Score!

26

Away from home for so long, people started to lose their moorings, groups formed and re-formed, cabals sprang up, feuds and jealousies flourished, as husbands, lovers, children were — sometimes gladly — forgotten. Poor Rozzy Pringle, working flat out in both Wardrobe and Make Up and sending most of her wages home, couldn’t forget Glyn, her horrible husband, however, because he was always ringing up to bombard her with complaints and demands.

‘When he’s ratty,’ sighed Rozzy, ‘I can never tell if he’s been dumped by one of his girlfriends or his business is in trouble again.’

‘No work and all play makes Glyn a kept boy,’ observed Meredith disapprovingly.

Everyone loved Rozzy, who seemed to love everyone, even the lascivious Mr Brimscombe, who spent hours discussing plants with her and even gave her access to his tool-shed. Lucy had filled a window-box outside her caravan with love-in-a-mist. Rozzy remembered to water it, and took James for walks when Lucy was too busy.

Rozzy loved everyone, but most of all she adored Tristan for his kindness when her voice gave out. She was always shoving buttered croissants and big cups of café au lait into his hands. Lucy had to curb tinges of irritation — after all, Rozzy fussed over her too. Wardrobe had its own Bendix to wash costumes. Rozzy put in Lucy’s clothes and occasionally dragged Tristan’s favourite peacock-blue shirt off him when he became too obsessed with work to change it. As Cheryl had become extremely bolshie, Alpheus crinkled his eyes in the hope of getting his washing done too, but drew a blank.

Mobbing up Bernard was a favourite location pastime, but Rozzy stuck up for him too. Bernard had insisted on his own little office, facing south between Wardrobe and the smoke-filled ant hill of the production office. Here, he could work out tomorrow’s movement order in peace and complete the Figaro crossword, which was faxed over to him every morning. On the door was a notice saying: ‘First Assistant Director. Please Knock.’

So Baby knocked when he went past.

‘Come in. What can I do for you?’ asked Bernard.

‘Nothing at all. It says, “Please Knock”, so I did.’

Bernard was apoplectic, particularly when Baby did it each time he went past, and the habit caught on with everyone else.

They were all giggling about it in the canteen one lunchtime when Rozzy lost her temper.

‘Bernard’s a darling,’ she shouted at them. ‘You only dislike him because he’s good at shutting up chatterboxes.’ She glared at Baby and Granny. ‘And he refuses to reschedule because someone’, she glanced reproachfully across at Chloe, ‘wants to buzz off and sing Carmen in Paris.’

‘Who wrecked their voice in January singing all over Europe?’ snapped Chloe. ‘I suppose you and Bernard have the screaming hots for Tristan de Montigny in common.’

‘Parlez pour votre self,’ drawled Baby.

Then Chloe went as crimson as her lipstick because Bernard was standing in the doorway. The dreadful silence was only interrupted by the clatter and chatter of the canteen staff washing up. But Bernard was oblivious of Chloe. Crossing the room, he kissed Rozzy’s hand.

‘Thank you, Madame Pringle. May I buy you a drink?’

With fractionally warmer weather filming moved outside to Rannaldini’s garden, which had reached a pitch of late spring perfection. Tristan decided to kick off with a returning Mikhail singing a beautiful aria to Hermione. Alas, Mikhail’s English had been so incomprehensible, the taxi driver picking him up at Heathrow took him to Rugby rather than Rutminster. Mikhail rang in in tears, saying he couldn’t reach Valhalla before early evening.

Reluctant to waste Hermione, who’d already spent three hours in Make Up bullying Lucy, Tristan decided to shoot a later scene in which Philip finds Elisabetta unattended, and sacks her favourite lady-in-waiting, the Countess of Aremburg. This was the non-singing part in which he had cast Rozzy, which would at least get her name on the credits. Rozzy was only required to burst into tears, but she was dreadfully nervous even of this piece of mime, particularly as Rannaldini had just returned from Tokyo and was scowling from a new chair with ‘Executive Producer’ printed on the back.

Being called at such short notice, Rozzy had had no time to wash her hair — which Lucy was able to hide under a very pretty, short, curly wig — or to remove a few hairs from her chin and upper lip.

‘Some Immac will take them off in a trice,’ said Lucy soothingly.

‘We haven’t got time,’ quavered Rozzy.

‘Course we have.’

‘Lucy,’ screamed Hermione.

‘Don’t leave your old bags unattended,’ quipped Meredith, as Lucy belted off to Hermione’s caravan.

‘I’ve nicked a toenail,’ moaned Hermione, ‘and it’s sticking into my big toe. Have you got a plaster?’

‘Only to put over your mouth,’ muttered Lucy.

‘Are you nearly ready, Luce?’ Wolfie appeared at the door. ‘My father’s about to boil over.’

As a result Lucy only had time to put a bit of slap on Rozzy and pray that the dark base would hide any hairs, before Sylvestre arrived to mike her up.

Alas, poor Rozzy, struck down by nerves, fled to the honeywagon, from which, because naughty Sylvestre had not switched off the mike, the whole crew could hear the sound of Mount Etna erupting.

