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One Night Only
Sue Welfare
Funny, sharp and deeply poignant, One Night Only explore the pitfalls of fame, friendship and family secrets – perfect for fans of Katie Fforde and Catherine Alliott.A heart-warming read that looks at the paths not crossed – if you enjoyed This Is Your Life in its heyday you’ll adore this.Fame and fortune can’t hide the secrets of her past…When fading soap star, Helen Redford, goes back to her old home town to make a TV show about her glittering career she catches a glimpse of the might-have-beens that drove her to leave in the first place.Ex boy friends, old scores to settle, friendships gone sour, chances not taken,and secrets about Helen's family that have haunted her since she was a little girl.Will Helen be able to put her past to rest?



Sue Welfare
One Night Only



Dedication
To my family and
friends – you know
who you are.

Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in…
One
‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may…
Two
Natalia, Roots resident researcher and the person assigned to liaise…
Three
‘You’ll be fine, Helen,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘For God’s sake just…
Four
‘Helen? You’re awake, aren’t you?’ Bon said, rolling over onto…
Five
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Carlton Rooms this…
Six
‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how…
Seven
‘Come on, come on, can you get yourself up here,…
Eight
A little knot of people had gathered on the pavement…
Nine
Backstage at the Carlton Rooms Helen tucked the business card…
Ten
In the storeroom at the back of the toy shop…
Eleven
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll agree that we’ve had…
Twelve
In the storeroom behind Finton’s Finest Toys, Natalia, Harry and…
Thirteen
Leon Downey was far looser with his money than with…
Fourteen
Harry and Helen were waiting in the storeroom for Natalia…
Fifteen
On the short drive back from the Billingsfield Arms Hotel…
Sixteen
Helen wished more than anything that they were heading back…
Seventeen
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Harry as Helen lifted…
Eighteen
At number thirty-six Victoria Street, Helen, Natalia, Felix and the…
Nineteen
‘Is that you, Charlotte?’ Helen could hear breathing at the…
Twenty
Helen perched on the edge of the queen-sized bed in…
Twenty-One
Helen sat down at the dressing table and poured herself…
Twenty-Two
Natalia, just out of camera shot, glanced down at her…
Extra scenes and commentary from Sue
Extract from Sue Welfare’s The Surprise Party
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books By Sue Welfare
Copyright
About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Now
Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in the theatre began to dim. Tucked out of sight in the wings Helen could sense the growing anticipation and expectation in the audience. The seconds ticked by. Part of the magic of good showmanship is to make an audience wait, to hold them there a few seconds longer than feels quite comfortable, so that every eye is focused on stage. That growing sense of what is about to happen pushes aside all the thoughts about the drive there, the queue to get in, the day they had had before the show began and so Helen waited.
In the auditorium someone coughed; there were the sounds of people settling back in their seats, their conversation changing from a noisy cheerful babble to an altogether lower, denser hum. There was a crackle of excitement in the air, an electric charge as tangible as a coming storm. It made Helen’s skin prickle.
‘Okay, Miss Redford?’ mouthed the assistant stage manager, giving Helen the thumbs up. She smiled and nodded, all the while aware of every breath, every movement, every sound around her.
As the music began to play Helen closed her eyes, making an effort to control the panic that bubbled up inside. There was a peculiar fluttering fear that started somewhere down low in the pit of her stomach and rose up into her throat, closing it down, stealing her breath away and making her heart race. She knew that once she was out on stage it would be fine, but for now the panic crowded in on her, making her tremble, making the sound of her pulse ricochet around inside her skull like a drumroll. Deep breaths, calm thoughts; any second now the curtains would open and everything would be all right.
In the auditorium beyond the curtains the audience was still and quiet now. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.
‘Miss Redford?’ someone whispered. Helen opened her eyes and looked up. One of the crew adjusted the radio mike onto the front of her dress and leaning closer flicked it on before tucking the wire down in amongst the embroidery. One of the spotlights reflected in the facets of the jewellery she was wearing, projecting a great arc of rainbows into the wings. It felt like an omen.
Helen smiled her thanks and she pressed her lips together, blotting her lipstick, and then ran a hand back over her hair checking it was all in place, her heart still racing, anxiety edging out all sensible thoughts.
The technician grinned. ‘You look fabulous,’ he whispered. Her smile held. On the far side of the stage, behind a cameraman, Arthur, her agent, raised a hand in salute, his fingers crossed. He winked at her.
A moment later and the music changed to the signature tune for Cannon Square and as the curtains slowly opened, the deep inviting voice of the theatre’s resident compere rolled out over the PA.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s show. Tonight, for one night only, we would like you put your hands together and give a great big Carlton Rooms welcome to star of stage, screen and television, our very own homespun diva, Miss Helen Redford!’ His voice rose to a crescendo in the darkness.
It was as if someone had thrown a switch. From the auditorium came a sound like heavy rain and then thunder as people clapped, cheered and stamped their feet, the sound filling the theatre, a sound so loud that Helen could feel it pressing on her chest as much as she could hear the noise. The assistant stage manager waved her on and as Helen stepped out into the glare of the spotlight the volume of the applause rose.
She waited for the noise to ebb and then smiled out into the expectant darkness.
‘Well, hello there,’ she said, pulling up the stool that was there waiting for her centre stage. ‘It’s been a long time coming but it’s great to be back here at the Carlton Rooms. I don’t want to think about how many years it’s been since I stood right here on this stage. I’ve been away too long.’ And as she spoke the audience roared its appreciation and Helen’s nerves melted away like snow in sunshine.

ONE
Last Year
‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may I call you Helen? – how absolutely delighted we are to have you on board for next season’s TV show. It’s a real honour – I mean really. Now, before we run through a few details, would you like a drink? Tea. We’ve got green if you prefer? Or coffee, mineral water? We’ve got still or sparkling, haven’t we, Jamie?’
Ruth Long, the executive producer of Roots, glanced across at her assistant, and then tried out a smile; an expression that didn’t sit at all well on her plump, rather earnest, face. She had a face made for documentary television, her plain meaty features framed by unnaturally black hair cut into an asymmetric bob so straight and so unmoving that Helen wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover that it sat on a dummy head beside Ruth’s bed at night. Certainly it didn’t so much as ripple while Ruth made a show of being hospitable.
Jamie, her assistant, stood to one side of the office, skittering in and out of Helen’s peripheral vision as he fiddled with his hair.
‘Actually it was Jamie who suggested you for our programme – wasn’t it, Jamie? He’s got such an eye for a story, it’s a real talent,’ Ruth said fondly. ‘And as he pointed out at our last planning meeting you truly are an icon.’
Helen smiled while her agent, Arthur, leant back in his bucket seat steepling his fingers, and with a sly smile said, ‘Time was when people broke out the champagne when they signed an icon; a nice bottle of chilled Krug to seal the deal. Lunch at the Ivy, or the Groucho –’
For the briefest of instants Ruth looked thrown. ‘Ah, yes, right,’ she said. ‘I’m most terribly sorry – we just thought – I mean –’ she glanced at Helen, and then more pointedly at Jamie.
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Ruth,’ said Arthur. ‘Make mine still, will you? Slice of lime would be nice.’
Helen looked at up at Jamie and smiled. ‘Actually I’d love a cup of tea and what Arthur is trying to say is that I’m not a drunk and never have been, so the clause in the contract about needing a regular sobriety test –’
‘To be honest, Ruth,’ said Arthur, all shark’s teeth and diamond-hard bonhomie, ‘Helen and I were a teensy-weensy bit thrown by that. It could be interpreted in all kinds of ways – as an infringement on our civil liberties for a start – and just a little too American for our tastes.’
On the far side of the desk Ruth Long tried to wave the words away like a bad smell. ‘It’s standard in all our contracts these days, Miss Redford. Helen – you’re happy for me to call you Helen? It’s our insurers who insist on it. Let’s be candid, shall we?’ Ruth leant forward as if to imply she was sharing a confidence. ‘We occasionally have people on the show with, what shall we say – issues? It’s the nature of the beast. Stardom, fame – I don’t have to tell you the price those things exact on a person. And you’re right, it is a very American concept but so far we’ve sold every series of Roots into the States and we’ve got a really good co-production deal going this series, and our American cousins are very hot on that kind of thing.
‘You have to see it from our point of view, Helen. We just want to make sure that if we invest in all the research, the travel, the hoopla, that our guests will be able to string a sentence together when it comes to filming. Everything’s tight round here and everywhere else these days: tight budget, tighter schedule; last thing we want is a tight guest, if you follow me –’ She laughed at her own joke.
Arthur eyed up the tiny glass of water he had been given. ‘And so you’re telling me that you breath-tested Bishop what’s-his-name and that civil rights guy?’
Ruth’s smile held. ‘We just want the option, that’s all, Arthur. Of course we don’t always exercise it. But, for example, we took Lena Paige, series two, show six, all around the world looking for her mother and father – St Kitts to find her mother, New Zealand to track down her father. I don’t know whether you saw it, Helen, but it made the most sensational television – not a dry eye in the house. It was nominated for a TV Times Peoples’ Choice award, a Bafta – I’ll get James to get you the DVD – anyway, her dad was some sort of fighter pilot and then he emigrated and left them all behind. It was all very emotional, but I wouldn’t be letting any cats out of any bags telling you that Lena comes with a certain amount of history. Rehab, hospitalisation – lots and lots of counselling over the years. And of course the whole weight problem.
‘Anyway, while I don’t wish to be indiscreet, it was touch and go at some points, I can tell you. We had to have her sedated in Auckland. So, what I’m saying here, Helen, is once bitten twice shy. We need to know, come show time, that we’ll get something we can use. A lot of this stuff is highly charged and we understand that people always come with baggage. It’s what gives the show its appeal. Digging deep, shaking the dust off, getting down to the heart of our guest – however you like to express it.
‘So that’s why the clause is in there – we reserve the right to test all our guests because by its very nature our show focuses on a lot of –’ Ruth paused, as if searching around for the right word.
‘Icons,’ suggested Jamie, handing Helen a cup of tea.
‘Exactly,’ said Ruth, pushing her designer glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. ‘And you don’t get to be an icon by living the quiet life.’

‘When that bloody woman said icon she meant washed-up has-been, didn’t she?’ said Helen. She was pacing up and down in her kitchen. The sun was streaming in through the windows, picking out Arthur, who was sitting inscrutable as Buddha, at the long refectory table. He was cradling a mug of coffee. Helen was too agitated to sit down.
‘You could see it on her smug little face. Icon, my arse. And she more or less came right out and accused me of being an alcoholic.’
‘But you’re not and it’s still the most fabulous offer,’ said Arthur, rolling a cigar between his fingers like a plump carrot. Helen didn’t like him smoking in the house so he made do with sniffing it instead. ‘And it’s a real coup coming out of the blue like that. Roots is mainstream prime time. Right up there in the ratings and the public consciousness. I know people who would give their right arm for a shot at it. I mean this offer came in right out of left field –’ he mimed.
‘Okay, okay, I get it, Arthur. Right arm, left field, I should be grateful, eager and excited.’
Arthur nodded. ‘And then some. We could hang all sorts of things on the back of this. I’ve been working on an idea –’
‘He saw me, you know,’ said Helen. ‘That boy, Jamie, the one she keeps as a pet? He told me when he was showing me where the loo was. He saw me shopping in Waitrose in Swaffham when he came home to visit his mother at Easter. He said he thought I was dead. Dead!’
‘He’s a producer.’
Helen threw herself onto the sofa under the window. ‘He doesn’t look old enough to have produced anything that doesn’t involve glue and sticky-backed plastic.’
‘He’s won awards, apparently,’ said Arthur wistfully, staring at his cigar.
‘For what? The tidiest desk? Best guinea pig in show?’
‘Most promising newcomer, and some sort of arty short on Channel 4. He’s the next big thing apparently.’
Helen laughed. ‘And we all know how that works out, don’t we? I remember a time when I was the next big thing.’
‘And it could you be again, sweetie. Remember June Whitfield in AbFab? You know Lena Paige who Ruth was talking about got a part in the last Bruce Willis film on the back of her being in Roots.’
Helen raised her eyebrows.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Arthur, ‘So she got shot during the opening titles. But at least it was work. Second bite of the cherry. Look, Helen, speaking as your friend, you know that if you don’t want to do the show then it’s fine by me – it’s not too late to pull out, we’re not committed, nothing’s signed yet. But as your agent I’m telling you, you’d be bloody mad to turn it down. A whole hour on prime time TV? All about you? Jesus, what’s not to like?’
‘I know what you’re saying, Arthur, but I’m not the kind of person who washes their dirty linen in public. I never have been. You know that.’
Arthur sighed. ‘Yes, but when you look at what else is on offer, it’s a chance in a million.’
‘So what else is on offer?’
‘Pantomime somewhere out in the boondocks. I could probably get you a cameo on Holby City as a down-and-out.’
‘Is that chap Nettles still murdering people? Didn’t their producer say that I’d make a great corpse?’
‘There are always voice-overs,’ continued Arthur.
‘Funeral expenses insurance and female incontinence pads. I don’t think so,’ Helen said, taking a long pull on her fruit juice. ‘I’d like some real work.’
‘There’s not just those. I mean the yoghurt thing was fun, you said so yourself.’
‘I was a Friesian cow.’
‘I know, and they loved you, sweetie, you know they did. And they’re keen to use you again, so they’re always an option. We’ve already had this conversation, petal. Getting yourself onto Roots is a genuine opportunity, and it’s the first really exciting one that’s come along in a long while. We both know that. It could be the first step on the road back home, and let’s be honest: it’s either this or the bush tucker route.’
‘No!’ Helen said emphatically.
‘It can be the way into the nation’s heart. Look at Christopher Biggins. And you were right up there with the best of them, Helen, don’t ever forget that – remember they had an item on News at Ten when you retired?’
‘Retired? You make it sound like I had a choice, Arthur. If you remember, the writers blew me up in a gas explosion in a specially extended episode. That woman who comes on News at Ten did a segment about faulty boilers on the back of it.’
‘Jammed the phone lines,’ said Arthur, philosophically, sniffing his cigar. ‘People wrote in to the papers. And don’t forget the six weeks on life support. The whole nation was totally gripped. People cared, Helen. They really cared. When they finally turned your machine off the whole country mourned.’
‘Don’t tell me, Arthur. I was the one with a tube stuck up my nose and that bloody machine pinging all the time. You know it took wardrobe hours to do me up like that? So yes, Arthur. I understand. Once upon a time I used to be big.’ Helen looked heavenwards. ‘And no, before you ask again: no, no bush tucker. I couldn’t stand it. No moisturiser, surrounded by self-pitying whiners, has-beens and hyperactive third-raters, the self-obsessed and actors who should be in therapy. And I’m not eating anything that moves.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Arthur. ‘Where exactly is the boy wonder today?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bon? He’s downstairs working out in the gym, I think. And if you’re going to be nasty about him then you can leave now, Arthur. I don’t have to justify my taste in men to you of all people.’
