‘Hey,' she waved. ‘Hi. How are you?'

‘Great.' Gabriel lowered his tray. There was one squashed cherry tomato on it, piped round with a swirl of cream. Charlie took it, and with a sigh he let the tray drop to his side. ‘I'm . . . I've just been . . . yeah, up for a few things, but it's a fucker, trying to get work worth doing. And the agents. I had a few circling at the end of drama school, but then, maybe I was too choosy . . . I don't know. The whole thing's nonsense.'

Charlie nodded. ‘I know, it's ridiculous.'

‘And you?' He looked at her, pityingly. ‘You're out now, in the big bad world.'

‘Yeah, as of last Thursday.'

‘You know Nell Gilby got her Equity card, did you hear, playing a penguin in a theatre in education tour?' He made a pained expression.

‘That's right,' Charlie refused to react, ‘I saw her.' She had an image of Nell, trilling operatically, her arms flapping as she fell forward in a rolling dive, while children, aged from four to seven, lit up with delight. ‘Actually, she was rather good.'

‘Well, I'd better get going,' Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. ‘Work to do.' And grimacing, he set off through the crowd towards the swing door where identical white-shirted figures were emerging with new trays.

Rob was still at the bar, deep in conversation with the director. Their heads were close together and although Charlie stood near by, there was no way in without an interruption. She took another glass of wine and wandered off, keeping her eyes fixed on the middle distance, unable to bear the thought of another agonising chat with Gabriel, until it occurred to her that other people's last-night parties were a club that could not be broken into, a place where you would never belong. She slid her glass on to a passing tray, and stepped out into the street. The night was clear and soft, the pavement, the grey granite of the buildings, breathing warmth. Fuck it, she thought, looking up at the dreary details of the night bus, and she stuck her arm out for a taxi home.

 

Marcel Perez was young and slight, with gleaming jet-black hair. He took hold of Charlie's hand and didn't let it go. ‘Let's rehearse,' he said in his beautiful, lazy accent, ‘quick, while they set up.'

The director and the cameraman were busy with a monitor, and the casting director was on the phone.

Charlie pulled out her pages. ‘You didn't learn?' Marcel looked alarmed.

‘Well, yes, I did, I sort of . . .'

‘Perfect.' He flung her script away. ‘And if you forget, just invent it, no?' He looked round comically. ‘It's all right, the writer is not 'ere.'

They rattled through the lines, watching each other, looking away, smiling, in spite of themselves, so that by the time Charlie was ready to get off the train, she would have been surprised to turn round and find Marcel not there.

‘It is instant,' Marcel looked intently at her, ‘this attraction, non?'

‘Oui,' Charlie agreed and they laughed, a shivery, nervous laugh.

The second scene was more difficult. They sat on the ground. ‘Ahhh,' Marcel stretched out and warmed his hands on an imaginary fire.

‘OK,' the director called. ‘We'll film this one. When you are both ready.'

‘Don't go back.' Marcel took hold of Charlie's hands.

‘I have to.' All Charlie could think of was, were they actually going to kiss?

‘You don't have to do anything. Except stay here with me.' His hand was on her face, pushing back her hair and he was leaning forward, oh for God's sake, she closed her eyes and felt his mouth, for a brief second, soft against her lips.

‘But what about university, my degree . . . ' she spluttered. Had she broken off too soon?

Marcel looked startled. He sat back on his heels. ‘What about life?' he insisted.

They stared at each other. She could hear a clock tick on the wall. ‘Yes. Life,' she conceded, swallowing. Marcel moved towards her again, and slowly, with his arms around her, began to lean her backwards so that, gently, elegantly they both sank down to the ground. ‘Ze Beeg Heat,' he whispered, and she answered in her best, clipped
Brief Encounter
voice, ‘I say, you're awfully good. Do you do this sort of thing often?'

They collapsed, shaking and holding each other while the camera kept on running and the director gazed at their laughing, love-struck faces on the screen.

 

‘They want you!' Maisie told her. ‘And Equity have agreed to give you a card.' She sounded ecstatic. ‘Now, we haven't done the deal yet, so don't expect vast riches, it's a low-budget film.'