‘Mrs Pringle’s got the runs,’ giggled Pushy Galore.

‘Pity she’s not playing for England,’ sighed Ogborne. ‘They’re fifty-two for four.’

Even Bernard was smiling. Everyone, however, managed to compose their faces as Rozzy arrived on the set, except Hermione who, with merry laughter, proceeded to explain the joke.

‘That’s enough, Hermione,’ snapped Bernard, seeing Rozzy going crimson. ‘Rozzy looks beautiful, and the hair is very nice.’

‘That style makes you look years younger,’ conceded Hermione, ‘but you’re a little too red in the face.’

‘Probably a hot flush,’ sighed Rozzy.

‘Oh, no, dear, you’re well past that.’

‘Let’s go for a quick rehearsal.’ Tristan came off his mobile to Aunt Hortense. ‘Rozzy, you look wonderful.’

‘He could make a warthog feel like Helen of Troy,’ grumbled Pushy.

I’m Elisabetta’s lady-in-waiting, I ought to be playing the Countess, she thought furiously as, with the rest of the ladies of the chorus, she bobbed around in front of a hedge of white roses trying to get into shot.

‘“Countess,”’ sang Alpheus sternly, ‘“at daybreak you will return to France.”’

‘Burst into tears, Rozzy,’ shouted Tristan.

Rozzy’s only problem would have been holding them back any longer. Particularly when Hermione repeatedly stroked her face as she mimed her consoling aria and, between takes, loudly advised Rozzy to invest in some decent electrolysis.

‘It’s well worth it at your age.’

Tears of such humiliation had gushed out of Rozzy’s eyes that Tristan was genuinely able to congratulate her on a wonderfully convincing performance, which didn’t cheer Rozzy up one bit.

Happily, Hermione’s comeuppance was in train. Oscar, who was not the most famous director of photography in the world for nothing, had decided to avenge both Chloe and Rozzy.

That evening, as everyone poured into the viewing room to watch the rushes, all that could be heard was Hermione’s agitated squawking. Having lit her from beneath in her nude scene with Alpheus, Oscar had made her bottom look enormous.

‘The great globe itself,’ said Granny, in a sepulchral whisper.

‘You should have reduced it with a darker base, Lucy,’ giggled Meredith.

‘Any moment, David Attenborough will pop up and lecture us sotto voce on the mating habits of the hippopotamus,’ cried Baby, in ecstasy.

Shouts of ‘My bottom is not that big, my bottom is not that big,’ were drowned by cheers, particularly from Chloe, who gave Oscar a big kiss.

‘What are you doing after this?’ she murmured. ‘I owe you.’

Tristan laughed, but was cross with Oscar because they ought to reshoot. He was overruled by Sexton and Rannaldini, who both liked big bums and small budgets.

‘Do you know the meaning of the word “callipygean”?’ asked Sexton cosily, as he tried to bear Hermione away for a consoling drink.

Hermione shrugged him off. She wasn’t going to let such a common little man take advantage.

Alpheus had laughed as heartily as anyone over Dame Hermione’s humiliation, until Rannaldini sidled up to him.

‘May I be honest, Alpheus? You look in great shape in those nude shots.’ Alpheus preened. ‘But in future I think you should leave off the false nose. It looks a leetle grotesque.’

Later, on the terrace, oblivious of an exquisite coral sunset, Hermione and Alpheus could be seen berating a sleeping Tristan.

Sexton was not cast down by Hermione’s rejection. He had just come back from Cannes where, showing a ten-minute trailer of Chloe and Alpheus in the sack in order to sell more distribution rights, he’d had to massage even bigger egos than theirs. Now he retreated to the production office and continued four different deals on four different mobiles. ‘I may look calm,’ he was fond of telling people, ‘but I’m not.’

Poor Hype-along Cassidy was not feeling calm either. Controlling the publicity was a nightmare. Hermione, incensed that nothing about herself had appeared recently, was unaware that her sacked make-up girl had just dumped in News of the World: ‘How I Concealed Dame Hermione’s Turkey Neck, and How She Ate Technicians for Breakfast.’

Hype-along’s rise at dawn on Sunday mornings to empty the village shop of papers was becoming a common occurrence. He’d also had terrible trouble with Baby, who, when he’d taken him up for interviews in London, had fallen asleep over drinks with the Guardian, and on the way to lunch with Lynn Barber had jumped taxi to buy clothes in Jermyn Street and not been traced till the following day.

Saddest of all, Tristan, the person to whom everyone wanted to speak, was so violently anti-press he wouldn’t give interviews at all. Hype-along, however, was working towards a quiet lunch at the Old Bell with Valerie Grove of The Times.

‘I think Oscar and Chloe are an item,’ Griselda told everyone, as Chloe looked more and more magical in the rushes and Oscar slept even more during the day.

But Chloe was not out of the woods. Baby was watching porn on the Internet one afternoon when up popped a teenage Chloe, cavorting with a black girl and a goat.