‘Just as well really, isn’t it,’ murmured Arthur.
It was an old battle; the lines were well drawn. Helen chose to ignore him. ‘He’s good for me.’
‘So is spinach, but you don’t have to have it on your plate twenty-four hours a day seven days a week, do you? In my opinion he’s not as good for you as you are for him. You’re not going to marry him, are you?’
‘We haven’t talked about it,’ said Helen.
‘Well, don’t. The idea of you saddling yourself with him makes my flesh creep. Your taste in men is appalling, sweetie.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you would know.’
‘He’s just a phase.’
‘You’re suggesting that I’ll grow out of him?’
‘You will if you have any sense. He’s going to break your heart.’
‘And you didn’t? You’re only jealous, Arthur – you’ve done nothing but sulk since what’s-her-name ran off with that footballer. Besides, I need a new project.’
‘Then do something to the house, remodel the garden, get a dog – anything.’
‘I was thinking of something a bit bigger. Bon was talking about us buying a bar together, somewhere warm and sunny. Somewhere with a little stage, where we could have live music. I’m thinking about going to have a look in the Canaries. See what’s on offer.’
Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘What’s on offer in the Canaries, sweetie, is total bloody oblivion. For God’s sake Helen, you’re so much better than that. What’s it going to take to get you to see sense?’
‘Bon loves me.’
Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘So did that Pekinese my mother used to have, but I didn’t feel obliged to change my life to accommodate it.’
‘You loved that dog.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. You need something new to get your teeth into. Something big –’
She sighed. ‘Something special.’
‘Exactly, something special, which is why Roots is just perfect for you. This will get you right back where you belong, back out there in the public eye – give you the exposure you need, and maybe shake something interesting out of the woodwork. I’ve got a plan – I’ve been thinking we should get you out on the road again. You should be thanking Jamie, never mind whisking golden boy off on another jolly. And Roots do it so well. Have you watched any of the programmes?’
Cautiously Helen nodded. ‘I think I have. I’m not sure. I saw the one about a ballet dancer. Some posh blonde girl with buck teeth whose family went back to Elizabeth I?’
‘They’re biking round a boxed set for you. Basic format – they whisk you back to your old home town in a limo, put you up in a luxury hotel, then you drive around and point out the sites, you go and see a few old friends and your family and then they whip out your family tree, along with a few black and white photos and the odd black sheep, you ooh and ahh in all the right places, cry a bit and tell them it’s been the most moving experience of your whole life.’
Helen laughed. ‘You are such a cynic, Arthur.’
‘And you’re not?’ Arthur asked, rolling the cigar for added dramatic emphasis.
‘I didn’t used to be. I was a nice girl when I first met you.’
He smiled gently. ‘And you still are, Helen. Appearing on Roots will be a walk in the park for someone with your talent. Now – about my other plan. I’ve been thinking, while we’re red hot and rolling, how about we reprise the one-woman show you used to do? I mean you don’t have to be a genius to see that there’s a tie-in here. You’ve got loads of material. Do a few songs, tell a few stories about the good old days, a behind-the-scenes look at Cannon Square, some jokes – and you’ve got those monologues you used to do. You know the kind of thing; An Evening With – what’s the name of the town where you grew up?’
‘Billingsfield.’
‘Okay, well there you go then, Billingsfield’s favourite daughter, Helen Redford, comes home to roost at long last. For one night only –’ He lifted his hands, fingers spread to create an imaginary billboard. ‘It shouldn’t be that hard to find a venue, somewhere intimate and not too big.’
‘You mean cheap.’
Arthur grinned. ‘That isn’t what I said, and that most certainly isn’t what I meant, but I’m just thinking that that way we can test the waters; see what the response is. If it bombs then we’ve lost next to nothing and if it doesn’t and we time it right then we could maybe take it on the road. I’ll see if I can sort out a few dates – it can’t hurt. Cash in on the TV show –’
‘On the road?’
Arthur nodded. ‘Yes, why not? It would be just like the good old days. You used to love it, remember? Take you right back to where you started from. Where was that place in Billingsfield?’
‘The Carlton Rooms.’
He laughed. ‘That’s it. There you go then, that’s where we should start the tour. You went down a storm there last time, remember?’
‘Do you know how many years ago that was?’ Helen laughed. ‘Those rose-tinted spectacles are going to be the death of you, Arthur.’
‘I thought I’d maybe have a chat with Ruth at Roots about it. See what we can organise. It would give their show a real focus too. And you never know, maybe we can work out a book deal on the back of the TV programme?’
Helen looked sceptical.
‘What?’ said Arthur.
‘It’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it? Maybe ten years ago, when I was strapped to a gurney fighting for life, I might have swung it, but now? Memoirs of a has-been? The public have got a horribly short memory, Arthur.’
He pulled a face. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t be so bloody hard on yourself, Helen; not if you’re up there all over again, babe – and you could be. And let’s face it, you’ve had an interesting life. Kids who’re still wet behind the ears are writing bloody autobiographies these days – that little fat bird who got married to that footballer, and the one with the –’ he mimed a pair of pantomime breasts. ‘Kiss and tell, reality TV, it’s all the go now, sweetie – and you’d be a natural. Everybody’s doing it.’
‘Doing what?’ said a voice from the stairs. Helen looked up as Bon jogged into view. She could hear by the rhythm that he was taking the steps two at a time, which for some reason made her smile. Arthur rolled his eyes and looked heavenwards.
Bon was tall and blond with broad shoulders and a body that reflected all the hours of work he put in at the gym and in the studio. They’d met while she was doing pantomime in Croydon. She was playing the fairy godmother. He was in the chorus. Well, that’s what they told people. Actually he had been doing the choreography for the show and had been standing in one night when one of the dancers was off sick, but it made a good story for the tabloids. He was somewhere in his late thirties but looked younger, while Helen was in her early fifties and looked well preserved.
She had never imagined ending up with a younger man.
When they were alone together those things didn’t matter; he made Helen laugh and she adored what they had, but in company the cliché sometimes made her defensive. It was obvious that Bon was younger than she was. She didn’t dwell on exactly how many years but it was enough to be notable in the gossip columns. On the plus side, Bon was beautiful and kind, warm and funny, and he made up for all those men along the way who hadn’t been, and – Helen kept telling herself – if it didn’t turn out to be forever then as far as she was concerned what they had had was still worth it.
He smiled at her.
Sometimes, Helen knew, it was better to have a little drop of something wonderful than a whole lifetime of something ordinary. Two years on they were still together, although she often wondered if he saw her as a stopgap, a place marker to hold the page until the right woman came along, someone young whom he could have a family with – although she kept those thoughts to herself.
Even as the idea rolled through her head, Bon’s smile broadened, and leaning closer he kissed her.
‘Hiya honey,’ he purred, his body language freezing Arthur out. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you look lovely, and you smell divine? I really love that perfume.’
Helen looked up at him. ‘Birthday present from my lover,’ she said.
From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur mime retching, and laughed, breaking the intimate connection between her and Bon. Bon glanced round and grinned. ‘A bit too much for you at your age, Arthur?’
‘Bit too much for anyone at any age,’ huffed Arthur miserably.
‘You’re only jealous,’ said Bon. ‘So, what is it that you’re up to?’
‘Arthur was talking about people, more specifically me, writing their memoirs,’ said Helen, as she pulled away.
‘I think that you should do it,’ Bon said. ‘I’ve told you that before – you’re a natural and I’m sure Arthur could get you a bit of help if you needed it, couldn’t you Arthur? A ghost – I’m not saying you couldn’t do it yourself –’
Helen laughed, ‘Which I couldn’t. But I know what you mean.’
‘And how did the rest of the day go?’
‘Arthur wants me to take my old show on the road.’
The words caught Bon’s attention. ‘Really? The one-woman show? But I thought you were talking to a television production company today, weren’t you? I mean going on the road, that’s great too – but it’s not TV.’
‘That’s true,’ said Helen. ‘Arthur was saying we should think about touring again if the TV thing comes off – cash in on the exposure.’
Bon nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Okay, well if there is anything I can do to help – you know that I’d be really happy to help you rehearse.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen smiled. ‘But never mind me. How did your meeting go?’
Bon opened his mouth to protest.
‘No,’ said Helen, stopping him with a gesture. ‘Come on, ‘fess up. I got in first. So?’
He groaned. ‘So, nothing. Libby’s thinking I should maybe take the Dubai gig. She’s really keen to get me out there; apparently she’s got loads of really good contacts.’
Libby, the new agent that his old agency had assigned him, five feet two in her tiny stockinged feet and blonde and gorgeous and not a day over thirty. Helen slammed the door shut on the place her thoughts were heading and tried to ignore the giggling from behind it.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Helen said. ‘And it’s well paid – I’d go for it.’
‘It’s a long way to go,’ said Bon. ‘And if you’re serious about going on tour, you’re going to need some backup. You know that I hate to leave you here on your own.’
‘I can almost hear the violins from here. New highlights?’ said Arthur, conversationally, elbowing his way back into the conversation.
Helen sighed; at least Arthur had managed not to say that they had been touring while Bon was still in short trousers.
‘Sun-kissed,’ said Bon with a lazy grin, running long fingers back through his artfully tousled hair. ‘It goes like that in the sunshine.’
Helen shook her head. ‘Don’t bait him, Bon, you know he hates it.’
Bon’s grin broadened. ‘You should try it some time, Arthur – get outside, get yourself a little bit of gold in the old toupee.’
‘It’s real,’ Arthur growled.
‘Real stoat?’
‘Play nicely you two,’ Helen said sharply.
‘So how did your meeting go?’ asked Bon.
‘Not bad. Arthur has got me a job, haven’t you, Arthur? Roots? The TV show – apparently I’m an icon.’
‘Wow,’ said Bon, interest piqued. ‘God, now that is just fantastic. It’s got a real following and you’ll be great on there. When do you start shooting?’
‘I haven’t even signed the contract yet. I might not do it …’
Bon grinned. ‘Why ever not? You’d be mad not to. You want anything?’ he asked, heading towards the fridge.
‘No, not for me, thanks. I’ve already got one.’
‘Arthur?’
Arthur lifted his coffee mug instead of replying.
Bon dropped a handful of ice into the tumbler and topped it up with fruit juice. ‘So when do you think you’re going to start?’
‘We’re not sure yet. We’ll be discussing dates next week,’ said Arthur.
Helen couldn’t take her eyes off Bon. He moved with a fluid grace that still made her mouth water. ‘You are going to take it, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
Bon pulled a face. ‘Oh come on, Helen, you’d be absolutely mad not to. You’d be brilliant. They syndicate the show all over the world and then it ends up on the satellite channels.’
Arthur sighed. ‘I’ve been trying to tell her that.’
‘Don’t tell me we’ve finally found something we’re agreed on,’ laughed Bon. ‘By the way, are you staying for supper, Arthur? You’re more than welcome. I thought I’d cook Thai tonight?’
Arthur sighed ‘I really hate it when you’re nice to me,’ he said.
Helen smiled, ignoring the banter, her mind elsewhere. She’d come a long way since the Carlton Rooms in Billingsfield. Did she really want to go back?

TWO
Natalia, Roots resident researcher and the person assigned to liaise – whatever that meant – with Helen for the duration of the filming, perched on the edge of one of the big red shabby-chic sofas in Helen’s sitting room, looking for all the world as if given half a chance she would be up on her toes and away. Natalia had her laptop bag balanced on her lap but so far hadn’t unpacked it.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you a drink? A cup of tea? Herbal, green? Coffee?’ asked Helen, settling herself down in the armchair opposite. ‘We’ve got juice?’
The young woman blinked and stared at her, caught, anxious as a rabbit in the headlights. She retrieved a small plastic bottle from her handbag and waggled it to and fro, in a gesture Helen guessed was supposed to amuse.
‘No, you’re fine, really. I’ve got water, but really, thank you,’ she said in her breathy little-girl voice. ‘Now how we do it at Roots is that I’ll be working with you all the way through, right through the filming and everything, so we can build up a relationship and you’ll know the score. And you’ll know that I know what I’m talking about because I’ll have been here right from day one. So, I thought we’d just start with a few basics – get those out of the way first – and then maybe if you’ve got any photos? Did Ruth ask you about photos? Don’t worry if she didn’t, we can always get them later and we don’t take them away or anything. I’ve brought a scanner with me.’ She tapped her bag. ‘And I’ve brought some cuttings and things for you to take a look at, you know, from the good old days.’ She tipped her head down towards the bag again. ‘Usually I’ve got this guy who comes with me and does all the technical stuff while we’re talking, but he’s got this bug. Jamie, you might have met him?’
Helen nodded. ‘He thought I was an icon.’
The young woman smiled. ‘Right, well he rang in to say he’s got flu, well he thinks it’s flu, but then again he is a man: probably just a sniffle. He usually does the driving too – you know if it’s like somewhere off the beaten track, or the country or something –’ Natalia carried on smiling; it was clear she meant a trip like this one.
Natalia, all turned out in her leather jacket, hand-knitted beanie hat, and a floral mini-dress worn over black leggings and twenty-eye black patent DMs had arrived two hours late, not so much fashionably late as horribly lost late, and from her colourful account of finally having tracked down Helen’s house, she seemed to view rural Norfolk as if it was just a step away from the Amazon basin or the African veldt.
‘How on earth do you manage out here?’ she asked conversationally, taking a swig from her water bottle as she made an effort to slough off her oversized biker jacket. ‘I mean it’s so isolated; so far from anywhere.’
Helen raised an eyebrow. She lived in a handsome Victorian house in the middle of Denham Market, five minutes’ walk from the town centre and two major supermarkets. It was hardly the Serengeti.
‘It’s an hour and a half from Kings Cross,’ Helen said, pouring herself a mug of tea.
‘Really?’ The girl looked genuinely surprised. ‘You mean like the trains come right out here?’ she said.
Helen suppressed the desire to sigh and shake her head. ‘Every hour.’
‘Really?’ repeated Natalia, unable to conceal her amazement, as she finally shrugged the jacket off. ‘Well, wow – I mean that is really impressive. Anyway, as I said, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m so looking forward to working with you on your story,’ she gushed. ‘Jamie was really gutted that he’s not here today. When I told my mum I was coming to talk to you today she was just so envious. My mum said that you were a legend. She used to watch you every week on Cannon Square. Right from the first episode. And Jamie’s got them all on DVD right from episode one.’ Natalia grinned. ‘I think that the two of them were more excited than I was about me coming to meet you. Anyway, let’s get down to business.’
Helen smiled at her; Natalia, twenty-six, had been best in show on her degree course, according to Ruth’s latest email, which made Helen wonder whether there was anyone on the Roots production team who had just wandered in on the off chance of a job and got in on the strength of being nice, making good tea and being shit-hot with the filing.
