a bizarre velvet turban, and immediately starts trying to ply us with hot toddies.
‘We can’t drink like you, Zelda,’ I protest. ‘We’ve got lily-livered livers, not like you baby boomers.’
I can hear myself talking up her stamina in an attempt to will her back to health. She dodges any attempts to broach the subject, fiercely focused on the costumes we’ve brought. She fingers the fabric of Charles’s frock coat, looking distinctly unimpressed.
‘I wouldn’t have given this house room fifteen years ago.’
‘I know,’ I say pleadingly. ‘But times are tough. We’re working our arses off to make the money stretch.’
I look to Gareth, silently appealing for support. Zelda’s much more prone to sharpness with me, and I know how much she trusts his taste. He can always be relied on to be dressed top to toe in this season’s hottest pieces, although it does mean he’s often dressed in styles more suited to a younger man. Needs must: in the style-obsessed hinterland of gay clubbing it pays to knock a few years off. He grabs her hand.
‘Oh, Zelda, the man’s a fox. He’ll be able to carry anything off with aplomb. I could barely tear my eyes away when we met.’
I ran the coat up from Charles’s measurements and forced Gareth to do the final fitting. Since then I’ve been studiously avoiding any chat about him, knowing my tendency to blush would get me busted. And who knows how Gareth would react? He’s got an acidic streak and the potential for on-set humiliation is uncomfortably high.
‘Is he?’ says Zelda, turning to me. ‘From the little I’ve seen of him he strikes me as rather weak chinned.’
I’m squirming now, desperate to manufacture a casual nonchalance I don’t possess.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say, sounding like a sullen teenager. ‘If you like that kind of thing.’
‘If he doesn’t have charisma, he’s simply not going to cut it,’ snaps Zelda. ‘The whole thing will look tawdry and we’ll all be damned.’
‘Zelda, he’s gorgeous,’ I say, emotion bursting forth. ‘Even better, he’s quirky gorgeous, not all sculpted and vain. He’ll light up the screen and no one will notice any of the compromises.’ I’m shaking now, professional and personal pressure hammering down hard.
‘OK, Lulu, simmer down,’ says Zelda. ‘I know you’ll do a marvellous job. I just wish this business hadn’t been taken over by penny-pinching charlatans.’ Gareth is looking askance, but I stubbornly refuse to meet his gaze. ‘Talk me through your plans for the sea rescue,’ prompts Zelda.
This is Charles’s great moment of heroism. In episodes one to three Lord Percival Lambert fights his feelings for his sister’s comely maid, Bertha, despite their unwarranted attraction to one another. He’s engaged to a haughty aristo who is deemed a perfect match. But when Bertha gets into difficulties while she’s swimming, he races into the water, risking his life in a desperate attempt to rescue her. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation follows and the floodgates of lust burst forth. Cue another ten episodes of breast beating, duelling and galloping hooves as Percy veers between love and duty – although if the horse budget is anything like the costume budget they’ll probably be trying to lure piebald New Forest ponies into the back of the catering van.
‘We need just the right degree of cling,’ I tell Zelda, digging out my sketches.
‘I bet he’s got an enormous todger,’ says Gareth dreamily.
‘Why do you say that?’ I demand, forgetting to self-censor.
‘Oh, you can just tell,’ he says airily. ‘He’s got the confidence of a man who knows he’s well hung.’
‘Gareth, behave yourself,’ admonishes Zelda. ‘It’s impossible to do your job properly if you’re leading from the crotch. Did I ever tell you about my tête-à-tête with Peter O’Toole?’
‘Yes, Zelda,’ we chorus, knowing that her trips down memory lane can last an aeon. I carry on quickly, cutting her off at the pass.
‘I’m going to run up some duplicate breeches in something that’ll tighten up in the water. Maybe something with a bit of Lycra.’
‘They’ll be like cycling shorts by the time we’re finished,’ says Gareth, clapping excitedly.
‘Fine,’ says Zelda. ‘It’s his key scene, don’t forget. This is the point where we should all fall in love with him.’ Too late, I think, and then chastise myself for being ridiculous. We talk Zelda through our plans for the rest of the leads, earning her grudging approval. I try not to be exasperated by her faint praise, aware of how hard it is for a person as driven as her to be relegated to