Chapter 17 #2
Violet stared at him as he and Tim chatted about hiking, wild swimming, and the best places for a Sunday roast in the Lake District.
Strolling back to the green room, Violet was carrying a coffee for herself and a herbal tea for Jennifer, just in case.
‘How do you know so much about people?’ she asked.
Finn grinned. ‘I’m nosey.’
‘I’m serious,’ Violet said.
‘So am I.’ He laughed. ‘It’s part of why I enjoy acting, I suppose. I’m genuinely curious about people. I ask questions. Most people appreciate the interest and are happy to chat.’
Violet nodded and sipped her coffee as they arrived back at the green room. Stepping inside, she held out the tea to Jennifer, who took it happily.
‘Any word on Cynthia?’ Jennifer asked, inhaling the steam from the tea.
‘Nearly ready, I believe,’ Violet said smoothly.
She hoped that was, in fact, the case.
Jennifer sighed and shook her head. ‘Sure you won’t read this through with us? It would be a great help. And would relieve the boredom while we wait.’
Feeling, as ever, an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for her mother’s actions, Violet caved.
‘Okay. Once through.’
Finn caught her eye and opened his mouth, but Violet gave a tiny shake of the head. She appreciated his support, but she didn’t want to make a big deal of this. It was a few lines. She could do that.
Ten minutes later, they had run the scene twice. Violet could see why Jennifer wanted to do it. She had a couple of longer pieces that were harder to deliver.
‘Once more?’ Jennifer asked, as Violet tried again to hand back the sides. ‘Third time’s a charm.’
A smile spread across her face, lighting up her bright blue eyes. She was hard to say no to.
‘Okay, but this really is the last time,’ Violet stressed.
Jennifer smiled and handed back the pages before giving her opening line.
Two minutes later, Violet was in the middle of Edith’s bitter rant about how if Beatrice didn’t help her, she would expose the relationship between her and Nathanial, when the canopy of the easy-up was drawn back, and Cynthia stood in the entrance.
Violet’s stomach dropped. She had turned the volume down slightly on her radio and had missed the announcement that Cynthia was on route. It must have been drowned out during one of Beatrice’s more strident speeches.
‘Well, well,’ her mother said, swishing her skirts as she stepped inside. She gave a humourless laugh. ‘How quickly I am replaced.’ Her mouth was pushed into a smile, but her eyes were narrowed. ‘I am briefly held up by a family emergency and arrive to find that—’
‘Cynthia!’ Finn interrupted, standing and reaching to take her hands. ‘How lovely to see you! That dress is… You look radiant. Easy to see why Beatrice’s father would want to rush Edith towards marriage!’
Grateful for Finn stepping in and redirecting Cynthia’s attention, Violet wasn’t at all thrown by the reference to the family emergency.
It was Cynthia’s standard line when explaining away her lateness or absence.
Most people didn’t pry into the vague statement out of politeness and deference.
They might tentatively ask if everything was okay now, in response to which Cynthia would look pained and reply, ‘I hope so. I really do,’ which had the desired effect of shutting down any further questions.
Reaching around, Violet slid the pages onto the little side table before slipping silently out of the easy-up. She took a deep breath, turned up her radio volume and checked in with Rachael.
***
By lunch time, the mood on set had thawed.
Cynthia might be a diva, but she was a rare talent, hitting her marks and lines superbly every time.
The early morning grumbles from the crew had shifted to admiration for her, and they had made up time, too, so overtime was no longer looming over everyone.
Violet was used to people gushing over her mother.
The novelty on this occasion was that this delight had now infringed on her own place of work.
She tore a hunk off a flapjack from craft and watched from the sidelines.
Finn was friendly with her mother, but she could sense him keeping a distance.
Cynthia tended to drape herself over people, and she was fawning over Finn, constantly touching his arm, straightening his jacket, rubbing his shoulder, and leaning in to whisper things to him.
Finn went along as much as was necessary to be polite, but he didn’t encourage or reciprocate.
He was a good sport, she thought, picking at the gooiest bits of the flapjack, watching as Finn shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
The muscles in his forearms flexed as he practised grabbing Jennifer—Beatrice—around the waist and pulling her into him.
Mesmerised, Violet lifted a piece of flapjack to her mouth but missed.
‘Rachael for Violet,’ crackled in her ear.
Violet jumped, fumbled for her radio cord and dropped the rest of the flapjack in the grass.
‘Go for Violet.’
‘Can you take a couple of bottles of water, a jasmine tea and a black coffee to the green room, please?’
‘Copy that, sorting that now.’
Violet glanced back towards Finn, but there was no sign of him, just a huddle of crew resetting for another take.
Arriving at the green room a few minutes later with an armful of drinks, Violet ducked inside to find Cynthia sitting on her own. Ah, well, this was bound to have happened at some point.
‘Hello, Cynthia,’ she said.
‘Oh, Violet, lovely. I think the jasmine is for me.’ Her mother reached for the tea. ‘You know I have to keep hydrated.’
Violet nodded and arranged the coffee and water on the table, scooping up some of the empties.
‘So?’ Cynthia said, blowing on her tea. ‘Is this new job everything you hoped for? Edward said you had a fungal nail infection recently from getting wet feet.’