‘We always like to come out and see people in their own homes if we possibly can,’ Natalia was saying earnestly. ‘It’s always nicer and makes it more intimate. I’m sure you read in the contract that we’ll probably want to come and do some of the filming here too, you know, like background; give people an idea of how you live now. People are always fascinated by other people’s houses, aren’t they?’ And then Natalia paused and looked anxiously over her shoulder. ‘Do you think my car will be all right out there?’
‘On my drive?’
Natalia nodded. ‘I mean like it’s locked and everything, but I was just wondering. You know.’ Her voice tailed off. ‘I was just wondering –’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Whereabouts do you live?’
‘Hackney,’ Natalia said. ‘We’ve got a flat, nowhere near as grand as this, obviously, but it’s nice and really handy for work. My boyfriend and I keep saying once we have children we might like to move out – you know, to the country. Like Epping or Chadwell Heath or somewhere. His mum and dad come from Cheshunt. I quite fancy Brighton myself.’ She paused. ‘It’s the dark out here that would worry me; that and the quiet. And then you get the animals.’ She shuddered. ‘Me and my boyfriend went camping once, to the proper country. I wouldn’t want to do it again; there were all these really weird snuffling noises in the night and then you had to go to the loo in a shed. With a torch. I still get flashbacks.
Anyway we really like to see how our guests live, see them in their own environment. And how they cope day to day, what they do, cooking and that kind of thing.’ It made it sound as if Natalia was doing a home visit for social services. ‘I mean this is really nice,’ she said, peering around. ‘Why do you live upstairs, is it like a flat or something?’
‘No, I own the whole house. It’s just that the main sitting room is on the first floor.’
‘Right,’ said Natalia, scribbling something down on her notepad. ‘So, what, is the downstairs for your servants?’
Helen laughed. ‘I wish. No, the kitchen is down there, and the utility room, and there’s a gym and –’
‘And so your staff live out, do they?’ asked Natalia, pen poised above the pad.
Natalia had obviously worked with far grander stars in the past; or maybe she came from a generation that thought everyone on TV had an entourage of hired help dealing with the daily grind on their behalf.
‘No, I don’t really have any staff. We have Audrey who comes in to clean every day, and Bert, he comes in to help me with the garden –’
On the sofa Natalia was writing feverishly. ‘And you live up here because?’ She left the question hanging. Helen stared at her wondering what lurid possibility Natalia was considering.
‘Because of the view,’ said Helen, standing up and directing the young woman’s attention towards the tall windows, with their plush window seats and piles of cushions. ‘I really love the view from up here.’
Natalia stepped up beside her to take a look. ‘The view,’ Natalia echoed.
Denham Market was built on the hill where Norfolk began to drag itself up out of the dark rich expanse of the fenland. Situated a few minutes’ walk from the church, Helen’s house was a Gothic gem, with a fairytale turret at one corner and huge rooms with vaulted ceilings and broad oak floors. At this time of the day the sun came flooding in through the mullioned windows, casting everything in a warm glow.
Up on the first floor, the open-plan double-aspect sitting room looked out over the gardens on one side and over the dark red pantiled rooftops of the houses in the streets below on the other, and beyond the town the glittering snake of the river Ouse, which wound its way across the flat lands of the fen. Beyond that as far as the eye could see were acres and acres of farmed fenland, flat as a billiard table, rich and fertile, lush green or black or gold, depending on the season, stretching out to Ely in the southwest and Long Sutton in the north-west.
It had been the view and the unique appearance of the house that had attracted Helen to it in the first place; it looked for all the world like a fairytale castle up on its hill close by the church. On a clear day it really did seem as if you could see forever. Compared to the tiny terraced house she had grown up in, the view alone at High House lifted Helen’s spirits, the sense of space and freedom under the vast fenland sky finally letting her breathe.
‘So did you always live round here?’ asked Natalia, pen poised.
‘No, I was born and grew up in Billingsfield. It was a factory town. It couldn’t have been more different to Norfolk and this place. Number thirty-six Victoria Street; I’m sure I’ve probably got some photos somewhere. I remember as a little girl looking out of the front-room window of this tiny terraced house and having a horrible sense that I could easily be in the wrong one. Opposite me across the street was a house that was identical to mine, in a row of houses all identical to mine. All the doors were painted the same flat brown, all the windows had the same thick nets in the windows. Even thinking about it now after all these years it makes me shiver; it felt as if you couldn’t breathe.’
Natalia nodded and made another note.
Helen didn’t have that feeling living here. High House was unique, a one-off, with no twin staring back at it, no neighbours peering in, making judgements on her family, from windows that faced each other across a strip of tarmac. No one teased or tormented her here. There was no lying in bed at night hearing the frenzied scuttling and scurrying and raised angry voices from the family whose bedroom adjoined hers. No, up here in High House there was only Helen and the people she invited in, which today included Natalia, who was busy peering out of the window, probably trying to work out what all the fuss was about.
‘Over there on a clear day you can see Ely Cathedral,’ said Helen, pointing into the distance.
Alongside her Natalia stifled a yawn. ‘I’m not much of a one for views,’ she said.
‘So,’ said Helen, now that it was obvious her audience had moved on. ‘What else would you like to know?’
Natalia settled herself back on the sofa. ‘I’m not sure how much you know about the show but in the first segment we talk about you and what you do or did. There’s usually some film clips, some interviews with friends and colleagues, that sort of thing – and then we explore where you came from and we look around the places where you grew up and talk to people who knew you. And then we explore your roots.’
‘Which means what exactly?’ asked Helen.
The girl looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you?’
‘Well, which roots?’
‘Presumably you’ve seen the show. Your parents and any interesting ancestors we throw up when we do your family tree. We’ve got this great guy, Alan – well, when I say great; he’s a bit of an acquired taste – he doesn’t like real live people very much. He likes to stay in the office and he wears cotton gloves and a mask a lot of the time, and he’s got this whole thing about pens – but he’s brilliant when it comes to research. Anyway, you see that’s the thing with Roots; we don’t just tie ourselves to the historical, that’s the beauty of the format, we just follow our noses on the good stories. So, like with Terry Haslam – you know, the civil rights bloke? Well his dad, Jack, used to be a strongman in the circus, so we took a look at how Terry had grown up, and that whole nomadic circus culture. It was funny because most people talk about running away to join the circus, but in Terry’s case he ran away to join the Church. Terry’s heritage was amazing – his dad’s family came from Transylvania and his mum came from somewhere in Somerset.
‘Anyway, it was really weird; we took the crew out to this funny little village to film. I mean it was truly spooky. I’ve never been anywhere like that before – and the locals were just so peculiar, they kept pointing and laughing – and anyway Jeremy, the sound guy, bought us all these strings of garlic.’ Natalia paused to take a sip of water. ‘Transylvania was a complete doddle by comparison.’
‘I’m not sure that there is anything that interesting in my family,’ said Helen.
Natalia waved the words away. ‘Oh don’t worry. Everyone I work with always says that but we usually poke around till we find something, and to be perfectly honest, if Ruth’s signed you up to do the show, then there’s something we can get our teeth into or she wouldn’t be doing it.’
The remark caught Helen off guard. She stared at Natalia. ‘I’m sorry?’ she began. ‘What are we talking about here?’
The girl reddened. ‘Sorry, but I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know, Helen. We all know that there is an elephant in the room when it comes to your past. I don’t want to be tactless about it – but it’s not exactly rocket science, is it? We’ll start off with your parents –’Helen waited.
‘Your mum? The whole motherhood, abandoned children thing, I mean I’m assuming you’d have realised what we’d be going for here – a sort of cherchez la femme angle. Looking at the kind of woman who leaves her child behind and the reasons why. Why? What did you think we were going to do?’
Helen couldn’t think of anything to say, but it was fine because Natalia was firing up her laptop and had all the answers on hand. ‘You see what I’m saying here, Helen? There’s no point us dragging up some unknown Elizabethan sailor from God knows where, when we’ve got a story like that to unpick, really, is there? It’s just too good not to use –’
‘I’m sure you think I’m being naïve here, but I thought Ruth said that it would be mostly historical?’
‘Well, sometimes it is, but mostly –’ Natalia hesitated, ‘To be honest mostly it isn’t. The last series everything was pretty much about this generation and maybe the last one. You know, like their mums and dads – people like all that sort of stuff. And of course your mum vanished too, so realistically that is just too good a story not to go after.’
‘She didn’t vanish,’ said Helen, dry-mouthed. ‘It wasn’t like some sort of conjuring trick. Are you telling me that is going to be the main focus of the programme?’
‘We’ve got other angles too, obviously. I don’t have to tell you your own secrets, do I?’ She smiled. Helen stared at her; what did that mean?
‘So are you saying you’ve found my mother?’
Totally wrong-footed Natalia stared at her, trying to compose herself. ‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’
At which moment Bon came up from the gym, dressed in sweat pants and an indigo blue tee shirt. His tee shirt was soaked with sweat across the chest, underarms and back.
‘Hi,’ he said with a grin, wiping his hands on the white towel draped across his broad shoulders. He looked like a character from a wholesome-life advert. ‘I see your guest arrived then,’ he said to Helen, as he strode over and extended a hand towards Natalia. ‘I’m Bon Fisher. Great to meet you. You must be Natalia, from Roots, is that right?’
Natalia’s mouth had dropped open. ‘Bon?’ she managed, and for a few seconds Helen caught a glimpse of what it was others saw in him. His face, though classically handsome, was still masculine and rugged, manly rather than fey; and his eyes, bright blue and clear as high summer skies, were surrounded by a corona of laughter lines. But what made him infinitely more attractive was that he had this warm sunny aura that was hard to quantify or to miss.
‘That’s right, I’m Helen’s lover,’ he continued, without so much as a hint of hesitation, as he shook her hand. ‘But presumably if you’re working on Helen’s life story you already know all about that. Delighted to meet you. Helen is the most amazing woman.’ He turned to look at her affectionately. ‘Amazing. I’m really lucky to share my life with her.’ He moved across the room and brushed his lips across Helen’s, which made something inside her flutter; he was gorgeous. She glanced up at him, wondering not for the first time if this was some kind of cruel trick. ‘God only knows why she puts up with me.’
Natalia reddened and opened her mouth to say something, but Bon didn’t pause to let her catch up. ‘Anyway, I’m just going to go and grab a shower and then I’ll fix us some lunch. You are staying for lunch, aren’t you, Natalia? I realise it’s a bit late but we’ve both had a busy morning –’
The girl glanced at Helen who nodded. ‘Please,’ Helen said. ‘You’d be more than welcome, and Bon is a superb cook.’
‘Well, yes then, sure, if it’s okay with you.’
‘Got to be better than a supermarket sandwich,’ Bon said. ‘I’m thinking hot spicy shredded chicken with avocado on baby leaves drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette. Does that sound all right to you?’
‘Sounds fabulous,’ said Natalia.
Helen laughed in spite of herself. ‘Don’t encourage him,’ she said and then smiled up at Bon. ‘He thinks about food all the time he’s working out. I have no idea why he doesn’t weigh twenty stone. I keep thinking that one of these days we should open a restaurant.’
Bon bent down and kissed her. ‘And how boring would that be, cooking the same thing over and over? Lunch in say, half an hour?’
‘Fine by me; how about you, Natalia?’
The girl nodded.
‘Great,’ said Bon. ‘Oh and I’ve got a meeting at four. Libby and I are working on the costumes for the show we’re taking to Dubai –’ he continued, aiming his remarks at Helen. Libby. It felt like he was mentioning her a lot lately.
‘You’re a dancer, that’s right, isn’t it?’ Natalia was saying, pen poised over her pad.
Bon nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, although I’m actually more about the choreography these days, and I’ve helped produce some of the shows we take out on tour.’
‘We?’ said Natalia, all eagerness and enthusiasm, clutching her pen. ‘Is this something new for you, Helen?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Helen, holding up her hands. ‘I can’t dance and have no intention of taking it up now. No, this is definitely Bon’s baby.’
‘Mine and Libby’s,’ Bon said. ‘Libby Sherwood, she’s my agent.’
There she was again.
‘So how long have you and Helen been together?’ Natalia asked.
Bon smiled. ‘Not long enough. Now I really have to go. I’ll give you a shout when food’s ready. You okay for drinks?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Helen.
‘Me too,’ said Natalia brightly, doing her little trick with the water bottle. Helen watched Natalia watch Bon cross the room and head back down the stairs.
After a second or two Natalia turned back to Helen and realised Helen had been watching her watching him. She bit her bottom lip and looked horribly self-conscious.
‘He seems very nice,’ Natalia said with feigned casualness, turning her attention quickly back to her notepad.
Helen laughed. ‘Oh, he is. And he has got the cutest arse, hasn’t he?’
Natalia turned pillar-box red and was about to protest.
‘It’s fine,’ said Helen with a smile. ‘You’re welcome to admire the scenery – lots of people do.’
Natalia’s colour deepened. ‘Where were we?’ she said, faffing around with her notebook and laptop in what appeared to be a show of regaining her composure.
‘My mother,’ suggested Helen helpfully.
‘Oh yes,’ said Natalia, with equal discomfort.
‘I’m not the only little girl whose mother walked out on her family.’
‘I know,’ said Natalia. ‘But it is something that a lot of people will be curious about. It must have had a profound effect on you. On your relationships; on your own views on children and families.’
‘I didn’t have children,’ said Helen briskly. ‘So it didn’t arise.’
‘Was that because of your mum?’ pressed Natalia.
Helen shook her head. ‘No, it hadn’t got anything to do with her. I suppose it must have had an effect, but I was open to the idea of having a family. I was just never with the right person at the right time.’ She paused. Natalia was scribbling away furiously. When Helen stopped she looked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Natalia said. ‘You were saying?’
‘I suppose looking back if I had wanted them enough I would have had them, but it didn’t happen.’
‘It didn’t happen,’ she repeated.
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘There was always another job, another part, always something else coming along, and then it was just too late.’
‘And so you don’t think that was because of your mum?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No, quite the reverse; in some ways her leaving made me make more of my life. I probably took more chances, more risks, enjoyed all of life while it was there. Her going made me realise that nothing is as safe as it first appears. But it wasn’t just me, it affected my dad too, his work – his friends. I was very small when it happened, but I was old enough to know something was going on; old enough to miss her, but not old enough for anyone to explain it to me. In those days I’m not sure how much notice people took of children’s emotions. I think because children hadn’t got the words to express what they were feeling people just assumed they didn’t feel anything – although to be fair, no-one really talked about my mum once she was gone. No-one at all. It was like a door had opened up somewhere and she just walked through it. Some days I wonder if I imagined her and that perhaps she had never existed at all.’
‘Did you think she was dead?’ asked Natalia.
