8

Jessica Bean was in the office early. She stood by the fax machine, chewing her fingernails. I’ll have to treat myself to a manicure, she thought, to celebrate when Rob and I pull this off.

Julian Farrow came in. He expressed his surprise at seeing Jessica there before him.

“Time difference,” she explained. “They’re behind us in Los Angeles. The pages could come from Monty at any moment.”

“Well, you know what they say about watching kettles,” said Julian. “Why don’t you nip out to Catering and get us some breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I could murder a sausage sandwich.”

It was a stand-off. Jessica snatched up her bag. “Red or brown?” she asked with a sigh of resignation.

“Surprise me,” said Julian. The p.a. flounced from the room. Julian rubbed his hands. The fax beeped and chuntered into life. “Good old Monty!” Julian saluted the machine. He gathered the pages as they came out and fed them into a shredder.

When Jessica returned with his sandwich and a coffee, he was sitting at the desk pouring over several sheets of paper. “This is great stuff,” he enthused. “I knew Monty wouldn’t let us down.”

Jessica plonked the coffee down so hard the plastic lid came off the cup.

“Steady!” Julian laughed. “I’m going to need you to copy this for everyone.”

Jessica left the room. She stabbed her finger at her phone.

“Huh?” grunted her brother, still in bed.

“Shit, shit, shit,” was her greeting. She told him what had happened.

“It’s just one scene,” he told her. “It’s not a problem.”

“But it’s not our scene,” she wailed. “You do know who Julian is, don’t you? He’s the nutter from the forum who wants to turn our beloved Hospital Corners into a musical. I think he’s had the same idea. I think he’s intercepted the sides from L.A.”

“Shit,” said Rob, suddenly more awake. “Shit, shit.”

“Exactly,” said Jessica. “He’s got to go.”

“Yes,” said Rob. “He’s got to go.”

***

“Early birds!” said Chief Inspector Wheeler when she found Harry Henry and Miller poring over monitors. Miller brought her up to speed.

“Fans, eh? Do you know the word derives from ‘fucking fanatic’? Doesn’t surprise me. Any names in the frame?”

“That’s the thing, Chief,” Harry Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. “People use false names on the internet. It’s quite a common phenomenon.”

“No fucking shit,” said Wheeler. “There’s ways and means around that, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” said Miller.

“Fucking yeah,” said Wheeler. “You trace the wossname - the I.P. address.”

The two detectives looked impressed.

“What?” said Wheeler, reddening a little. “I watch telly like any normal person.”

“I’ll get on it,” said Harry Henry.

“Get Ian to help,” Wheeler called over her shoulder as she left. “Be here all fucking week otherwise.”

Miller rang the technician’s extension. Ian said he’d be with her right away. Miller blushed.

“He fancies you,” said Harry Henry.

“Don’t be saft,” said Miller. “Oh, Harry; if only you weren’t already taken.”

The smile dropped from Harry Henry’s face, serving to make Miller laugh all the more.

***

The disused hospital looked starker than usual in the early light of morning. The trucks and trailers were all silent as if they’d been abandoned, adding to the eerie atmosphere. It’s easy, Dan reflected, to imagine the old place as being haunted, and all the film crew spirited away in one fell swoop.

He called in at the production office to ask for the day’s schedule. The p.a. to the director grunted and said he wasn’t needed; the morning’s scene was between Doctor Kilmore and Nurse de Screens. There would be no stunts, cunning or otherwise.

Charming, thought Dan. He went over to the catering truck to get a cup of tea. He decided to stick around. Perhaps he could snatch a moment with Oscar and perhaps during that minute, Oscar would understand and Oscar would forgive him.

It’s a lot to ask of a minute, he realised.

He sat with his tea and watched people arriving. It was always the crew first. They had to set-up for the day. Long hours on a film, Dan observed. A lot of activity interspersed with longer periods of inactivity. Waiting around and getting bored.

It was during these periods that Oscar had been most active online. At first Dan had replied to tweets, making puns and quips. Eventually the film star had noticed him and had begun to retweet and favourite Dan’s ripostes. Then one day - one glorious day - Oscar had clicked Follow. Dan couldn’t believe it. Now they were able to send each other private messages. The private messages had led to an exchange of email addresses. It was a magical time. Dan felt privileged to see beyond Oscar’s public persona and absolutely thrilled to be in contact with someone with whom he saw eye-to-eye.

