Kate O’Mara - Good Time Girl

‘Yes, I found her first entrance. I think it’s brilliant.’ Both men looked at her eagerly.

‘Good, good, splendid,’ said Hugh. ‘And how do you feel about her?’

‘I can handle her,’ she replied, fingering the script for a moment, then tossing it across the desk.

‘You can?’ said Hugh. They were both looking at her intently.

‘Oh yes, she’s right up my street. Would you like me to read for you?’

‘Oh no, no, good Lord, no, that won’t be necessary, we know of your reputation.’

Do you? thought Claire in amazement. What reputation? She’d hardly done any television. Then she remembered. Of course, Larry Matthews – he’d obviously said nice things about her Lydia Languish. ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ she laughed. ‘That’s all right then.’

Martin had still not said a word, but was looking at her as though he wanted to drink her in. Claire didn’t quite know what was expected of her. Hugh finally wound up the meeting.

‘Well, thank you, Ms Jenner, for coming in to see us. We’ll be speaking to your agent this afternoon.’ He held out his hand. Martin followed suit. Claire, relieved that it was over, gathered her things together and took Hugh’s outstretched hand.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said charmingly. And then offered her hand to Martin. She had turned to go when the door burst open to reveal a tall blond good-looking man.

‘Claire Jenner!’ he proclaimed dramatically. ‘What a lovely surprise. Are you leaving us?’

Claire crossed to the door, recognizing Larry Matthews at once. ‘How good to see you again,’ she said and meant it. ‘Yes, I’m just off.’

‘Then allow me to escort you to the lift.’ And he took her arm and steered her out of the room and down the corridor.

‘You look stunning,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.’

‘I do hope so,’ replied Claire fervently.

He propelled her into the lift, waving goodbye as the doors started to close. ‘Have no fear,’ he called out, as they shut and the lift started with a slight jolt to descend.

I think I’ve got it, Claire thought excitedly to herself. I think I’ve got it! She had driven herself to the offices and had been allowed to park briefly at the back of the building. She rescued her car, and smiled and waved cheerily at the man on the gate as she drove off. It took her some time to negotiate the London traffic. It was raining heavily and conditions were bad. She hardly noticed. All the way back, she kept saying to herself, I think I’ve got it, I think I’ve got it, hardly daring to believe it. When she finally got home an hour later, she tore up the front steps, flung herself into her flat and made straight for the telephone.

‘David, David, it’s me. I think I’ve got it!’ she cried excitedly.

‘Yes, they want you,’ replied her agent mildly.

‘How do you know?’ she asked astounded.

‘They rang the moment you left and offered you the part.’

‘Oh God,’ breathed Claire in a sort of ecstasy. ‘It’s a wonderful part, David, it really is.’

‘Good,’ said David briefly, ‘then let’s hope they offer you some wonderful money to go with it, which I very much doubt.’

‘I don’t care what they pay me,’ said Claire recklessly.

‘Well I do, I need the money even if you don’t,’ replied David tartly. Then relenting he said, ‘No, seriously, Claire, I’m very pleased, you deserve it, well done!’

‘Thank you,’ said Claire happily. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘I know that,’ replied David. ‘You never do.’ It was the nearest to a compliment she’d ever received from David, and she felt a warm glow of contentment.

He then instructed her to get pencil and paper and jot down filming dates. He told her that wardrobe and make-up would be contacting her, and to make herself available to them. And she was to present herself at the studios at the next recording a week from the day, for a make-up test.

She left an excited message on Sally’s answering machine, thanking her profusely for the loan of the suit, which she was convinced got her the part.

She then phoned her mother in Wiltshire. She hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Claire had deliberately not contacted her during her recent unhappiness, not wanting to burden her and add to her own distress. Beatrice Jenner was over the moon. Inordinately proud of her beautiful daughter, she had known it would only be a matter of time before she got the break she deserved.

‘Roger must be pleased,’ she said happily.

The remark took Claire completely unawares. Finally she said falteringly, ‘Oh, er, Roger and I are not seeing one another any more, Mum.’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry, darling,’ was the sympathetic response. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Oh, months ago. I didn’t bother you with it at the time, because – well – it really wasn’t important enough – we’d been building up to it for ages.’ Claire was awfully afraid that she was going to cry. The sound of her mother’s caring, understanding voice had brought a lump to her throat and she suddenly realized how much she had missed her.

Beatrice had heard a note of distress in her daughter’s quavering voice, but kept her own counsel. She said, ‘Well, darling, it’s marvellous about this part. Your father will be thrilled.’

‘How is he?’ asked Claire, concerned.

‘Not very well, darling, but this news will do him a power of good!’

After Claire had finished speaking to her mother, she felt guilty. She had not asked after her father for ages and her mother had borne the worry all alone.

It also occurred to her that she had not thought about Roger once the whole day.

Patsy carefully drew a dark red line around her pouting lips, then filled it in with deep pink shiny lipstick. A coat of clear lip gloss was applied and she stood back to survey the result. She was well pleased with what she saw – a startlingly pretty girl with a peaches and cream complexion, large dewy blue eyes and faintly pink blonde hair like candy floss. A voluptuous figure completed the perfection. She was perfection and she knew it. She could tell by the glances of wide-eyed disbelief she drew from males wherever she went. She was ‘The McMasters’ own little bit of Hollywood glitz’. That’s what the Globe had said about her when she had first appeared in the series. She had been thrilled. It’s what she wanted more than anything, to make it to Hollywood; they really appreciated her type of looks out there. So her Auntie Thelma had told her. Unfortunately, the Globe had followed up this eulogy the next week by dubbing her the programme’s token brainless blonde bimbo with the big boobs and tiny talent. Patsy had been mortally wounded. She had a lot to learn when it came to acting, she would be the first to admit it. But then she had had no formal training, what did they expect?

Patsy had been a photographic model for nearly all her life. Her father had deserted her mother when Patsy was only four. She had not seen him since. There had been Christmas and birthday cards to begin with, but they had become sporadic and finally stopped altogether. Patsy hadn’t minded a bit – she could hardly remember her father and there had been plenty of uncles to take his place. They had all spoiled her – she was, after all, such a pretty little girl. Her mother, suddenly realizing just how pretty her little girl was, enrolled her with a modelling agency. Patsy never looked back. She featured in commercials, knitting patterns, magazines and had even had a bit part in a children’s TV series. Both Patsy and her mother had made a comfortable living, but her education had been sorely neglected. Patsy had no recollection of ever having read a book right through in her life.