Helen watched the younger woman’s face carefully, wondering what it was that Roots had managed to uncover. Natalia’s body language gave nothing away.
‘I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I still don’t have any idea what happened to her.’
‘It’s such an interesting thread. Weren’t you ever curious? I’m sure I would have been. Didn’t you try to find her?’
‘No,’ snapped Helen.
Natalia looked surprised. ‘What, never?’
‘Like I said, no one talked about her at home and back then I was powerless to look; looking or asking would have felt like I was betraying my dad. And what if me asking too many questions made him go away too? I remember reading in the Sunday papers about people losing their memories and wondered if that was what had happened to her and that maybe one day, some day she would remember us and just come home.
‘I had a lady to come in and sit with me if my dad was going to be late home from work. Mrs Eades. I didn’t like her very much and I was terrified that she might end up looking after me permanently if my dad didn’t come back – but no, I didn’t look, I didn’t ask.’
Helen glanced across; Natalia was busy making copious notes.
‘Please,’ she pressed, when Helen stopped speaking, ‘It’s really interesting.’
‘I did think when I was first on the TV that maybe my mum might show up then; you know: “Long-lost mother reunited with celebrity daughter”. It’s the kind of thing the tabloids have always loved. Real Max Clifford territory. But she didn’t.’
‘And you’ll be happy to talk about all this on the show?’ asked Natalia.
Helen nodded, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Natalia scribbled something else on her pad. ‘So you thought that she was probably dead?’
‘Or that she had run off with someone, remarried and not told her new family about me and Dad; or that she’d emigrated or just plain didn’t care,’ said Helen, conscious of the crackle of emotion in her voice.
‘Didn’t you think about hiring someone? A detective or something?’ Natalia pressed, with a hint of accusation in her tone. ‘I don’t think I could have lived with not knowing, and you had the money –’
‘There is a lot more to my life than what happened to my mother. Not everything I’ve done is about her.’ Helen took a deep breath. ‘And it might seem like a hard thing for you to understand, Natalia, but no, I didn’t go looking for her. She rejected me once; I didn’t want to give her the chance to reject me again.’
Natalia winced. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ she said, before setting off on another tack. ‘One of the things that struck me when I was looking through the press cuttings and what we’ve got on file for you, is how little there is. There is a lot about your awards and TV roles but not very much about the woman behind the actress.’
‘I’ve always been very private.’
Natalia nodded and made a note. ‘Until now,’ she said, watching Helen intently.
‘That’s right.’ Helen said. ‘Until now.’
‘Can you tell me why that is?’
Helen looked her squarely in the eye. ‘Because you asked me – and to be honest I miss working on interesting projects with interesting people. I’m an actress. I want to work. I can’t skate, I hate ballroom dancing and I’m not cut out for roughing it in the jungle. So it’s this or –’
‘Celebrity Come Dine With Me?’ Natalia suggested helpfully. She pulled out a file. ‘Okay, so we’ve got some newspaper clippings, reviews and things which we’ll be using that I’d like you to take a look through. Oh and this –’ she handed Helen the photocopy of a page from the Billingsfield Echo. ‘I can’t make out the date,’ said Natalia. ‘We’ll probably need to chase that up, unless of course you can remember when it was? National talent competition, Carlton Rooms?’ She leaned across, reading over Helen’s shoulder. ‘March the something – no, it’s no good, I can’t make out the year. But here we are, look –’ she said, pointing to a grainy black and white photo of the contestants. ‘Local songbirds, Helen Redford and – hang on I’ve got a magnifying glass in my bag.’
‘Kate Monroe,’ said Helen, tipping the photocopy towards the light. ‘It was a Saturday – the 15
of March, and that was the first night we’d used our stage names; before that we used to be Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson.’

THREE
Then
‘You’ll be fine, Helen,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘For God’s sake just stop worrying, will you, and pass me the eyeliner.’ Charlotte took it and then leant forward to dab concealer on her chin. ‘You know, the light in this room is terrible. You should really get his nibs to get you a lamp or something for this dressing table.’ She turned to face Helen. ‘So what do you think? Can you still see that spot?’ She tipped her chin up towards the light. ‘It looks like Vesuvius from where I’m sitting.’
‘That’s because you’re three inches away from it, anything that close up is bound to look big,’ said Helen, who was sitting on the end of the bed, struggling to do her makeup in a tiny hand mirror. She felt sick.
Charlotte was right, though, the light in the bedroom wasn’t good; but Helen was so full of nerves that she didn’t really care. Helen took a closer look at her reflection; she was so pale and drawn it looked as if she might be coming down with something. ‘And I’ve already told you, Charlotte, this is Harry’s bedroom. The light in here is nothing to do with me. All right?’
‘So you say,’ Charlotte teased. ‘Anyway, we could hardly get ready in your room, could we? It’s like a bloody shoebox in there. How on earth do you manage? There’s barely enough room for the bed. Where do you put all your clothes and shoes and things? It’s a good job you’re tidy; it wouldn’t suit me at all,’ Charlotte continued, turning her attention back to the mirror. ‘The whole place would be a tip in ten minutes. A bit like this place really,’ she giggled.
Helen looked round Harry’s bedroom; Charlotte was right. There were things everywhere – shoes all over the floor, clothes and makeup spilling out of the suitcase Charlotte had brought with her; their coats were slung on the bed along with their costumes and handbags. Harry’s bedroom looked like someone was running an impromptu jumble sale.
Getting ready for the show at Harry’s flat had been Charlotte’s idea.
‘Anyway, it’s your fault we’re here. I thought that we were going to get ready at your house,’ said Helen, rolling on a slick of lip gloss. ‘That’s what your dad said when he came into the shop yesterday. He said he’d come into town and pick me up if there wasn’t a bus.’
‘I know,’ said Charlotte. ‘There’s a lot more room at my place obviously, but Harry’s flat is so much nearer to the Carlton Rooms.’
‘Your dad told me he was going to drive us in.’
‘Yes, all right, Helen, don’t keep on about it. I know what my dad said, okay? But he can be so bossy and so narrow-minded, interfering all the time – and yes, I know he’s on my side and everything, but he’s just so over-protective. This is better; we can please ourselves here. He’s really getting on my nerves.’ Charlotte screwed up her face and dropped straight into a cruel impersonation of her father. ‘Don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t you sign anything, not so much as an autograph without me reading it first, do you hear, Charlie? It’s for your own good, young lady He treats me like I’m a complete idiot. He nearly had fifty fits when he saw the costumes I’d had made for tonight. Too short. Too low. Too clingy. God only knows what he is going to be like when I finally get discovered, or come to that when I go off to teacher training in September.’
‘You’re still going, then?’ said Helen, concentrating her efforts on finishing off her mascara.
‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, sagely. ‘Finish my A levels and then on to teacher training, unless of course I get discovered in the meantime. Teaching will give me something to fall back on if the singing doesn’t pan out. I’m not totally daft despite what my dad thinks. And anyway, it’s more fun being here; I wanted to see where you and Harry lived. You two, all tucked up in your little love nest,’ she continued in the same teasing voice.
Before Helen could reply there was a sharp knock on the door.
‘God, that made me jump,’ gasped Charlotte with a nervous giggle. ‘Good job I wasn’t doing my eyeliner.’ And then she called out, ‘Hello, who is it?’
Helen rolled her eyes. ‘It’s Harry, who else is it going to be? It’s his flat. Can you just pass me a tissue?’
‘Could be the press, dahling,’ said Charlotte, striking a pose and putting on a big starry voice as she handed Helen a box of Kleenex. ‘Or maybe it’s TV people, wanting to come in and do an interview with the next big thing.’
‘Things,’ corrected Helen, sitting down alongside Charlotte on the dressing-table stool so that she could see herself in the big mirror. ‘Shift up a bit, will you. There are two of us, remember?’
‘I meant collectively, you and me, we are the next big thing. I keep thinking that that is what we should call ourselves: ‘The Next Big Thing’. It sounds good, don’t you think? Although ‘Wild Birds’ has got a nice ring to it too. Sort of sexy and cheeky and a bit risqué. I’m glad I thought of it – it’s good, memorable; even if I do say so myself.’
Harry knocked again.
‘Hang on a minute,’ called Charlotte. ‘We just want to get ourselves decent.’ She leaned forward again to brush away a speck of something on her cheek. ‘He’s keen. You did drop the music off, didn’t you?’
‘I’ve already told you. Yes. I did it during my lunch break yesterday. Front office, Mr Tully, just like you said. He said that we need to be there for a run-through and a sound check by half past five.’ As she spoke Helen glanced at the clock; time was getting on. ‘We should really let Harry in, see what he wants. We need to be going soon.’
‘Sound checks. That sounds as if we’ve already arrived, doesn’t it?’ Charlotte said approvingly. ‘You know we should have brought some wine or something to drink while we were getting ready, maybe splashed out and bought a bottle of champagne, like real pop stars do. So –’ she said, pointing with her makeup brush to the palette on the dressing table. ‘Do you think I should go with the blue glitter eye shadow or purple?’
Through the door Harry shouted, ‘Are you decent in there yet?’
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘Depends what you mean, really, doesn’t it?’ she called. And then she glanced at Helen. ‘Are you and him –’ She nodded towards the double bed that dominated the tiny bedroom and which was currently strewn with Charlotte and Helen’s clothes. ‘You know.’
Helen reddened furiously. ‘No. God, no,’ she protested. ‘No, it’s not like that at all. I’m just living here because –’ she hesitated, not wanting to get into any long conversations about the state of her home life, ‘because, it’s easier for everyone, that’s all. And convenient. You know what the buses are like out our way. Five minutes’ walk from here and I’m slap-bang in the middle of town. That’s all.’
‘That isn’t how it looks from where I’m standing. Come on, Helen, don’t be so coy; you can tell me,’ purred Charlotte conspiratorially. ‘Harry follows you around like a dog and he can’t take his eyes off you, you know that. Although personally I’ve always seen him more as Buttons than Prince Charming. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s sweet – but he’s a bit wet, isn’t he?’
Helen glared at her. ‘No he isn’t,’ she said. ‘Harry’s really kind.’
‘Well, you would know,’ purred Charlotte. ‘You’d have to be blind not to notice how much he fancies you. What do you want? A neon sign? Him down on one knee? A nice fat diamond? Oh my God, is that what you’re hanging out for?’ She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re saving yourself till you’re married?’
‘No, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Helen more forcefully, feeling her face redden under Charlotte’s scrutiny. ‘I mean, I like Harry, but not like that. He’s a friend – a really good friend.’
‘So you say. If that’s true why are you blushing?’
To try and divert Charlotte’s attention Helen nodded towards the little pots on the dressing table. ‘I’d go with the blue if I were you. The purple makes you look like you’ve got a black eye.’
‘Oh, bugger the eye shadow. I want to talk about Harry. He’s not that bad a catch when you look at it, he’s quite nice looking – he’s got his own flat, own car, and his dad’s got his own business. You could do a lot, lot worse, you know,’ whispered Charlotte. ‘I’d be in there if I were you.’
‘Stop it,’ hissed Helen. ‘He’ll hear you.’
Right on cue Harry shouted through the door, ‘Look, I don’t want to rush you in there, ladies, but we really need to be leaving in about fifteen minutes if you want to be there by half past. It’s going to be busy in town and I’ll need to find somewhere to park.’
Charlotte glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be such an old woman, Harry,’ she shouted back. ‘I reckon if we leave in half an hour we’ll have plenty of time. Why don’t you come in?’ She gave Helen a long sly wink. ‘Keep us company. Help Helen fill in these entry forms.’
A split second later Harry peered around the door, grinning like a loon, his expression a subtle mixture of nervousness and expectation. ‘Hi, how’s it all going in here?’ he asked. ‘You all ready, are you?’
Charlotte gave him the full benefit of her come and get me smile while peering up at him sexily from under her long sooty black lashes. ‘Why don’t you come on in and judge for yourself, Harry,’ she purred. ‘What do you think?’ She batted her lashes like a film star.
Harry blushed scarlet. ‘Lovely, really lovely,’ he stammered. ‘You both look amazing.’
Helen groaned and looked away. The two of them were still in their dressing gowns. In Charlotte’s case a skimpy, bright, red, silky, kung-fu, just-above-the-knee number that left very little to the imagination; and in Helen’s, a long tartan one that she had bought from a charity shop on the walk home from work, when she realised that she couldn’t wander about in her nightie with Harry around. As it was he still went bright crimson as soon as she opened her bedroom door in the mornings, and he’d been so kind to her that she didn’t want to cause him any more problems.
‘I’m very glad that we meet with your approval,’ Charlotte purred, pulling out a fold of papers from her handbag. ‘Have you got a pen on you?’
Helen knew from experience that Harry was the kind of young man who always had a pen to hand. He tapped the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘What colour do you want?’
Charlotte waved the words away. ‘We don’t mind what colour it is; the thing is, Harry, as you can see we’re both really busy. We were hoping you’d fill in our entry forms for us, weren’t we, Helen? While we finish getting ready.’
Helen looked up at him and smiled warmly. Harry’s father, Helen’s boss at the toy shop where she worked, had given her and Harry the afternoon off for all this. Harry grinned self-consciously and hastily turned his attention to the papers he’d been given. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ He said.
‘We were supposed to fill them in when we went for the auditions,’ said Charlotte, her gaze wandering back to her own reflection as she set about finishing off her makeup. ‘But we didn’t go because my dad knows the people at the Carlton Rooms and they said we didn’t need to audition, but we really need all that stuff done before the show tonight. And you seem like the natural choice; Helen said you’re really good at that sort of thing. You know, like organising and giving Helen a helping hand with things.’
Harry reddened furiously.
Helen shot her a look. Charlotte winked. ‘So can you do it?’
Harry flicked through the forms, while Charlotte patted her nose with a powder puff and then sat back, turning her head left and right to admire the overall effect. ‘So, what do you think? Perfect or what?’ she asked, striking a pose.
Harry, oblivious, was concentrating on the entry form. He glanced up at Helen and frowned. ‘I’m not sure about all this,’ he began.
‘How about you read out the questions and we’ll answer them?’ Helen said quietly. ‘I mean it’s not like it’s an exam or anything.’
Harry nodded. ‘Okay. Fair enough.’
At the dressing table Charlotte was adding a great gash of bright orange lipstick. ‘Uhuh, and then we better get a move on or we’ll be late, won’t we Harry,’ she said, heavy on the sarcasm. ‘How old are you?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, whoever signs those has got to be over twenty-one.’
‘I’m twenty-two, nearly twenty-three,’ said Harry.
‘That’s okay then. So what’s the first question?’
‘Name of the act?’
‘Well, that’s easy enough, we’re the Wild Birds,’ said Charlotte with a grin. ‘Wild by name and wild by nature, isn’t that right, Helen?’
This time it was Helen who blushed.
Dutifully Harry wrote it in. ‘And what type of act are you?’
