Nell ran herself a bath and looked at the sheath of silver satin, shrouded by plastic and looped by its hanger over the bathroom door. She’d been given ten tickets for that night’s premiere of Mary Peacock, but, apart from Charlie, who had promised to accompany her, she wouldn’t see the others until she reached her seat. Her mother would be there, her sister and her sister’s husband, her aunts and uncle, and of course her mother’s boyfriend Lewis. Poppy, from PR, had offered to come round and escort her to the cinema, but Nell said she thought she could manage the short journey in a chauffeur-driven car from Queen’s Park to Leicester Square alone.
Nell rummaged through the suitcase which lay open on her bedroom floor. She’d bought Spanx to hold her tummy in and a balcony bra with detachable straps to wear under her dress. She’d found both these things in Austin, Texas on a weekend’s break from filming on location in the desert, and they’d remained in their packets, and would have remained in their packets indefinitely, if it wasn’t for tonight. The PR firm who were promoting the film had hired Tara Laurie to organise her dress. Tara had rung round the big shops, gathering together anything they had in her size, so that the day she arrived back in the UK she’d called to let her know that the dresses were on their way to her by cab. As they whisked through the London streets, Nell imagined she was about to meet a group of new and influential friends – austere, gushing, nondescript, casual, one flimsy green item, shy and demure. What if we don’t get on, she found herself thinking, and she watched nervously as they were lifted up the staircase on their rail. Nell held her breath and tried them all, one after the other, keeping her highest heels on, swishing in and out from the bathroom for regular appraisals while Tara and her assistant Milly kept a constant beam of professional enthusiasm streaked across their faces. But right from the start it was the silver dress that Nell had hopes for. A floor-length swathe of mettle-dark satin, with nipped-in waist and one bare shoulder, which she imagined might transform her into the film star she was expected to become.
‘Oh yes,’ Tara mused. ‘I think this is it. I really do.’ And raising the bar on her enthusiasm, Milly gasped. ‘It’s perfect.’
The Romanian seamstress who’d accompanied them moved in with her bracelet of pins. The dress was a little tight across the hips, but if she hoiked it up and drew it in under the bum, not only would Nell look spectacularly curvaceous, she would also be able to sit down.
In the three days since she’d been back, Nell had been consumed by interviews and photo shoots, phone calls, fittings, schedules and questionnaires. The London she’d left behind, a place of anonymity and indifference, of pavements pounded, buses missed, overcrowded Tube trains borne in silence, had transformed into a buzzing, swarming vortex of interest. In her. The people she met now were captivated by her, greedy for every detail of her life. They wanted to know about her early childhood, her parents’ divorce, her move to London, her father’s new start in the Highlands with his new wife, who refused to let them meet. Nell told them everything, uplifted by their attention, supplying names and dates and details, obedient to the last. ‘And is it true,’ one powdery woman leant close, ‘that the director of Mary Peacock, Ciaran Conway, was so smitten with you that he’s planning a sequel just so you can work together again?’
‘No!’ Nell protested, heat rising to her face, ‘I mean, of course, I’d love to work with Ciaran again . . .’ And flustered, she attempted to explain the close friendships that could develop on a film set, especially when people were stranded in the middle of nowhere for months on end. But what she really wanted to ask was . . . Really? Is that true? And if so, how does anybody know? She felt her heart pounding as she remembered the last time they’d seen each other, how she’d stumbled from the wrap party to find Ciaran, standing, smoking alone in the black night. Three months of longing and a recent double shot of brandy, must have given her the courage she usually lacked, because she’d stolen up behind him and snaked her arms around his waist. ‘This isn’t what you need,’ Ciaran had said, even as he turned to hold her. ‘You don’t want to get tangled up with me.’
‘It might be.’ She’d stayed in the circle of his arms. ‘It might be what I need.’ And they’d clung to each other as he whispered what she already knew. That he had one family, already broken, back in Ireland, and for the best part of that year he’d be in Australia doing post-production on this film. ‘You have a whole new life ahead of you,’ he whispered, and it was true, her bags were packed, a car booked to take her to the airport the next day to catch a plane to Moscow.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she said, ‘it’ll never be the same, whatever else I do,’ and he’d taken her hand and kissed it, and then, as if hardening his resolve, he’d lifted the canvas doorway of the party tent and shown her back inside.
