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
