The Birthday Party (22 page)

Because of the thrill of getting it right. Because of the satisfaction of nailing a really good scene, and knowing that at
some point in the future an audience would be drawn into the world you had created. Because it was completely and utterly
addictive. That was why.

She supposed she could have talked to her father about her fears. After all, Raf must have experienced something similar himself,
else why had he become such a drunken wreck? He probably started just the same – a little nip from the flask to blur the edges
before going on stage – but he hadn’t had the will-power to keep it in check like she had. Besides, drinking was more socially
acceptable, especially in those days. Actors were always rolling around drunk and causing havoc, only
some were drunker than others. And Raf had been the drunkest of them all …

She didn’t confide in him, firstly because he had always been ambivalent about her going into acting, and secondly because
she was quite a private person. She found it hard to share. And she liked to solve her problems for herself. Talking to Raf
would only make him worry, and then he would divulge her secrets to Delilah, and once Mum got wind of her insecurity that
would be it – hypnotherapy, Bach’s rescue remedy, constant phone calls …

She was talking to Delilah far less these days, Coco realised. When she started on the show she used to need to ring her constantly,
but now she felt able to stand on her own two feet. Besides, she had her colleagues. The team on
Critical but Stable
were great. There was always someone to have a coffee with, or someone to go to the gym up the road with if you had time
off between scenes. Someone to lend you a book or a magazine, someone to recommend a new fake tan or a great new band to download.
Without turning it into a cliché, they
were
like one big happy family. She knew that wasn’t always the case on a long-running show. With gruelling hours and immense
pressure to perform, it was all too easy for disillusionment to set in. And once it started it spread. Actors became disgruntled,
paranoid and uncooperative, and it wasn’t long before that showed in their performances. There would be complaints about the
scripts, which would knock the confidence of the script team, and before you knew it anyone with any talent jumped ship and
the whole show started to fall apart.
Critical but Stable
, however, was just getting better and better. Morale was at an all time high.

The only fly in the ointment was Neal. He seemed to think that the fact they were onscreen lovers gave them a special bond
– a special bond that Coco definitely didn’t feel.

Neal was one of those people who seemed like a great guy on first meeting. It helped that he was incredibly good-looking,
with his tanned skin, ripped body, tousled shoulder-length
locks and green eyes. But it had soon become apparent that there wasn’t much more to him than that. He was vain, superficial,
self-centred and cocky, strutting around the lot like a cockerel. It was hard to keep out of his way as they had so many scenes
together, but Coco did her best. He was incredibly thick-skinned and didn’t seem able to take no for an answer. Twice he had
barged into her dressing room without knocking. She didn’t keep it locked usually, to avoid undue suspicion.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ she snapped at him the second time. ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’

‘Why? What were you doing?’ he looked at her lasciviously. ‘Something you shouldn’t?’

Lecherous as well. It wasn’t long before the rest of the cast and crew were trying to avoid him, especially the younger girls.
One day Coco found him pinning one of the runners up against the wall in the green room. The poor girl was nearly in tears.

‘Can’t you take no for an answer?’ Coco hissed at him as she pulled him away. The runner escaped gratefully and the two of
them were left facing each other. An ugly expression came into his eyes: hostile and dangerous.

‘I don’t know who you think you are,’ he replied. ‘But you’re no better than the rest of us mere mortals. And let’s face it
– you certainly weren’t hired for your acting ability.’

Coco paled. ‘What did you say?’

‘Haven’t you heard your nickname? Pinocchio – because you’re so wooden? They’re trying to figure out how to write you out
of the script as we speak.’ He flashed her a smile of evil triumph and walked out of the door.

Coco sat down in the nearest chair. She felt winded. No one could have hurt her more if they tried. She had been working so
hard over the past few weeks, and had been pleased with her performances. The feedback she had got from the directors had
seemed positive. She knew jolly well that on a show like this if you weren’t cutting the mustard you soon knew
about it. Everyone had to do their best in the limited time they were given. The producers didn’t tolerate anything less than
a hundred per cent.