‘All right, I won't.' But even so, when the offer came through it was more money than she'd allowed herself to imagine, more money than Rob had earned in the last year.

‘You'll be flying to Paris to do the hair, make-up and costume tests.' Maisie called again. ‘They'll film a few scenes there, but mostly they'll shoot on location in the south. They'll organise your travel from there. You'll be based in Marseilles.'

‘That sounds fun,' her mother said when she told her, and her father hoped she'd get home to Cheltenham for a night before she went.

‘Probably not,' she told them, ‘I've got a million things to do before I go, not least of all, learn French,' and before her mother could start on about the money wasted on her education, the letters they'd received from the headmistress, the piano lessons she'd missed, Charlie interrupted, ‘There's someone at the door, sorry,' and she rang off.

 

That night Rob made love to her with excruciating care. ‘I will be back,' she reminded him, but he didn't smile. Instead he attended to her, stroking and kissing, turning her over, running his tongue down the dents of her spine, as if to leave the imprint of himself on every inch of skin. Afterwards he held her tightly, his limbs leaden over her own, as guiltily she thought about Marcel. She wondered how they'd greet each other when she arrived in France. It is instant, this attraction, non
?
and for the thousandth time she wondered if he meant their characters, or their own. But soon she'd slipped into a dream that even from within her dream she recognised: the play was starting, and she was miles from the theatre. Fast as she ran, her feet were clay. She tried to call to warn them, but each time she dialled the numbers, her fingers slipped, until she gave up, and seizing a bicycle, she peddled madly until she hit a slick of oil and skidded to the floor. Desperate, she wrenched herself awake. Rob still had his arms round her, his leg was pinning down her own, but he was shivering now, his flesh clammy and cold. ‘What is it?' she soothed, clasping his heavy head against her chest. ‘Sweetheart, what is it?' but he only held her tight and wouldn't say.

Three days later Rob was offered a job. A small-scale tour of
Macbeth
. Birmingham, Newcastle, Liverpool, Llandudno, and all going well, the Theatre Royal, Bath. Almost instantly he was caught up in preparation, reading and obsessively rereading the play, meeting up for pre-rehearsal rehearsals with the actress who was to play Lady Macbeth, and then, in the evenings, spending hours on the phone to her in all-engrossing discussion. Charlie was left free to prepare for her departure. As she packed she glanced round at the dilapidated rooms of their flat. How much longer would she be living here? Would she actually come back? And it occurred to her, that with both of them away, there would be no sign the building was inhabited. Similar houses in the next street had recently been demolished and surely it was just a matter of time before the bulldozers moved in and knocked this one down? She collected her favourite possessions and packed them into a cardboard box, her winter coat and cowboy boots, a polka-dot teapot and matching cups, one tall glass vase that Rob had given her, just wide enough for a single rose. She took them by taxi round to Nell's. ‘Just until I'm back,' she said. ‘Is that all right?' And Nell promised that she'd keep everything safe. ‘Have an amazing time,' Nell put her arms around her. ‘And write and tell me what it's like. And what he's like. Marcel Perez.'

‘I will, I promise,' Charlie said, and she hugged her friend and wondered if she actually would.

 

That first night in Paris she was invited to dinner with the director, the writer, two producers, and Marcel. They met at a brasserie not far from her hotel, ornately beautiful, but casual too, as if this was how Parisians effortlessly ate. The director ordered fruits de mer, a tier of dishes so high it was almost impossible to see over it, and on each tier, arranged on beds of ice, were mussels, crayfish, oysters, prawns, the raw slippery meal of it leaving her high-spirited and drunk.

Afterwards Marcel walked her back to the hotel. They walked in silence, their fingers millimetres apart. ‘So, it was a great pleasure to see you once again,' Marcel stopped on the steps, ‘I hope you sleep well,' and to her surprise he took hold of her shoulders in a businesslike clasp and kissed her lightly on each cheek.

‘Good night,' she tried to catch his eye, but he was already turning away.