‘We’re singers,’ said Helen.
‘Female vocalists,’ corrected Charlotte. ‘We’re an all girl duo, and we’re really good. I mean you’ve heard us, Harry? We’re bloody brilliant, aren’t we? They’re going to love us tonight, I know it.’
Harry laughed and then bit down thoughtfully on the end of his biro; there was obviously no section set aside for boasting.
‘They want to know what kind of material you do. You know, like what sort of songs you sing?’ he continued, still reading.
‘Carly Simon, Roberta Flack.’
‘Simon and Garfunkel,’ added Helen.
‘Uhuh, okay,’ he said, while still writing, ‘And your names –’
‘Wait,’ snapped Charlotte, holding up her hand to stop him. ‘Before you write anything down, let me think about that.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Helen. ‘What is there to think about?’ She turned back to Harry. ‘Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson.’
‘Whoa there, just hang on a minute, don’t write anything yet,’ said Charlotte before Harry had a chance to put pen to paper. ‘This is our big chance, our big moment. We could get discovered tonight, Helen. Do you want to be plain old Helen Heel for the rest of your life? Good old down-at-heel?’
Helen felt a tiny residual prickle of pain and indignation at the old playground insult.
‘Well, do you?’ repeated Charlotte, more forcefully. ‘Because I sure as hell know I don’t. I don’t want to be Johnny Johnson’s little Charlie, the girl who should have been a boy, Daddy’s little girl, forever. I want to be somebody, not just Charlotte Johnson. Helen Heel and Charlotte Johnson. It makes us sound so ordinary. And we’re not ordinary.’ She struck a pose and then grinned. ‘Well, at least, I’m not. How about Kate Monroe and Helen Hepburn?’
Helen laughed. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’ she said.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for while now,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s time we reinvented ourselves.’
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ Helen said.
But Harry didn’t laugh – instead he nodded. ‘You know, Charlotte, you’re right, that’s not such a bad idea. You should really have a stage name. Kate Monroe, that sounds lovely.’ To her surprise Helen felt a tiny prickle of envy. ‘I’m not so sure about Helen Hepburn though,’ he continued. ‘How about Hemingway? Helen Hemingway, that sounds really classy.’
Both girls shook their heads.
‘Too long for the billboards,’ said Charlotte. ‘And it’s way too fussy. People won’t know how to spell it. No, we need something catchy and memorable.’
‘Hang on a minute then,’ said Harry, picking up the evening paper from the bedside table.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Helen. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re looking at births, deaths and marriages?’
Harry laughed. ‘No, I just thought I’d see what was on at the Odeon.’
‘You planning a trip to the pictures?’ asked Helen incredulously.
‘Don’t be daft. I was just thinking we could look to see what’s on and who’s in it; see if any of the names go with Helen.’
‘I’m not sure I even like Helen, not really,’ Helen began, not that either Harry or Charlotte were taking any notice of her.
‘How about Helen McQueen?’ said Charlotte, reading over Harry’s shoulder and pointing. ‘Oh or how about Helen Brando, or Helen Eastwood?’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘You need to take this seriously. We’ve only got another ten minutes and then we really have to be going or we’re not going to be there in time for the run-through.’
If Charlotte had any other opinion about how much time it would take to get to the theatre, this time she kept it to herself, and instead she took a long hard look at the cinema programme. ‘Okay. There we are. I’ve got it. The Sting. Helen Redford or Helen Newman. What do you reckon?’
Harry nodded. ‘They both sound good to me. Classy but of the people.’
Helen stared at him. ‘Of the people? What on earth is that supposed to mean, Harry?’
Neither of them appeared to be listening to her; instead Charlotte nodded. ‘I just knew you were the man for the job, Harry. I’ve been thinking – if we get discovered tonight we’re going to need a manager to handle all this sort of stuff for us. You know, doing the forms and the booking and sorting out the transport, and working the money out, and all that sort of thing. What do you reckon, do you think you’d be up to it?’
Helen stared at her in amazement while Harry, pulling back his shoulders and coming over all manly, appeared genuinely flattered. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’m not sure – I suppose I could always give it a go –’
‘Wait,’ said Helen. ‘Charlotte, stop it. You know what your dad said about not saying anything or signing anything?’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Which is why we’re here getting changed and not over at my place. And anyway this is different. This is our business. What do you say, Harry?’
‘Harry, don’t say anything,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Charlotte, Harry doesn’t know anything about show business,’ she protested. It sounded disloyal but she was trying hard to protect Harry from Charlotte – not that it appeared to be doing any good.
‘Oh, come on, Helen, he’s a natural, aren’t you, Harry?’ said Charlotte. ‘He’d be perfect. And we both know him and we trust him, and he manages his dad’s shop, doesn’t he? And you’re always saying what a good job he does.’ Charlotte gave Helen a great big pantomime wink.
‘Stop it,’ Helen said, but Charlotte was on a roll.
‘You can do it, can’t you, Harry? I reckon you’d be ideal for the job.’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ Harry said, wriggling uncomfortably under Charlotte’s attention. Even so, Helen could see he was being persuaded by her flattery.
‘Of course you are,’ said Charlotte, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Anyway we can talk about all that later. Back to business. Names. What do you think? Helen Redford or Helen Newman?’
Harry was busy pulling a coin out of his trouser pocket. ‘Heads for Redford, tails for Newman. Okay, Helen?’
Before Helen could reply he had flipped the coin up into the air. It spun over and over, catching the light as it peaked and then began to fall. She watched it with an odd detachment as Harry caught it, slapped it down onto the back of his hand and then peeled away his fingers to reveal the coin.
‘Heads,’ he said. ‘It’s heads.’

FOUR
Before Filming Starts
‘Helen? You’re awake, aren’t you?’ Bon said, rolling over onto his side and propping his head up on his hand.
She could see him from under her lashes but lay very still and kept very quiet, keeping her breaths shallow and even, hoping to persuade him that she was asleep.
‘You don’t fool me, you know,’ he said, when she didn’t respond. ‘It’s no use pretending. You’ve been tossing and turning all night. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Helen said, finally conceding defeat.
‘I’m not worried about being awake. I’m worried about why you’re awake,’ he said, brushing a stray tendril of hair back off her face. His touch was gentle, his fingertips cool against the warmth of her skin, his eyes glittering like jet in the half-light of the early morning. ‘I heard you wandering about in the night. Do you want to talk about it, whatever it is?’
Helen sighed. ‘Not really. Oh, I don’t know. I’m really not sure about all this.’
‘About all what? Look, if it’s about me going to Dubai, why don’t you come with me? We could shut up the house. Let’s face it, we could both do with some sun, and it’s only for six weeks. It’ll be fun. We could get a little apartment. I could talk to Libby –’
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ said Helen, cutting him short. She didn’t want Bon talking to Libby about her; she didn’t want him to make her sound needy or insecure.
‘Well, what, then?’ He let the silence open up between them until she couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘It’s this whole Roots thing.’
‘I thought you were really keen on the idea.’
‘No, no, I’m not, but Arthur is – mind you he’s keen about anything that’ll earn him a few quid. He sees it as my way back into prime time; it’s just that I’m not sure that it’s such a good idea after all.’
‘But I thought you were happy about it. Arthur seems to think that it’s the best thing that could happen to you. A new start, a ticket out – that’s what he said, and who knows what it might lead to, Helen? It’s a real showcase for you. I was looking at the viewing figures online – it’s international, you know; it goes out all over the world and then it ends up on Dave.’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘I know and you know as well as I do that Arthur’s got his eye fixed firmly on his ten per cent.’
Bon laughed. ‘Come on, Helen, I think you’re being way too hard on him. He wouldn’t see you doing something you weren’t happy with.’
‘How long have you known him?’ asked Helen incredulously. ‘Are we talking about the same Arthur?’
‘You know what I mean, he tempers a healthy mercenary streak with a huge heart. And he loves you; he’s always loved you.’
Helen nodded. ‘Yes, but –’
‘Well then trust him. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Anyway what it is you’re unhappy about?’ continued Bon. ‘You know your own life story. You know where the bodies are buried, and okay so it probably will be painful and I’m sure you’ll shed a few tears –’
She bit her lip and Bon pulled her closer.
‘Sorry, that was insensitive, but that’s what Roots is good at. I think it’ll be the most fantastic opportunity for you and you’re overdue a break. You don’t know what might come out of it. Film, a book? TV?’
‘You know, you’re even beginning to sound a lot like Arthur.’
Bon smiled. ‘And I love you too, you know. But if you don’t want to do it, then don’t. It’s not too late to pull out.’
Helen smiled. ‘That’s exactly what Arthur said.’
‘Well, there you are, it’s got to be right then, hasn’t it?’
Helen glanced at the bedside clock. Another few hours and she’d have to be up and in the rehearsal room they’d booked, putting the finishing touches to the new show she was taking on the road. The costumes had arrived, the pre-publicity had gone out and ticket sales were doing well. Helen and Arthur were just putting the running order together, finalising the script, the music and the songs.
‘You’ll be perfect,’ Bon was saying. ‘Do you want me to come to Billingsfield with you? I’m really happy to cancel –’
‘No,’ Helen said emphatically, cutting him short. ‘You don’t have to cancel anything, okay? The Dubai show is important for you, and besides, I’m a big girl now. I’ll be fine. Really.’
‘You know you don’t have to be tough with me.’ He grinned. ‘Who are you trying to convince?’
Helen smiled; it felt as if Bon had been reading her mind. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been back to Billingsfield for such long time.’
‘Well, other than going home to see my mum once in a while I don’t hang out in my old home town that much either. Life moves on, we grow up and we move away. That’s how it goes. What are you so worried about?’ He didn’t say it lightly but earnestly, in a voice that made Helen turn and look at him.
The light of the new day was forcing its way between the slats of the wooden Venetian blinds, its rays creeping up and over the bed to catch the blonde in his hair, throwing his strong uncomplicated good looks into sharp relief.
Helen sighed and shook her head. ‘You know, the usual stuff – there are just so many reasons: the people, the places, the ghosts from the past, all the things that made me leave in the first place. I’m not sure that I want to go back to all that again.’
This time Bon laughed. ‘You should have thought about that before you said you’d do it. Where did you think they’d go back to look at your roots? Another town, another life, another Helen Redford?’
‘I know you’re right. I suppose I just didn’t really think it through. It seemed like such a good thing and I was really flattered to be asked out of the blue like that, and Arthur was so bloody keen and persuasive, you know what he can be like – a real dog with a bone when he gets an idea into his head. And now it’s almost here I’m starting to think I’ve made the most terrible mistake. I’m not sure that I can go back,’ she said, annoyed by the emotion crackling in her voice.
His expression softened. ‘Because?’
‘Because I just can’t, Bon, that’s why. I’m going to have to talk to Arthur, ring them up, and explain. I’ve come a long way since Billingsfield. It’s not that I’m ashamed of where I came from but it wasn’t as if I lived this fabulous life there, and then went on to fame and fortune, things were – were –’ She hesitated, struggling to find the right words.
‘Things were what? Hard? Complicated? Difficult? You know as well as I do that’s exactly what people like about those shows. They like to see how you dragged yourself up from nothing. It makes other people think that they can do it too. Inspirational, aspirational; TV audiences love that kind of thing. And then there are some of them looking at where you came from and thinking their life is damned good compared to what you had to go through and they’re glad they didn’t have to go through it to get where they are.’
Helen stared at him. ‘And what exactly have I been through, Bon? I wasn’t going to say hard. I was going to say boring. Okay, so I grew up without a mother but so do lots of other people. Being poor and working hard to get out of where you are is boring and tedious, and that’s not what people want to hear. They want to believe in some romanticised version. They want to think it happens in the blink of an eye, some fairy godmother moment, one zap of the magic wand and everything changes forever. Well it wasn’t like that –’
‘I’m talking hypothetically here, Helen – I meant one – not you specifically.’
‘I know but that’s the trouble, it isn’t one, it is me, Bon.’
‘And we both know that there are moments, chances taken, people you meet, things you do that do change your life forever –’
‘Of course there are, but my experience of life is the harder you work the luckier you get. Up until now I’ve always kept all those things to myself, all those years. I had the chance to write about all this when I left Cannon Square; my life, where I came from; and I didn’t –’ Helen paused and then said more gently, ‘I didn’t. And for a good reason, because it’s boring.
‘People have got these ideas in their head about what my life was like; what it is like. They make assumptions, they want to romanticise it all, make it all into a fairy story and it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. It was grim and cold and I was afraid and scared all the time –’ She rolled over. ‘I’m just not sure, even after all these years, that I’m ready to go home.’ The words were out before Helen realised exactly what she’d said.
Bon stroked her back, his touch offering comfort. ‘It’s okay. This is your home now, baby, not Billingsfield. You and me. We’re home. You’re not going home, you’re just going back to a place, a town where you grew up, which you left. This is your home now,’ he said, moving closer and curling up around her.
If it ever was my home, Helen thought miserably, closing her eyes and squeezing them tight to hold back the tears. There were so many emotions she felt about going back to Billingsfield that it was hard to unpick them all. One was the irrational fear that if she went back, somehow she might find that everything she had done so far – her escape, her career, her whole life, had all been a trick of the light, smoke and mirrors, and that she would never be able to get away; that somewhere back beyond the docks and the factories, down past Market Street, tucked between Jean the florist’s and Ross’s camera shop, she would find her real self still working at Finton’s Finest Toys, still unpacking the new deliveries out in the stockroom while Harry checked them off the delivery note. And then there were Charlotte and Harry.
Bon, not privy to her thoughts, put an arm around her waist and pulled her tight up against him. She could feel the fingers of his other hand brushing her hair; feel the warmth of his strong muscular body; and she lay so still that she could pick out the beat of his heart. Whatever happened, whatever Arthur said, and even if it all ended tomorrow, being with Bon in that moment was the best thing that had ever happened to her; she had never felt so loved or so wanted in her whole life.
‘I love you,’ he murmured into her neck, as if he had read her thoughts.
Safe with Bon’s arms around her, lulled by the gentle rhythmic sounds of his breathing, Helen realised just how tired she was. She closed her eyes, finally letting sleep wash over her like a warm sea, and did not fight it as she sank into unconsciousness.

FIVE
The Talent Contest
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Carlton Rooms this busy. We’re never going to get parked in their car park, it’s heaving. Look at it –’ said Harry, throwing his arm casually over the passenger seat so he could look back over his shoulder to reverse his Mini back out into the road. ‘We’ll have to go round again – or maybe it would be easier if I just parked down on the quay and we walked back?’
