her relief, she understood that he was finished with her. From the doorway he said, ‘Born in Stoke Newington, if that’s any of your fucking business. Now, keep your thieving hands off my stuff, all right?’
Roxana nodded. She would make every effort never again to come into contact with Mr Kemal, or any of his belongings, until such time as she could move out of this house for ever.
After he had gone she quietly closed the door and secured it from the inside. Then she sat down on the bed, her head bent and her hands loosely hanging between her knees. She could feel blood congealing on her shin and her arm throbbed, but she didn’t make the effort to examine her injuries. Once the initial shock and fear had subsided, what Roxana was left with was a feeling of dreary familiarity. Life had a way of repeating itself. To stop the cycle it wasn’t enough to be in a different place, even a different continent. You had to be a different person. You had to become a person like, say, the English boy. Noah. Big, and crumpled in a way that meant you were not worried about what anyone thought of you, always smiling, and completely certain that you had your rights and that justice was on your side. Roxana wasn’t so sure, after all, that she could make this much of a difference in herself.
Half an hour went by and someone tapped at the door. She ignored it for a while, then heard Dylan’s voice. It came out as a breathy hiss, which meant he must have his mouth pressed right up against the splintery panels.
‘Roxy, I know ye’re there.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘What in the name of feck were ye doin’ with Kemal’s bike?’
‘I borrowed it.’
‘What was it, a death-wish?’
‘Go away.’
‘Listen, all right. I’m just askin’ about the job.’
‘I got the job.’
He whistled. ‘Did you so? It’s good work, that. There’s good money in it. Easy work too, lap dancing. Waftin’ yerself around in front of a few boozed-up City boys.’ She heard his chuckle through the door.
‘Dylan, I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Yeah, right enough. See yer, Roxy.’
Dylan needed to make himself different too, she thought. He didn’t know it, though. That was the difference between the two of them.
‘That’s it, people. We’re all through. Good work. Thanks very much everyone.’
The first assistant scissored his arms in the air and Tara flopped back in her seat with a trill of satisfaction. The last shot for the third of the online-bank commercials was in the bag.
The middle-aged cellist in the string quartet gently put aside her instrument. Connie saw that there was sweat beaded around her hairline, and the bow-ties and starched shirts of the violin and viola players had gone shapeless in the humidity. She thanked them for their hours of work, playing the same few bars of music for the commercial over and over in the afternoon’s heat, and paid them their money. The violinist carefully counted it.
‘We should be thanking you,’ he said formally. He was German. ‘If there is any more work of the same type, please be kind enough to think of us.’
‘Of course I will,’ Connie said warmly as they all shook hands. She couldn’t imagine the likely circumstances, though.
She wasn’t sorry that the week to come would not be as ripe with crisis as the one that was just past. The main actress had barely recovered from her stomach upset, and her enfeebled state had led to rescheduling and hours of overage costs which Angela had had to negotiate with Tara. Relations had become strained.
Then the agency and client teams had both shown remarkable and competitive stamina when it came to after-hours partying. The mornings-after had been difficult. One of the Australian crew members had entertained a woman in his room and had been outraged to discover the next morning that his wallet, laptop and MP3 player had vanished with her into the night. Connie had been called on to act as go-between with the local police when the stolen property wasn’t instantly recovered.
‘What did he expect?’ Angela sighed to her in private. ‘Tarts with hearts of gold only exist in the movies, you’d think he’d know that.’
The musicians hurried with their instruments to the waiting bus. Their evening job was playing light classical pops in the main dining room of the most expensive hotel in Jimbaran, and they would have to go straight there from the set.
Still in his costume, the handsome actor’s stunt double strolled ahead of Connie as she made her way to the service tent. She absently admired the smooth, oiled breadth of his shoulders and the way his bare torso tapered to the waist of his breeches, and then laughed at herself. One of the riggers whistled at her as he hoisted a grip stand towards the waiting trucks. In the service tent itself the Balinese catering team were packing away chairs and folding down the tables. Angela was standing there with her knuckles tight around a cup of coffee. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week.
Probably, Connie reflected, she actually hadn’t.
‘Well done,’ Connie said to her.
Kadek Wuruk stuck his head into the tent. ‘Hello, Ibu,’ he beamed. ‘Kitchen closed, end of shooting, but you like drink maybe?’
‘Yes please, Kadek.’
‘Could you take a beer to Mr Ingram, too?’ Angela called after him. Rayner Ingram had been absorbed in his creative cocoon all week long, and had taken no note of the problems besetting the shoot. ‘He’s pretty exhausted. He’s done a great job, you know. The agency and the client are really pleased.’
‘Ange.’ Connie removed the cup from her hand and took her by the shoulders. ‘How are you? You look, if you don’t mind me saying, knackered.’
‘Oh. You know.’
For a moment, Connie thought her friend was going to cry. She told Kadek to take the drink to Rayner and led Angela outside.
The sun had slid behind the cliffs that they had used for the backdrop to the set and the rock was now a wall of darkness crowned with a halo of golden light that no lighting cameraman could ever have created. The first bat of the evening flitted overhead. Set-dressers were rolling up an artificial lawn, the cast were changing in the caravans. The self-important world of the shoot was folding up on itself, shrinking back into the waiting trucks and Toyotas. Tomorrow, when the cast and crew were on their planes home, the clearing would be deserted except for the birds and the bats.
‘Look at this,’ Angela sighed, as if she was seeing it for the first time. The trees were heavy with dusk.
‘Why don’t you stay on with me for a few days? Have a holiday. You’ve earned one.’
‘I’m fine,’ Angela said. She laughed. ‘Completely fine. I’ve got to start next week on pre-production for a yoghurt commercial. It’s really, really busy at the moment and that’s good, isn’t it? Can’t turn the work down while it’s there.’
‘Angie?’ It was Rayner Ingram’s voice. Her head turned at once.
‘Coming,’ she called. ‘Con, you’ll definitely be there tonight, won’t you?’
Tonight was the wrap party, traditionally hosted by the production company. Connie knew about last-night parties more by reputation than recent direct experience.
‘Yes. Course I will.’
‘See you later, then. You’ve been an absolute star all this week. I couldn’t have got through it without you.’
Left alone, Connie sat down on an upturned box. There were more bats now, dipping for insects against the blackness of the trees. She could almost feel the week’s edgy camaraderie being stripped away from her, rolled up like the fake turf and tossed into