She put her head in her hands, tears pricking her eyelids. Perhaps she should go straight away and offer her resignation?
There might still be time to find someone else to take over her part, and reshoot everything she had done so far before the
episodes were due to be transmitted. She didn’t want to be responsible for the show going down the pan. She would rather bow
out now than be publicly humiliated. She didn’t want the whole nation to have proof of the fact that she couldn’t act for
toffee.

She looked at her watch. There was half an hour before she was due back on set. She ran up the four flights of steps that
led to the production offices. She walked through the main area, where the script co-ordinators were busy collating that week’s
changes and getting them copied onto coloured paper – there was a different colour for each draft, so they could be easily
differentiated. Off the central area were other areas, for scheduling, finance, research, then finally a long corridor where
the producers and script team reigned. It looked like any ordinary set of offices. They could all have been accountants or
market researchers. There was nothing glamorous about it, just the usual coffee machines and water coolers and a lot of white
boards.

The executive producer, Lisa Gray, was a plump, blunt girl from Pontefract, well respected in the television industry for
having a vision and getting it onto the screen on time and within budget. She looked up as Coco knocked tentatively and beckoned
her in.

The two of them sat facing each other on the red L-shaped sofa Lisa kept for meetings. Lisa kicked off her shoes and curled
her feet up under her. She liked to keep things as informal as possible. She hadn’t had an awful lot of dealings with Coco
– they’d had dinner when the team had first approached her, and she had welcomed her on her first day,
and she was usually around at the weekly read-through, but Lisa spent most of the time in her office dealing with scripts.
It was her forte, and it showed in the high standard the team achieved. She wondered what the actress wanted: a bigger dressing
room, probably, or time off that would throw the schedule into total disarray.

‘So … ?’ she started, prompting her.

Coco decided not to beat about the bush.

‘Lisa. Listen. I know it’s not working.’

Lisa looked at her with polite puzzlement. Coco carried on.

‘I know you took a risk when you took me on, and I’m really grateful to you for the break, but … I don’t want to jeopardise
the success of Critical but Stable. I want the show to be something you can be proud of, not something you’re embarrassed
by. And I just want to say – I’d rather you axed me sooner rather than later. I don’t even expect you to honour my contract—’

‘Coco.’ Lisa cut across her smoothly. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Coco blinked. Did she have to spell it out to her?

‘Pinocchio,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t that what they call me?’

Lisa sighed. She had three first-draft scripts to read, two show reels to look at, a storyline to approve and a character
breakdown to write for the casting director. By three o’clock. But this was part of the job. Massaging egos, soothing ruffled
feathers. She did it all the time. Only this morning she’d had a producer and lighting director slugging it out in front of
her, and she’d had to intervene. The problem was there were an infinite number of ways of doing things in television, and
people didn’t always see eye to eye. The executive producer had to be the adjudicator and the nanny.

She put on her most reassuring smile, careful not to show any sign of irritation.

‘Coco, we are completely thrilled with everything you’ve done so far. You’ve exceeded our expectations. You’ve brought something
to Emily that we can really build on now
the character is bedded in. I don’t understand why you think otherwise.’

‘I was told … you were going to write me out.’

Lisa folded her arms. The trouble with actors was they got very bored when they weren’t actually in the studio, and tended
to cause mischief. Idle gossip was an occupational hazard. And it could be very damaging.

‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.

Coco remained silent. She wasn’t a grass.

‘Let me guess,’ said Lisa drily. ‘The towering talent that is Neal.’

Coco’s lack of reply confirmed her suspicions.

Lisa gritted her teeth. She couldn’t afford to let Coco have a crisis of confidence. She rapidly assessed whether to divulge
the information she was party to, and decided it was worth the risk. It was the only way to boost the girl’s self-esteem and
convince her she wasn’t on her way out.

