Not Dead Yet

74

‘Goddamn lucky it ain’t raining,’ Drayton Wheeler said. He turned, as if for confirmation, to the awkward-looking woman standing behind him in the long line of people stretched back from the main entrance to Brighton Racecourse; the building had been commandeered by the film production as the assembly point for the extras.

She looked up from the copy of the Argus she was reading, staring for some moments at the rather odd man in front of her in the queue to register as film extras. ‘Very lucky.’

‘You’re fucking telling me.’

He was definitely a weirdo, she thought. Tall and gangly, with a grey pageboy fringe poking out beneath a wash-faded baseball cap. He was all twitchy, his face screwing up in frown lines, as if filled with pent-up anger, and had a sickly, sallow complexion. There were fifty people in front of them, all shapes and sizes, waiting to sign on and be fitted for costumes. They had been standing for over an hour, in the blustery wind high up on Race Hill. White rail posts marked the oval race track, and there were fine views across the city and south, over the Marina and the English Channel.

Suddenly, from the front of the queue, a cheery woman’s voice called out, ‘Are family Hazeldine here? Paul Hazeldine, Charlotte Hazeldine, Isobel Hazeldine and Jessica Hazeldine? With their dog, Benson? If you are here, could you make yourselves known to us please! Come forward to the front of the queue!’

Wheeler looked at his watch. ‘Gonna be another hour at least.’ He looked at the woman, who was about his age. She had an angular face, with blonde hair styled like Gaia’s from a photograph that was in a large spread about the shooting of the movie in today’s edition of the local paper.

His movie.

His script they had stolen.

He could do with sex. She wasn’t attractive, but she looked like she was single and she wasn’t a paper bag job. No wedding band. Great legs. He was a legs man. Maybe she was up for sex? Maybe, if he played it right, he could get her back to his room for a screw afterwards? He could focus on her legs, and not her face. His apparatus still functioned – one of the side-effects of the happy pills he was on to help him forget that he was dying. She looked lonely. He was lonely.

‘Done this before?’ he asked, trying to break the ice.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘that’s none of your business.’ She lifted her newspaper, to block him out of sight, and continued reading the spread on Gaia and on the filming which was starting on Monday.

Bitch. She was thinking. Oh you bitch, Gaia. I’m going to think about giving you one more chance. Understand? One more chance. And that’s only because we love each other.

She could tell, from the contrite expression Gaia had, that she was trying to send her a signal. An apology.

It’s almost too late. But I might give you one more chance. I haven’t decided.

She lowered the paper. ‘Actually I’m only doing this because I’m a personal friend of Gaia.’

‘No shit?’ he said.

She smiled back proudly. ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’

‘You think so?’

‘She can do no wrong!’

‘You think so? Jesus!’

‘Well, from what I’ve read about this film, the script is crap, but she will make it something special.’

‘Crap? Lady, did you say the script is crap?’

‘Whoever wrote it has no idea at all about the truth between George and Maria. But that’s Hollywood, right?’

‘I don’t like your tone.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Fuck you, too,’ he said, glaring at her. He wanted to tell her he wrote it, that his version of events was correct, regardless of what abomination those assholes at Brooker Brody had made it into. Instead he turned away. Fighting to bring his anger back under control.

They stood in silence for the next ninety minutes. Finally it was his turn to sign on. He gave his name as Jerry Baxter. He was given a copy of the production shooting schedule and the Monday call sheet, and was then sent through to the upstairs room for male costume fitting. As he left, the fresh-faced young woman behind the desk smiled up at the next in line. ‘Your name, please?’

‘Anna Galicia,’ she said.

‘Do you have any acting experience?’ the woman asked her.

‘Actually, I’m a personal friend of Gaia.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘You should have asked her to contact us – save you queuing.’

‘Oh, I would hate to bother her while she’s rehearsing. She likes to get into the zone before acting.’

‘I’ve heard that.’

‘She does, it’s true.’

Anna Galicia signed the release form, and entered the details requested from her. She was given the production schedule, a call sheet for Monday, and was then directed through to the female costume room.

It was full of fat women, slim women, young women, middle-aged women, squeezing into ridiculous costumes and ornate wigs. They were there for the money, the sixty-five pounds a day. They were there for vanity. For fun.

None of them was there for the same reason as herself.

None of the others was there because Gaia had personally asked them to be there, like she had asked her. To make amends for her behaviour at The Grand. She had been stressed out with jet lag. She was deeply sorry for her behaviour.

Anna was big-hearted. She knew how to forgive.

She’d forgiven her.