“Lights, camera… Atrocity!”
There ya go. A perfect, gift-wrapped, bona fide reason why Tommy should hate Mark. Why in Tommy’s opinion, everyone should hate Mark. Because he came out with shit like that.
He didn’t want to respond. Didn’t want to have to turn around and acknowledge his colleague’s latest dumb attempt at attention seeking. But as he was the only one within earshot of the jerk, he couldn’t wriggle out of it without being a jerk himself. So without any inflexion in his voice and without looking round he said, “What’s that, Mark?”
Mark was strutting his gear, posing beside the vintage Tyrell 003 that had swept Jackie Stewart to victory at the ’71 Spanish Grand Prix, and which was now being loaned ever so generously by its current owner to the production company behind the Men From Uncle remake. But Tommy was pretty sure the owner hadn’t envisioned its role in the movie as the leaning prop for this posturing extra as he strove to charm the pit girl models decorously semi-dressed—and consequently freezing—in the pit lane a few yards away.
Mark levelled his gaze on Tommy. “I said ‘lights, camera…atroci—’”
“Yeah, I got that. But why…? Why would you say that?”
Mark folded his arms and relaxed back against the polished blue paintwork of the low slung racer. Its curves were sleek and streamlined, sheer car porn to connoisseurs. Tommy grudgingly had to admit Mark looked good in his racing gear. He was playing one of the drivers in the 60’s period movie. That made it sound like a big part. It wasn’t. He was a lowly paid supporting artist—hell, let’s call a spade a spade—an extra on the new film. But whereas Mark looked slim and handsome in his shiny blue and yellow jumpsuit, Tommy looked shit and shapeless in his grubby grey mechanic’s overalls. Another reason to hate Mark. To top it off, the overzealous make-up girl had slathered orange foundation all over Tommy’s face to make him look more Italian—the film was partially set in Italy but was actually being filmed in exotic Surrey—though it just made him look, well…orange instead.
“This new role I’ve just been given. Got the text confirming this morning.” If smugness was a perfume, then Mark was well and truly doused in it. Tommy could even put a name to his brand: Unctuous, for the smarmy shit in your life. That was the perfect word to describe the thirty-five year old with his slicked-back dark hair and smooth, waxy complexion.
“One of the main parts,” he continued, undeterred by Tommy’s lack of enthusiasm. “It’s gonna be big. No: huge.”
Tommy sighed, hands in overall pockets, squinting against the April sunshine. “Yeah?” His interest was concentrated on the two pit girls rather than Mark, however. The Third Assistant Director was herding them over toward the Tyrell as the First relayed instructions to him from the Pit Manager’s office a few hundred yards behind Tommy.
The girls sauntered over, shivering ferociously. Despite the bright sunshine it was freezing at Goodwood Race Track, and the girls wore midriff-exposing crop tops and mini skirts—very easy on the eye but obviously intended more for Mediterranean climes rather than English ones.
Mark noticed them too. “Yeah,” he said emphatically. “Gonna be the film of the year. The decade, man. Huge.”
“So…what’s it called?” Tommy still wasn’t really listening. The pit girls joined them, and Jasper the Third AD, about to pass on instructions, suddenly received new ones, and dashed off toward the Cobra Coupe further down the track where some of Tommy’s fellow mechanics were mucking about with fuel cans. Tommy could see Max poking John up the backside with a nozzle for what had to be the tenth time that morning. Max was Bolivian, very loud and great fun, but he was definitely making himself visible to the crew for all the wrong reasons.
Vicky’s smile brought his attention back where it should be. She was a stunning model with candyfloss blonde hair that had been teased and whorled into golden bliss by the stylists that morning. Her pouting lips were adorned with nipple-pink gloss that drove Tommy mad. She was too thin for some of the other mechanics—as if they would ever get to have a choice in the matter!—but Tommy thought she was gorgeous. Thick as a brained pig of course, but that didn’t matter right then on that sunny, cold April day at Goodwood Race Track. He forgot all about his irritation with Mark for one glorious moment as Vicky’s cobalt eyes held his.
“So cold!” She shivered, holding out her hands and rubbing them together. Tommy began to reach out his own to warm them, but somebody beat him to it; somebody who seemed to beat him to everything. The best roles, the best girls, the best costumes. Even his hairstyle was way better than Tommy’s disheveled crop.
Mark held Vicky’s hands firmly in his. “I was just telling this mechanic about my new film role…”
“Oh cool,” she chirped, with what Tommy hoped was only polite interest. But he’d lost her smile now to the driver, who simply bathed in it.
“Yeah, it’s a genre-shattering debut by a maverick director. He’s going to be the new Tarantino. Bigger, actually! Just got the news today. I’m going to be one of the leads…”
“Low budget, I take it,” Tommy sniped, bristling over the “mechanic” jibe.
“It’s more of an Art film. He doesn’t need excessive amounts of money.”