‘You tell anybody this, and I’ll rip your contract up right in front of you,’ she told Coco. ‘It’s not you we want to get
rid of. It’s Neal. He’s absolutely fine when he’s lying there in a coma. He looks great. But when he comes to life in those
dream sequences? Laurence Olivier he is not.’

Coco smothered a giggle. And thought how incandescent Neal would be if he could hear Lisa talking.

‘The minute his contract is up he is out. We’re already looking at ways of getting rid of his character. At the moment we’re
favouring Emily turning off his life support machine in a fit of remorse.’

‘Please!’ Coco’s eyes were shining. ‘Please let me do it!’

Lisa looked reproachful.

‘This isn’t about revenge, Coco. It’s about what’s best for the show.’

‘Sorry. Yes, of course.’ Coco tried to seem penitent.

‘Now bugger off and let me get on with my work. And carry on doing what you do.’

‘Thanks. And sorry. I just …’

‘Bugger
off
!’

Lisa watched Coco leave her office, making sure she was really gone before going back to her desk. Bloody actors. They were
all the same. They could walk off stage holding an Oscar in their hand and still need reassurance.

Coco felt mildly vindicated after her meeting with Lisa, but she was still riddled with doubt. What if the production team
thought she was great, but the actors thought she was rubbish? It wouldn’t be the first time. And it was almost more important
what your peers thought of you than the production team. You had to have their respect.

She was horrified to find that her legs were trembling at the thought of going back to the studio in ten minutes. She couldn’t
face the imagined slights. It was exactly the same feeling she used to have in the classroom – too afraid to put up her hand
for fear of ridicule, even though she knew the answer. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was from the same family as Violet,
who didn’t much care what anyone thought and jumped on stage at the drop of a hat. Or Tyger, who would knock you over in her
rush to get to the top. She longed for an ounce of their chutzpah.

Well, she was just going to have to get her chutzpah from somewhere else.

She grabbed her bag, pulled out the little plastic pouch. OK, so she’d sworn she would only do one line a day, and she’d had
her ration this morning, but this was an emergency. She’d had a shock. She couldn’t be expected to bounce back from that straight
away. She realised she only had enough for one last line. Damn – how had that happened? She’d been careful to ration it out.
Never mind, she’d text Harley, get him to meet her later. He’d sort her out.

She chopped out a line, bent her head and sniffed. Thank God. Almost within moments she felt on top of the world. Ready to
face anyone and anything. With her head held high
and a smile on her face, she glided out of her dressing room and down to the studio.

They were shooting part of a dream sequence that afternoon, when Emily imagines Zak has come back to life and they kiss. Neal
was looking cockier than ever, obviously relishing the prospect. Coco felt her stomach churn with distaste. She shut her eyes
and thought of the big, fat fee she had been paid as she took her place on the set.

‘Act,’ she told herself sternly. ‘You’ve got to act. This guy is the love of your life. His lips on yours is your
raison d’être
.’

If she could do this she could do anything.

The director was brilliant. He talked to the two of them, exploring the feelings of the characters. Coco was almost,
almost
, convinced she was Emily.

‘This is momentous,’ the director enthused. ‘Zak has been in a coma for three months, and now here he is in front of her,
living, breathing. It’s a miracle. A dream come true. I want the audience to feel her relief, her elation, her passion …’

Coco sneaked a look at Neal, who was smirking. She
could
do this.

After several awkward rehearsals, they were ready for a take.

‘I want you to hold that moment just before the kiss. Really crank up the sense of anticipation, so when your lips finally
do meet, it’s electric.’ The director was determined to milk this for all he was worth.

Please God we do this in one, thought Coco, as the cameras started rolling.

She could feel a collective holding of breath as the crew watched the two young lovers rediscover themselves. She let her
fingers trail over Neal’s face in wonder, and he looked down at her in adoration. They held each other’s gaze for a moment
longer, then another, before their lips finally locked. It was going to be an epic television moment, the sort of moment awards
were made of. Coco felt an overwhelming sense of elation.