He didn’t say I told you so to Charlotte, for which Helen was grateful. The last half hour had been a nightmare – Charlotte had taken forever to finish getting ready, dithering about whether they should go to the theatre in their costumes or take their outfits along on hangers and change when they got there, whether they should wear long boots or the high-heeled sandals that they had both bought the previous week, and if they went with the sandals should they stop off and get some proper tights somewhere instead of the fishnets that Charlotte had insisted that they needed the day before. And then, just when Helen thought they were ready, Charlotte had begun a big debate with Harry about the songs they had been working on for the last few weeks. Did the look they had gone with suit the music they had chosen? And then, when they had finally squashed everything into Harry’s car they had got snarled up in late afternoon traffic, and had crept nose to tail towards the town centre – and now it had started to rain.
The whole of Billingsfield seemed much busier than was usual for a Friday – every junction was gridlocked, every set of traffic lights red – as they got closer to the town centre. There were roadworks in the High Street and a diversion running around by Railway Road that slowed the cars down to a snail’s pace – and so now they were running late, and Charlotte was getting more and more annoyed.
She was sitting in the front passenger seat, alongside Harry, her vanity case balanced on her knees, her hair perfect, her makeup immaculate, looking as if she had just stepped out of the pages of a magazine fashion shoot, while Helen was squashed up in the back seat of the car with the costumes and bags and a cardboard box of flyers for the shop and Charlotte’s suitcase, her knees folded up to her chest. Helen had known from the outset that there was no chance she’d be sitting in the front; Charlotte wouldn’t have dreamt of sitting in the back. And there was no way they could put anything in the boot because that was packed full of stock and bits of a display stand for some sort of new doll that Harry’s dad had bought at the wholesalers.
‘Do you think we should have worn hot-pants?’ Charlotte was saying as Harry tried his best to manoeuvre his way backwards out of the car park, through the people and traffic. ‘I saw some in Swanley’s department store last week. I was thinking if we get through to the national finals that we really ought to get some. They would make more of a splash, make us stand out a bit more, wouldn’t they? What do you think?’
‘Certainly would,’ said Harry. ‘Especially with your boots,’ and then to Helen, he said, ‘Can you just tell me if anything’s coming? Only I can’t see round those people on the kerb.’
‘We can’t do anything about the costumes now,’ continued Charlotte, apparently oblivious to all the manoeuvring. ‘Although if we win tonight we could. I was thinking we could nip in on Monday and get ourselves a pair. What do you think, Helen? Could you nip in first thing?’
‘Whoa,’ shouted Helen to Harry. ‘Hang on, there’s a blue car right behind us, Harry. He looks like he wants to get into the car park too.’
‘Well, good luck to him,’ sighed Harry. ‘He can have a go if he’ll just let me out.’
‘I don’t think he’s going anywhere,’ said Helen nervously. ‘There’s another one pulled in right behind him.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Charlotte grumbled, sighing heavily. ‘We’re going to be late now …’
The cars were nose to tail. The car behind Harry honked as Harry tried to reverse out, and then honked his horn again because Harry couldn’t go forward either.
‘I’ll just have to drive in, get past these cars, and turn around. But don’t worry, we’ve still got plenty of time; it’ll be fine, there’s bound to be somewhere down on the quay.’
‘We can’t do that, we can’t park too far away,’ complained Charlotte. ‘It’s nearly half past now and it’s raining out there. My hair will be completely ruined if it gets wet. It’s taken me hours to get these curls right. And there is no way I’m going to be able to walk back from the quay in these shoes. Why can’t we just stop here?’
‘Because we can’t. I’m totally blocking the entrance.’
A stream of people were crossing the road in front of Harry, while beyond them a white Transit van had pulled up outside the back of the theatre. People started piling out of the back, carrying boxes and bags in through the stage doors, so that Harry couldn’t move forwards or backwards. Helen glanced back over her shoulder; they were well and truly stuck. The sounds of horns honking were slowly spreading further back down the queue.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I just jump out here and go in and let them know that we’ve arrived?’ said Charlotte, pushing the car door open as she spoke. ‘I’ll sign us in. Sort out where the dressing rooms are and everything.’
‘But what about all the stuff?’ protested Helen, looking around at the pile of things on the back seat.
‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ said Charlotte casually, waving her protest away. ‘And anyway Harry will help you bring it in, won’t you, Harry? I mean it’s not like there’s that much, and I don’t want them to think we haven’t turned up or anything. I’ll see you in there in a minute, and don’t forget the costumes. Don’t be long, will you? I don’t want to be singing out there all on my own.’
Watching Charlotte picking her across the cobbles towards the theatre Helen wondered if that wasn’t exactly what Charlotte wanted. As she made her way up the steps towards the foyer Charlotte didn’t even look back.
‘Do you want to get out here too?’ asked Harry. ‘I’d be happy to bring the things in once I’ve found somewhere to park. Go on, out you get. I’ll be fine.’
‘You’ll never be able to carry all this lot on your own.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll make two trips if I need to. Go on, just hop out here. I really don’t mind. And Charlotte is right, you don’t want to be late for your big night, do you?’
Helen hesitated long enough for the car behind to honk again.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Harry?’ she asked.
Ahead of them the Transit van finally moved off.
Harry nodded. ‘Of course I will. Stop fussing. Oh, hang on – just let me just pull in to the side over there so I can get out of the way of this moron behind me and then you can get out, okay? Before Charlotte decides to go solo. Oh, and you’ll need these.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the forms that he had helped them to fill in in his bedroom.
‘God, I’d forgotten all about them. You’re a total genius, Harry,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’ Behind them the car pipped again. ‘We better get going before the gorilla behind us gets really annoyed.’ He drove into the car park and pulled up in front of a row of parked cars, a little way past another knot of people unloading even more equipment.
‘It’s going to be a really big night by the look of it. Have you got everything you need?’ Harry said, as Helen pushed the seat forward and scrambled out into the car park.
She nodded. ‘I think so.’
It was raining harder now.
‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ Harry said, leaning across the seat to close the door. ‘I think there’s a brolly in the boot if you want one?’
‘No. I’ll be fine, thanks – I’ll run,’ Helen said.
‘Break a leg, isn’t that what they say?’ called Harry.
Helen laughed, pulling her coat up over her head so that it covered her hair. ‘In these shoes, on those cobbles there’s a really good chance you could be right. See you soon. Are you sure you don’t mind bringing all our stuff in?’
He smiled back at her. ‘No, now stop worrying and go or you’ll be late,’ he said.
‘You’re a star, Harry,’ she said. And before Helen really thought about what she was doing she leant back inside the car and kissed him.
It was only after she had slammed the car door shut that Helen thought about the kiss. It hadn’t felt awkward and Harry hadn’t blushed – in fact if anything he acted as if he deserved it. She smiled; maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
With the rain pelting down, Helen picked her way carefully across the shiny wet cobbles towards the theatre’s rear doors.
It was complete madness in the car park. Cars and vans were parked haphazardly across the bays, while a few others had pulled up in a tight semicircle outside a set of huge double doors that led into the theatre’s cavernous interior. There was a buzz of industry and excitement as people unloaded all manner of props and equipment, the drivers and helpers hurrying in and out of the pouring rain. A magician’s cabinet was being rolled in on a sack barrow, while another man pushed in a long rail full of sparkling costumes covered over with polythene, and then behind him came a man and a woman scuttling in from the car park, each carrying guitar cases and glittering cowboy hats.
Once she was inside out of the rain Helen joined the crush of people trying to make their way through to the dressing rooms. Standing behind a trestle table was a small man holding a clipboard; he was struggling to keep order and stop people pushing their way past him. He was failing miserably.
‘If I can just have your name. I need your name,’ he called after the man manhandling the costume rail along the corridor. ‘You can’t just wander in here like that,’ he bawled.’ I need to check you off my list, you know. I have a list – you can’t just go through there. Oh for God’s sake,’ he snapped as the man, apparently oblivious, just kept on walking, before pushing open the double doors at the end.
‘How am I supposed to know who’s here and who’s not?’ the little man shouted to no one in particular, and then he muttered,’ I need another bloody table and some help here,’ before turning his attention back to the queue. When he got as far as Helen he raised his eyebrows and smiled triumphantly.
‘Well, hello there,’ he said. ‘And how can we be of service today, then?’
Helen couldn’t decide whether he was being sarcastic or not. ‘I don’t know whether I should be here or round the front,’ she began.
The man looked her up and down. She suspected, from the look on his face, that he thought she was someone he could manage to control without too much trouble. ‘And you are who exactly?’ he said, pen poised.
‘Helen Heel.’
‘And you’re a performer, are you, Helen?’
Helen nodded. ‘Yes, I’m singing tonight.’
‘Right. Well, you’ve come to the right place, dear.’ He said, eyes moving down his list. ‘Only the nobs and bigwigs get to go in round the front. Soloist, are you?’
She shook her head.
‘In that case with whom are you singing?’
‘I’m with Charlotte Johnson. We’re the Wild Birds.’ Helen looked beyond him into the corridor. Now that his attention was firmly fixed on her, other people were slipping past unnoticed and making their way into the theatre.
‘She should be here somewhere. She came in a little while ago,’ Helen said. ‘She came in through the front doors.’
‘No, she shouldn’t have done that, I’ve just told you – it’s VIPs only that way,’ the man said with a sniff. ‘Me, I get stuck out the back here with the hoi polloi, while they get the bloody Mayor and all the celebs. How am I supposed to keep track of who’s here and who’s not? I warned them, I said, bunch of bloody amateurs, it’ll be chaos on the night, we need extra staff on the door to help sort it out I said. And look at it, tell me I’m not right? No idea how to behave, any of them – animals –’ He looked at her and sighed; Helen was quite obviously a disappointment, and then he smacked his lips before taking another long hard look at his list. ‘Wild Birds, you said, didn’t you?’
Helen nodded. ‘That’s right. We’re singers.’
‘So you said.’ He tapped the board with his finger. ‘Here we are. The Wild Birds. You’re late.’
‘Only by a few minutes, we couldn’t get parked and –’
‘It says on here that you were supposed to be on stage for a run-through at half past four.’
‘Half past four?’ Helen felt her stomach tighten. ‘It can’t say that. You’re joking,’ she said. ‘The man told me half past five.’
He pulled a face. ‘Do I look like the kind of man who’s got the time for jokes? Have you seen how many people we’ve got to try and get through here tonight? Now that is a bloody joke. The management want shooting. They should have asked me. I was in variety for years, me – on tour with the greats. I told them. I mean this is a complete farce.’
As he spoke Helen tried to get a look at what was written on his clipboard. ‘I’m sorry, but your list can’t be right,’ she said. ‘The man at the box office yesterday told me that we had to be here at half past five.’
‘Did he indeed?’ The little man pressed the board close up against his puny little chest. ‘And which man was that, then?’
‘Tully, Mr Tully,’ she said, feeling her pulse quicken. ‘He told me yesterday, he said we’d got to be here by half past five.’
‘Like he knows anything,’ said the man with a sneer.
‘He was the only one here when I got here. At lunch time. I gave him our music.’
The man snorted. ‘You gave him your music, did you? Well God only know where that’s ended up, then, it could be anywhere. The man is a complete nightmare. He’s a glorified caretaker.’
‘He seemed very nice. Very kind,’ Helen said, feeling totally lost. ‘He had a clipboard too. He said half past five and that I could leave the music with him, and that he’d look after it and make sure he passed it on to the right people.’
‘Well, you just better hope that he gave it to someone who knows what they’re doing,’ said the man. With that he ticked something on his board and waved her through. ‘Female changing, first floor, room three. You can’t miss it, up the stairs, just follow the sound of the bitching and smell of the hairspray. Go right along there. I’ve got a lot of people to see and you’re holding everybody up.’ With that the man’s attention turned to the next person in line.
Helen didn’t move, instead she stayed exactly where she was.
‘What?’ snapped the man.
‘What should we do?’ asked Helen.
‘What do you mean, what should we do?’ The man peered at her. ‘What should you do about what?’
‘About not being here at half past four?’ said Helen.
The man pulled a face. ‘There’s not a lot you can do really, is there? All the acts were allocated a time slot for a run-through and sound checks. It was tight as charity without people buggering about.’
‘And so you’re saying that we’ve missed it?’
‘Were you here at four thirty?’
Helen felt sick but tried very hard not to let it show. ‘No. But –’
‘But nothing, sweetheart,’ said the man, tapping his clipboard. ‘You were down for a four thirty run-through and you weren’t here. End of story. All right? Mister Tully should have given you a copy of the new schedule. There’s nothing I can do about it now. So if you’d just like to move along there please. Female dressing room, first floor, room three.’
She stared at him, refusing to budge. ‘Is there anyone I can talk to?’
‘No, now can you just move yourself? I’ve got a troupe of Eastern European acrobats unloading at the moment – all foreign – vich this and osky that, bloody nightmare making sure they’re who they say they are.’
Helen glanced around. She couldn’t spot anyone who looked as if they were anything to do with the theatre management. ‘So what will happen now, then?’ she asked.
‘I’ll count them I suppose; it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.’
Helen put her hands on her hips, her anxiety rapidly turning to anger.
‘I meant what will happen because we’ve missed the run-through. It wasn’t our fault.’
The man shrugged. ‘Look, sweetheart, the resident sound man they’ve got here is really good: he’s wasted in a place like this if you ask me. But he probably took a guess at what you need from what you put down on your application form and set it up accordingly; to be honest he’s not often that far out.’
The application form, thought Helen miserably, which was currently folded up in her handbag.
‘And there’s no one else I can talk to?’
The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know. God, maybe?’
At which point Helen caught sight of Charlotte further along the corridor. She was standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, waving frantically. ‘Over here, Helen, here,’ Charlotte called.
‘Female changing –’ the man began.
‘I know, I heard you the first time,’ snapped Helen, pushing past him.
‘God, where on earth have you been? I was getting worried; where are the costumes?’ said Charlotte, all outrage and indignation as Helen hurried towards her. ‘I can’t believe you took so long. You knew I was waiting. Don’t tell me, Harry ended up having to park right down on the far end of the quay, didn’t he? I’m just glad I got out when I did. It’s complete madness here and it’s like a bloody cattle market upstairs. Have you been up there looking for me? I can’t believe this, how come there are so many people? It’s totally mad. And they’ve put everyone in together. I can’t even find anywhere to sit down. And the toilets are disgusting.’ Rant over, she looked Helen up and down. ‘So where are the costumes?’
‘Harry’s bringing them.’ Helen bit her lip, feeling a growing sense of panic. ‘He should be here in a minute.’
Charlotte stared at her. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re not still nervous about singing tonight, are you?’
There was no point lying or beating about the bush. ‘No, it’s not that. The man down there who signed me in said that we should have been here at half past four; they must have changed the times, Charlotte. We’ve missed our sound checks.’
Charlotte’s expression hardened up. ‘Don’t say that, Helen. You are kidding me, aren’t you?’ she snapped. ‘Tell me it’s a joke.’
Helen shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. He said that the man I saw yesterday didn’t give me the right schedule.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. How could you be so bloody stupid?’ spat Charlotte. ‘How could you get the time wrong?’