‘Goodness,’ gasped Lucy, when Baby rushed in to tell her. ‘Was the goat female?’

‘I saw its udder shudder. In mitigation, it did appear to be having a good time.’

‘I do hope Rannaldini doesn’t know about it,’ shivered Lucy. ‘I’m sure he’d use it against her.’

Someone was pinching clothes from Wardrobe, especially ties. Griselda and Simone, whose continuity was being screwed up, went out to the Heavenly Host to drown their sorrows and asked Lucy to join them, which at least gave Lucy a chance to quiz Simone about Tristan.

‘What’s his auntie Hortense like?’

‘A battleaxe, who demand the whole time,’ sighed Simone. ‘And not at all motherly to Uncle Tristan. When she drop him as a baby in drawing room, she ring for maid to pick him up.’

Then Simone added slyly: ‘Valentin, Sylvestre and Ogborne wanted to crash dinner tonight, Lucy. They all fancy you, but they know you only ’ave eyes for Uncle Tristan.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ spluttered Lucy, sending her glass of red flying. ‘Of course I don’t.’ Then, as she frantically mopped up with her pink scarf, ‘I wouldn’t dream—’

‘Dream is perhaps the only thing you should do,’ said Simone gently. ‘I love my uncle Tristan but he is very damaged.’

Terrified by the ghostly sightings inside Valhalla, Lucy had taken to sleeping outside in her make-up caravan, which seemed less claustrophobic than those little cells and long, dark, spooky corridors. But returning from the Heavenly Host, as she scuttled past silent generators and empty dark-windowed Hair and Wardrobe departments, she wasn’t sure. It would be so easy for a ghost to leap out from behind an empty lorry. Even the moon and the stars had deserted her.

As she approached her caravan, still upset by what Simone had said about Tristan, she froze at the sound of pitiful, anguished sobbing. Oh, God, was it the ghost of Caroline Beddoes, mourning her lost love, the blacksmith?

‘You might at least try and look fierce,’ she hissed at James, who’d stopped in his tracks with his head on one side.

The sobbing grew more pitiful. Lucy’s Dutch courage evaporated.

‘Who’s there?’ she quavered, as she unlocked the caravan door, screaming as a grey shadowy figure loomed over her.

Then, as she fumbled for the light switch, she heard James’s bony tail whacking against the open door and Rozzy’s choked voice saying, ‘Don’t turn it on, I look so terrible, and I don’t want any of the others to know.’

‘Whatever’s the matter? Let me get you a drink.’

‘I don’t want one.’

Lucy did. As she fumbled her way to the fridge, Rozzy was racked by a fit of coughing. Then it all came tumbling out. She’d been to the doctor that evening to hear the result of some tests, and been told she’d got throat cancer.

‘Oh, Rozzy.’ Lucy collapsed on the bench seat opposite.

‘There are lots of things one can do,’ wept Rozzy. ‘Voice boxes, treatment, operations and things, but my career’s finished. I’ll never sing again. Even worse, we’re so broke, Lucy, and I’m all we’ve got to live on. I feel the prison doors clanging shut on a solvent future.’

Lucy was devastated.

‘You’ll be able to earn money as a PA. Everyone thinks you’re brilliant. You must get a second opinion. The Campbell-Blacks and Rannaldini have a brilliant private doctor, James Benson.’

‘I couldn’t possibly afford him.’

‘I can,’ said Lucy stoutly, as she took a bottle out of the fridge. ‘You’ve been so good to me.’

As soon as she’d poured Rozzy a drink, Lucy wrote her out a cheque for six hundred pounds. After all, she got paid at the end of the month.

Later, refusing all Lucy’s entreaties to sleep in the caravan, Rozzy insisted on dragging herself back to the cells.

‘I don’t want people suspecting anything.’

‘You must tell Glyn.’

‘I can’t.’ Rozzy started to cry again. ‘He’ll be so cross with me. Thank you, Lucy, for being such a friend.’

Lucy didn’t sleep all night, thinking of a ravishing voice that would sing no more, like a nightingale being strangled. She had been sworn to secrecy, but Tristan, seeing her red eyes next morning, wheedled the truth out of her and was equally horrified. Pretending he’d no idea that Rozzy was ill, he casually asked her out to dinner. Inevitably Rozzy asked Lucy to do her make-up.

‘I can’t let Tristan dine with an awful old hag.’

At the Old Bell, away from gossips, Tristan told Rozzy he’d been asked to direct Der Rosenkavalier at Glyndebourne. ‘Eef your voice is rested enough, I would like you to sing the Marschallin. It won’t be for two years.’

It was lucky they were sitting in a dark alcove so no-one could see Rozzy weeping again. Tristan knew she would never be able to take up the offer: she might be dead in two years, if, as Lucy suspected, she had secondaries elsewhere, but at least it would give her hope.

Next day Rozzy was beside herself. ‘I never dreamed Tristan thought that much of me,’ she kept saying to Lucy, who was bitterly ashamed to find herself feeling irritated.