A Holiday Fling (8 page)

As Greg explained to Sean what was needed, Jenny marched up the steps onto the stage. "The tithe barn is on thin ice, my friends," she said in a carrying voice, "so tonight we have to do a cracking good job."

Swiftly she outlined the situation with a passion that would have inspired soldiers on the eve of battle. By the time she finished speaking, all of the actors, singers, dancers, and musicians were poised for their best work.

Within half an hour they were set to go, microphones in place and two cameras ready to record the performance. The next hours were a blur of motion and music. When possible, Greg loved to work fast and capture the spontaneity that was hard to maintain in multiple takes. In this case, he also wanted the action to be as uninterrupted as possible so that the performers could get the benefit of their dress rehearsal.

The show began with the children singing, "Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel," as they walked through the darkened theater, each carrying a candle and watched like a hawk by Patricia to see that they didn’t set themselves on fire. The kids, as expected, were adorable, and they sang like crystal bells. With the lights low and the candles illuminating earnest young faces, the procession captured the eternal magic of the season.

As the story unfolded, the performers outdid themselves. The mixture of professionals and experienced amateurs put on a musical spectacular worthy of London’s famous West End theaters. Sir George, the future saint, was played by an opera tenor, the Turkish physician was a famous Welsh stage actor, and Jenny as Lady Molly proved to be a first-rate singer with a rich voice that filled every corner of the barn.

Fiercely concentrating, Greg entered the altered state where he was no longer consciously aware of his movements, his whole body responding instinctively to what his eyes saw. A pan across the bright faces of the singing cherubs,
yes
. Pull back and up to capture the wild energy of the horn dancers. Descend to shoot the ponderous, glittering dragon as the beast slew the knight. A poignant shot of the fallen warrior.

And always Jenny, first as the saucy narrator who set the stage for the show, later as Lady Molly weeping over the body of her sweetheart. The camera loved her, caressing her expressive face and supple body as she became a woman of another time.

Enter the Turkish physician in his Eastern robes, and with a stage presence that had knocked London theatergoers dead for decades. The slain knight was revived, the lovers reunited, and the resurrection theme was expanded into a touching Nativity scene.

At the end, as Greg slowly pulled the camera back and up, the whole cast sang "Go, Tell It on the Mountain," the American spiritual somehow perfectly right. Adults, children, dancers, musicians, and even the dragon were united in peace and harmony. Damn, these people were good.

As the cast dissolved into post-performance chatter, relief, and analysis, Greg leaned against the wall, almost dizzy now that shooting was over. Having made her comments and compliments to her cast, Jenny slipped away to join him, her face flushed with a performer’s high even though she had removed her makeup. "Was that as good as I thought it was?"

He nodded. "Better. More takes and angles and a wider range of zoom shots would have been nice, but we have what we need to shop the show."

Sean appeared, looking awed. "That was bloomin’ marvelous! Better than a year’s worth of course work."

"You were a great help, Sean. I’m glad you stayed," Greg said. "Maybe we can work together again someday."

After the young cameraman left, beaming, Jenny stood on her toes and gave Greg a swift kiss. "Thank you so much. There’s still a long way to go, but if not for your wizardry, we wouldn’t have a chance. First thing tomorrow I’ll call my most influential BBC connection. With luck, we can have a meeting tomorrow afternoon."

Greg gave her a tired smile, the tanned skin crinkling around his dark eyes. "It’s still early enough in the U.S. for me to call there tonight. If the editing goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to send a rough cut over."

He looked so huggable that it was an effort for Jenny to keep her hands to herself. Reminding herself that her mother and half her family were in the room, she behaved. Sort of. Linking an arm through Greg’s, she said, "Before we go to Patricia and Ken’s house to edit, let’s stop by my place for a bite to eat and a pot of coffee to keep us awake. You can make your calls while my mother locks up here."

"Good idea. I’m ravenous. That kind of work really gives me an appetite."

Arm in arm, they said good-byes and left the
barn. Jenny was still buzzing with exhilaration from the performance, where the sum of what they had done was so much more than the individual people. Yet underneath was a vein of melancholy, because in two or three days he’d be gone. She wondered if she would be able to kiss him good-bye at Heathrow without crying.

Even the best actress has her limits.

Chapter 7

While Jenny threw together a quick supper, Greg withdrew to his room and called a couple of people he knew in American television, plus a CBC friend in Toronto. All three wanted to see a rough cut of the performance.

He ended his final call, satisfied that everyone understood the need for a quick decision and money on the table if they were interested. If Jenny did as well in London, there was a fighting chance of raising the money by New Year’s.

Plato trotted in carrying his buggy whip. After dropping it at the foot of the bed, he leaped onto Greg’s lap. "I’m going to miss you, philosopher," Greg murmured as he scratched the furry neck. Though not as much as he’d miss the cat’s mistress.

He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by babbling to her what she meant to him—she probably got declarations of love from smitten males every week. But maybe he could find a special gift that would say what he meant without words. Not chocolate or jewelry—Jenny was quite capable of getting her own. What did she want most?

The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know.
Her flip tone hadn’t concealed her underlying regrets. Despite Jenny’s success at television, her one Hollywood movie had been a fiasco, and now she had the absurd notion that she was over the hill. Did he know anyone who might need a terrific English actress?

