Chapter 7 #2
Michael Holland’s smug face had haunted Pim more times than she cared to admit.
For years, even while abroad, she couldn’t flip through channels without stumbling upon him standing on some windswept mountaintop in Asia, salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled, staring earnestly into the camera, as if dispensing wisdom from on high.
To Pim, he was more than just an irritant – he was her nemesis.
He’d barely been interested in theatre when he seemingly destroyed her career, his lack of interest evident from his quick escape from the Arts and Culture section to what he clearly believed was more meaningful journalism.
And yet, his words had the power to dismantle everything Pim had built for herself.
Because of him, she had retreated from acting, abandoning a promising career despite her success in Wuthering Heights.
He’d been a critic for the Evening Standard during her last performance on the West End – a daring turn as Hedda Gabler at the Fortune Theatre.
His review had been nothing short of savage: ‘An actress whose ego could fill the auditorium, but whose performance leaves countless seats empty come the second act.’ It was a line that had branded itself into her memory.
She still carried that review, tucked inside an old powder case, even now, nearly twenty years later. It seemed unnecessarily cruel.
But, seeing Michael Holland in the flesh, I could tell that cruelty came relatively naturally to him, and that no one ever stood up to him.
He swallowed and nodded at the make-up artist who was so focused on finding the right utensil in her toolkit strapped around her waist that she hadn’t even realised there was tension in the room.
Michael pushed open the studio door, and a burst of noise spilled out – cameras shutting down, crew members resetting the stage.
‘… so wonderful! Thank you so much!’
‘No, my goodness, thank you!’ Pim was hugging the presenter, her smile taut, lips stretched like they were hooked by fishing lines – a clear sign she was done with pleasantries and in dire need of a glass of Merlot.
I held the door open, my heart pounding. Pim was finishing up her small talk when her eyes landed on Holland waiting in the wings. Immediately her expression faltered, her jaw tightened, the smile vanished with her interest in the presenter, who stuttered hopelessly before walking away dejected.
Michael’s posture relaxed, his smug smirk flashing across his aged but still interesting face as he folded his arms. ‘Well, well! Pim Hardcastle. I heard you were here, clinging to the same old glory.’
Pim fixed her expression, her eyes like ice. ‘Michael! Still trying to turn bitterness into a career, I see.’
He tilted his head, feigning pity. ‘I’m just heading into make-up. You should join me – Taylor could do wonders for those eye bags. Must be exhausting pretending you’re still relevant?’
A muscle twitched in Pim’s jaw as she prepared her serve in the insult tennis match the two of them had begun.
I was impressed by the speed with which both entered into it; no British apologies here, this was all-out warfare.
I was both exhilarated and terrified just witnessing it.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were relevant.
I thought you just narrated travelogues now.
Tell me, do you get a discount on all those beige trousers you typically wear on-screen? ’
Michael let out a mock laugh, taking a step closer. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand my documentaries. You were never one for substance.’
‘And yet here you are, still obsessed with me. Honestly, Michael, I’ve had stalkers with more originality.’ She patted his chest in the most patronising fashion. Game, set, and match.
Michael’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation breaking through his carefully maintained nonchalance. ‘Funny, I thought you’d retired from acting.’
Her eyes narrowed, but her voice remained steady. ‘I know you wished I would. Tell me, what was it that bothered you so much? Were you threatened? Frustrated? Or were you just upset that someone was actually watching me, unlike your programmes?’
Pim let out a slow breath, her shoulders dropping just a fraction, not in defeat but in genuine exhaustion. This was not a fight Pim was interested in carrying on. Her gaze softened as she looked at me. ‘Are we leaving?’
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat as Michael’s eyes flicked to me, his sneer returning. ‘You’ve got…’ I thought fast, unable to keep up with the two of them. ‘You’ve got another appointment.’
‘I do!’ Pim said vivaciously. ‘I’m terribly busy today.’
‘Michael!’
A sharp voice cut through the tension – it was the GQ-lookalike producer. ‘We’re ready for you on camera. What happened to your sleeve? Ivan! Michael needs a new shirt!’ He slapped his clipboard, already turning away.
Michael didn’t say a word, no witty retort, no cutting comeback. He just spun on his heel, face tight, and stalked off towards the wardrobe department.
Pim sagged against my shoulder, her smile collapsing the moment he was out of sight. ‘Michael Holland… what a grade-A arsehole.’
‘Pim!’ I hissed, glancing around. We were still within earshot of half a dozen producers and crew members.
The last thing we needed was for their spat to become public gossip.
It was bad enough that I’d snapped at him in the green room, there was no need to throw fuel on the fire. ‘You handled yourself very well.’
‘Well, thank you, darling.’ I couldn’t tell if her tone was mocking or genuine, but she did seem to smile. ‘He gets under my skin. Painful and unnecessary little man, he’s like Botox.’ Except she loved Botox.
I faked a laugh as my phone buzzed again. I glanced down at the screen. It was Megan’s reply to Josh’s message about the Great Christmas Pudding Race: ‘Fuck right off. Not going to happen.’
My laughter became authentic and Pim raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
I showed her the screen and, for the first time since Michael appeared, she smiled. ‘I don’t understand the context, but at least someone’s standing their ground today.’
For a split second, watching her like this – relaxed, amused, leaning into me like a friend instead of a celebrity demanding something – I felt a familiar tug of doubt and anxiety.
I was leaving her soon; these moments would disappear overnight and I would miss them, even if I wouldn’t miss the dramatics that often came with them.
Pim had been my boss and almost friend for eight years.
I knew everything about her. I was practically responsible for keeping her alive.
I was a combination of parent, child, therapist, employee, and friend.
Sitting there with her, on the same page for once, I couldn’t help wondering if I was walking away from something safe.
Or if that was precisely the reason to walk away?
I slipped my phone back into my pocket, pushing the doubts away.
‘Yeah. Let’s get out of here. I think you deserve a Merlot.’
‘A large one. With a straw.’ She yawned widely as we headed for the exit, leaving Michael Holland and his poisonous attitude behind.