you’re calling for Charles.’
‘I am desperate!’ snarls Emily. ‘Look at my teeth,’ she continues, pointing at her gleaming, professionally whitened gnashers. ‘They’re chattering like fucking maracas!’
‘We all have to suffer for our art, Emily,’ shoots back Tarquin. ‘Take it from me, I’m suffering.’
I think we can safely say that cast relations are not Tarquin’s strong suit. Emily bursts into angry tears, storms from the water and slams the door of her trailer. With Suzanne speeding towards set, confidently assuming this shot’s in the can, Tarquin’s desperate. And guess who he thinks he can call on in his hour of need?
‘She just swore at me when I tried to go and see her,’ he pleads. ‘If she rings her agent then Suzanne will find out and I’ll be toast. I’m going to get my anger stuff under control, I promise. As a friend, please will you help me?’
Hmm, Tarquin getting fired. Much as I’m going off him, it’s his inexperience that’s saved me from getting busted. Anyone with more nouse would’ve known that I’ve already burnt my way through most of the cash. As I’m weighing up what’s best to do, I see Charles give me a tiny, imperceptible pleading look. Stuck there in his breeches, desperate for it all to be over, I’m his only hope. How can I let him down?
‘Emily?’ I say, rapping on the metallic door. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Go aw-aaay,’ she shouts nasally.
I pause, tempted to turn back and let Suzanne deal with the car crash that is this production, but then I remember Charles’s look of intimacy and trust. It’s us against the world and I for one am not giving in.
‘I totally understand why you’re upset. He behaved like a pig. But this is a war we can win.’
There’s a long pause and then the door creaks open.
‘A war?’ she says, a nasty smirk crossing her chops. Emily is pure poison and the prospect of a fight is way too tempting to turn down.
‘Yes, Emily, a war,’ I say, stepping inside, wondering when it was I became such a master manipulator. Then I remember how we used to play on Dad’s guilt about his absentee parenting skills to bankroll our teenage excess, and it all becomes clear.
‘Tarquin doesn’t think you’re up to the challenge, but we all know you are.’
‘Do you know that, Lulu, really?’
‘Your vulnerability is extraordinary,’ I tell her earnestly. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we’re at the BAFTAs next year, thanks to you.’
‘Seriously?’
Going on our current performances, I’m a way more worthy candidate. I know I’m a two-faced liar, but I’m prostituting my soul for the greater good. Or at least for love, however misplaced.
‘Oh yes,’ I continue. ‘But only if you can force yourself to take his shit for a few more weeks. He’s going nowhere fast, whereas you… well, in six months you’ll be sending him a postcard care of “Hollyoaks” from your hotel in Hollywood.’
Emily gives a honking giggle. ‘Aah, you’re well funny sometimes, Lulu. You’re right, I rule!’
‘Too right you do, girlfriend,’ I say, a phrase I never could have predicted would come out of my mouth.
Emily gives me a damp hug before letting me adjust her costume in preparation for receiving Tarquin’s grovelling apology.
‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,’ he sings as she approaches the water again. ‘Anything you want, Lulu, anything…’
Ten thousand pounds more budget and Charles’s marriage annulment spring to mind. Still, you can’t have everything. Thus far there’s no sign of either, but Charles does give me the most melting smile imaginable, causing my heart to not just turn over, but also do the splits and vault over a horse.
My pep talk has worked miracles. Emily knuckles down and does her bit, only resorting to the odd spot of pantomime shivering. Before long we’ve got to Charles’s turn in the water, which involves a long sprint up the beach before he frantically throws himself in. ‘Wish me luck,’ he whispers as the second assistant director takes him up the beach to the starting point. Tarquin, meanwhile, is virtually orgasming at the prospect of the running shot. He’s channelling Chariots of Fire and imagining he’s somehow going to snare an Oscar nomination for a low-budget TV potboiler. His arms are windmilling around as he instructs the camera team to do his bidding. ‘You’re in turmoil!’ he’s telling Charles. ‘You’ve been stamping down on your passion for Bertha for months, but now it’s cascading out of you!’ Charles looks faintly bemused