Frustrated, Nell’s interrogators moved on to the next film, listening intently as she described her time in Russia, the bleak grey sameness of the cities, the occasional romantic vision of a summer dacha glimpsed from the window of a train. But soon that conversation became tangled in the scandal of her co-star’s attempt to throw himself from a third-floor window after being asked to repeat the same short scene for the twenty-seventh take. By the time they’d discussed her stint in Texas, an oddly peaceful three months playing a kidnapped pioneer, she forgot which film she was meant to be promoting. Mary Peacock, she wrote in large letters by the phone, and she stopped to place herself back in that winter morning, muffled and beautiful with snow, when this same telephone had woken her and spun her into a new life.
That first Christmas she’d spent flying. Reclining in business class with a small community of festive abstainers, she’d soared to the other side of the world. But the Christmas after, not wanting to be alone again, she’d brought her mother out to America to stay with her, and they’d worn cowboy hats and thick plaid shirts and eaten a BBQ dinner in a dusty windswept yard. A band had played, and later, fired with tequila, the heaviest, oldest, most awkward members of the crew had danced a square dance under a tarpaulin rigged up below the stars.
Dear Ciaran, Nell had written – postcards, emails, letters, describing the thrills and terrors of her new career, wanting him to know how she was using the skills she’d learnt from him on Mary Peacock. But she never sent them. She was too far from home to risk the chance of not getting a reply. And the possibility of that, if she allowed herself to think of it, was like a blow.
The only real person Nell had seen since she’d been back was Sita. Sita had arrived that first night with Indian food in Tupperware, cooked by her new mother-in-law, and with a bump, almost hidden, below her layers of clothes.
‘Sita!’ They’d embraced and Nell had felt the heat in her friend’s body, the hard stretched skin of her belly butting out against her own. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I couldn’t,’ Sita looked distressed. ‘Not over the phone.’
Nell hugged her again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just . . . it’s such a big thing, that’s all.’
‘Well, I am married . . .’ Sita laughed. ‘I’m thirty-two. If I’d waited much longer my sister would be a grandmother before I’d begun.’
‘It’s wonderful. I’m so happy,’ Nell sniffed. ‘I really am. Can I be godmother?’
‘You can be Aunty. One of the Aunties. For ever and ever.’
They laughed and sat down to eat, and as Nell forked out aubergine and cauliflower and the long green fronds of ladies’ fingers, she asked, ‘So is this it? I mean. Is it over for you. Acting?’
‘It gave me up, remember.’
‘But you were so good.’ Nell didn’t know why she was doing this. ‘At youth theatre. The best of us all.’
‘Not true. And anyway . . .’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not about that, is it? I’m happy for the moment. I feel as if I’ve fallen out of love with someone unavailable, someone quite unkind, and found . . . well, Raj, who’s lovely and who’s actually here.’
Nell took another forkful of rice. She felt stubborn and unbending. ‘Maybe now I’m back we could do one of our shows.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Sita tied her black hair into a knot where it waited to unravel on the silk nape of her neck, ‘the film star and the pregnant receptionist.’
‘What does your agent say?’
‘Not much.’
For a while they looked at each other and then they both laughed. Nell got up and put some music on, the old blues tracks they used to play on Saturday mornings when they cleaned the house.
‘Do you remember that time we went to Somerset?’ Sita began to sway.
‘Yes,’ Nell said. ‘How desperate were we? Me, I mean. You were always the cool one, of course.’
‘Look at you now, though.’
‘True. But look at you.’
Sita held out her hands and they danced, laughing, bumping up against cupboards, sweeping aside newspaper and magazine cuttings, scattering piles of party invitations to the floor.
‘I wish you’d stay,’ Nell said. She’d told Sita she could have the flat, share it with Raj, she’d probably hardly ever be there anyway, but on their marriage Raj’s father had given them the deposit for a house in New Cross, with two bedrooms and a small paved garden of their own, and although Sita confided that she’d have preferred to stay here, renting, they both knew it was a lie.