Surely Oscar felt the same? Surely he wouldn’t want to say goodbye to all that, that closeness that spanned the Atlantic Ocean?

Dan couldn’t drink his tea. The butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t allow it. He tapped his feet under the table, anxious and impatient to see Oscar, and determined to fight for the relationship they shared.

“Can I join you?” A voice roused him from his contemplations.

“Delia!” Dan shuffled to his feet. “Please.”

“Quite the gentleman,” the actress chuckled. She was already in her nurse’s uniform. “I don’t know; I expected you to act like our American friend. Because you look just like him. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Oscar can be polite,” Dan pointed out.

“I suppose,” Delia sipped her orange juice. “I don’t really know him. Yet. We’ve got a big scene today. Intense. I get to put my hand inside his shirt.”

“Ooh!” said Dan. “He’s a lucky fellow.”

“It’s mad, isn’t it, when you think about it? This job? Any other profession, you know your co-worker for a couple of days and you kiss them and feel them up, well, you’d get your marching orders, wouldn’t you?”

“Hmm,” said Dan, trying to sound like he was listening.

“I’m the lucky one,” she continued. “World’s sexiest man. We’re going to a fashion launch together. All the papers will be there. That should do my profile some good. Not that that’s why I’m taking him - please don’t think that. I really think - and this is just between you and me - that there’s a real connection between Oscar and me. I think we could really make a go of things. Or am I being silly?”

“Oh, no,” said Dan, with a sad smile, “I don’t think silly is the word.”

She reached across the table and gave his hand an appreciative squeeze.

“You’re sweet,” she beamed. “And don’t worry I don’t think your duties as stand-in will be called upon.” She laughed and left. Dan’s mood darkened. Loyalty to the Oscar he was close to prevented him from telling Delia the truth.

Even if Oscar forgives me, he thought, we can never be together. Not properly. Not publicly.

But unlike, Delia Cartwright I don’t want Oscar as a trophy on my arm. I’m not that shallow. Am I?

Fretting with self-doubt, Dan noticed his tea had gone cold. That could be a symbol of something-or-other, he thought bitterly. If this was a Dabney Dorridge film, it would signify the cooling of Oscar’s affections towards me.

***

Pinkie jumped into the car that collected Oscar from the hotel before the movie star was aware what was happening.

“Pinkie, fuck off.” Oscar was in no mood. He had hardly slept; the make-up girls had their work cut out for them that morning.

Pinkie ignored that and wittered on about a schedule he’d drawn up that would benefit Oscar between set-ups, “Good for the body and the psyche,” he announced, displaying a ‘vision board’ he had cobbled together. “Macrobiotic lunch and meditation. Incense and a runic reading.”

Oscar shook his head.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Pinkie pouted. He tried to rest his chin on the movie star’s arm but Oscar elbowed him away. “I’m your very personal assistant,” Pinkie went on, his voice becoming a little sterner. “And you’re going to be nice to me all day long or I might find myself talking to the British press - and you know what they’re like for rumour and gossip. If they ply me with so much as a drink of water, there’s no saying what might come spilling out of me.”

Oscar shrugged. Pinkie had tried this line before. “Rumour. I’ve survived gay rumours before.”

Pinkie grinned malevolently. “But I’ve got the proof this time, you forget.” He patted his man bag. “I’ve got the conversations you had with your little British boyfriend. You won’t be able to deny you sent them.”

Oscar gaped. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“Oh, would I fucking not?”

Oscar was appalled. “You disgust me.”

“Yeah, well, how do you think I feel? Finding all that stuff. Learning that all this has been going on behind my back for months and months.”

“Pinkie, we’re not together. We never were.”

Pinkie’s hand clamped onto Oscar’s knee. “You enjoyed it when I used to visit you in your trailer. Didn’t you?” He walked his fingers up Oscar’s thigh. “When I would get on my knees. When I would bend over the table.” The fingers reached Oscar’s flies. Oscar slapped them away. His eyes jerked towards the driver. Pinkie nodded.

“Of course, of course! Sure! This is not the time or the place.” He sat back, smiling. Oscar was playing ball again. The online affair with that lumpen lookalike was over - and what had it been really? Words on a screen. Swapping stories. Telling each other secrets like passing notes in class. Pathetic.