‘Cynthia!’ Violet hissed, listening carefully for the sound of anyone approaching.
‘What?’ Cynthia looked innocent. ‘I can’t ask after your well-being?’
‘I told dad that I thought I might have, but it was fine. I bashed my toe, and the nail went a bit weird, that’s all.’
Cynthia curled her lip, looking disgusted rather than concerned.
‘Well, good luck with it all, I say. Far be it from me to interfere.’ She pouted as she dunked her tea bag in and out.
‘Though I must say, I don’t know why you felt the need to walk away from a perfectly respectable career in theatre to be a trainee.
I mean, aren’t you one rung above a skivvy in this job?
Fetching and carrying and taking orders. ’
Cynthia shuddered.
Violet clenched her hands into fists.
‘I was unhappy as a stage manager, Cynthia. I needed a change, and I thought about this for ages before doing it. And this is hardly a long-term situation. I’ll work my way up.’
‘Yes, but this sort of job is meant to be for the young ones starting out, isn’t it?’
‘Anything else?’ Violet said tightly.
‘No, thank you, dear. Don’t forget to call Edward on Sunday evening to check in. He likes to hear from you.’
Violet yanked back the fabric opening and stepped out.
She felt as she often did after speaking with her mother—angry and small.
Swaying slightly with her back to the easy-up, she took a long, slow breath in through her nose and blew it slowly out through her mouth.
She would file that little exchange away in the lock box in her mind, along with all the other little nuggets from conversations with Cynthia over the years, only to be unlocked and examined once she could afford therapy.
The day was nearly over, with less than two hours of shooting left.
There was a change in location for the final scene of the day.
A final showdown between Edith and Beatrice, when Edith calls her bluff and says she will expose her relationship with Nathanial immediately if Beatrice doesn’t agree to help her trick her father, Lord Hawarden, into marrying her.
A chill had descended, very in-keeping with the tone of the scene and Violet, watching from the periphery, pulled her scarf more tightly around her.
Careful lighting gently illuminated the twilight tryst in the woods.
The battle of words between the women was magnificent, before Nathanial came upon them and pulled Beatrice into his arms and away from Edith.
They ran the scene three times. Each time, the actors found something else to bring to the scene.
Violet shivered as the light faded and the crew around her, tired and hungry, fidgeted in place.
It was two minutes to six pm, the time they were due to wrap.
The director and the producer huddled around the screens, reviewing the footage.
The crew waited, cold and quiet, for their instructions.
The director consulted with the 1st AD, both checking watches.
A moment later, ‘That’s a wrap,’ came over the radio.
The faintest cheer rippled around the company, and the crew jumped to life, energised by the prospect of warm showers, hot food and cold beers. Anna, who was running point for the locations team, turned on the working lights so everyone could see to pack up.
Violet, lurking near the easy-ups, pitched in and started folding cast chairs and collecting discarded sides and empty coffee cups.
A few metres away, Cynthia, surrounded by the director and two producers, was loudly issuing dinner instructions.
‘You must join me for dinner,’ she was saying, as they nodded in agreement.
Violet knew she wouldn’t be included in such an invitation, even if her mother wasn’t being discreet about their familial connection, as she would put it.
Even though she was used to it, there was a dullness inside her that got a little heavier every time something like this happened.
She stooped to pick up a set of sides with a muddy boot print stamped across them.
‘Jennifer, you too,’ Cynthia was cooing. Jennifer smiled her acceptance as Violet reached for a trampled water bottle. ‘And Finn, dinner tonight.’
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
That stung. Cynthia wouldn’t know that she and Finn were at college together, would never have registered any issue with him back in college, or now.
Her mother and Finn at dinner together. Violet’s stomach was churning.
Her fingers trembled as she tried to hold on to the collection of folding chairs, cups and crumpled sides.
‘Thank you, Cynthia, for the kind invitation,’ Finn said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t. Have a lovely evening though, it’s been wonderful to work with you!’
Violet, lurking in earshot and pretending to scour the area for any forgotten items, felt a jolt of relief.
Cynthia, unused to being refused, placed a hand on his arm.
‘Finn dear, I insist. It will give us a chance to talk about other projects. I’m a producer, you know, on an upcoming wartime drama that’s about to start casting.’
Finn hesitated. Violet could see it. She swallowed.
She really couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t turn down a dinner invitation with an influential group of people like that.
It was a great networking opportunity. She picked up a radio that someone had forgotten and shoved it into her pocket.
Refusing dinner was hardly part of Finn’s promise to her.
Part of a job like this was the opportunity to build the relationships that would lead to the next role, and the one after that.
It would hurt to think of her mother and Finn drinking wine and chatting away the evening, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—hold that against him.
With feet like lead, she turned and started back to unit base.
‘Thank you,’ she heard Finn say. ‘But I must decline your kind invitation.’
His tone was firm and precise.
Violet, three folding chairs stacked on her arm, a tower of empty cups in her other hand, turned and watched from a few yards away, half hidden by flight cases and boxes, as Finn strolled off, leaving Cynthia, Jennifer, the director and producers behind him.
He passed within a few feet of her as he went, flashing her a smile.
‘Goodnight, Violet. Sleep well.’
‘Uh, ’night, Finn. You too…’