like your biggest fans. It’s just good to have you on hand.’
‘I’ll be welded to the beach, I promise. I need to talk to you anyway…’ I decided this morning that it’s time to share my titanic struggle with the budget. If tough choices need to be made about where the remainder is spent, Tarquin has to tell me where his priorities lie.
‘Yeah, sure… whatever,’ he says, visibly distracted.
‘I’m just having problems –’
‘Lulu, can we talk about it another time?’ he snaps, turning away. ‘I’ve got quite a bit on my plate right now.’
I back off, feeling an idiot for raising it on such a tough day. It’s just that I know that I’m hurtling towards bankruptcy, and it’s so hard to get time with Tarquin away from the hawk-like gaze of Suzanne. If she, queen of the bean counters, finds out the truth, Zelda will never forgive me.
Zelda, Zelda, Zelda. It’s been three weeks since I saw her, and I have to admit I’m almost avoiding her. I have good reason – the fact that I’m terrified I’m not living up to her expectations, my reluctance to avoid her perceptive eye when it comes to Charles – but it runs way deeper than that. However stressful this production gets, all we’re really engaged in doing is telling a story. How can that ever be as difficult as engaging with a reality as fraught with dark possibility as Zelda’s? I’m feeling myself filling up when I’m tapped on the shoulder.
‘Shit,’ says Tarquin, holding out a cup of coffee. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you so much. Here, peace offering.’
If he knew the amount of times I’d been screamed at by queenie actors, or indeed Zelda, he’d know how egotistical his assumption is.
‘Thanks, Tarquin. It’s fine… honestly.’
‘You’re my mate, Lulu,’ he says, with an attempt at a disarming smile. ‘You do know that, don’t you? That’s why you’re the one I let off steam around.’
What a privilege.
‘Sure, yeah. It was just that I needed to –’
Tarquin cuts straight across me.
‘Anyway, we’re nearly set up, so I’ll see you down there.’
And with that he tootles off, whistling, pausing only to pull up the hood on his huge, goose-down puffa, a garment designed to withstand sub-zero temperatures in deepest Antarctica.
‘Cock,’ says Charles, coming up behind me.
‘Sorry?!’
‘Oh, I know you like him, and blah blah blah. But the man is a complete and utter penis.’
Every time I see Charles I feel like I’ve come home. It’s like every single, solitary cell in my body knows every cell of his.
‘No, you’ve got a point,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’d go as far as to say you’re right.’
‘Excellent!’ says Charles. ‘I love to have my wisdom appreciated by a beautiful woman.’
The second assistant director is frantically beckoning him, so he sets off down the beach.
‘I’ll see you over there!’ he shouts back at me, hair extensions blowing back comically in the wind.
Knowing it’ll take a good half hour to get the actors in place, I go and kill some time at the catering truck. I swear I put on at least a stone on every job. Gary the chef foists a bacon sandwich on me and I scoff it greedily, throwing out the odd crumb for the hordes of seagulls circling his van. By the time I get down to the beach, Emily’s already standing in the water, complaining bitterly about the cold. Tarquin’s still in the cajoling stage, the deceptive precursor to out-and-out rage.
‘Just lean forward, Ems, and ease yourself in. The quicker you do it, the quicker we’ll wrap.’
‘I can’t, Tarquin!’ she whines. ‘You couldn’t do your job if you were as cold as me.’
Charles hovers on the beach, face betraying nothing. We share a tiny smile, but I know I can’t risk approaching him. With so much standing around, all the crew have got to do is gossip, and the last thing I want to do is become hot topic numero uno. With a hysterical wail, Emily finally launches herself into the water.
‘OK, we’re going for a take,’ shouts the first assistant director.
Emily is meant to spot Charles on the beach and cry out for his assistance.
‘Sir Percival, Sir Percival!’ she squeaks, so high-pitched that I’m surprised there’s not feedback. Her arms fly up pathetically, making it blatantly obvious that her feet are safely rooted to the seabed.
‘You know what, Emily, I just don’t believe you,’ says Tarquin. ‘You keep telling me you’re desperate to get out, so show me that desperation when