Charlie lay in her crisp new hotel bed and gazed around her. Everything was so substantial. The built-in wardrobes, the desk with its leather-bound book of information, and the telephone on a table to her right. She should call Rob, she thought, tell him she'd arrived safely, but instead she leafed through the schedule. There had been no time to look at it before dinner, only to change her clothes, examine her face, add a little lip gloss. Now she saw that they would be shooting the train scenes first. They'd be filming outside Paris and then, as soon as they got to the coast, just days from now, they would be doing one of the last scenes in the film. Big Heat.

‘Ze Beeg Heat,' she murmured, hoping to revive for herself the air of frivolity created by Marcel at the audition, and as she lay in bed, running over her lines, she imagined herself and Marcel making love by firelight, so easily and fluidly, people would turn to each other in the cinema and whisper . . . is that real?

She fell asleep, the script still in her hand, and woke an hour later with a jolt. A pang of guilt engulfed her as she remembered Rob, sweating and shivering as he'd held her in his arms. I must call him; she reached for the phone, but although she dialled the number twice, even checked with the concierge for the right code, no one answered at the other end.

 

On set Marcel was friendly, but aloof. He flirted during each take, his dark eyes brimming with amusement, but as soon as the director called ‘cut', he drifted off and Charlie could see him talking to the producers, larking around with the crew, making himself tea. By the time they came to do the train scene Charlie felt skittery with longing. Now, she thought, now he would have to acknowledge her, and as he moved across the carriage to lean his head towards hers, to hear exactly what she had to say, she found herself gazing into his eyes. ‘Where am I going? To Aix-en-Provence,' she told him, ‘to work for a family with three small boys,' and then when he pressed her further, ‘I'm sorry, je ne parle pas français, seulement un petit peu.' They smiled at each other, shyly, and when she leapt down from the train, she was sure she could feel him, coming after her, linked by an invisible thread.

‘Yes, yes, very nice,' the director murmured, and the next day a car came for Charlie early and took her to the airport, where she flew to Marseilles. She expected to see the others at the departure gate, expected to see Marcel, but no one else was there, and at the hotel, although she had all that day to recover, to wander in the gardens, to sit by the blazing pool, she felt self-conscious and alone.

Big Heat was a night shoot and she wasn't called till six. It wouldn't be dark till after eight but there was hair and make-up and hopefully, some opportunity to meet and rehearse. Charlie's costume was already in her caravan. A pair of minu­s­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­cule knickers, no bra, a shirt with a tie at the waist, shorts. She'd chosen these clothes with the wardrobe woman, in Paris, in a dumb show of shrugs and smiles, but rather than reassure her with their familiarity they hung on their hangers like a threat. As soon as she put them on – it was inevitable, she would be called upon to take them off. What worried her most was that it had never been made clear exactly how much she was expected to expose. ‘Make sure you get some kind of clause,' Rob had told her, and when she'd mentioned it to Maisie, Maisie had sighed and said she could insist on ‘no pinky bits' but that usually resulted in the director having a tantrum and bringing in a body double. Did Charlie want that? She could insist on it. Certainly. But with this being her first job she didn't want to push too hard.

‘Right. Of course,' Charlie had conceded. Not wanting to remind her that the pinky bits were in fact black. ‘Don't worry. I'm sure it will be all right.' And that night she'd stood in front of her bedroom mirror, examining herself. Who cares, she thought, twisting to get a good look at her arse. Not me. I'd walk down the Kilburn High Road naked if someone said they'd give me cash. But now that she was here, alone, with strangers, she didn't feel so sure.

Charlie changed into her costume. The shirt was red and white check and tied above her navel. The shorts were faded blue. A pair of brand new flip-flops stood ready in her size. ‘Oh, là là. Très jolie, n'est pas?' The make-up woman smiled as she sat down, and pinning Charlie's hair back from her face, smeared a wash of beige foundation over her skin. As she watched, her cheekbones sharpened, her lashes sprang up, slick with black, and two careful stripes of silver drew out the liquid of her eyes. ‘Merci, madame,' Charlie said gratefully. The whole procedure had calmed her. For the first time in her acting life she hadn't set out to create a character. She was determined to prove she didn't need the rigours of Silvio's six psychological divisions, or the straitjacket of Stanislavsky's method. She was opting for instinct and natural attraction. She was going to play this girl as herself.