Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bets’ alarm blared into life and she fumbled for her phone, switching on the bedside lamp, dislodging the little French bulldog soft toy that she’d taken out of her suitcase as soon as she’d arrived.
She picked it up, gave it a kiss and contemplated snuggling back in the sheets, cuddling it to her chest.
Four o’clock. With a groan she forced herself to sit up.
She was due in make-up in half an hour. Apparently, breakfast was available on set.
Dragging herself out of bed, she gave a cursory glance around the room.
It was as depressing as it had been last night when she’d arrived in the dark.
She patted the little stuffed toy on its head.
‘Just you and me, mate,’ she said and left it on her pillow.
She shuffled across the cheap carpet through which she could feel the bowed floorboards.
At the double set of windows were badly hung sets of mismatched curtains, vying with each other to be the ugliest shade of ugly and clashing horribly with the rose-pink candlewick bedspread that smelled of moth-eaten jumpers.
The en-suite bathroom was so small you’d have a hard time swinging a hamster in there, let alone a cat, and, as she’d discovered last night, it also had the world’s dribbliest shower at one end of an antique (and that was being polite) bath.
She suspected the last time the two rooms had been decorated was probably before she was born.
Things, she told herself firmly, could be far worse, but it was hard to dislodge the small boulder of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
‘Come on. Onwards and upwards.’ She glanced down at her phone to reread Jenny’s texted instructions as to how to get to the set this morning, and then over at the printed schedule, which she’d found on her bed when she arrived yesterday.
It was a work of organisational art, detailing who and where everyone should be each day, although Bets quickly learned this changed on an hourly basis.
The short walk from the pub – thankfully downstairs the decor was much nicer – led her into a very dusty farmyard, scattered with straw along with a snaking mass of electrical cables and dozens of people.
Bewildered by the crowd, she stood for a moment gnawing her lip, wondering where to go.
A young man skipped over – he really did skip as well.
‘Hello, can I help you?
‘Yes, I’m Bets Fowler, I’m playing Lynda Jane, the vet nurse.’
‘Oh, you’re Lynda,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you. First day on set?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, casting a nervous glance around.
‘Don’t you worry, lovie. We’ll look after you.
’ He patted her arm with easy familiarity.
‘I’m Johnny, the runner. General dogsbody but,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I know everything.’ He gave her an outrageously camp wink.
‘First off, most important thing. The catering van. Over there. Bacon butties to die for. Tea. Coffee. They’ll sort you out.
’ He looked down at his clipboard. ‘Grab yourself something. And then into make-up. That trailer over there.’ And with that he whisked away.
‘You had me at bacon butties,’ she murmured to herself and crossed the farmyard, avoiding a small crew of men setting up a couple of arc lights.
‘Hi, I’ve been told you have bacon butties to die for,’ she said, standing at the counter of the little customised VW van.
‘We certainly do, love,’ said the man serving, in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘And tea? Coffee?’
‘Oh, I’d love a cup of tea.’ Bets hadn’t had anything since the train last night and was gasping.
‘Coming right up. Morning, Freda, your usual?’
Bets stepped aside for the newcomer as the man whirled around the tiny space, seemingly multitasking with octopus-like ability.
‘There you go,’ he said, handing her a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘Give us a mo and I’ll pour you a brew.’ The roll was so delicious she’d eaten most of it by the time he’d boiled the kettle and made her a steaming cuppa.
Clutching her cup of tea and the rest of her sandwich she walked over to the make-up trailer and paused outside, wondering if she should knock. Luckily the door opened and a petite blonde woman with 1960s rolls in her hair came out.
‘Morning,’ said Bets.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, hello, morning,’ she said, opening her mouth with an enormous yawn, and walked away.
‘Hi, come on in,’ said a woman in jeans and a baggy T-shirt. ‘Who are you? I don’t remember anyone new on the list.’
‘I’m Bets Fowler,’ said Bets a little unnerved by her directness.
‘No one by that name on my list.’ She tutted. ‘You’re not an extra, are you? They’re in the village hall.’
‘I play the veterinary nurse.’
‘Oh! Lynda Jane. You should have said. Minor part.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bets.
‘Well, sit down. I haven’t got all day. Although—’ She glanced down at a clipboard on the side, before saying dismissively, ‘You’re not needed much.’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Bets, feeling well and truly put in her place.
The woman worked quickly and efficiently, if a little roughly, backcombing and spraying Bets’ hair into an enormous bouffant beehive before placing a bright red Alice band around the crown to hold everything in place. Bets stared at herself in the mirror and fidgeted in her seat.
‘Can you sit still?’
‘Sorry.’
Now she was terrified to move, and of course her nose began to itch but she didn’t dare touch it while the make-up artist streaked a light foundation on her face, a shade paler than her normal skin colour.
She studied herself in the mirror, uncomfortably aware of every second passing, feeling more out of place than she ever had.