Helen wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. ‘I’m really sorry but it wasn’t my fault,’ she protested. ‘The man in the front office told me half past five. I wasn’t to know there was another schedule, was I?’
‘Are you serious? Of course it’s your fault. For God’s sake, Helen. You can’t do anything right, can you?’ Charlotte raged. ‘I mean, what does it take to get the bloody time right? What are we going to do now? I knew I should have got my dad to sort it all out. I just knew. He said you’d let me down. He did, you know. He said you’re a waste of space and that you’ll never amount to anything, that you’re just hanging on my coat-tails. Poor little Helen Heel. You’re going nowhere. You work in a toy shop for God’s sake. And you know what? He was right.’
Helen stared at her. ‘What?’ she gasped. It felt as if someone had punched her. ‘Your dad said that about me? When did he say it?’ She spluttered, ‘He’s always been nice to me. Is that what he really thinks?’ Not that Charlotte heard her or had finished with her stream of venom.
‘I can’t believe you, I really can’t. Trust you to spoil my big chance, Helen. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’ Charlotte continued furiously. ‘You’re just jealous, aren’t you? And you’ve always been jealous of me. Haven’t you?’ she shouted.
People were staring at them.
‘Of course not.’ Helen stammered. She’d always known that Charlotte had a short fuse but this was something different. She was totally stunned by the fury of Charlotte’s outburst.
‘I’m going to go and ring my dad; I’m just hoping he’ll be able to sort something out,’ Charlotte said, and stormed off back upstairs. ‘He wouldn’t have let this happen if he had been here,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Which was the moment that Harry arrived.
‘Hello,’ he said, hurrying down the corridor towards Helen. He was soaked, his curly blonde hair slicked down over his face, his jacket dark with rain, but at least he was smiling. Helen had never been more pleased to see a friendly face in her life. He’d got their costumes on hangers, slung over one shoulder, a makeup box tucked under one arm and a holdall in the other hand.
‘There you are,’ he said with a grin. ‘Thank God I found you. Busy, isn’t it? I had one heck of a job getting past that little squirt on the reception desk. Who does he think he is?’ He paused. ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Helen spluttered and burst into tears. ‘No, I’m not.’
Harry looked aghast. ‘What’s the matter? Here, let me put these down. Don’t cry – what is it?’ he said, putting his arm around her.
Helen, feeling stupid, struggled to compose herself and tried to explain between sobs what had happened. ‘Charlotte is furious,’ she said finally. ‘But I didn’t do it on purpose, I’m not like that, you know that, Harry. It was a mistake. I only passed on what the man told me yesterday at the box office.’
‘I know,’ said Harry, handing her his handkerchief. It was neatly ironed into a sandwich-sized triangle and although slightly damp from the rain, smelt of washing powder and sunshine. Good old Harry.
‘I didn’t do it deliberately.’
‘I know you didn’t, and when she calms down so will Charlotte. Here, you stay there and look after the costumes and the rest of the things and I’ll go and see what I can do.’
‘Charlotte’s gone to ring her dad,’ said Helen.
‘Okay, well in the meantime I’ll see if I can talk to someone, see if we can’t sort something out.’
‘Really?’ said Helen.
He grinned. ‘It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? The worst thing they can say is bugger off. Just watch the bags, will you?’ And with that Harry vanished into the press of people heading into the auditorium.
Helen waited. A moment or two later Charlotte stamped down the stairs and slumped onto the step alongside her; her expression was like thunder.
‘Harry’s just gone to talk to someone about the mix-up with the times. Did you get through to your dad?’ asked Helen, hoping to make peace.
‘You care?’ growled Charlotte.
‘Of course I care, Charlotte. I’m really sorry. Despite what you think I really didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘I can’t get through to my dad. The pay phone up there is only taking incoming calls,’ Charlotte said.
There was a tense silence.
‘Harry brought the costumes,’ Helen said tentatively, indicating the bags slung across her knees.
‘So I see. Well, he can just take them back home again then, can’t he? This was meant to be our big chance, Helen. Our big break. They’ve got agents coming from London tonight, you know, and someone from the Corn Exchange who is casting their big extravaganza this Christmas. And bits of it are going to be on TV on the local news. You do know that, don’t you?’
Helen flinched. ‘Of course I do, Charlotte – that’s why we’re here.’
‘This could have been my big chance if it hadn’t been for you buggering it all up.’
‘We’re here now, we can still go on.’
Charlotte’s face contorted into a furious grimace. ‘Without sorting the sound out, without doing a run-through? Don’t be stupid. What it’s going to sound like – what’s it going to look like? Rank amateurs, that’s what. We’ll look like idiots, Helen. And I’m certainly not going to go on stage and make a total fool of myself even if you are. And what if that bloke you saw didn’t give them the music? We’re going to look like morons, Helen, and it’s all your fault.’
Despite trying to keep her cool Helen could feel her bottom lip begin to tremble. ‘I said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t do it on purpose, Charlie, you surely must know that. I –’
‘For God’s sake just shut up, will you? There’s no point apologising now, is there? It’s done. Over. And you know what? You’re just totally useless,’ said Charlotte, waving the words away. ‘I’m going to go round to the phone box on Market Street, ring my dad and get him to come and pick me up. You can do what you like, Helen. Go home with Harry, go back to your pathetic little life. I can’t believe you, I really can’t – you knew how important this was.’ She bent down and snatched up the costumes. ‘We won’t be needing these now, will we?’
‘Helen! Charlotte!’ Harry shouted from the double doors at the end of the corridor. He was waving frantically, trying to attract their attention. ‘Come on, come on. Quickly, quickly, we haven’t got much time.’
‘You better run, lover-boy wants you,’ snapped Charlotte, folding the costumes over her arm. ‘I’d grab him with both hands if I were you, Helen, because let’s be frank, he’s the only chance someone like you’s got. You know what people are saying about you, don’t you? Moving in with Harry like that – that you’re only after him for his money, trying to get yourself knocked up so that he has to marry you? And you know what? I think they’re right, leading him on like that. You’re a grade A bitch, Helen Heel – probably break his heart and leave him when you’ve got what you want. Just like your mother.’
Helen stared at her in horror, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘You don’t know a thing about my mother,’ she hissed.
‘Everyone knows,’ growled Charlotte. ‘She was a tart, that’s what my dad said – everyone knew about her. Ran off with some old rich bloke – didn’t want to take you because you’d cramp her style. I know my mum and dad got divorced but at least I know where my mum is.’
Helen could hardly breathe for pain and indignation. Charlotte couldn’t have hurt her any more if she had stabbed her.
‘You can’t think that,’ Helen whispered. ‘You can’t – you’re my friend.’
‘Was,’ said Charlotte icily. ‘I was your friend.’
Harry ran up to them and caught hold of Helen’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Quickly. What are you waiting for? Bring the costumes and the rest of the things with you. I’ve had a word with the stage manager and if we hurry then they’ll let you have a few minutes to do the sound checks. They can’t promise a full run-through, but at least it’s better than nothing, and I checked and they’ve got your music. But we really need to hurry, come on –’
Charlotte’s expression turned from total fury to elation in a matter of seconds. Helen wouldn’t have believed the transformation if she hadn’t seen it for herself. Charlotte beamed at Harry, apparently oblivious to how upset Helen was, and practically threw the costumes at her.
‘Come on, let’s get going. See, I told you Harry was a genius,’ Charlotte said, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a great big kiss on his cheek. ‘But you didn’t believe me, did you, Helen? You are absolutely amazing, Harry. You see? I was right. I think he would make the perfect manager, don’t you, Helen? You’re a natural …’
Still smiling, Charlotte linked her arm through Harry’s and strode off down the corridor with him, and then, looking back over her shoulder, snapped, ‘What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Didn’t you hear the man – we can do the sound checks. Bring the things, will you. Which way do we have to go, Harry?’

SIX
Filming
‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how it feels to be back in your home town –’ said Natalia. Natalia was standing out of camera shot, by the hotel reception desk. She glanced down at the notes on her clipboard.
‘And we need you to come in again and if you could maybe say that thing you just said about how much things have changed since you were last here? And remember when this is aired they’ll be cutting my voice out. So if you could speak in whole sentences. It makes the editing a whole lot easier.’ She smiled at Helen reassuringly. ‘You okay with that? You’re clear about what we’d like?’
Helen nodded.
‘Okay, and you’ve got your case? And so are we ready to go again?’ Natalia glanced over her shoulder towards the rest of the film crew, who were arranged in a ragged semicircle by the reception desk. Felix, who was supposed to be directing the Roots shoot, was watching something on the playback screen, but even so he nodded. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said, making a ‘wagons roll’ signal with his fingers.
Helen did as she was told and set down the suitcase she had been carrying and smiled into the camera. ‘It feels great to be back. On the drive up from the station I was looking around at everything, taking it all in. It’s been a while since I’ve been back home and at the risk of sounding like a cliché, I was just thinking how things haven’t changed all that much, and of course that’s the moment when the taxi turns a corner and just about everything’s new. The big warehouse by the river – luxury flats now – Tilman’s factory gone for a shopping mall. So, so far it’s an odd feeling but it’s good to be back. I’m hoping the big things haven’t changed that much.’ Helen glanced around the foyer of the Billingsfield Arms Hotel, catching the eye of the receptionist who was busy fiddling with something behind the desk.
‘Hello, my name is Helen Redford,’ she said, walking up to the desk to talk to the woman. ‘There should be a reservation for me?’
The receptionist looked up and smiled.
‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s just great.’
Natalia turned her attention to the woman behind the desk.
‘Presumably we won’t be needing to book in again, so can we just go from where you give Helen the keys?’
The receptionist nodded. Felix gave her the thumbs up. The receptionist took back the set of keys that she had given Helen on the previous take and waited to be cued in. The woman was a natural, Helen thought.
‘Sorry about this, but they want it to look just right,’ Helen said by way of an explanation. ‘The phone ringing and that guy wandering into shot last time,’ she began. ‘It spoils the way it looks and sounds.’
The receptionist’s smile held. ‘Not a problem,’ she murmured, her attention on Felix, who gave her an okay signal with his thumb and forefinger.
‘We’re good to go, whenever you are,’ he said.
The receptionist cranked her smile up a notch. ‘I hope you’ll be very comfortable during your stay with us, Ms Redford,’ she said, handing Helen the keys to her suite. Still smiling, she waved a porter over. ‘This is Christov, he’ll show you up to your room and take care of your bags, and if there is anything you want, anything at all, then please just let us know.’ She paused, turning the corporate hospitality smile up to stun for the benefit of the camera, and then added, ‘And can I just say how pleased we are to have you here at the Billingsfield Arms, Helen. Welcome home. It’s really good to have you back.’
Helen smiled graciously right on cue. ‘Thank you. It’s good to be back.’
‘And cut,’ said Felix. ‘That’s fantastic, really nice. Okay, lovely, lovely, lovely. Now am I right in thinking we’ve got one of the suites with the balcony? The one overlooking the quay?’ he asked first Natalia and then the woman behind the desk.
They were causing a stir. People were coming in off the street to watch what was going on; people who wouldn’t normally consider ever going into the Billingsfield Arms. People, Helen suspected, who the hotel management would probably prefer stayed outside, but who were making their way inside, past the doorman, past the plate glass and handsome oak panelling, to watch the filming. There were two men in anoraks, tracksuit bottoms and baseball caps standing just inside the revolving doors and alongside them two girls with babies in buggies. The girls had bare legs, their hair dragged up into topknots. Over by the entrance to the restaurant were a gaggle of women who had been shopping on the market, and were surrounded by piles of thin stripy carrier bags, the bags spilling their contents out onto the plush carpet.
The doorman stood to one side taking it all in, although from his expression it was painfully obvious he was unsure what to do. Did he throw the gawpers out or let them stay? How bad would it look for the hotel if he ended up on Youtube, hustling the hoi polloi back onto the streets?
Helen smiled at all of them. She had already done a round of autographs and hellos. One of the women, who before coming in had stubbed out a cigarette on the sole of her shoe and pocketed it, waved at her. Helen’s smile broadened as the doorman looked on, narrow-eyed and suspicious, as the woman found herself a chair and started to rifle through the complimentary magazines and newspapers.
Usually the Billingsfield Arms was the kind of establishment where people – guests and staff alike – spoke in hushed tones; where hurrying or shouting, shows of petulance or bad manners, were frowned upon. It was certainly not a place for shell suits and flip-flops, puffa jackets and baseball caps. Other hotel guests – mostly corpulent men of a certain age looking up from behind their broadsheets – cast glances in the film crew’s direction, making a great show of not being curious about all the comings and goings. But despite their measured indifference it seemed as if the business of the hotel had ground to a halt for the filming, as the staff crept out to join the people from the market to take in the floorshow.
‘That’s right. Suite thirty-four, top floor,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘I thought you’d already been up and had a look around?’
‘I did, but we have looked at quite a few. That is the one with the balcony, right? In the middle – the one with the view of all those warehouses?’ said Felix. Felix had bright red hennaed hair and was chewing gum.
‘That is correct,’ said the woman briskly; she didn’t look like the kind of woman who took kindly to hippies or chewing gum.
‘Okay, so we’re sure about that, are we?’ asked Felix.
The receptionist’s expression hardened. ‘Of course I’m sure. Suite thirty-four with a balcony. Your colleague booked it.’ She glanced at Natalia, who was nodding furiously.
Helen stood to one side of the melee along with her luggage. They had been in the hotel foyer for what seemed like forever, unpacking the equipment, setting up and then filming her walking down the street, looking up at the hotel, coming in out of the rain, making her way to the front desk, smiling at the receptionist, confirming her booking. All this for what would amount to a few seconds of airtime or probably be cut in the edit and not used at all. But it was getting them to bond, to gel as a team, which Natalia had explained was very important to all of them.
‘We really want you to trust us and understand where we’re coming from, Helen. We’re here to support you on your journey and make this a great show,’ she had said in a rather earnest pre-filming pep talk. Helen looked from face to face, well aware that no one else appeared to care a stuff about bonding, trust or any journey, other – possibly – than the one home.
So far their impromptu audience had hung on through it all, totally enthralled by all the comings and goings. One of the women, who was leaning against a baby buggy, blew a big pink bubble in her bubble gum.
Helen’s attention wandered, while Felix, Natalia and the receptionist discussed balconies, views and who had seen what and when. The hotel hadn’t changed that much since Helen had last been there. It was no less intimidating, no less grand. It stood just off the market square, no more than five minutes walk from the Carlton Rooms and the main shopping centre. Considering how far she had travelled since leaving Billingsfield it was odd to think that so many of the significant moments and events in her earlier life had been played out within a few hundred yards of each other.