Nell dragged herself up from the slick cooling water of the bath. She rubbed herself dry and wrapped herself in one of those luxuriantly thick white towelling dressing gowns every hotel begs you not to steal. But she’d been saved from such temptation by the unexpected gift of an identical one from the producers of the film, its title, Mary Peacock, in red letters embroidered on the back. How odd, she thought, when I could finally afford to buy it, and she started to see how much easier it was to stay rich once you’d begun. For a moment Nell lay down in the scramble of her bed. It was the first time in three days that she’d had a moment to herself and she allowed herself three deep breaths before picking up the schedule Poppy had biked over earlier that afternoon.
Mary Peacock. Royal Premier Call Sheet. Nell Gilby.
6.05. Car to collect you from home and transfer you to the cinema.
Dress Code. Black Tie. (Gloves need not be worn.)
Gloves? Nell looked around. Who ever mentioned gloves?
6.45. Arrive at cinema location where you will be met and escorted up the press line.
You will then be escorted to the upper foyer where you will be re-united with your guest and wait for the Royal Presentation.
Attached was a second sheet:
Royal Protocol.
• As His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales and Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cornwall move from person to person along the presentation line . . .
Just then the doorbell rang. My guest! she thought, and a flutter of apprehension flooded through her. If only she’d asked Sita to accompany her, but of course Sita wanted to go with Raj, and anyway, it seemed right that she ask Charlie. Charlie had asked her when The Haven Report opened, even if that was only because she’d rowed with her current boyfriend – how glorious that she couldn’t now remember his name – and taking Nell had been part of her revenge.
‘One minute.’ Nell glanced into the mirror at the top of the stairs and gave her hair a quick scrunch. ‘I’m coming,’ and as she ran down to the front door in slipperless feet she appraised her perfect cherry-red nails as if she was someone else. But it wasn’t Charlie, it was Melissa, the make-up woman, wrapped up against the cold, with a wheelie bag of equipment so large she had trouble heaving it up the stairs. ‘I’d like a natural look, if that’s allowed,’ Nell said, and then remembering who she was now, she added, with more conviction, ‘Natural, but utterly gorgeous please.’ And she helped her into the kitchen.
Not long after, Tara Laurie and Milly arrived, shivering and blowing on their hands, although Nell could see the taxi they’d climbed out of, roaring warmly in the street.
‘Bloody hell,’ Tara swore, ‘it’s Arctic,’ and looking Nell over, swaddled in her towelling gown, she warned her, not for the first time, that she must not, under any circumstances, wear a coat that night. ‘You can wear one in the car, that’s fine, but don’t be tempted to keep it with you, even draped over your shoulders, or the dress won’t get exposure. If the dress doesn’t get photographed, the designer will become hysterical, and guess who’ll get it in the neck? Yours truly. That’s who.’
‘OK,’ Nell backed away, and she looked out of the window at the deep grey of the darkening afternoon.
Melissa was halfway through Nell’s make-up when the doorbell rang again. ‘I’ll go,’ Milly offered.
‘No, it’s all right.’ Nell waited while her eyelashes were released from a medieval torture instrument that promised to add an inch to their length. ‘I’ll get it.’ Her hair was bunched on top of her head, and her face was half made-up, but even so she ran down the stairs.
‘Charlie!’ Charlie stood before Nell in a parka with the hood pulled up. There was something different about her, but before Nell could decipher what it was, Charlie had hold of her in a hug. ‘Careful, careful,’ she warned, as the sticky sheen of her foundation smudged.
‘It’s all right,’ Charlie said, ‘I’ve got my dress in here,’ and she held up a plastic bag.
‘No!’ Nell laughed, ‘I meant of me.’ And Charlie put her head on one side. ‘You look great.’
‘And you.’ Nell stepped back to get a better look.
‘What?’ Charlie pulled down her hood.
‘Nothing,’ Nell blushed. ‘You just look . . . I haven’t seen you for so long, that’s all.’
‘Look what?’
‘Your hair . . .’ Charlie’s hair stood out from her head in an afro. ‘Is it for a part?’
‘No. I just thought I’d try it natural. Curiosity got the better of me. I haven’t seen the real thing since I was fourteen.’
Nell led the way upstairs. ‘I like it.’ She turned to watch her. ‘It’s just a shock, that’s all.’ Now, as Charlie removed her coat, Nell could see that she was fatter too. Not fat – that was unimaginable, but her angular frame had softened, her face filled out into an oval, the new line of her jaw flowing softly towards her ear.