On impulse, he dialed the private number of Raine Marlowe, who had produced, directed, and starred in
The Centurion
, the movie that had given them both Oscars. Even though she and her family lived mostly on a ranch in northern New Mexico, she was well plugged in to the Hollywood movers and shakers. In fact, she was one herself.

As the phone rang, he remembered that Jenny was a former girlfriend of Raine’s husband, Kenzie Scott. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask. Before he could decide, Raine picked up the phone, in the midst of baking Christmas cookies. After they offered each other best wishes for the season, he explained why he was calling. If something came of it, great. If not—well, no harm done.

As he hung up, Jenny called, "Supper’s ready!"

"Coming." Greg stood, boosting Plato over his shoulder. "You’re going to be mad if this works, big guy. Making a movie would take your mom away from you for months." Whistling softly, he went down the stairs. If he couldn’t be with Jenny in person, he could watch her on the silver screen.

* * *

"Do all cinematographers know how to edit as well as you do?" Jenny asked as she watched Greg work on her brother-in-law’s huge computer monitor.

He shrugged. "I like playing with it and I’ve hung out with a lot of first-class film editors. Editing is the critical step that pulls everything together."

Jenny smothered her yawn as they watched the final scene, a marvelous image that young Sean had shot from the catwalk above the stage. Though an American spiritual was hardly traditional in a mummers’ play, Jenny firmly believed that folk performances were a living tradition, and should evolve and grow and adopt new music.

The final frame dissolved into darkness. "
Finis
. It’s a wonderful sample, Greg. Now all we need is for my telly people to bite."

"They’re nuts if they don’t." Greg saved the final version, then rose, yawning. His skill had made editing a pleasure. She had enjoyed discussing the shots and trying different versions until they had captured the essence of the live performance.

His competence was very sexy. If she weren’t so tired, she’d jump him. There was privacy enough—Patricia and her family had long since retired.

When Jenny and Greg were outside the house, he slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the car. She loved such casual, affectionate gestures.

Starting the engine as quietly as possible, she headed through the empty village to her cottage. They were almost home when Greg asked, "It’s well known that you and Kenzie Scott were an item at RADA. Were you in love with him?"

She guessed that he might not have asked such a personal question if he wasn’t so tired, but she didn’t mind answering. "Not really. I do love Kenzie—he’s one of my dearest friends, and he’s as kind as he is good-looking, which is saying a lot. But there was always something unknowable about him—an essence that I could never touch."

"I thought women liked mysterious men."

"Some might, but I think it’s tedious to always be wondering what a man thinks. I’m afraid that I’m hopelessly middle class, Greg. I like a chap who’s down to earth and knowable." Someone like Greg. She had dated her share of high-maintenance charmers, and they made her appreciate steadiness and good humor.

As they entered her cottage, she thought of his question from their first night together: Would she have stayed with him in California if he’d asked all those years earlier? She still didn’t know what her response would have been—but looking back, she was pretty sure that she
should
have stayed.

* * *

Simon Oxnard, Jenny’s honcho friend at the BBC, clicked off the Revels recording. He had watched the first third straight through and skipped rapidly through the rest to get a sense of the whole. Greg sat and gloomily noted all the errors he’d made. Shots held too long, angles that could have been improved, lighting that wasn’t quite right. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t accompanied Jenny for this sales pitch.

Of course, it was always good to watch Jenny. She’d opted for the businesswoman look today rather than actress glamour or country casual. With hair swept up and a beautifully tailored suit, she looked ready to run the Bank of England.

"Very nice, Jenny. The script is a delightful blend of traditional and contemporary, and you’ve directed well." Simon glanced at Greg. "You captured a wonderful sense of immediacy, Mr. Marino. I felt I was standing in the middle of the stage, immersed in celebration."

Greg thanked him, glad his errors weren’t obvious to a non-cameraman.

Simon continued, "I’ll have to run this by some of our programming people before I can make a commitment. There’s a good chance we’ll want it, but it won’t be anywhere near as much money as you need. Tight budgets, you know."

Greg sensed Jenny’s disappointment, though she didn’t let it show on her face. "I understand. Many thanks for making time for us today, Simon." She stood and offered her hand. "The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players thank you."

The executive smiled as he shook her hand. "Is that what you call yourselves? You have quite a lot of talent in your village. It’s worth sharing with a wider audience."

After they were safely out of the bustling television center, Greg asked, "Was he really interested, or was he just giving us the local version of the Hollywood shuffle?"

"If Hollywood shuffle means what I think, no, Simon isn’t like that. He really did like what he saw, which means he’ll probably make an offer after he runs it by his programmers." She sighed. "Unfortunately, he’s also being straight about the money. When one comes down to it, this is just glorified community theater. We’ll be lucky to sell it at all. We won’t get enough to buy the barn."

"There’s a good chance of an American sale, and maybe a Canadian one as well."

"From what you told me, that won’t be huge money either. At best, we’ll have perhaps half the amount we need."

Much as Greg would have liked to disagree, she was right. Cable stations and public television weren’t rich. "If you have contracts for half the money, you’re in a better position to borrow the rest."