Midsummer Madness (19 page)

‘Say you don’t want her,’ said Joe.

‘It might be all right. She might be desperate for publicity. She’s done very little since that
Celebrity
spot. It seems to have ruined her chances.’

‘Don’t be so trusting. Say no.’

It wasn’t that easy. The production executives thought Fran might be an up-and-coming star worth cultivating. They were taken in by her glamorous blonde looks and smooth-talking approach. She could be convincing.

I was back to being a bag of nerves. Joe insisted on coming with me but stayed standing in the wings.

‘Don’t let her get the better of you,’ he said. ‘Don’t mention that infamous letter. Remember it’s your show and don’t let her monopolize it.’

‘But she might.’

‘Ignore her and anything she says. Be ready to move on.’

I was wearing my trademark slim trousers and tunic in some slinky silvery-grey material, casually thrown scarf. They always found me gorgeous scarves, Sophie’s scarves, they said now. I’d lost weight. No more sitting about in the prompt corner, eating chocolate, and all that cycling up and down hills. I was getting my puff back. And I had a new bike with gears. Hilda helped me find the slinky clothes and her mother watched the show. They often discussed the show together with my mother. They had become my fan club.

Fran came on tightly wrapped in swathes of gossamer chiffon, cleavage thrust forward, skirt so short it was nearly banned. Her brittle blonde hair was a confection of sugar. She sat on the sofa, folding her legs into an openly enticing invitation. I could see the host sweating with apprehension.

‘Hello, Fran Powell,’ I said, trying to sound warm and pleasant. ‘Welcome to
Prompt Cornered
. We used to know each other quite a time ago.’

‘Yes, before I became a celebrity. I was a hard-working, struggling actress then, the understudy for
Twelfth Night
. You may remember I took over the leading part of Viola at the Royale, without any notice, on the opening night. Joe Harrison, that famous New York director, cut my hair in the wings and guided me through the whole show. He said I was marvellous. I think you were the prompt, though I didn’t need a line from you. I was word perfect.’

I could only stare at her. Words deserted me. She had the nerve of a polecat. I swallowed an astonished gasp. What should I do? Contradict her in front of a million people? Pitch a fight? I let it go.

‘Tell me what you have been doing lately,’ I asked smoothly, very Glenn Close. The camera man winked at me. He was hoping for a bunny-in-a-boiler scene.

She rattled off a series of non-starters, sit-coms already forgotten, walk-ons that actually got cut. Her face was an advertisement for Botox. I noticed a ladder near her nylon-clad bony knees and actually felt sorry for her.

‘Of course, I keep getting offers from New York,’ she prattled on. ‘Joe Harrison is constantly offering me parts on Broadway but I don’t like the flying. He keeps phoning. Sad, isn’t it? To let all these wonderful opportunities go by. But he says I’ll be a star very soon. And he should know, shouldn’t he?’

Joe was standing off the set, glowering, watching a monitor.

‘How disappointing for you. Flying is not that bad. Planes are safer than cars, they say. Would you like a drink, Fran? Coffee or tea?’

It was part of the ritual. My assistant, a nice girl called Ginny, brought on a properly laid tray (my mother’s long-distance influence) and poured out the drinks while we talked. Ginny had
ambition. She always made the most of the ritual, almost Japanese in style.

Now, I was never quite sure what happened. I never moved. I never could. I was always too frozen with fright, even after all these soporific nights on the sofa. Ginny swore she did nothing wrong and I believed her.

But suddenly the tray went flying. The whole tray catapulted through the air. Coffee, tea, milk, the lot, fell into Fran’s lap. Now, it must have hurt, no protection from gossamer skirt across her legs. Coffee splashed up over her chiffon-draped bosom. She screamed.

She not only screamed. She foul mouthed **** and **** and a lot more of *******. They bleeped her out and a couple of hefties heaved her off the set, to hose her down. She was opaque with rage, phoning her lawyer, threatening me with law suits.

I was left on the sofa to fill in for another five empty minutes while Ginny mopped up. Which I did, no trouble at all, thanks to the Bard. As Elinor would say, easy as pie, piece of cake, very clipped Bette Davis.

‘Poison Powell Fran,’ said the team at the de-briefing. ‘We won’t ask her again. We’ll go through the video with a fine-tooth comb. Our lawyers will soon sort her out. We know her type. We saw what happened. It wasn’t your fault at all. You were completely blameless, Sophie. You kept your cool.’

‘I was watching,’ said Joe, grimly. ‘She deliberately tipped the tray in your direction when the camera was focused on you. But you know what aluminium trays are like. They are so light. It did a weird bounce on the arm of the sofa and whooshed back onto her.’

‘Thank goodness you were there,’ I said, sipping water, glad of Joe’s assurance and support. ‘But I feel sorry for her. Her career is going nowhere.’

‘And nowhere even faster when news travels round that she’s a trouble-maker and a liar. Lots of people remember that you played Viola for the opening night. One day you’ll spot her serving in a café or managing a launderette.’

‘I’ve told management our good news. They don’t seem to mind at all. If I’m going to look a little larger around the stomach area for a few months, then it’ll be all the more like a late, late night, very
sexy and cosy programme, they said. And I can take a couple of months break whenever I need to.’

‘How about Viola for a name if it’s a girl?’

‘I fancy Olivia,’ I said. I put my dreams in his pocket where I knew they would be safe. ‘How about Toby for a boy?’

‘Or William?’

Telling Mark was not quite so easy, but when we did tell him, he looked at both of us, sort of grown-up, way out and lofty, but grinning and kicking a stone about with his foot. He wriggled inside his sweater, obviously taking in the news.

‘Wicked,’ he said, nodding. I was glad he’d learned a new word. There was hope.

I could sense his brain ticking off the possibilities.

‘Can we have a puppy, too?’ Mark asked, cashing in on the euphoria.