But what he had with Oscar was the real thing. And it would endure any number of flings and affairs. So what if he had to pull the reins a little bit more sharply from time to time. Oscar needed to be reminded of the rules every now and then. But he always came around.

And now I have actual proof the media will lap up, well, Pinkie grinned to himself, I’ve got my movie star in the bag...

***

The scene was the hospital gift shop. Doctor Kilmore and Nurse de Screens were stealing a moment to arrange a dinner date. Stevens and Pattimore were lurking in the background, ostensibly buying flowers and magazines for the loved one they were visiting.

“We are all set for tonight?” Delia Cartwright whispered.

Oscar frowned. “Is that a line from the script?”

Delia laughed and swatted at him. “No, silly! I mean the fashion launch. It’s tonight.”

“Fashion launch?”

“You said you’d come.”

“I did. That’s right.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“What charity?”

“Well... ” Delia had been thinking more along the lines of her career being the good cause, “something to do with children or crippled animals, I expect.”

“Okay, cool.”

Delia would have preferred him to display a little more enthusiasm but decided he was probably getting into the zone in advance of the camera rolling.

“Ready, loves?” Julian’s voice was tinny, amplified through a megaphone.

Everyone nodded. The clapper loader appeared in front of the doctor and the nurse.

The first take went badly. Oscar Buzz seemed distracted. He kept stumbling over his lines. Eventually he called ‘cut’ himself and apologised profusely to everyone.

“That’s no problem, love,” boomed Julian. “We’ll go again. When you’re ready.”

The second take was just as bad. Julian cut rather than prolong the agony.

“What is it, Oscar love? I’m just not feeling it.”

“I’m sorry, Julian. I guess I’m tired.”

Pinkie strutted over from the sidelines. “I’ll pump him tonight. Get him full of camomile tea, I mean. He’ll sleep like a happy baby.”

Oscar paled.

“Who’s this?” said Julian.

Pinkie turned towards the director’s chair. “I’m his close friend and personal assistant,” he dipped in a curtsey. Eyebrows were raised. Oscar felt sick.

“You’re not actually employed on this picture?” Julian asked.

“Well, er... not exactly,” Pinkie tried his most twinkly smile.

“Then I must ask you to leave the set,” said Julian in no-nonsense tones.

Oscar held his breath. Could it be that easy? Pinkie was glaring at him, urging him to say something.

“Julian,” Oscar smiled, “Pinkie will wait in my trailer. He won’t be any trouble.”

Pinkie huffed. He stamped his foot.

“Whatever,” said Julian. “Now can we please get back to the bloody scene?”

Pinkie stormed off, his heels clattering. No one spoke until he had gone.

“Wherever did you get him?” Delia laughed.

“L.A.,” said Oscar. “I’m going to have to let him go.”

“Fabulous hair, though,” said his co-star.

“Yours is nicer,” said Oscar.

Delia’s eyes widened. The tide was turning in her favour at last, it seemed.

Oscar noticed his stand-in, lurking among the crew, watching the scene, and somehow he felt better.

The next take was flawless.

“Cut and print,” said Julian. “Perfection, Oscar love. Just perfection.”

“Isn’t he just?” muttered Delia Cartwright.

***

They broke for lunch - or rather the actors did while the crew re-set the scene for coverage from other angles. Oscar looked for Dan but he had slipped away. He almost went back to his trailer but remembered at the last minute that Pinkie was there. Instead, he joined the line at the catering truck. Delia Cartwright was delighted to queue beside him. She rattled on about other films she’d been in, productions she did at drama school. “My Hedda Gabler was a thing of wonder, I was told. Perhaps I could give you a snatch later? Would you like that, Oscar? Would you like me to give you my Hedda?”

But Oscar was distracted. He pushed his food around his plate and ate none of it. He kept looking up expectantly at everyone who walked past in case they were Dan. But they never were.

I’ve been too harsh and too hasty, Oscar scolded himself. I didn’t give the guy chance to explain. I owe him that much at least. After all we’ve said to each other. His friendship has helped me through some tough times, and for that reason, I’m going to give him the opportunity to say his piece.

“So seven then?”

“Um, seven what?”

“The time, silly! Tonight. We need to be there for seven. There’ll be a bit of red carpet before the launch, I expect.”

“Launch?”