Was this a terrible mistake? By the time her make-up was done, with redder lipstick than she’d ever worn in her life, and dramatic, dark cat’s eye flicks at each eye, she barely recognised herself.
‘Right, done.’ Then the woman frowned. ‘For— sake! You’re not in costume.’
‘N-no,’ stammered Bets.
‘God, don’t you know anything?’ She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. ‘They’d better put you in a button-up cardigan otherwise it’ll ruin your hair.’
Bets stood up, too flustered to say thank you. ‘Where’s wardrobe?’
The woman tutted and yanked open the door. ‘Over there,’ she said and almost shoved Bets out of the trailer.
As Bets left, she heard the woman mutter, ‘God spare us from freakin’ amateurs.’
A pang of utter homesickness overwhelmed her and she wished that she were back in the vet’s practice surrounded by people who loved her, in a place where knowing what to do was second nature.
It was tempting to turn tail and walk back up the lane to her dingy pub room, pack her bags and go home.
But then she thought of everyone in the village, so proud of and excited for her.
Audrey, who’d helped sort out the contract, Doris, who was looking after her plants, Greta, who’d thrown her an impromptu leaving party in the pub, and Jack …
Jack, who had wished her luck and given her the little Beanie Baby, Frenchie.
They were all rooting for her. She couldn’t let them down by being a big baby on her first day.
Thankfully, the wardrobe ladies were a little friendlier, although they were very busy trying to sort out a dozen extras who were required for a crowd scene.
Finally, Bets was dressed and ready to go. She wore a beige cardigan and a very unflattering tweed skirt along with excessively sensible brown shoes, which seemed at odds with her make-up, but what did she know? As soon as she left wardrobe, she bumped into Jenny.
‘There you are.’ She squinted at Bets’ face.
‘Yes,’ said Bets hesitantly.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Jenny quickly. ‘I’ll get you onto set. You know your lines.’
‘Yes,’ said Bets, panicking slightly. Lines? As far as she could remember she didn’t have any lines. All she had to say was, ‘Yes, Mr Blake.’ Had she missed something?
She followed Jenny to meet the director, Ronnie, again, and was introduced to Jeremy Quentin who was playing Mr Blake, her boss, and was pacing up and down and muttering under his breath.
‘Hi,’ she said, her mouth so dry she could hardly get the word out.
He simply glared at her and went back to muttering.
Bets wished a large hole would open up in the ground and swallow her right then. This was awful.
The director glanced up and then did a double take. ‘No! No! No! She’s a sweet nurse, not a flaming lady of the night. Go back to make-up. Get rid of the lipstick and the eyes. Change the band to a pastel one and comb down that hair.’
Now Bets really did want to curl up and die. Her bottom lip actually quivered and she had to clamp it between her teeth. She was not going to cry.
‘I’ll take you,’ said Jenny, grabbing her arm quickly and steering her back to the make-up trailer.
‘We need to be quick.’ As soon as they were out of earshot of Ronnie and Jeremy, her voice softened.
‘Sorry, every minute on set counts. It all costs money. My fault, I should have noticed. My brain is zipping about all over the place. I don’t know what Aimee was thinking, she had the brief. ’
Close to tears, Bets didn’t say a word as she was hustled back to where she’d come from.
‘You again,’ said the young woman, turning her mouth down in displeasure at the sight of Bets.
‘Ronnie wants a ponytail and a wholesome look. Didn’t Stacey tell you that?’ The walkie-talkie on Jenny’s hip crackled into life.
The woman pulled a face. ‘I’m not clairvoyant.’
‘I’ve got to go. Come back as soon as you’re done,’ said Jenny to Bets, looking at her watch. ‘We’re already behind schedule. We need to get everything in the can before the rain starts later this morning.’ She disappeared, leaving Bets with Morticia, as she’d named her.
‘And you should have said something.’ She spoke to Bets’ reflection in the mirror. ‘If you were a professional, you’d have worked on your character before now and known what they’re supposed to look like.’
The words stung and reinforced Bets’ already heightened sense of inferiority, reminding her that she was an imposter and that she shouldn’t really be here.
Without a defence, Bets kept her mouth shut. She was scared of saying anything else wrong and earning more scorn. Instead she lifted her chin as Morticia set to work cleaning off the heavy make-up with none too gentle a hand.
Halfway through the brisk strokes, which felt as if they were being applied with a Brillo pad, Bets held up a hand. She might be ignorant, which wasn’t her fault, and way out of her depth, but she wasn’t about to be bullied.
‘Let me do it,’ she said and put out her palm.
A cotton pad and bottle were slapped into it and Morticia’s mouth flattened into a disgruntled line. ‘Be quick.’
Welcome to TV, thought Bets, wondering if the day could get any worse and whether the bacon buttie that was currently dancing in her stomach was going to make a reappearance any minute.