Patsy carefully wrote in ‘Mr Snellor’, his first name completely eluding her. Then she sashayed over to his table, in a manner calculated to alert the attention of every susceptible male in the room. As indeed it did. Well satisfied with her entrance, Patsy seated herself and crossed her legs provocatively, exhibiting a considerable amount of thigh. Snellor was suitably impressed and mentally congratulated himself on persuading Trevor that Patsy Hall was the business.
‘Did Phil ring you?’ enquired Snellor, after he’d ordered a Martini and lemonade for Patsy at her request. She was so excited, she’d completely forgotten she had a big scene with Bella in the afternoon and alcohol was not conducive to concentration in a stressful situation in the studio. Patsy’s mind was apt to wander at the best of times.
‘Oh yes, thanks,’ she said eagerly. ‘He wants to do pictures of me relaxing at home.’ She had been delighted with Phil’s phone call, which had been fulsome to say the least. Phil had been well primed by Snellor.
‘So how are you enjoying the series, Patsy?’
‘It’s lovely. I get to wear some really great clothes, and I love working with famous people like Bella and Geoff.’ Patsy had wit enough to realize that it would be wise to keep on the right side of Bella, especially in print.
‘Good, good,’ said Snellor. ‘Got any romance going in your life at the moment?’ He tried to twinkle at her, but it manifested itself as a leer.
Patsy giggled coyly and pretended to blush. ‘Ooh no, I’m a career girl, Mr Snellor. I don’t have time for romance.’
‘Tony, please,’ said Tony Snellor, with as much charm as he could muster. ‘I find that difficult to believe, a stunning-looking girl like you – all the other ladies in the cast must have been furious when you joined the series.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Patsy, overcome.
‘Of course. What did Bella have to say?’
Patsy giggled again. ‘You’d have to ask her. She’s usually up here,’ she added looking around the room. ‘She likes a drink or three.’
‘Does she?’ Tony Snellor took out his miniature tape recorder, placed it on the table between them and switched it on. Patsy turned back, disappointed that there was no sign of Bella. Snellor took a large swig of vodka. ‘Tell me, Patsy, how do you get on with other members of the cast?’
Patsy pondered this for some time. She was longing to air her grievances to someone, and maybe if she said she was unhappy in public they would realize and be nicer to her.
‘I wish they were nicer to me,’ she whispered.
Snellor sat up. ‘I can’t believe they’re nasty to you,’ he said hopefully.
‘They are sometimes. Well, not nasty, exactly. Perhaps they’re just jealous, like you said.’
‘I’m sure I’m right,’ said Snellor. ‘I bet you have trouble with that Bella, don’t you? I mean, she must be worried by a younger, beautiful rival, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Patsy, nodding her head sagely.
‘You know, Patsy, I could do you a bit of good here,’ said Snellor, looking at her with interest. He’d just had one of his brainwaves. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they were humdingers. ‘I’ve been watching this series and, I must say, since you’ve come into it, it’s perked up no end. I think you’ve got what it takes. But producers aren’t always so quick off the mark. But if an artist is seen to be getting a lot of publicity, that means something to them. The ratings go up and they start to build up that artist’s part. Soon she’s taken over and become the star of the series. Do you follow me?’ Snellor glanced at Patsy. Had he gone too far? No. She was gazing at him with shining eyes. He pressed home his point. ‘What I’m saying here, Pat, is, you give me the stories and I’ll guarantee to give you the publicity. It needn’t be too obvious. Just little snippets about what’s happening behind the cameras from time to time. We angle it to include a nice big picture of you. We might even put you on the cover of the colour supplement on Sunday if you come up with the right story. What do you say?’
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea, Tony!’
Full of trepidation, Claire started to get ready for her visit to the studio. It was the day of her make-up test and she was apprehensive to say the least. Her previous encounters with make-up artists had not been happy. She had only done a couple of small parts in television, and had not had the nerve to stand up for what she wanted.
‘After all, Sal,’ she had complained to her friend after an earlier disaster, ‘I know my face better than anyone else. I know what suits me. I know how to make the best of my features. I mean, I realize I’m no beauty …’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re gorgeous! Everyone knows that. You’ve just got to be firm; you’re too nice, that’s your trouble. Diana Barry throws brushes and things around if she doesn’t get what she wants.’
Claire looked appalled. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, it’s just not professional,’ she said primly.
‘Well then, you’ll just have to go on looking like the back of a number nine bus.’
‘I know, I know. I just don’t know how to handle those make-up girls. They’re all harridans,’ said Claire feelingly.
‘They’re just bullies,’ retorted Sally, ‘and like all bullies, if you stand up to them, they’ll crumble.’
‘I know you’re right, I just don’t have the guts,’ Claire had replied miserably.
That was a couple of years ago, however. She had the guts now, she was tougher now – Roger had at least done that for her. She was determined not to be bullied this time into having a face that was, in her opinion, totally characterless – no eyes nor cheekbones, just lips and eyebrows. She had looked dreadful. It had destroyed her confidence and she had cried bitterly afterwards. When she had seen herself on the television, she had been enraged. Never again, she thought savagely. This was the biggest break of her career and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of her success. She drove to the studio, nervous but determined to win. The more she thought of her previous humiliations, the more furious and the more resolute she became. She was determined to win the forthcoming battle. For battle there would surely be, she felt certain. By the time she arrived at the studio gates, she was trembling, whether from fear or anger she wasn’t sure, but she managed a tremulous smile for the official residing on the gate.
‘I am here for a make-up test for The McMasters,’ she said, suddenly feeling a sense of belonging to something rather special.
He seemed delighted and allowed her to park in the area in the middle right outside the main building, an honour usually the preserve of the top brass of South Eastern Television. Even famous stars had been known to have been turned away from this car park. The gate attendant’s power was absolute. Every visiting actor was at the mercy of his whims and moods. This unexpected favour put Claire in a buoyant mood. She parked and strode confidently into the building. There were several women officiating in the vast reception area. She approached one and was steadfastly ignored. As she turned to another, a phone rang and the receptionist picked it up and became engaged in an animated discussion. Claire addressed a third.
‘My name is Claire Jenner. I am in The McMasters and I am here for a make-up session. Where do I go?’
‘Red assembly – lower ground,’ said the woman, without looking up. She seemed unimpressed, if not disinterested, by Claire’s announcement.
‘Thank you,’ said Claire politely. She made her way to the escalator that went down to the basement, glancing as she went at the huge colour photographs that were arranged around the