‘Hi everyone,’ Nell ushered her into the room. ‘This is my friend, Charlie Adedayo-Martin.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Charlie told them. ‘I’ll do my own make-up, and right now nothing makes much difference to my hair.’
‘OK,’ Melissa looked affronted. ‘I’m here if you change your mind.’
‘So what have you got in that fancy bag?’ Nell placed herself back down before the sea of make-up and tilted her face for more, while Charlie drew out an ivory silk dress with creamy feathers in the low V of the back. ‘I’ll hang it up if that’s all right,’ and retrieving a hanger from the carrier she slung it from a high cupboard door.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to iron it?’ Nell squinted at the jagged creases, but Charlie shrugged. ‘It’s OK, I’ve worn it before. Better the crumpled look than the burnt.’
‘I can press it,’ Milly offered. She was already pressing Nell’s dress, steaming its perfectly smooth satin through a series of wet cloths. Charlie was obstinate. ‘I promise you. It’s fine.’
Tara’s phone rang and she barked into it, giving instructions, placating, laying down the law to a virtually silent colleague at the other end.
‘So Charlie . . .’ Nell was desperate for news, but Melissa was outlining her lips with a small slick, ticklish brush. ‘What . . . I mean . . . are . . .’ But the intensity of Melissa’s face, working so close to her own, forced her to give up.
‘Tea anyone?’ Charlie put the kettle on, moving knowledgeably around the room, although in all the years Nell had lived there, she’d probably only visited twice. Nell was always the one who rushed round to hers, administering comfort, reassuring her with her own inferior life, so that however hopeless Charlie might feel about her lovers, her finances, her career, compared to Nell’s it was never quite so bad.
‘Give her up,’ Sita had urged, exasperated. But Nell could never do it. Once, she’d even taken the train to Manchester after Charlie had hyperventilated on the phone, but by the time she’d arrived, Charlie had found solace in the arms of the lighting cameraman, and Nell had ended up staying in her rented room alone.
Charlie placed the old polka-dot teapot on the table. ‘Anything else you need?’ she offered, having set out mugs and milk, and Nell asked if she’d bring in a mirror. ‘I can do that.’ Milly set down the iron, but Charlie was already on her way. She reappeared with the largest, heaviest mirror, unhooked from the bathroom wall. She heaved it on to the table and held it with both hands. ‘You look beautiful,’ she said, serious, before Nell had a chance to look into it, and Nell breathed out slowly, dropping her shoulders, steeling herself for who she would see.
‘Yes. That’s good.’ Her skin was glowing, her lips the cherry of her toes. Her eyes were smudged with smoky shadows, her cheeks moulded into hollowed planes.
‘Enough?’ Charlie took the mirror and propped it up above the mantelpiece. ‘What time do we have to leave here?’ She started on her own make-up.
‘The car’s coming at six, I think,’ Nell said. ‘There’s a schedule somewhere.’ Melissa was brushing and dampening her hair. ‘It’s on my bed.’
‘I’ll look.’
‘Sorry about the mess.’ Nell felt the blood spread warm over her neck. How strange to have Charlie Adedayo-Martin running around for her, and she thought of the premiere of Celestina, and how she’d sat up all night, stitching together panels of black lace, hopeful the result would create some old-world glamour to match the event. But on the night, surrounded by girls in tangerine crushed silk and bare brown legs, she realised she looked like an undercover bodyguard, or someone’s maiden aunt.
‘ “Nell Gilby,” ’ Charlie read as she came in. ‘ “Royal Premiere of Mary Peacock, in aid of the Actors’ Benevolent Fund.” ’ She stood at the end of the table. ‘ “Royal Protocol,” ’ she began, and then paused. ‘Have you read this, Nell?’
‘Some.’