Delia rolled her pretty eyes. “Tonight, you silly sausage. The fashion launch. You know: for charity. You and me... ”

“Oh, yeah.” Oscar suddenly brightened. It was just the excuse he needed not to go back and have another clash with Pinkie. “I’m looking forward to it,” he smiled, piercing her with his eyes. For a second Delia Cartwright couldn’t breathe. Her legs wobbled, threatening to fail on her.

Golly, she couldn’t believe it was happening. Oscar Buzz is coming out with me tonight and he’s looking forward to it. This is it, this is it, this is it!

At another table, Stevens was tucking into a mountain of fried food. Pattimore was ignoring a more modest sandwich. He was on the phone with Miller who was relating the findings of Harry Henry and Ian the technician.

“I see... ” said Pattimore. “Cheers, Mel. No; we won’t do anything until you get here. See you.”

“Mmghh?” said Stevens through a mouthful of grease and carbohydrates.

“That was Miller,” Pattimore put his phone away. “We’ve got to have a word with the new director chappy.”

“What about?”

“His internet activities.”

“Ugh. Mucky pictures is it?”

“No. This film. Miller thinks there’s something dodgy going on.”

“Of course there’s something dodgy going on,” said Stevens. “They’re actors, for fuck’s sake. That’s not normal. And did you see that one with the hair and the pencil moustache! Fucking hell.”

“I hope you’re not coming over all homophobic again, Benny boy.”

“Nah, course not,” said Stevens. “I’m all actoriphobic. Is that a word?”

“It is now,” said Pattimore.

A bell rang. Lunch was over. Stevens and Pattimore got back to their positions in the gift shop as though deciding between tulips and chrysanthemums. Stevens let out a rip-roaring belch and pressed his hand to his chest.

“Indigestion,” he moaned.

“Not surprised,” said Pattimore. “But it does make you look concerned for the loved one we’re visiting. You might get a BAFTA.”

“Fuck off,” said Stevens.

The megaphone squeaked and a voice boomed out of it. But it wasn’t the voice they were expecting.

“Hello, sorry, everyone, sorry,” said Jessica Bean, through the megaphone’s echoes and feedback, “but I’m afraid - well, let me put it this way: Has anyone seen Julian? He appears to have vanished.”

Silence ensued.

Stevens belched again.

“Trust you,” muttered Pattimore, wilting from embarrassment.

“Er... ” Jessica Bean continued, “We’re pressing on. It’s what Julian would want. Just the close-ups this afternoon, so you background artistes are all released. You’ll still get paid for the whole day - don’t worry about that.”

The woman at the till and a few other shoppers tutted and filed off. Pattimore and Stevens ambled over to the p.a.

“What’s all this about Julian?” said Pattimore.

“I don’t know,” said Jessica, and then remembered to lower the megaphone. Stevens wiggled a finger in his ear. “He’s just... gone. He left a steaming cup of coffee on his desk and his jacket on the back of his chair.”

“Perhaps he’s in the bogs,” said Stevens, “Having a big shit.”

“I sent a runner in to check,” said Jessica. “No sign.”

“And you’ve checked everywhere?” said Pattimore.

“Everywhere. And before you ask if I’ve phoned him, he left his phone on the desk as well.”

“What’s the hold-up?” The American producers had arrived. “Why aren’t we rolling?”

Jessica filled them in.

“How unprofessional of him,” said one.

“Another expensive delay,” said the other. “Stick to the schedule. You have the master in the can. Any idiot can shoot the angles.”

“Seems a bit callous,” observed Pattimore.

“And who the fuck are you?” said the first producer. Pattimore showed him his i.d.

The sculpted eyebrows arched. “We are flattered, Constable, to have your protection. Our only wish is that you’d do a better fucking job of it. Good day to you.”

The producers turned on their heels and strode from the set.

“Ignore them,” said Jessica. “It’s always stressful, producing a film.”

“Even more so, I expect,” said Pattimore, “with directors going missing every five minutes.”

“I’d best crack on,” Jessica smiled an apology. “Got shots to shoot.”

Stevens watched her go, admiring the view. Pattimore swatted at him. “Time we did some behind-the-scenes snooping,” he suggested.

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Stevens. “Lead on, McDuck.”

Pattimore cringed. Davey would have been horrified by that one.

Oh, come back, Brough! Let me apologise. I’m better now, I really am. I’m getting help. It won’t happen again. We can still make a go of it. Please!

“You look fucking constipated,” said Stevens. “Let’s start in the Gents.”