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