‘Oh my God.’ Charlie composed herself, a smile hovering on her lips. ‘ “As His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales and Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cornwall move from person to person along the presentation line, they will be introduced to each person by their full name and title.” ’ She coughed and lowered her voice to give the protocol the weight it deserved. ‘ “As Her Royal Highness hears your name, she will offer you her hand. HRH’s hand should be taken lightly, swiftly followed by a bow of the head – men, a small bow, curtsey or bow of the head – women,” ’ Charlie attempted to do both, ‘ “and one should say, ‘Your Royal Highness’ or ‘Ma’am’ (rhyming with Spam) whilst shaking her hand.” ’
Nell, Melissa, even Tara shrieked. ‘Couldn’t they have thought of something more sophisticated?’ Charlie inspected the sheet of paper. ‘Ham . . . Pam . . . What else is there?’
‘Lamb?’ Nell offered, but Charlie thought that might confuse the foreigners. ‘Ma’amb, or even Maaaarm,’ and Nell became so convulsed with laughter the hot tongs Melissa was using tangled in her hair.
‘Well, I suppose Spam is fundamentally British.’ Charlie raised her hand for calm. ‘There’s more.’ She cleared her throat. ‘ “When introduced to HRH The Prince of Wales, one should shake his hand, swiftly followed by a bow of the head – men. A small bob (curtsey) or bow of the head – women. And one should say ‘Your Royal Highness’ or ‘Sir’ whilst shaking his hand. Please note,” ’ she paused for greater effect, ‘ “that women have the option to curtsey – a small bob is sufficient – or to bow their head.” Now this is the really important bit. “You should not initiate a conversation or ask Their Royal Highnesses any questions. Should Her Royal Highness ask you a question, answer naturally using the word ‘Ma’am’ (rhyming with Spam), e.g. HRH: ‘Did you enjoy working on the film?’ Reply: ‘Yes, Ma’am, it was . . .’ ” ’ Charlie’s shoulders began to shake. ‘I promise I’m not making this up. “If asked a question by His Royal Highness,” ’ she struggled on, ‘ “answer with the word ‘Sir’ as above. If spouses or partners are invited to witness the royal line-up they should remain behind the presentee and SHOULD NOT be brought forward into the line. Once TRHs have passed down the line, the presentees will be ushered to the stage, or to their seats.” ’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘So, Nell Gilby, tell me,’ Charlie’s royal accent was plummier than the Prince of Wales’s, ‘did you enjoy working on the film?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Nell attempted a sitting curtsey. ‘It was great fun. It was . . .’
‘Time’s up,’ she barked. ‘HRH’ll be on to the next one by now. Do you think he’s got all night?’ She turned to Tara Laurie, whose telephone had fallen finally from her ear. ‘So tell me, did you enjoy working on the film?’
Tara looked starrily up at Charlie and grappled for a reply.
‘Off to the Tower,’ Charlie insisted. And Nell begged her to stop.
‘Right.’ Melissa released the tongs. ‘Have a check and see what you think. We can always have a last go once your dress is on.’ She blotted Nell’s face with powder and touched up the mascara streak of her hysterical tears. There was a moment’s silence when Nell stood up. ‘Gorgeous,’ Charlie breathed, and Tara moved in and fastened a pair of drooping diamond earrings to the lobes of each ear.
‘Yes,’ Milly sighed. ‘Very lovely.’
Nell inspected herself in the mirror. ‘Thanks.’ She couldn’t stop smiling. Her hair fell in glossy waves halfway down her back and her face was bright as a flower.
‘Right then,’ Tara gathered up the dress, pressed and damply steaming from the iron. ‘Where do you want to get changed?’
‘It’s OK,’ Charlie took it from her, unhooking her own dress from the cupboard. ‘We’ll call you if we need you.’ And holding them both aloft she led the way along the hall to Nell’s old bedroom.
‘Did you see her face?’ Nell shivered in her bra and knickers.
‘She’ll get over it,’ Charlie said. ‘Those women are tough as old boots.’ She held the silver material as Nell carefully stepped in.
‘So,’ Charlie’s hands fluttered across her back. ‘How have you actually been?’
Nell looked round at her, closer to Charlie’s height now that she’d slipped into her shoes.
‘I mean . . .’ Charlie was serious. ‘I know how lonely it can be on a film set. I was worried. I read something about Ciaran . . .’
Nell resisted her old habit of spilling out all her news. ‘It can be lonely,’ she agreed, and she sucked in her stomach to help Charlie ease up the zip, slowly, carefully, her fingers straining as they pulled the cloth in tight.
‘You know,’ Charlie breathed low over her shoulder, ‘for the longest time now, I’ve wanted to say sorry.’