The Billingsfield Arms still resembled a Victorian gentleman’s club with few visible concessions to the twenty-first century. Above the huge open fire hung an ornate gold-framed mirror reflecting the wood-panelled walls, the deep buttoned leather sofas and the high-backed winged chairs arranged around low tables. The floors were covered in thick, heavily patterned wine-red carpet that deadened every sound, every footfall, creating an atmosphere that made you whisper and walk on tiptoes so as not to shatter the tomb-like silence. It was a bastion of old conservative values, of Queen and country, with an ambience that was still more colonial than metropolitan.
With the crew still wrangling over locations the little crowd finally began to get bored and wander away. The girl blew another great balloon in her bubble gum and then – as it burst with a satisfying wet pop – peeled the fallout off her face and teased it from her lank greasy hair before following the others back out into the market square.
Helen glanced up at the mirror above the hearth, wondering what she might see reflected in it. Time dragged. Roots had arranged the shoot; they’d promised a light afternoon schedule, a nice hotel and dinner and then a bright and early start the following morning. It had all made perfect sense at the time.
Arthur had nodded when he looked at the proposal. ‘Good idea, split the days – do some of the filming on the Friday afternoon, then do the rest the next day when you’re rested and raring to go, and then the show on Saturday evening. Sounds perfect to me. Oh, and don’t forget you’ve sound checks Saturday afternoon. I’ve talked to the team at Roots and they seem to think the theatre will make a great backdrop – you know, see you in your natural environment. Your pianist will be there from three I think, but I’ll check.’ Arthur had sniffed his cigar. ‘So let’s see, train there late Friday morning, filming and your show Saturday and then back home Sunday, done and dusted.’
‘You’ll be there, Arthur, won’t you?’ Helen had said.
‘For the show?’ He grinned, ‘Oh God, yes – of course I will, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will. I’ve seen the rehearsals, haven’t I? To be honest, watching you work I wondered why the hell we hadn’t done it sooner.’
Flattered, Helen had smiled, although she had rather hoped he’d be there with her for the filming too. As if catching her thoughts Arthur shook his head. ‘You won’t want me the rest of the time, hanging around getting in the way, cramping your style. You’ll be just fine – you’re a natural – and I’ll only be a phone call away.’
Helen had sighed. ‘I’m still not sure about this,’ she’d said.
‘What’s not to be sure of? You’ll be fine, honest,’ said Arthur. ‘They’re good people, Helen. I mean they’ve won awards and everything. And you’re an old hand at this; there’s nothing they’re going to pull that you won’t have seem a dozen times before.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried I could organise someone to come with you if you like. Do you want me to book you a dresser for the show – or a driver? See if I can get Florence or Benny? I know they’d both jump at the chance.’
Helen had shaken her head, and with more confidence than she felt, said, ‘Don’t be silly. And you’re right, I’ll be just fine. Just make sure you’re there for the show. All right? First show of the tour – I’m banking on you to tell me what you think.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be brilliant, you always are.’
‘Arthur, you are such a bullshitter.’
And so now here she was, all on her own, back in Billingsfield.
Helen glanced into the mirror on the wall; she wasn’t so sure now that she wanted to spend a night in Billingsfield or the hotel. It felt like she was being surrounded and jostled by all the ghosts she had left behind. How many years was it since she had stood in this hotel foyer? Since she had looked out over the market square and wondered what the hell would happen next?
Two elderly men with impressive moustaches made a show of not watching her as they sat either side of the fireplace taking tea. A uniformed waiter was serving them; it looked like a snapshot from some long-distant past. Her long-distant past.
In stark contrast, Felix, the Roots director, dressed in a Che Guevara tee shirt, puffa jacket, beanie hat and ripped-knee jeans was kneeling on the floor hunched over a monitor with the cameraman looking on, watching the images on the screen. ‘I think actually we’re probably done down here,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to make the move upstairs and set up up there.’
Natalia glanced at him. ‘Okay, great – I’ll just need to sort that out.’
Once upon a time that would have been Helen’s cue to head back to her dressing room or slope off for a coffee while she waited, but she had no idea how Roots worked and so Helen stayed where she was.
Across the foyer the longcase clock chimed the hour. Helen didn’t like to think how many years it had been since she had last been in the Billingsfield Arms. It felt like a different lifetime; back then she remembered being intimidated by the quiet grandeur, remembered not being sure what to do or what to say and the worry of being asked to leave.
She could still vividly remember what it felt like creeping up those stairs, all the while waiting for the porter to ask her just where she thought she was going, hurrying along the corridors, checking the room numbers, each passing minute making her increasingly anxious. Looking back on her younger self it seemed like back then Helen had been afraid all the time, always waiting, eyes wide open, for the sky to fall in on her.
Helen glanced up at the ornate staircase almost expecting to see her younger self up there at the top, looking back over her shoulder, wondering what the hell she was doing and wondering where to go next.
‘Are you ready to go up to your room, madam?’ enquired a male voice, which brought Helen sharply back to the present.
Christov, the porter, was a tall blond man with a heavy Eastern European accent, closely cropped hair and a warm open expression. He had been standing around throughout the filming, and had already loaded her luggage onto a trolley at least three times at Felix’s behest. Now he hovered, awaiting instructions.
‘What do you think?’ he said in an undertone. ‘You think maybe we make a break and leave them to it? I don’t know about you but I have many things to do other than standing here listening to them all moaning. Although I am enjoying the look on Ms Mackenzie’s face.’ He nodded in the direction of the receptionist. ‘She looks like she is kissing the stinky herring.’
Helen checked out Ms Mackenzie and then looked up at him and laughed. It was an apt description of her expression.
‘Maybe we should high-tail it out of here?’ he said. ‘Like they say in the cowboy films. Get the hell out of Dodge? I can bring you up some sandwiches, and cake and a pot of tea? You have got other things to do, yes?’
Helen nodded.
‘They said you are doing a show here tomorrow.’
‘That’s right, at the Carlton Rooms. I’m doing a one-woman show; songs, monologues – jokes, you know, stories about my life,’ said Helen. ‘And this too,’ she nodded towards the film crew. ‘They’re making a television programme about me, for Roots.’
‘I know the programme.’ He nodded. ‘Busy time for you then. These people,’ he said, pointing towards the crew. ‘They are your friends?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Felix was still deep in conversation with Natalia about which suite would give them the best look. Natalia was nodding earnestly while ticking things off on her clipboard. Ms Mackenzie was still wearing her fish-kissing face.
‘I really like the balcony,’ Felix was saying, his hands working independently to reinforce what he was describing. ‘And that big cream-coloured sofa. Is that in that room, or do all the rooms have them, a sort of corporate look? I was thinking maybe we could get something in?’
Ms Mackenzie pulled a face.
‘Remind me again, is that the room with those big prints on the wall? Like big flowers? I’m thinking that has got to be the one –’
Natalia’s nodding quickened. ‘I agree, and the natural light is great in there too.’
‘Can we get a different sofa?’
Natalia stared at her clipboard and then at Ms Mackenzie.
It seemed as if the only person who hadn’t been into her room yet was Helen.
‘Maybe we could get something a bit funkier in there? Less last year –’
Ms Mackenzie started to protest.
‘I’d like to shoot Helen on the balcony, looking out over the water, something moody and reflective we can use as ambience and cutaways between segments. Helen all alone, contemplating the past. You know how this stuff works. And it’ll make a great neutral space for the interviews that we don’t do at the theatre. Like the anonymity of life on the road –’
‘So do you want to go and set that up now?’ asked Natalia, not that Felix seemed to be listening.
‘Maybe we could go down to the quay this afternoon before the light goes. You know the bit where the new arts centre is, by the warehouses? I was thinking more coat-collar-turned-up-against-the-wind shots. She’s got great bones for that sort of moody look. Now, do we want to shoot her going up in the lift, because if we do we’ve got to do it now, or wet her coat down for continuity?’ Felix paused and, glancing around, caught Helen’s eye, although Helen guessed that Felix didn’t actually see her.
Truth was, for a director, once you got past the early excitement and then all the starry pretensions, the massive but fragile egos, the drunken, the drugged, the whole diva thing, wheeling an actor out in front of the camera, saying the right words at the right time, was just a job. And she had no doubt that as far as Felix was concerned actors were part of the furniture, noisy, difficult, opinionated parts perhaps, but still ultimately something to shuffle in and out of shot.
‘Can we get a spray bottle or something from somewhere?’ Felix was saying to no one in particular. ‘And do you think we can sort out the sofa? Those stains are going to show up on camera.’
Ms Mackenzie reddened and waved him closer. ‘Can you please keep your voice down? I mean we’re delighted you’re here but –’
‘How delighted?’ Felix snapped back quick as a rattler.
She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, how delighted are you to have us here? You see we’re all starving.’
‘There’s a café in Dougland Terrace,’ she began, helpfully pointing towards the doors. ‘Just round the corner to your left; you can’t miss it.’
‘No chance we could eat here, then?’
‘Of course. The Talbot Room is open all day, or I could get one of the waiters to come and take your order.’
Felix smiled. ‘Gratis, is that? On the house?’
Ms Mackenzie visibly stiffened. ‘I’m terribly sorry but I don’t think so – I mean, I could check with the duty manager for you but it’s not our policy –’
Felix leaned in closer and smiled wolfishly. With his bright red hair it made him look like a demented ferret.
The Roots team had sent a taxi to pick Helen up from the station and filmed her on the ride up. Felix had let Natalia do the talking while he peered at Helen thoughtfully, as if she was an interesting sculpture or piece of furniture that he was trying to get the measure of.
‘I’m really looking forward to working with you,’ he said. ‘Jamie and Natalia have been telling me all about you. I mean what a journey; what a story. We’ve got so much to work with here, and you have a real presence, Helen – a real presence, and great facial architecture – I had no idea. The photos really don’t do you justice.’
Helen had smiled and nodded and murmured her thanks, not altogether sure what the right response was to a compliment on her facial architecture. And then she had noticed that his attention had moved on – obviously the pull of facial architecture could only last so long.
At the moment Felix, over by the reception desk – having fallen foul of the Billingsfield Arms freebie policy – was weighing up the pros and cons of carrying on with filming or stopping for something to eat.
‘It seems like a natural place to take a break to me,’ he said, speaking to the crew rather than Helen. ‘And you’ll get housekeeping to sort out that sofa?’ he said to Ms Mackenzie.
‘I’m almost certain that there are no stains on our soft furnishings,’ she began. ‘And I’m not sure that we can move –’
But Felix had moved on. ‘Apparently there is a café just round the corner. How about we take half an hour now, and then, if the sofa’s not sorted, move on to the next location –’ he glanced across at Natalia. ‘Which is where? The theatre?’ He glanced around at the crew for confirmation. ‘So, café then? It’s not looking like we’re going to get much in the way of comps from the ice queen behind reception there. I would have settled for a plate of fucking ham sandwiches for God’s sake.’
Ms Mackenzie glared in their direction; she had frosted over considerably since her big moment on screen.
‘So you don’t want to go upstairs?’ Helen said.
Felix and Natalia both swung round.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ Natalia blustered. ‘I thought you’d already gone up, Felix and I have been here a while, doing a recce, your suite – the best sofa, you know –’ She giggled and blushed, which made Helen wonder if maybe she fancied Felix. ‘Would you like to go upstairs and see your suite, take a look around, get unpacked? Get settled? Are you hungry? I’ll get them to organise some food for you – and then are you okay with what we’re doing this afternoon? You have got a copy of the schedule, haven’t you?’
Helen smiled. Natalia talked to her as if she might be senile. ‘I’m fine; you do understand that I’ve got a live show tomorrow night, don’t you?’
Felix and Natalia glanced at each other. ‘Well, yes,’ said Natalia after a second or two.
‘And that’s not something we can mess with,’ said Helen firmly. ‘We’ve got a full house, and I have to be there for a technical run-through, sounds checks, lighting –’
Felix nodded. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture; not a problem. That was one of the reasons why we got you here today. Obviously we’re going to want to talk about how it all started. Road to stardom and all that. And we talked to your agent and he said it would be fine to do that in the theatre?’
Helen nodded. ‘I know, and I’m okay with that. But I’ll still need to spend time there getting ready for the show.’
‘Oh yes, of course, obviously,’ said Felix, without a shred of sincerity.
‘So let’s get you some food; would you like room service or would you prefer to have something in the restaurant?’ Natalia asked taking her arm, making as if to guide her towards the stairs. ‘Apparently the chef here is really good.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can sort it out,’ said Helen, disentangling herself. ‘You go and eat with the crew. It’ll give me a chance to get my bearings.’
Natalia hesitated. ‘I’m not sure –’
‘I’ve got some calls to make.’
Natalia looked her up and down. ‘You sure you’ll be okay with that? I really ought to stay with you. It’s our company policy.’
Helen smiled ruefully, wondering what Ruth had told Natalia about her drinking habits.
‘I’ll be fine. What time are we going to start again?’
Natalia glanced across at Felix. ‘What time?’
Felix broke off the monologue he was subjecting the cameraman to on the importance of ambience, and glancing at his watch said, ‘Say three quarters of an hour? But don’t worry, we’ll come up and find you when we’re ready.’
‘Is that okay?’ Natalia asked, brightly.
‘Fine,’ said Helen.
Finally given the go-ahead, Christov guided Helen towards the lift. He grinned. ‘So you, you’re like a big TV star then, eh? ?’
Helen laughed. It wasn’t quite the deferential approach she might have expected and she was glad. ‘Not really, not these days, but thanks for asking.’
Christov pulled a comic sad face. ‘That’s a big pity. I was hoping that you might help me to get my face onto the film.’ He struck a pose to make the most of his profile and then indicated the crew, as the lift doors closed behind the two of them. ‘I was hoping that meeting you, this might be my big break. I sing too, you know, you like to hear me sing maybe?’
Helen smiled. ‘I’m not sure that singing to me would help further your career.’
‘But you can pull strings.’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Not any worth pulling.’
He looked hurt. ‘That’s a big pity. Okay, so maybe now is not the moment, but before you leave you listen, yes? You like Frank Sinatra?’
The lift made silent stately progress to the third floor, the doors gliding open like oiled silk as they reached their destination.
‘You’re really planning to sing for me?’ she laughed as the lift doors re-opened.
‘I think it would be a very good idea. What about your husband? Is he coming? I have seen him in the newspapers, very pretty, maybe you both like music. I will sing for you both, something lovely – Dean Martin maybe. You know him?’ Grinning, he burst into the opening bars of ‘That’s Amore’.
Helen took another look at him and laughed. ‘Thank you, that is wonderful. Now where do you recommend that I eat?’
‘You think so?’ Christov said brightly, rolling the luggage trolley ahead of him and unlocking the doors to her suite. ‘I like them all, Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, Dean Martin and that Mack the Knife song –’ he shimmied his hips and sung a line or two of the chorus, ‘it’s very good, very good indeed. They don’t write songs like that any more – Beyoncé, ‘Single Ladies’ – what is all that?’

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