“So what’s it called?” Tommy asked for the second time. “Lights, camera, atrocity…hmm. I’m assuming it’s a horror film…” He realized how hypocritical his scornful tone sounded, if only to himself. He loved horror films.
Violet, the other pit girl model, was looking bored already. Tommy couldn’t talk to her as easily as to Vicky. While she was equally beautiful in an airbrushed way, she didn’t exude the same warmth as her friend. She was taller, brunette, equally as dim. Tommy had overheard her asking where Bristol was, and that had annoyed him. Not just because that was his city, but because it was, what, the fifth major city in the UK? C’mon.
“No title as yet,” Mark said, still rubbing Vicky’s hands. “But expect something spectacular. The director says it’s going to impact in a big way. And the lights, camera bit is just one of my lines…”
“So it is a horror film. You gonna tell us which agency got you this future blockbuster, then?” Tommy realized he was sounding jealous and thereby playing along to Mark’s tune, and that smarted even more.
Mark pulled Vicky into a warm embrace before answering, then smiled at Tommy over her blonde coiffed hair as he hugged her tight. “No agency, my friend. I applied direct. And it’s going to be so much more than just a horror film.”
Jasper hurried back over, followed by Max and John. Max was beaming from ear to ear as he took in the two lovelies. Jasper looked harried. Mark reluctantly released Vicky.
“We’re going again,” the Third AD told them. “Same scene, but they want more mechanics working on the Tyrell now.”
Max was already raising the can with its menacing nozzle, but Jasper was onto him.
“You won’t need that.” He puffed out a breath. “John, you and Max roll tyres from that pile to the Tyrell. Tommy, pretend to be examining the steering wheel or something. Just lean through the window and fiddle. Vicky and Violet, stand here looking pretty. Mark, pretend to chat to them.”
“Turning!” The bellow came from the First AD, who had emerged briefly from the Pit Station building to check everything was cool and dandy. Jasper followed him back in at a fair old clip.
“And… Action!” The shout was clear and crisp. Tommy bent through the open window of the Tyrell, pretending to adjust the steering mount with his spanner. He was aware of Max and John rolling tyres up behind him, but was unaware of their exact intent until he turned to find they’d blocked him in. Very amusing. He could see the big smirk on John’s face as he scuttled over to retrieve another huge tyre. Max winked at him as he rolled one up to near the door of the racing car and hefted it atop its fellows.
“Cut!” Mark continued chatting up the pit girls, while Tommy climbed over the barricade of tyres. Jasper explained calmly and patiently to Max and John why it was a bad idea to block Tommy in, while Max clapped the Third on the back mischievously and said “sure, sure,” a lot. John smirked and adjusted his huge thick-rimmed glasses.
By the third take, Max had somehow persuaded Tommy to climb inside the priceless Tyrell 003 while the cameras were rolling. The look on Mark’s face alone was worth it; he’d been expressing a desire to get in the racer in for the last two days but had always bottled out. Tommy settled in the bucket seat and grinned through the open door at the wild-haired Max. “Say shee-it,” the Bolivian said, and there he was, actually levelling his Samsung S5 cell phone at Tommy while the film cameras a few yards away were still recording, and the click sounded like a gun shot.
Fuck, Max! But Max just took another pic and then closed the door on Tommy and leaned his back on it, chuckling away to John, who had his precious fuel can back in his hand. Tommy could see Mark glaring at him through the windshield, Vicky looking a little perplexed, and this take seemed to be lasting forever. He shuffled across on his backside to the passenger seat, popped open the door. But the interior was so cramped he couldn’t manoeuvre himself out through the opening. He did, however, manage to get one leg out, realizing the movie camera was facing him, and all this would be recorded for posterity.
He sprawled back across the two seats, his leg still protruding from the passenger door and rapped gently on the driver window. Max ignored him. He rapped a little louder, each knock sounding like a resounding thump to Tommy. Max finally spun round, grinned, and opened the door.
“I can’t get out,” Tommy pleaded. Max grinned wider, grabbed Tommy’s right arm and pulled. Then he changed his mind, and trotted round to the passenger side. He leaned in, chuckling softly. “You in a right fucking mess, no?” He got his cell phone out again and fired off a few more shots, then relented and seized Tommy by both his feet and dragged him from the racing car cockpit. Tommy landed on his backside, and beyond Vicky’s shocked face, he could see Jasper inside the Pit Garage, staring up at the ceiling in utter disbelief.
“Cut!”
That was the end of The Men From Uncle for Tommy. He heard later that Max went on to play a helicopter navigator in a scene with Hugh Grant, sitting together in an actual Wessex whirlybird, the last one operating in the world. That was Max all over; while Tommy landed on his ass, Max always landed on his feet. And that was quite funny really, because Max was a funny guy. You couldn’t help but like him. As for Mark? Mr. Unctuous went on to fuck the living daylights out of Vicky, and gleefully described the whole act in vivid detail to Tommy by email a few days later.
Things couldn’t get any worse for Tommy after that it seemed. Until he met Mark for the second time.