Nell felt her bare arms shiver. ‘For what?’
‘You know. For . . .’ Nell could hear her breathing, and then it was blocked out by the sound of her own heart beating, the rush of her insides, on fire. ‘Not being a proper friend to you. At college, you know. And after.’
There was a break in her voice and Nell turned round. ‘Hey,’ she put up a hand to catch one slipping tear. ‘What is it?’ But Charlie only sniffed. ‘I’m happy that you’re back, that’s all. I missed you.’
Nell felt herself quake. ‘It’s all right. I never thought that, anyway. I never minded, really. Well, not that much.’ She laughed. ‘I’m just glad that we’re still friends. Even if you only want to know me now because I’m rich and famous.’
‘At least one of us is,’ Charlie wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll need someone to support me in my old age. It’s either that or the Actors’ Benevolent Fund.’
‘Shut up.’
‘No really. I’ve been working at the health food store at the bottom of my road.’
‘You haven’t!’
‘Rearranging the vegetables to hide the mouldy organic brown bits. It’s actually quite fun. You wouldn’t believe the propositions I get in there. If I wasn’t on a sabbatical from sex, who knows what I’d be up to.’
‘Car’s here,’ Tara’s voice called tersely from the kitchen.
Nell started in terror.
‘Tell it to wait,’ Charlie shouted. And she put out her hands and held them lightly over Nell’s head.
Nell closed her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’ She felt a warm blanket wrap itself around her. She sighed. Even her shoes felt more comfortable.
‘It’s all right,’ Charlie whispered, ‘they always send the car too early,’ and moving around her, swirling the energy, so that it roiled and pitched, she swept her hands in large strokes up and down Nell’s body until she was calm. ‘Thanks.’ Nell’s eyes felt soft and shiny. ‘That was amazing.’ And she looked at the tight curls of Charlie’s hair, the rounded arm that hung from her new strong shoulder, and wondered what had happened in the time that she’d been gone.
It was only once they were in the car that Nell remembered that she’d forgotten to put on her Spanx. ‘Shhh. It doesn’t matter,’ Charlie soothed her. ‘You look great, although they may have been useful. If it snows you could have taken them off and used them as a hat.’ Just then Poppy, from the PR company, phoned. Her voice was strained. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Nell peered out of the window at the inky streets. ‘Where are we?’
‘Five minutes away,’ the driver spoke up from the front.
‘Five,’ Nell reported and Poppy shrieked. ‘No, that’s too soon, we need you to be last, you mustn’t get here before Wayne Hull, drive around the block for a few minutes. I’ll call you, but wait till at least quarter to seven.’
The driver pulled up in a side street off Leicester Square, and Nell and Charlie lay back against the padded leather of the car’s upholstery and waited. If I could stay like this for ever, Nell thought, just on the brink, but she was ready, all the same, when Poppy called again.
For almost an hour Nell stood on the red carpet, pressed against the barricades, talking and signing and shaking hands with a crowd of well-wishers who had come to cheer her on. Poppy guided her, wrapped in a red coat, while Nell, for the sake of stardom and her designer dress, remained half naked in the icy February night. ‘Nell, Nell Gilby!’ young girls waved photos of her and shrieked, and Nell, caught up in their jubilation, moved from one to the other, signing her name on whatever they presented. She was too busy to notice the cold, not until she reached the entrance to the cinema where a man strode towards her, his lips blue, an expression of pitiful concern across his face. ‘Nell Gilby,’ he was speaking for the camera that would flash her image up before the waiting crowd inside. ‘How does it feel tonight? The premiere of your first film?’ Nell smiled. ‘Wonderful,’ she said, although in fact she’d lost all sensation in her feet and she was worried, if she took another step, she might simply topple over.
‘From all reports it’s destined to be a massive hit,’ the man gushed, and Nell quivered, aware of several hundred beady eyes on her, grateful for the promotional words that were ready at her lips. ‘An enormous amount of work and passion has gone into the making of this film . . .’ she began, and the two of them chatted, the wind gusting at her hair, his knuckles white where they clutched the microphone.
Eventually Nell was escorted inside, up the stairs to the foyer where the other actors and their guests, the producers from both sides of the Atlantic, and Ciaran, awkward in a suit and tie, stood waiting. ‘Well done,’ Charlie had a glass of wine for her, and her own coat to wrap around her. ‘I’m sorry it’s not hot chocolate,’ and she took one of Nell’s hands and attempted to warm it in her own. Nell glanced across at Ciaran. He was unaccompanied, at least she thought he was, and for a second it seemed as if he might be about to move towards her. But behind them through the wall of glass, the royal car was pulling into the square, driving up the red carpet to the cinema door. As fast as possible everyone manoeuvred into place, the front line sombre and expectant, the back row sniggering as if they were at school.
‘Shhh,’ Nell attempted to quieten Charlie, who was exchanging gossip with the producer’s teenage girlfriend, and abandoning the coat she turned to watch The Royal Highnesses, who were moving along the line. ‘Did you enjoy working on the film?’ the Prince was asking, true to his script, his head bent in earnest anticipation of the replies, while Camilla sailed along beside him in a floor-length maroon dress. ‘Sensible,’ Charlie hissed over her shoulder, ‘warmer than Spam,’ but there was no time to respond, the royal entourage was upon her. ‘Did you . . .’ a new idea had occurred to the Prince, she could see it dawning on his face. ‘Did you find it very difficult, learning your lines?’
Nell was thrown. Not just by the question, but by the sheer delight the Prince took in producing it. ‘Actually, well, no, not really . . .’ She felt a nudge from behind. ‘Sir . . . But it was fun. Being in the film. I loved it.’
‘Hello.’ Camilla had caught sight of Charlie, peering over the top of Nell’s head. ‘What are you doing . . .’ she looked amused, ‘standing back there?’
Charlie tried to duck. ‘We’re under orders. Ma’am. I’m not even meant to be talking to you.’ She grimaced, and then curtsied. ‘Pretend you never saw me.’
Camilla laughed. ‘But I have seen you. Aren’t you the girl from The Inspectors? Yes, I liked that. I thought you were awfully good.’
‘Really?’ Charlie frowned. ‘I thought it was awful . . . but actually, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. It means a lot.’
Nell and Prince Charles, the odd couple suddenly, stood nodding politely, trying to think of anything else to say. But then an aide was moving them on, a gentle hand at the Prince’s elbow, and Nell too was steered away, down a flight of stairs, along dark corridors, into the secret bowels of the cinema to the wings of the stage.
Ciaran Conway stood before the curtained screen. ‘And of course none of this would have been possible without my brilliant scriptwriter, the director of photography, the editors and producers who’ve worked so tirelessly, all of whom I thank from the bottom of my heart . . .’ There was a catch in Ciaran’s voice, and his fingers trembled as he spread his arms wide, ‘which only leaves me to introduce the cast, who dug so deep inside themselves to bring this story to the screen. There are many pitfalls in this business but there are wonders too, and we are honoured tonight to have so many of the actors with us . . .’ And having shaken off his usual shyness in favour of passion, Ciaran began to call the actors out on to the stage, hugging each one as they arrived, until Nell heard her own name. She took a last deep breath and walked out into his embrace. ‘And now,’ Ciaran kept one arm around her, ‘it is with most humble gratitude, that we announce the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall.’ Above them, at the top of the stalls two trumpeters appeared, and with a blast of silver notes filled the auditorium with the medieval sound of victory. Tahdatadaaaaaah! The royal couple stood, heralded in state, while everyone in the cinema rose up in their seats and clapped. Ciaran took Nell’s hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ve missed you like hell.’ The trumpeters blasted out another long, rich trill.
‘Don’t think,’ Ciaran was still talking, ‘that I’m letting you get away from me, ever again,’ and Nell, dazed with happiness, looked out over the thousand starry faces, and seeing her mother, and in the row above, contrary to all expectation, her father, she pinched herself to check she wasn’t in a dream. Further along the row was Pierre with his fiancé Robin, and Hettie, beside them, in some kind of feathered hat. Her sister was there too, with her husband, and Sita and Raj, their arms around each other. And there at the end was Charlie, luminous in her white dress, waving, blowing a kiss out over the crowd.
‘Yes’ was all Nell could say as Ciaran’s arm tightened around her, and raising her free hand to her lips, she blew her own kiss back.